The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mab About the Boy

By Captain Eazy

4

“If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream . . . .”
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, scene i

Maeve tightly embraced Mab’s slender waist, her face buried in the fairy queen’s hot, spread pussy, and she felt Maeve’s strangely pointed tongue busy at work on her, hard and pliant at the same time, hot and so wet, dipping deep into her slit as the tongue of a hummingbird penetrates the secret depths of a fuchsia. Maeve writhed in ardent pleasure, spreading her hands to grip the delectable muscular swells of Mab’s hips, and she tried to pull the other woman’s body tight, tighter, against her, moaning, quivering–

She woke muzzily and realized she was doing her absolute damndest to perform cunnilingus on a pillow. Tybalt the cat sat on the bedside stand, staring at her in feline disgust. “Oh, my God,” groaned Maeve. The pillow had a wet crease where she had tongued it, a big wet spot. She tossed the pillow off the bed and yawned widely. “Damn, what a dream!” She checked–she was indeed wearing her nightie, thank you very much, and had not dropped it somewhere in fucking Fairyland. She was not wearing panties, though, and she was so turned on, so steamy with the remnants of the strangely hot dream, that . . . she slipped her fingers down and over her love mound . . . there was only one way to get rid of the feelings. She felt herself wet, hot, and ready. Turning away from the accusing green stare of Tybalt, she arched her back and played with her pussy. She giggled. Her other pussy. And she fantasized not about a fairy queen’s tongue, oh, no, but about Michael’s cock. Mmm. Yeahhh . . . .

Stuff it in deep, let me ride the shaft, let me feel it splitting me, in and out, let me press my clit down tight on it, yeah. . . .

Tybalt yowled plaintively.

“Oh, shut up,” Maeve murmured, her hips pumping. Nice. Ohhhh . . . .

It was a good orgasm, about a six on the fucked-her scale (her ranking went up to an impossible ten–eight was the best she had ever managed, though had her experience with Mab been real, not a dream, she thought, it would have rated right up there). She stretched languorously, threw the sheets back, and slipped out of bed. Tybalt grumbled. “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll feed you and let you go potty. Just let me pee first!”

She went into her cramped bathroom, took care of business, and then went to the sink to wash her hands. With bleary eyes, she glanced at herself in the mirror.

Holy shit!

She reached up, unbelieving, to tousle her platinum tresses. That’s not my hair!

Or her nose, or her cheekbones, and her eyes, my God, her eyes–a deep, deep sea-blue, their expression ancient, knowing and challenging and–well, yes–sexy!

Hastily, Maeve yanked her short nightie over her head and dropped it. “Shit!”

Still flat. Why didn’t I do what she told me and make them bigger?

Hang on. There is no such thing as a fairy queen. Or a fairy commoner, for that matter. It had been a dream, damn it!

But the evidence was before her eyes–her reflection.

Tybalt was scratching irritably at the bathroom door.

“Okay, okay,” muttered Maeve. She grabbed her plush white terry robe, shrugged it on, went out, and opened the kitchen door. Tybalt darted through it, sped across the driveway, squatted, and practically sighed as he relieved himself. Then he stalked off around the house, as he always did in the mornings, completed the round, reappeared, and scratched at the screen. Maeve checked to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything–some mornings he brought in living anoles, apparently regarding the squirmy little lizards either as toys or chic decorations–and then she fed him. He gobbled the moist food with every outward appearance of enjoyment.

A preoccupied Maeve went into her living room, shuffled through her cds, and found Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Deutsche Grammophon recording. In a ballet version set to the incidental music Mendelssohn had penned for the play, she had danced as one of the fairy troupe, oh, years ago, when she was only ten. She put the disk in the player, selected the “Scherzo” track, and pressed play.

Take off your garment. My followers dance sky-clad.

Maeve dropped her terrycloth robe, kicked it into a corner, and assumed First Position. The nervous, techy music began, and she started to dance. Tybalt sat in the doorway to the bedroom, tail curled around his base, and stared disapprovingly at his nude, pirouetting owner. “It’s just an experiment!” panted Maeve, doing steps she would have sworn she had long forgotten. The music ended, and then she remembered something else: You sacrificed a drop of blood.

In the bathroom, Maeve found a needle, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, sterilized the needle, sterilized her finger, and then jabbed herself. She squeezed out a crimson drop. “I dedicate this to you, Fairy Queen,” she said. Then, feeling foolish, she dabbed the blood away with a tissue. “Where are you? I call on you!”

Nothing.

“Mab? This is, uh, your votaress. I call on you, uh, thee, my Fairy Queen. Titania? Are you there?”

Nothing but her own little old naked reflection.

“Damn.”

Must have been a dream, after all. But . . . her hair? Could she have . . . sleep-walked? Maeve had heard that a person could die in dreams, but could one dye in her dreams? But that was impossible, because she didn’t have any hair bleach, had never bought any. And besides, her hair was different in texture as well as color, so much fuller and thicker, bouncy with life, shining. And her face! Her cheekbones were more pronounced, with a perfect rosy blush, and they made her blue, blue eyes take on an elfin tilt. And her nose, so pert now! Her lips, so full and red!

“Something really happened last night,” she said to her reflection.

Did it have something to do with the ocean? The full moon? The CD was going on, with excerpts from Shakespeare interspersed with the music. The “Wedding March” struck up. Standing naked in her bathroom, Maeve shivered. Holy hell! What if licking another woman’s pussy hadn’t been a dream? Jesus! I’m not a lesbian! But if the changes in her hair and face were real, then–then–“I ate out a girl,” Maeve told her stunned-looking reflection. Then, despite herself, she giggled. “I ate out a girl, and I liked it,” she sang to herself.

Oh, yeah. Especially when she returned the favor.

Damn and double damn. What had happened? And how could she find out?

However, as magic or as mundane as last night had been, everyday chores certainly awaited her this Saturday morning. Maeve got dressed, breakfasted on Cheerios, skim milk, and mint tea, filled two laundry baskets with dirty clothes and bed linens, and then drove to the Laundromat on Venera, and sat reading her Meteorology text while the laundry went through its wash, rinse, and dry cycles. It was past eleven on a lovely day with puffy white clouds meandering through a deep blue sky, when she returned to her apartment. Tybalt was outside the house, sprawling in the hammock on the front lawn, as though sunbathing. He glanced at her, rolled onto his feet, and sprang to the ground. She let him in, and while she put up the laundry, he supervised.

“I suppose you really talked last night, too,” she said to him.

He gave a cat shrug. “Listen,” she said, “let me know if you detect Queen Mab around the place again. I need a word or two with her.”

Tybalt did not respond one way or the other. Maeve threw herself into a furious round of apartment cleaning, making the bed fresh, dusting, sweeping, picking up and putting away. She had a late lunch of tomato bisque soup and a tuna salad sandwich (with Tybalt mooching little gobs of the tuna) and around two she called Michael’s cell number. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding so sleepy that she suspected she had awakened him. “Yah?” he said around a yawn.

“Don’t forget our date,” she told him.

“Huh? Date? Oh . . . oh, this is Maeve. Yeah, is that tonight? Listen, I may have to ask you to take a rain check. I’ve got an ass-load of studying to do–”

“We have a deal,” she said firmly. “Be here. Tonight. Fifteen to seven, remember? Dinner and then we do something fun.”

“But I don’t think–”

“I know you don’t, but we have a fucking deal, buddy.” She hung up.

God damn it anyway. Jerk. Even if he was handsome. He was also lazy, egocentric, oblivious, immature, and damn irritating. Maeve sighed, went to her bedroom, and fired up her computer. She spent over three hours finishing her Meteorology paper, saved it, and then went to take her pre-date shower. She washed her hair–her strangely new hair–and then stood towel-wrapped in front of the sink mirror blow-drying it. Her tresses seemed supernaturally well-behaved. As she dried and brushed, her hair sprang right into shape, full and bouncy, looking better than it had ever looked in her life. Maeve put away the dryer and then put a hand to her hair, primping a little, turning her head from side to side.

A black-haired woman stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.

Maeve gasped and spun–but there was no one behind her, nor any room for someone to stand there. And yet–she looked back in the mirror. Mab was there, undeniably, looking over her shoulder with a smoldering smile, her scarlet lips gleaming. She had changed her, ah, clothing: now her lush body was clad in a green dress of overlapping willow leaves. They stirred in a breeze, fluttering, showing now their silver undersides, now their deep green surfaces, and as they rippled, they also bared random strips of delectable-looking skin. A leather thong around Mab’s neck held a single perfect rose-pink seashell as a pendant. “Hello, my votaress,” said the smiling Mab, her voice attenuated, as though coming from somewhere very far away.

“How–are–did you–did we–?”

Mab laughed. “I know, I know. In these latter days, belief is hard. But yes, I did, and yes we did, and very nice it was too, and you look very lovely today.”

“I–I called on you this morning,” said Maeve, and despite herself, she heard her own voice add, “my Queen.”

“I have to sleep sometimes,” Mab chided gently. “Are you getting ready to meet your young man?”

“Yes. He’s coming for me in about an hour.”

“No, he isn’t planning to.”

In the mirror, Maeve’s face flushed. “He told me–”

Mab shrugged, ruffling the willow leaves that made up her costume. “He lied. He often lies to you. Would you like to see what he was doing last night, while we were . . . entertaining each other?”

“Huh?”

“I think you ought to know. Let me show you. Watch.”

Maeve waved a hand in a circular gesture, and the mirror quivered like the surface of a pond after a stone had been thrown into it. And then, and then–

Michael.

Sitting on a sofa, his face red, his eyes bloodshot. He’d been drinking, that was obvious, and Maeve saw that he was, he was, he was . . . with a girl. He was pawing her.

Groping–my God!–Louise Budren, one of his freshman lab students! She had been absent for the lab Maeve had substitute-directed–and here she was topless and damn near bottomless, her red skirt hiked way up around her waist, kissing Michael as if she were eating his face, and he was kneading and stroking her big round tits, pulling and stretching the salmon-colored nipples, while his other hand was busy at her spread snatch. And she could hear them grunting and smacking!

“Don’t worry about the lab,” Michael said huskily. He had shucked his faded jeans down to his upper thighs, his underwear with them. His cock was out, bobbing free in the air, and Louise was absently stroking and caressing it.

“But I’ve missed three.” Such a whiny little voice she had!

“I’m the one giving the grade. You’ll get an A.”

“I dunno. What if Maeve reports to the professor that I was out again?”

He laughed–laughed!–“She’s got the hots for me. Don’t worry, I can handle her. Just like a pet dog. Come on, I can’t stand this for long. Let’s screw.”

The freshman girl enthusiastically swung around on the sofa, throwing her thigh over him. He shoved his jeans the rest of the way down and she reached behind her shapely ass to steady his cock as she lowered herself onto it, impaling her squelchy pussy on the shaft. Her big, lewd tits bobbled as she started to fuck him. “As long as–unnh!–you don’t let her–ooh!–make trouble for me.”

“Don’t worry. All I have to do is promise to date her.” Michael was thrusting his hips now, pressing his dick in and out of the little slut.

“Mmm. . . but don’t let her have any of this nice hard cock, okay? That’s for me!”

“You got it. Bounce on it now! That’s good. Yeah, fuck! Squeeze it, girl!”

The vision shimmered away.

Mab stood in its place, head tilted. “I don’t think you chose your young man very wisely.”

Maeve was standing naked and rigid, her hands balled into tight fists, tears stinging her eyes. “The bastard!”

Mab shrugged. “You can still have him, if you want him. Personally, I would advise you to pick another male, but if you want this one–well, maybe it would be sweet to have a little fun with him, hm? A little revenge?”

Maeve couldn’t see her own reflection at all now, just the Fairy Queen standing opposite her, on the far side of the mirror. “Revenge? How?”

“I can give you the power,” Mab said with a wicked smile. “You can will him to do anything you wish, and he will have to obey. But if you accept, there is a small price.”

“What?”

Mab shrugged. “Nothing that you would regret, I think. You will have to make him cum, that is all. Many times in the course of the night. As many as possible before cock crow.”

“All right.”

“You can cum as well,” Mab went on as if Maeve had not spoken. “But it is important that you bring him to full climax. At least half a dozen times, more if you can manage it. You must wear him out before the sun appears tomorrow morning. That is important for us, for my people.”

“All right!”

“Very well. Now, have you re-thought the question of changing your body?”

“Yes!” Maeve ran her hands over her tits. “I want bigger boobs. Better ones than–than that girl in the mirror, Louise!”

“I thought you would, my dear. I will make them delightful, and I will instruct you in a few other things as well. Let’s begin . . . .”

5

Her breasts felt fucking wonderful. And they looked . . . scrumptious. Round, full, pert, with nipples so much more sensitive than they had been. Maeve couldn’t help standing in front of the mirror, admiring them, stroking them, pinching her nipples–and wincing in a flood of pleasure, not pain! God, who even needed that asshole Michael? She could cup one big tit, lower her head, and suck her own stiff nipple, feeling it hard and throbbing between her lips, tease it with her tongue until a thick, golden milk–fairy milk–oozed out, not a flow, just a few drops. That will intoxicate and bind him, Mab had told her. Well, it damn near intoxicated Maeve herself! So delightfully slippery on her lips and tongue, mmm. But there was something–something Mab had told her to expect–something she had to collect. What was it, what was it?

Oh, yes . . . a delivery. Mab had told her to expect a delivery.

Maeve regretfully stopped playing with her tits and reluctantly put on her robe. Late-afternoon sun flooded the yard when she peeked out the front door. Tybalt charged out and sped off around the house. No one there. No truck at the curb. Nothing in the mail box. And yet Mab had said she was sending Maeve a gift. Maeve sighed and went back inside, glancing at the clock in the living room. Six-fifteen. But Michael wasn’t coming, had no intention of showing up. Should she stalk him, run him down? Burst in on him and that slutty freshman girl, shake them up a little, make a scene? Maeve wished she knew–

A skritching at the screen dragged her attention back. Tybalt, wanting in. She opened the door and said, “I’m gonna buy a pet door, wait and see. I’m tired of–what have you got in your mouth?”

The black cat had tried to scuttle in with his head averted, but Maeve saw some small struggle going on. Damn, another lizard in the house! “Come back here!”

Tybalt went into the bedroom and tried to hide under the bed, but it was too low. She seized his scruff and held him up, penduluming back and forth like a fur bag stuffed with grump. He held something in his mouth, but it wasn’t a lizard. It was about the size of a large grasshopper, but it was squirming in a very un-insect-like way. “Drop it, Tybalt! Drop it!”

She shook him, and her robe fell wide open. “Come on, let it go!”

Maeve reached out with her free hand, got thumb and forefinger on the sides of Tybalt’s jaw, and squeezed until he dropped the brown-and-green thing. It spread wings and buzzed off to the top of a dresser, screeching “Put it out!”

The high-pitched voice was tiny, and it came from the little figure on the dresser. Maeve went to the door with a struggling Tybalt, tossed him out, and slammed the door. He banged into it and wailed his fury, scrabbling to get back in.

Damn. Maeve had caught her sleeve in the door. She started to open it to free herself–

“No, don’t crack the door and let the creature in! I have something for you, Lady, from the Queen herself.”

She couldn’t turn around with her sleeve caught. So, irritably, Maeve pulled herself out of the robe and turned around nude. “What are you?”

The voice took on a weirdly awed tone: “Oh, by the blessed bright star of Ailuréal, you have the most beautiful teats I’ve ever yet seen on a mortal, and I’m five thousand and more years old!”

Maeve had a momentary impulse to cross her arms and hide her breasts, but a counter-reflex made her hold her shoulders back, displaying her new boobs for this devoted inspection. “Thank you.” Now she saw the creature, about three inches tall, a–a fairy of some kind, it had to be. It had a brown face, the brown of dry leaves, with relatively huge oval eyes, not with whites and pupils, but metallic blue, faceted, like a dragonfly’s eyes. The face had no nose, but was an oval like a bird’s egg, its bald round dome tapering down to a pointed chin. Below the head, the body was humanoid, though minuscule, with disproportionately long hands and arms. Transparent wings, again like a dragonfly’s, spread from its shoulders, flirting and fluttering from moment to moment.

“Oh, you are truly beautiful, Lady!” the little creature sighed. “Oh, if I had my size, I should like to plough your furrow! I don’t suppose you’d care to let me tickle your fancy?”

“I don’t . . . see how that’s possible,” said Maeve, suppressing an urge to go completely crazy. “What would you do, use my clit for a punching bag?”

“I would if you asked me,” the little thing said devoutly. “You know what they say: ‘Once you’ve had elf, you’ve done right by yourself!’” It sighed again, wistfully this time. “Ah, well-a-day! Maybe if Herself’s plan works, I’ll grow to my own proper size again, and then, colleen, if you want love that will make you feel immortal, then come to me. Léanth my name is. I’ve been sent to give you this.”

It held out something in its minute hand–a little, thin stick? Maeve took it carefully. It was an inch long, and no thicker than a toothpick. “What is it?”

“A wand of power it is. Hold it and wait. I must leave you now my errand is done–would you kindly open a window so I won’t have to pass yon ravening beast?”

“Um–sure.” Maeve went to the bathroom and opened that window–it was small and high, and it had no screen, so she almost never cranked it open. She heard a buzz, and then the little creature, Léanth, fluttered through the door–and straight onto her left breast. It clung there, holding on to the deep coral nipple. She shivered, feeling the flesh erect just from the elf’s light, light touch.

“Glory be,” said Léanth. “Oh, when I’m large, I want a mouthful of this one! Farewell, Lady! May your night be full of love!” And Léanth launched himself from her tit, circled her head once, and zoomed out the window.

What the hell? Maeve cranked the window shut and looked down at the little stick in her fingers. A . . . wand of power? She waved it and said, “Abracadabra.”

Nothing happened.

She looked in the mirror. “Mab? Are you there?”

“Here.”

Yes, there, shadowy, though, hard to see, transparent in image. “Can you show yourself more clearly?”

“Not yet. It took a lot of power to send Léanth through to your world from ours. Perhaps tomorrow–if tonight goes well.”

“Am I supposed to use this–wand thing?”

“Of course. Make your desires come true.”

“How?”

“You’ll find out. It still looks small, though.”

“It is small. How do I–”

“You must charge it with energy! Oh, come on, girl, think! How do you make a man’s wand large, silly?” There was a burst of tinkling giggles, as if more fairies were behind the mirror.

“Oh. Oh . . . . Oh!”

“Try it,” Mab instructed.

“Not with an audience,” said Maeve firmly. She went back to the bedroom and closed the bathroom door. She lay back on her bed and started to stroke the tiny wand. Did it twitch? She couldn’t be sure, but it felt weird. She held it close to her face, then licked it with her tongue. Yes, definitely something. A sort of pulse in the very wood. “Make me feel sexy,” she whispered, waving the small wand at herself.

Oh, God!

She had to have a cock! Right now!. She was gushing! Her pussy rippled, her clit throbbed, her tits tingled, her nipples stiffened to an incredible yearning hardness!

“Nnggghhh. . . .”

Maeve lost all sense of restraint. She plunged the middle finger of her left hand deep into her hot, slick, wet pussy, and with her thumb and forefinger she teased her clit. Oh, yeah! She was pumping her hips, trying to fuck her own fingers–

The wand, the wand, the wand–

It had grown! A foot long now, half an inch thick, smooth, incredibly smooth–yeah, put it in . . . oh, yeah!

She pumped herself with the hard wand, feeling the intensity of her arousal skyrocket. Good God, she was–

“Ngghh . . . cumming!”

She collapsed, pulling the wand out of herself. Her lungs heaved for breath. Her new, heavy breasts quivered and bounced, nice, felt so good. She felt herself leaking–she had been so wet! The wand–six inches of it gleamed darkly wet, glistening with her juices–she stared at the rich, brown wood, so smooth, just dripping. She licked it. Sucked it. Savored the taste of herself! It was good, heady, musky, intoxicating, so good!

And now she had . . . a wand.

“Hmm.” Maeve got off the bed, as soon as she felt capable of standing, and opened the door, freeing her bathrobe. She put it on and wondered idly where Tybalt had gone. He was probably sulking in the kitchenette or living room. Maeve went back to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. She waved the wand and said, “I want a fuck-me dress!”

The robe . . . transformed. Became a naughty, wickedly thin and silky sheath, with the glitter of mother-of-pearl somehow in the fabric. It ended just above her knees and had no sleeves, no back, and a décolletage that showed more than half of her breasts and that left no doubt at all that she neither wore nor needed a bra.

Maeve found her flip-flops and put them on her feet. “Sexy shoes,” she said.

The flip-flops sent tendrils coiling up her calves, bright red. They grew up around her feet and sent six-inch scarlet heels spiking down. Oh, yeah, killer shoes. Maeve remembered that in the mirror vision Louise had been wearing ankle-high white socks. She laughed. Wait until Michael got a load of these! She looked at herself in the mirror. “Make me up,” she said firmly, and she waved the wand rather awkwardly at herself.

Oh. My. God.

A string of shimmering pearls wove in and out of her hair now, exotic, alluring. Just exactly the right amount of eyeshadow! Just the right shade of red on her lips, and her lips themselves became pouty, shining, promising delicious secret sins! She smelled the fragrance of herself, a musky perfume that made her dizzy. Oh, yeah. Nice.

“Michael won’t know what hit him,” Maeve murmured, fascinated by her own incredibly sexy mirror image. Jesus! If she could bring her own reflection to life and fuck that!

“Bad idea,” came the voice of Mab. “You know who you want, and what you want. And we need him to cum, again and again. Bring him here.”

“Michael,” said Maeve, her blue eyes blazing in the mirror. “That prick.”

“Summon him to you. Use the wand.”

Maeve took a deep breath. “Michael Masters, wherever you, uh be . . . I want you now to come to me!” She snapped the wand in the air.

“That will work,” said the voice of Mab. “That will work very well. You are a clever girl.”

“Thank you,” said Maeve. She walked out of the bathroom and through the house, her gait slinky, the spiked heels making her ass roll lewdly beneath the thin white sheath of dress.

She could hardly wait to welcome Mike.

Oh, yeah, she was gonna love this.

“Come on come on, wherever you are, Mikey,” she crooned.

You bastard . . . .