The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Like many great events, people like Kris barely noticed when things were in motion. She’d checked her e-mail that first morning, as she always did, and found the messages from “Mistress” ordering her, and all women, not to go to work. Kris added the address to her spam filter and mass deleted. The morning news mentioned the failure of some sort of Internet hub (or server, or whatever it was called ... the technical details went completely over her head) in Virginia. The practical impact, which was all she cared about, was that communications of all sorts were severely disrupted.

She shrugged ... didn’t seem to be effecting the spam.

The traffic that morning was unusually light. She made no connection between the e-mails and the lack of commuters. She thought, instead, of her ex-husband. Part of the deal when they’d split (or to be more accurate, when he left) was he’d continue to make the payments on the car she drove, and the last payment was coming due, either this month or the next. She’d have to call him to make sure. She didn’t relish the idea of talking to him, or even worse, the possibility of having too speak to the bitch she’d been dumped for. She rolled into work 20 minutes early.

It was odd, she admitted, that copies of those e-mails she’d got at home were also on her work account. She would have thought the company’s filters would have been a little tighter. Kris wasn’t 90 minutes into her day before learning that her boss and the departmental admin, both women, hadn’t come in that day. The e-mails from this “Mistress” character kept rolling in all morning.

Kris started worrying shortly after lunch, when the company-wide e-mail from the CEO arrived ... the one that began “given the ongoing crisis” and allowed all non-essential personnel to go home early. Kris had no idea there even was an ongoing crisis. She tried surfing to various news web pages. All her attempts timed out and failed. She went home.

Once again, vehicle traffic was light, but the lack of cars only highlighted the surprisingly large number of people on foot. Of the women out and about, Kris couldn’t help but notice how many of them were dressed ... well, there was no nice way to say it ... dressed like sluts. She pursed her lips in disapproval, thankful she and her daughter had similar, less flamboyant taste in cloths.

Whatever was wrong with the Internet didn’t seem to be effecting her TV, and she was up to date within 30 minutes of arriving home. The Internet was in full blown meltdown. In fact, the only thing propagating on the Net, it seemed, was what the commentators were calling “The Mistress Virus”, a series of e-mails from a self-styled “Mistress” commanding women around the world to perform various anti-social, and in some cases, pornographic acts.

The other top story was the apparent willingness of many women to do this Mistress’ bidding. Women across all sectors of the economy were refusing to work, crippling commerce. Essential services had been disrupted as female cops, firewomen, paramedics, doctors, etc., had deserted their posts or not shown up to work at all. The armed services were reporting desertions.

Kris checked her e-mail. Her inbox was again full with dozens of notes from this “Mistress” person, though they were all copies of four distinct messages. The first was the one she’d deleted that morning, ordering her not to go to work. The second directed her to dress as provocatively as possible, so the men would understand what they were missing. The third instructed her to seek out other women dressed as she was. The forth was the longest, and most explicit. It commanded her to “revel in your new found, natural sexuality” and to fuck (that was the actual word used) as many other women as possible. The bulk of the e-mail was a primer of sorts: Descriptions of various perverted acts and positions “Mistress” would find most pleasing. It made Kris’ stomach turn. She mass deleted everything.

Going back to the living room, she was surprised to see her daughter home from school an hour early. Susan knew all about the Mistress virus, her e-mail account at school was jammed with the messages. And it appeared some of the girls were taking Mistress’ message to heart. She’d seen two girls, she didn’t know who they were ... maybe freshmen, making out in a bathroom.

The two spent the rest of the night watching the news, not really believing what they were seeing. Susan seemed a little logy

“Probably coming down with a cold,” Kris told herself. Susan wouldn’t admit to being sick; she’d always been stoic that way. But Kris was a mother ... she could tell.

It wasn’t easy, the life she’d lived, but it was the life she’d chosen. Being a cop wasn’t easy under any circumstances. It wasn’t easy being a female cop. It wasn’t easy being the only black, female cop on the force. And it was especially not easy being the only good looking, female cop on the force.

That last point had been a constant source of misery in her career. Few of the veterans had taken her seriously when she first came on board ... not that it had stopped them from hitting on her. Even the department’s butch lesbian had displayed an other than innocent interest in her. Quinn had turned them all down, some more than once.

She was a good cop, and she knew it. She knew it because she’d wanted to be one all her life, though she couldn’t tell where that ambition had come from: Her Mom was a dentist, her Dad a history teacher. Like all kids, she’d gone through her “I want to be a policeman” phase. Unlike them, she’d never outgrown it. Eventually, she’d been able to convince her colleagues she was a good cop; the sense of pride and accomplishment all the sweeter for having been long in coming and hard earned.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t an easy life, and there were times her only consolation was the fact that it was the one she’d chosen.

Such as what she’d eventually come to call Day 1. Peggy, the butch cop, hadn’t shown for morning roll call and no one knew where she was. Quinn hadn’t thought too much about it at the time.

The day had a veneer of normalcy: Patrol, make sure she was seen downtown, write a few tickets. The normalcy was deceptive ... everything felt a bit off. There was the unusually small amount of traffic on the roads, the annoying communication disruptions and the calls she’d been sent to check out.

Like the “domestic disturbance” shortly after lunch. She hated domestic calls; all cops did. Violent, emotionally charged ... there was nothing good about them. But as she pulled her squad car up to the address the dispatcher had given her, she knew this one would be different. A man stood on the sidewalk, looking confused and pathetic. A full wardrobe of clothing (she assumed they were his) was strewn across the front lawn. On the front stoop was a woman screaming abuse at him.

“Sir,” Quinn began, using her neutral/professional tone, “I’m Officer Johnson.”

“Richard,” the man replied absently. “Richard Clark.”

Quinn nodded, “Mr. Clark, can you tell me what’s going on here?”

“I wish I knew.”

Another strange thing about this call. It was wrong to pre-judge, but in her experience, the men usually had the lion’s share of the fault in a domestic. But Quinn found herself believing this guy ... he clearly had no idea what was happening.

“Who is this woman and why is she yelling at you?”

“That’s my wife ... she’s kicking me out.”

That much was obvious, “The two of you been having problems?”

“No!” he said firmly. “None!”

“And yet, here you are,” she thought to herself. Outloud, she said, “Why is she so upset?”

“I don’t know. She started tossing my clothes out about an hour ago. I came out to get my stuff, and now she won’t let me back in.”

“Has she explained why?”

“I guess,” he shrugged. “To be honest, I can’t follow her. It’s like she’s on drugs or something!”

Quinn sighed. This guy was totally in the dark.

“I’m going to talk to your wife. Wait here, please.”

“Okay.”

Quinn crossed the lawn, “Mrs. Clark?”

“Diane,” the woman corrected. A feral light gleamed in her eyes. It bothered Quinn immensely. “Are you with Mistress?”

“Pardon me?”

Diane smiled confidently, “You will be.”

Quinn mentally noted the odd remark, and set it aside for the moment. “Your husband said you won’t let him in the house?”

“He isn’t my husband anymore.”

“You’re divorced?”

“I don’t want anything to do with him.”

Quinn took that as a no. “You can’t keep him out of his own house.”

“I don’t want anything to do with him,” Diane repeated, as if it settled everything.

Quinn considered the woman before her. Despite her husband’s speculation, she seemed lucid, if agitated. Quinn was reasonably sure she wasn’t under the influence of anything. She was just unreasonable ... and something else. Quinn couldn’t put her finger on it. In any event, it didn’t appear there was much for her to do here.

“Nevertheless,” Quinn continued, “we can’t have you screaming at him like this. If I convince him to leave for the time being, will you let him in the house long enough to get whatever he needs?”

Now it was Diane’s turn to consider Quinn. The look the woman gave her disturbed Quinn because it was all too familiar. It was the same look the male cops and Peggy the lesbo had given her when she’d joined the force. The hunger practically radiated from Diane.

“Okay,” Diane finally said, “but only because YOU asked.”

“Thank you,” Quinn answered with a calm she no longer felt. “Wait here, please.”

Quinn could feel Diane’s eyes on her as she walked back to Richard.

“Sir,” she began, “your wife has agreed to let you in the house long enough to let you get whatever necessities you need. I suggest you give her a day or two to calm down and try again at that time.”

“But ...”

“Sir,” Quinn cut him off. “I can give you the names of some dispute resolution counselors who can help you work things out with your wife. Outside of that, there isn’t anything I can do for you now. I really think the best thing for you to do is keep your distance for a little while.”

Richard sighed, “Okay.”

Diane waited by the squad car while Richard got what he needed. Quinn made it a point to interact with Diane as little as possible. When he was done, Richard got in his car and drove away. When he was out of sight, Quinn started for the cruiser and had the door open when Diane called to her.

“For Mistress,” she purred.

Quinn knew her face betrayed her confusion. She managed a cordial “good bye” and drove away.

The rest of the shift passed in confusion. She wasn’t sure what, if anything, her encounter with Diane had to do with it, but she couldn’t help noticing the number of women on the streets. Women wandering about, dressed provocatively, sharing significant looks. Some of them, many of them, looked at her the way Diane had. She did her best to ignore them.

She had one errand to run after her shift. She drove into the city, to the airport. She’d given a friend a ride in the day before and the airline had promptly lost the friend’s baggage. She hoped the appearance of a uniformed police officer would impress on the airline the importance of setting things right. She came away disappointed.

Back home, she discovered her e-mail was full of messages from someone calling herself “Mistress”. The evening news brought her up to speed. Quinn thought of Diane. Now, at least, she had some context. But she still didn’t know what it meant, or even what was really happening.

All she knew was the next day was going to be a busy one on duty and suddenly she felt very tired. She made an early evening of it.

Day Two was much like Day One, only worse. The morning’s news carried word that what was happening was becoming a world wide phenomenon. Reports of women withdrawing from all aspects of society, as first noticed in the United States, were pouring in from around the globe. The problem seemed especially acute in Western Europe and Eastern Asia, Japan included. Commentators tastefully declined to speculate on whether these women, as they withdrew, were following the instructions found in the “Mistress” e-mails.

What could not be ignored, however, were the airplanes. Reports were coming in of small aircraft, crop dusters, buzzing American cities and suburbs. No one was sure what exactly the crop dusters were dropping on the population below, but their appearance was always followed by what the newscaster called “lewd and indecent” public behavior. For politeness’ sake, he did not say the perpetrators of such behavior were all women. He didn’t need to.

Kris made her decision. Susan was in the kitchen making breakfast.

“I don’t think either of us should leave the house today,” Kris said.

After a moment, Susan nodded dully. Her voice was flat and soft, “Okay.”

Kris hadn’t expected it to go this easily. She looked at Susan carefully. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah ... fine,” Susan replied after another pause. “I just ... I can’t believe what’s happening.”

“I know.”

“Everything is changing.”

“Well, everything is an awful lot,” Kris tried to sound upbeat. “You can’t change everything in a day or two. Someone’ll figure out what’s going on and things will go back to normal.”

Susan nodded absentmindedly, then took her grapefruit and toast back to her bedroom. The peace and quiet lasted until lunch.

Susan emerged from her bedroom surprisingly well dressed for someone supposed to be in quarantine, “Mom, I want to go to Tara’s.”

“Absolutely not!”

“I’m bored!”

“You’ve seen what’s happening on the TV!”

“And none of it’s happening here!” Susan replied. “The streets are empty, I haven’t seen a car go by all morning and it isn’t like I’m going to fall for all the lezzie stuff.”

“What do you mean, ‘lezzie stuff’?”

Susan looked at Kris like she couldn’t believe the question had been asked, “Are you kidding me? You read the e-mails!”

“But no one knows the e-mails have anything to do with what’s going on out there.”

“So it’s a coincidence that Mistress sends these e-mails out and the whole world goes to hell?”

“Maybe ...”

“Then what’s the problem with my going to Tara’s?” Susan asked as if she’d made an insurmountable point.

“Just because we don’t know if this Mistress person has anything to do with what’s going on doesn’t mean there isn’t anything going on,” Kris replied. “The both of us are in the house for the duration.”

Susan growled with frustration. “You treat me like a child ... you always do this!”

Susan stormed off to her room. For a second, Kris pondered what Susan had said ... her daughter certainly wasn’t a child anymore, not with her freshman year of college starting in the fall. And Kris couldn’t deny things had been very quiet in their neighborhood ...

NO! Even if nothing was happening in the immediate vicinity, something was happening out there; something she needed to keep herself and her daughter far away from. She told herself that, someday, Susan would thank her for making this decision and hoped like hell she was right.

In the meantime, no words of thanks were offered. Instead, Kris was subjected, every 60 to 90 minutes, to Susan’s report/observation that absolutely nothing was happening outside their door. In contrast to Susan’s reports, the news on the TV was getting steadily worse. It strengthened Kris’ resolve.

Quinn made it a point, on Day 2, to watch the news before heading into the station. To her dismay, things had deteriorated overnight. Even worse, there was a tightness in her chest and belly, and her senses felt leaden. A cold was the last thing she needed.

The other officers, all male, looked at her strangely as they assembled for the morning briefing. The sergeant looked positively shocked to see her. Rather than start the briefing, he called her out into the hallway.

“What are you doing here, Johnson?” he asked.

Quinn wasn’t sure she heard him correctly, “I’m on duty. Where else would I be?”

“You know what’s going on out there?”

“So, again, where else would I be?”

The sergeant took a deep breath, “You’re the only woman to come into work today.”

“What!”

“All the cops, the dispatchers, the secretaries ... you’re the only one.”

“Then you really need me here!”

“Quinn,” the sergeant said gently. The familiarity jolted her. She couldn’t remember him ever using her first name. “I respect your dedication, I’m not just saying that. You’re a great cop and Lord knows I need all the help I can get today. But with what’s going on right now, it doesn’t look right. That isn’t your fault, I know that, but I can’t have the guys in there wondering about you and what’s going on out there.”

“But I’m not going to do anything.”

“I know that, but they don’t,” he gestured to the briefing room.

“Sarge ... please ...”

“Go home, Johnson,” the Sargent plead, “just for a few days. You’ll get paid, of course and I promise nothing will go in your file. Give me a couple days to straighten things out. Really, the best way for you to help is to go home for now.”

Quinn felt herself tearing up.

“Please.”

Quinn was a good cop. She did as she was told.

She spent the day in her apartment, conserving her energy. The cold was getting worse. She read, and cleaned and cooked and napped and generally avoided watching the news. Mostly she waited for the sergeant to call and say he’d changed his mind and invite her back. That call never came.

Instead, there were the visions. They began as fragmented recollections of Diane and the other women who had yearned for her. They told her she was beautiful. They told her they wanted her. They reached out for her. In these hallucinatory shards, she fought them, just as she fought the excitement they were suddenly eliciting. It wasn’t difficult to fight, because that wasn’t how she swung.

But fighting the cold AND fighting the visions became difficult. Fighting on two fronts is never easy, and as day turned into night the visions became more urgent. She tried to stay awake, but the cold exhausted her. She was too tired to resist. It was more powerful in her dreams, while she slept. Now the women were doing things to her: Kinky, degenerate, titillating things. In her dreams, she couldn’t stop them. Then she was no longer trying to stop them. Then she was doing it to them.

Despite the restlessness of her sleep, she awoke feeling strangely energetic on Day 3. The cold had cleared miraculously. Her pussy was still moist from the night’s reverie. The sensation between her legs was scandalously thrilling.

She hadn’t planned a long shower, but her treacherous hands developed ideas of their own. Her skin felt especially soft and smooth under the warm water. Her purple nipples looked especially long despite the steamy heat. She gave one an experimental tug and liked how it felt. She did it again, and again.

Her free hand slipped between her legs to cup and caress her twat. She worked slowly, gradually building momentum, using the fleshy part of her palm to brush her distended clit.

He legs spread wider and her knees bent slightly, making it that much easier to get at her pussy.

Her eyes closed. Images of the night’s dreams flowed over her like the shower’s spray.

She stayed like that a long while, long enough for her knees to begin to ache. She felt wonderful. But it wasn’t enough to trigger the orgasm she desperately needed. She had to force herself to stop.

She dried quickly, the rough surface of the towel provoked a series of joyous tremors as she rubbed the right places, but didn’t bother to cover up. The cool morning air felt wonderful against her heated, naked skin and psyche. She couldn’t ever remember feeling quite like this: Reckless, aroused and willing to consider anything that would meet her need.

In the bedroom, her PC caught her eye and she remembered the Mistress e-mails. She sat down and opened Thunderbird. Scores of missives from Mistress had arrived since she’d last checked. She began to read, tentatively at first, but with snowballing concentration.

She stopped reading 90 minutes later, shaken and confused, but determined to do ... something. She had no idea what and pondered it while she dressed. She looked at herself in the mirror.

Taped to the mirror was a newspaper article from the previous moth detailing an anti-drug event she’d helped to organize at the local high school. Along with the article was a picture of her shaking hands with one of the student organizers. She stared at the picture. And then it came together. She’d dressed in her civilian clothes. She quickly changed into her uniform.

The station was in chaos when Quinn arrived. Some of her colleagues eyed her skeptically, but she made a point of looking like she was supposed to be there and no one had enough free time to challenge her. A quick check at her work station and she had the address she needed. Next Quinn went to the evidence lockers; she hid what she stole in a brown paper bag. Last was a trip to the motor pool. With no one there to stop her, she helped herself to a cruiser. She drove quickly, red and blues flashing.

She had no problem finding the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. She parked, and let herself in, bringing the paper bag with her. She had no difficulty finding her target, who was in the living room, lying on the floor, locked in a vigorous 69 with one of her delectable girlfriends. Quinn let the lewd energy they radiated wash over her. When they finally stopped, then noticed her, there was no shock, or fright, or shame. Just delight. She opened the bag and withdrew the strap on. The two girls eyed it eagerly. Quinn undid her belt, and shimmied her pants down.

Out of force of habit, Kris woke at her regular time on Day 3, though she wasn’t going to work. Dozens more of Mistress’ e-mails had arrived over night. She deleted them immediately.

The morning news carried more of the usual, only worse. The backlash had begun. Overnight, authorities had tried to round up AWOL police officers, EMTs, soldiers, etc., and compel them to go back to work. Resistance in most cases had been extreme and violent.

It was a woman delivering the morning news, one of the very few left in the public eye. Her distress was evident and increasing. Kris empathized The newscaster had moved on to the international aspect of the crisis. Nearly every nation had reported an outbreak of ... whatever it was. Rioting had erupted in a couple countries not particularly known for its sensitive or equitable treatment of women. Response in the US had been violent, in these countries it had been deadly.

As she was reading off the estimated casualty figures (triple digits and expected to rise), the newscaster groaned and doubled over as if she’d been punched in the stomach. When she looked back up to the camera, she didn’t appear to be in paid. A desperate light shone from her eyes. Lips pulled back, nostrils flared, she stared plaintively at the camera.

“Help us, Mistress, please! Make them stop,” the newscaster howled. “You sluts will serve you! Tell us what to do ... tell us how to stop them!”

It went on for 30 seconds, the newscaster alternately pleading for guidance from, then devotion to, her Mistress. Two men had to wrestle her from the desk. As the pulled her away, she managed to work an arm free.

“I live to serve you, Mistress,” she screamed. Her hand reached down and pulled up the front of her skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties. “Everything for you, Mistress! Everything for you!”

Finally, the screen went black, the transmission terminated. That’s when Kris realized this Mistress didn’t just control the newscaster, she also must have controlled whoever directed the broadcast. Talking heads were one thing. The people who actually controlled the flow of the information ... that was real power.

Kris snapped off the TV and went to the kitchen. Her purse lay on its side on the counter. The scene with the newscaster had disturbed her enough to dull her a bit. It took a second to notice the contents of the purse had been dumped onto the counter top. She did a quick inventory. Her car keys were gone.

So was Susan. From Susan’s deserted room, she could look out the window and onto the empty part of the driveway where her car had been parked.

Kris took deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, trying to beat down the rising panic. It helped only slightly, the various worst case scenarios playing themselves out: Susan caught in a riot, Susan attacked by a gang of Mistress’ psychos, etc.

What to do? Her problem was simplified, slightly, knowing exactly where her daughter was right now. She went back to the kitchen and grabbed her cell. The call wouldn’t connect either to Susan’s phone or to Tara’s house. It was the same problem with the land line. She called 911.

“Please state the nature of the emergency,” the male operator requested.

“My daughter ... she’s missing,” Kris struggled to keep her voice calm. “She was here last night and now she’s gone.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“18.”

The operator made a noise, as if her were going to say something harsh, but caught himself at the last moment. Eventually, he said,

“Lady, we both know what happened to her.”

A chill rattled through Kris’ body, “No, she wouldn’t ...”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the operator cut her off, “but we’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”

The line went dead.

Kris went back to the living room and turned the TV back on. The news was showing live shots of a demonstration, in Atlanta, of a few thousand women chanting their devotion to Mistress. Many of the women were in advanced stages of undress. The police had moved in to arrest some of the lewder offenders and had been beaten back violently. The circling helicopter showed the positions the riot squad had taken up. They looked ready to move in. Something bad was about to happen.

And Susan was out in all of this.

The thought of it resolved Kris’ fears. She went to the bedroom and changed into a loose sweatshirt and the baggiest jeans she owned ... she wanted to look as shapeless and unappealing as possible. The distance to Tara’s house was too far to walk, but there were options.

In the garage, she eyed the Vespa scooter skeptically. It had been months ... years? ... since she’d ridden it. But the scooter started up almost immediately. She couldn’t find a helmet and decided it was a risk she’d have to take. Cautiously, she eased herself down the driveway and onto the street, taking a left and gently accelerating to the end of the block.

At the four way intersection, she came to a complete stop to check the cross street, looking left first. As her eyes swept to the right she noticed two figures in the doorway across the street and to her right. The house, she knew, was owned by a single woman, a lawyer, in her early 40’s. That woman was one of the persons in the doorway, and at the moment, she was engaged in a passionate cinch with a young newlywed who lived a few doors down from Kris. If the two saw Kris, they gave no indication. The lawyer’s hands were on the newlywed’s ass, kneading the fleshy mounds. The newlywed was thrusting her chest forward, a hand on either side of the lawyer’s head, pulling the older woman in deeper as they frenched. Kris powered through the intersection.

She had a choice to make. There were two ways to get to Tara’s. The shorter way took her along the town’s main road. She’d be more exposed, but the trip would be much quicker. The backroads offered more cover but would take much longer. What she’d seen between the lawyer and the newlywed played in her mind as she made the decision. She headed for Main Street.

The ride to Main was uneventful, as was the first mile on the street itself. As her confidence in her ability to control the scooter grew, she opened up the throttle. The Vespa surged forward, the engine grew that much louder.

Which explained why she didn’t hear the airplane until it was right atop her. First there was the shadow, steadily gaining ground on her though she didn’t notice it until it overtook her. Then the flash of white and the roar of the engine as the plane itself went overhead. Then the mist that enveloped her, filling her mouth with a choking mediciny taste, making her eyes water and burn. The strength drained out of her, and she could feel the scooter escaping her control, the handlebars turning too far to the right. With a monumental effort and a prayer, she pulled to the left. Miraculously, the scooter righted itself. The crisis had passed. The plane was little more than a spec in the distance.

Whatever the plane had dumped on her, she could feel it on her skin, tingling as it soaked its way in. She considered stopping to wipe it off, but overall she felt okay. Other than the tingling she felt normal, and even that sensation was fading. The important thing was to get to Tara’s, get Susan, and get back home.

Kris turned right off of Main, then right again a half mile later. Tara lived at the end of the cul-de-sac,. In front of Tara’s house, Kris could see a police cruiser, lights still flashing and driver’s door wide open, as if the cop had been in a tremendous hurry. As she approached, she could see the door to the house was ajar.. Kris lept off the scooter, letting it crash to the ground, and sprinted up the driveway.

“Susan!” she yelled, crashing through the front door.

No answer.

Instead, faintly she heard the sound of breathing, panting, ragged and rhythmic Under that was a soft, wet, smacking noise like a counter beat to the breathing. It was coming from her left.

She stepped into the living room. Though she couldn’t see what was making the noise, it was louder here, loud enough that she could tell where it was coming from .. .behind the couch that divided the room almost in half. Kris stepped forward.

The cop was there, face down on the floor, wearing only her uniform top. She was a strong looking African American woman, jet black, with long, straightened obsidian hair that spilled across and past her shoulders. A black nylon band looped around her hips and the small of her back. More straps ran across the back of her thighs. The cop was slowly moving her hips straight up and down.

Kris wasn’t completely unsophisticated; she knew the cop was wearing a strap on, and that she was using it.

She was using it on Susan.

Susan was on her back, writhing under the cop. Her knees were pulled up, almost to the cop’s arm pits, her calves crossed under the cop’s shoulder blades. She was opening herself as much as she could to take the plastic dong as deeply as she could. Head thrown back, spittle forming in the corners of her mouth, eyes wide open and unseeing, Susan gasped and choked with each thrust, her fingers digging into the cop’s shoulders. As much as her posture allowed, Susan was thrusting back.

Kris knew she should put a stop to it and she would have, had her pussy not seemed to ignite. The scene on the floor in front of her was the hottest thing she’d ever seen; that her daughter was one of the participants mattered not. Her hand found her breast and began to knead before she even realized she was doing it, and when she did realize, she couldn’t stop. She felt herself in time with the cop’s thrusts, that way it was almost like the cop was fucking her. The cop was whispering to Susan, filth pouring into Susan’s willing ears. It made Kris tremble with need.

“Fuck my cock, baby girl,” the cop’s voice was deep and lewd. “You’re Mistress’ little lezzie whore now, ain’t ya?”

“Yesssss ... for ... Mistress,” Susan gasped, softly but with utter conviction.

“And after I make you cum, you’re going to lick my pussy again,” the cop continued. “You lick it so good, you’re going to make my cunt squirt right on you little tongue, just like before.”

“Yessssss,” Susan hissed. Her whole body trembled. “Faster ... go faster!”

The cop did as she was told ... she was pounding into Susan now. Kris’ right hand slipped down to her waist and undid the fly of her jeans. The warmth and slickness of her cunt was amazing. Her fingers slid easily over her hypersensitive clit.

An arms wrapped slowly around Kris’s waist, a body pressed against her from behind. A tongue danced in her ear, then Tara’s voice.

“Let me do that for you.”

Tara’s hand slipped into Kris’ jeans and under her panties. She worked slowly, familiarizing herself with Kris’s twat; the older woman shuddered on the probing fingers. Tara nibbled on Kris’ neck, her fingers gradually becoming more assertive, flicking across Kris’ folds and then into her soaking hole. Kris spread her legs and squatted slightly to help get those maddening fingers in deeper.

Kris’ head rolled back, mouth open, seeking Tara’s. Tara’s hand brushed Kris’ cheek, coaxing her head to the side, bringing their mouths together. Kris’ hand slid down Tara’s arm, coming to rest on the girl’s wrist at the point Tara’s hand disappeared into Kris’ panties. She deliberately ignored the small part of her that knew what was happening was wrong and unnatural, gripped Tara’s wrist to urge her to keep going.

Tara broke the kiss, “We learned all about eating pussy last night ... want me to show you?”

The thought of it sent a perverse shiver through Kris. She nodded eagerly.

Tara pivoted Kris in place so they now faced each other.

Their kiss was ferocious. Tara wore only a simple, terry cloth robe. Kris had no difficulty loosening the knot, then slipping her hands inside the soft material to knead the firm, young breasts. With a shrug of the shoulders, the robe fell off Tara. Kris’ hand drifted between the girl’s legs; Tara’s cunt felt steamy warm and utterly delightful against her fingers. Tara shivered as Kris’ nails brushed her clit.

Then Tara was on her knees and with an impatient tug, pulled Kris’ jeans and panties down to the calves. Kris placed both hands on Tara’s head to balance herself as she lifted one leg, then the other, to allow Tara to get the clothing all the way off. That done, she crushed Tara’s face into her twat.

“Uhhhhh,” Kris’ groan felt like it started in her cunt and resonated through her entire body. After just a few laps of Tara’s tongue, Kris knew this would be the finest pussy licking she’d ever experienced. She thought of Mistress and wished she’d read the e-mails. She pulled her sweatshirt off, then unhooked her bra, tossing both away.

Tara’s arm snaked around Kris’ leg, and her fingers tickled at Kris’ ass. Kris had never had her back hole played with; the sensation drew her up straight and flicked her hips.

Kris moaned softly as she wiped her twat across Tara’s face. She did it again and was rewarded with the same exquisite sensation. With out shame, Kris thrust herself again and again into the teen’s face.

Tara positioned herself slightly to Kris’ right, she was desperately trying to hump against Kris’ shin. She lashed at Kris’ clit, and Kris felt herself slipping away. The feeling was contradiction, awareness exploding outward as self-control dissipated, yet imploding inward and focusing on the orgasm developing in her gut.

She gripped fistfuls of Tara’s sleek black hair. She pulled the girl deeper in.

A disjointed menagerie of smut spooled itself out in her mind: Of lapping away at Tara’s pussy (which would surely be yummy); of other women, legs splayed, begging for her tongue; of women trying to resist, the futility of it spurring her on; of gentle fingers and soft lips touching her everywhere, again and again. The vision shattered against the trilling of her screams.

Her cunt fluttered on Tara’s tongue. Essence gushed from between her legs, soaking Tara’s face. With a final thrust, she crushed the youngster into her, hips grinding a rapid series of circles, wringing out the last drops of her orgasm. She collapsed to her knees and Tara was kissing her deeply again. Kris could taste herself on Tara’s lips, the musky flavor eliciting a final series of tremors in her belly. Finally was the realization that she belonged, fully and utterly, to Mistress. The thought of it made her indescribably happy.

“Oh God ... oh my fucking God,” she panted, head resting on Tara’s shoulder. She looked up.

Susan and the cop were standing on their knees, tit to tit, nuzzling each other gently as they stared at her with heavy lidded eyes. The sight filled Kris with new strength.

With a groan she forced herself to her feet and crossed the room. She pushed the cop to the floor. Kris didn’t wait for an invitation and the cop did nothing to stop her. She mounted the black woman, hands coming to rest on the massive breasts. Their supple heft excited her. Their mouths pressed together, tongues stabbing as Kris positioned herself. The dong lay flat on the cop’s stomach, Kris slid her soaking pussy along the shaft. Finally, she lifted her hips into the air. The cop used both hands to hold the dildo in place. In a single stroke, Kris took it inside her.

Their bliss was interrupted a few hours later by the arrival of Tara’s mother, who had already accepted Mistress into her life, so the interruption was minimal and the now five-some were quickly back on-track.

Interruption of a less pleasant sort came with the arrival of Tara’s father, and his attempt to re-assert control over his house. His shock and hurt were evident when his wife and daughter rejected him utterly. Pain became obstinance ... he refused to leave. Kris feared there would be violence, particularly when Quinn drew her weapon. Tara’s father clearly thought Quinn was bluffing. Kris suspected otherwise.

And Kris proposed a solution, offering the use of her house for the time being. A reasonable solution, a 9mm pointed at his temple and an extra hostile glint in Quinn’s eyes was all the convincing he needed. He took the deal.

It was much later, when they finally stopped to eat something other than pussy, that Kris began to think about what the future held. The news carried a story about a riot in a country the name of which Kris couldn’t pronounce The men in this country had tried to reassert control over their women. Hundreds were dead. At first glance, the report sickened Kris.

The commentators were speculating on what would happen next, playing and replaying one clip in particular. The film was dark and grainy, but showed a line of soldiers firing into a crowd of Mistress’ servants. The clip was being played in slow motion to determine if there’d been any provocation of the soldiers.

But Kris noticed something else. Some of the soldiers had held their fire. Some of the soldiers, it appeared, were unwilling to shoot at their mothers, sisters, daughters, wives. That’s when Kris knew her side was more dedicated. That’s when she knew her side would win.

Epilogue

The next day, she explained there was one last bit of unfinished business from her old life she wanted to clear up. Kris didn’t call it payback, and Quinn didn’t ask, though the meaning was clear enough. But Kris did ask for help, and Quinn was happy to give it. Besides, Quinn had a loose end of her own to tie off. While the others were still asleep, Quinn drove off in the cruiser with Kris following in her car.

Quinn knew, eventually, they’d come looking for her, so she drove to the opposite side of town and left the cruiser in the parking lot of a strip mall ... not much of a ruse, but better than nothing. Her errand finished, she transferred to Kris’ car. Normally, the drive would have taken a long while. They were going across town (again) at a time traffic should have been heaviest. The streets, however, were all but abandoned. They were at their destination in only 20 minutes.

Quinn smiled to herself ... they’d cleaned things up since the last time she was here.

The man who answered the door looked shocked to see them, “Kris? Officer ...?”

He snapped his fingers a couple times to try and help him remember.

“Johnson,” Quinn answered for him. “This is your ex-husband?”

Kris shrugged.

Richard said. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

Kris smiled as she ran her hand along the small of Quinn’s back, “We’ve become ... close ... over the last day or two.”

“What are you both doing here?” Richard’s face hinted that he already knew the answer.

“We’re here to see Diane,” Kris replied.

Richard flinched as though he’d been struck, “I don’t think that would be a good idea. She isn’t well right now.”

“We weren’t asking,” Kris said.

“Mr. Clark,” Quinn continued. “I thought I told you to stay away from your wife?”

“You told me to stay away for a few days, and I did.”

“Now I’m telling you to stay away from her permanently”

“You ... you can’t do that,” Richard sputtered.

Quinn placed a hand on her holster, “Who’s going to stop me?”

For the second time in three days, Quinn watched closely as Richard drove away from his house. Kris and Quinn let themselves in, locking the door behind them and propping a chair against the door knob, just in case. They called out for Diane, and after a few moments, heard a muffled “Up here” in response.

Richard had left her in a guest room. He’d tied a bungee cord around the doorknob, and tied the other end of the cord to a doorknob on the opposite side of the hall, to keep her in. Kris and Quinn quickly undid the knots.

“Kris and Officer Johnson, what a pleasant surprise,” Diane was sitting on the bed, nude. The room smelt faintly of pussy. She looked delighted to see them.

“Call me Quinn.”

“Okay, Quinn,” Diane smiled all the wider. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I thought you and I needed to have a little talk, bury the hatchet so to speak,” Kris explained as she pulled her sweatshirt off. Quinn was unbuttoning her top. “Quinn came along to make sure there was no trouble with Richard.”

“I’m so glad you came by,” Diane said as she scooted back, her shoulder blades resting against the bed’s headboard. Her legs spread wide. “And thank you both for rescuing me.”

Kris crawled onto the bed and knelt between Diane’s legs. Experimentally, she stroked and sniffed at the very wet cunt. The bed sagged behind her, and Quinn’s strong hands were stroking her ass, working slowly upwards to grip her hips. The dildo pressed against her slit. Kris began to lick.

“Mmmmm,” Diane whimpered. She looked up. “Quinn, do you remember the very first thing I asked you?”

Quinn nodded. She was concentrating on slowly pushing the dildo into Kris.

“I told you so,” Diane sighed.