The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Fool’s mate.”

That is what it’s called in chess; when your first few moves are so incredibly naïve that before it has really even begun, the game is already lost.

I twisted my stiff, aching neck the few millimeters that the restraints would allow, trying to get my face free from my best friend’s genitalia for just a moment, to take a breath that wasn’t laced with pheromones, and the disorienting scent of female arousal. Ten hours was a long time to lick pussy; I was developing a healthy new respect for the women who did this for a living in the porno film industry.

As I moved my buzzing lips and tongue slightly away from Jolie’s soaking crotch, she began to shudder again, her thigh muscles spasming as if they were trying to grip my head, and draw my mouth back into her humid seam. Her entire body began to shake and vibrate against mine, and her warm tongue stabbed into my own sodden nest again, drawing my scattered attentions back to my nearly exhausted body most forcefully. I moaned quietly, sweatily squirming in the bonds that held us tied so tightly together that when Jolie inhaled, I was forced to exhale. I dimly wondered if I would live to ever see some part of my friend other than her neatly trimmed dark-auburn pussy again.

Then I climaxed again myself, and any last vestiges of coherent thought were swept away on the flood of my own seemingly never-ending orgasm.

Fool’s mate, indeed...

The flyer for the fall quarter’s Women’s Symposium at the university intriguingly alluded to something called ‘Self Awareness Sensitivity Training,’ and ‘Women and Individual Sexual Empowerment’, two subjects almost guaranteed to get my attention these days. ‘Sensitivity’, and ‘Sexual’ were both words that were very prominent on my radar screen just recently.

“So, whaddaya say, Vannie? Wanna go?” Jolie stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her coffee, watching me with a mischievous twinkle in her light-hazel eyes.

I drummed my nails absently on the flyer, returning the challenging look of the young woman who had placed it there. Jolie was eight years my junior, and recently graduated from the university. Her youthful high spirits, and boundless faith in her ability to shape the world into any form that she pleased had led her to make me her reclamation project of the moment. But you couldn’t resent Jolie’s efforts, really, even when she turned the high beams on full bore, with you pinned in their glare. Her enthusiasm was too selfless, and full of her genuine desire to help, to somehow make your life better.

“That stuff’s going to make you diabetic by the time you’re thirty-five, you know, Jolie,” I said, indicating the fourth heaping spoonful of sugar poised over her cup, just before she dumped its contents into the steaming liquid.

“Don’t change the subject, Van. You’re always finding ways to duck out on stuff like this. You’re forever yammering about how frustrated you are, and how ‘unappreciated’ you feel, but whenever I try and get you to go to some of the Symposium’s presentations, you always have a hair appointment, or can’t get a sitter, or your moon is trine to Saturn or something...”

“I’ve NEVER said that I feel ‘unappreciated’, Jolie. And as far as these lectures you’re always trying to drag me to are concerned, well...I’m really not too sure just how spending several hours a day watching porno flicks while I search for my ‘G’ spot fits into the overall scheme of ‘consciousness raising’ in my life at the moment. But, of course,” I drawled sarcastically, “I’m always interested in what the younger generation is up to...”

“Stop, already. I’m wise to your tricks, lady,” she said, banging her mug down on the table for emphasis. “And you’re hardly Grandma Moses, you know.” She fixed her gaze on me with that Mother Theresa sincerity that I had come to dread. “You’re my crusade for this term, Vannie. I’m gonna get you to this lecture, and I’m gonna raise your Gee-Dee consciousness, so help me, if I gotta go out and rent a forklift to do it. So you might just as well make up you’re mind that you’re going...”

I sighed, running my eyes over the flyer beneath my fingertips again. Dr. Beatrix Ashwood Mackay: Dual doctoral degrees in clinical psychology and political science, Amherst, ‘81—the youngest doctoral candidate in the school’s history, incidentally, at age twenty-two. Dean of the Women’s Studies department at a prestigious New England university; founder of the Women’s Institute for Sexual Dysfunctionality and Orgasm Maximization. (WISDOM—I nearly cringed visibly at this one). An internationally sought-after lecturer, adviser to a slew of powerful political action committees on women’s issues, as well as several high-profile, and highly ambitious women in both politics and business, her face had graced the covers of publications as wildly varied as Time, Ms, and Rolling Stone in the last year alone. Dr. Mackay was the au courant poster girl for the radlib Woman of the 21st Century, with a bullet. I found myself hating this person already. I sighed again, more theatrically this time.

“I suppose I’ll get no rest until I agree to go, will I...”

“Good! That’s settled then.” Jolie sat back in her chair, taking a sip of her syrupy coffee with a particularly self-satisfied look on her fresh young face.

“Now, about my borrowing that little black velvet ‘A’ line of yours this Saturday ...”

“...the complete disconnect from reality of a culture in which we are constantly bombarded with images of women as sexual ‘toys’, and yet in which those same women can face prosecution on felony charges in over a dozen states for simply trying to control their own bodies’ reproductive processes. A society in which it is perfectly legal, even encouraged in some locales, to carry a lethal concealed weapon, and yet jail a woman for possessing, in the privacy of her own bedroom, a marital aid that might be used to help her achieve her own personal sexual fulfillment, God forbid.” Dr.Beatrix Mackay smiled sardonically.

“To paraphrase Mr. Shakespeare’s dithering Dane, ‘Something is decidedly rotten in the state of Texas.’” Her audience laughed appreciatively, and applauded enthusiastically.

Is that true? I wondered, shifting a little in my seat, surprised to find myself literally poised on the edge of the chair. I was impressed in spite of myself by the woman’s grasp of such a wide and eclectic range of issues, and her ability to make her points in such a pithy, cut-to-the-chase style. This was no shrill, fringe-libber throwback to the seventies; this was a highly educated, intelligent woman who was, rightly or wrongly, outraged by her perception of the suppression of women in contemporary society, and the endless cycle of chaos and violence that the male-dominated governments and institutions of the world seemed unable, or unwilling to break. Further, she seemed more than prepared to act on her agenda. I was astonished to find myself in agreement with much of what she had to say.

As we milled about after the lecture, the room buzzing with excited conversations and laughter, Jolie took my arm and tugged me resolutely toward the small knot of women surrounding Dr. Mackay. I hesitated, shaking my head.

“I really don’t think that we ought to, Jolie...”

“Oh, shit, Vannie...I’m on the Symposium’s steering committee, for chrissakes. And I want you to meet Bea. It’s about time you met another woman besides me that you don’t talk preschools, or pediatricians, or recipes for herb-crusted salmon with...”

She pulled me inexorably across the crowded hall, and pushed her way through the throng of women encircling the lecturer. “Dr. Mackay...Bea, hi...I want you to meet my friend Van...Van, Dr.Beatrix Mackay. If anybody ever needed to be exposed to some non-nineteenth century ideas on sex, and women’s participation in same, it’s Vannie, here...”

I flushed to the roots of my dark brunette hair, and turned a furious look on my young companion. “Jolie,” I hissed at her. Dr. Beatrix Ashwood Mackay never missed a beat, though.

“Nice to see you again, Jolie,” Dr. Mackay said, her eyes smiling over the rim of her Spode China teacup at me as she spoke, however. “How did you think it went?”

Jolie rhapsodized enthusiastically for several minutes about our lecturer’s remarks, while the good Doctor herself never took her piercing gaze off me. I felt myself reddening under this close inspection, and was a bit irked at my own school-girlish reaction to it. I hadn’t felt so intimidated by another woman since I was a little girl.

In many respects, in fact, she reminded me of that woman ... my Aunt, who had raised me following the death of my parents in my infancy. Tall and prepossessing, with prematurely silver hair pulled back in a severe style that emphasized her broad, intelligent forehead, Dr Beatrix Ashwood Mackay had piecing, luminous pale-green eyes that were omnivorous, and missed nothing that transpired about her. No detail was too small, or inconsequential to escape her notice. She was tall, an inch or two taller than me, no petite debutante myself at five-nine, and a hundred and thirty pounds or so after a pizza binge. She was impeccably attired in a fawn-colored linen suit and a navy blouse with a high, pearl-buttoned collar, and beige ostrich pumps with three-inch heels that only served to accentuate her very shapely legs. I had the vaguely disturbing feeling that she was very much aware of that, as well, something that seemed to strike a faintly discordant note when juxtaposed against the content of her just-concluded remarks.

“Listen,” Dr. Mackay was saying, as I dropped back into the conversation. “I’ll be at the local chapter of WISDOM here later this afternoon. Why don’t you both stop by, and I’ll give you a little tour of the facility. Maybe I can answer some of your questions about our organization, and its aims, Ms...”

“Worth... Mrs. Worth, actually, Doctor Mackay. But please, just call me ‘Van’,” I managed, already succumbing to the raw personal magnetism, and the sense of power that seemed to radiate from this woman like heat from a furnace. Jolie wasted no time in accepting her offer for us both. I was slightly surprised to hear myself murmuring my own acquiescence to the invitation.

I wonder what this woman could make one agree to if she really put her mind to it, I recalled thinking at the time as I watched her make her way through the crowded lecture hall, pausing for a polite handclasp here, an intimate whispered word there with one or another of the women who broke over her like waves before the prow of a magnificent ocean liner.

I discovered myself oddly hoping that I never found myself in a position to learn the answer to that particular question.