Mentari comes home to some changes in his living situation one day after work and learns something about obedience and himself.
Neighborhood Relationships
I had noticed some new neighbors that same week. Moving vans and crews hauling heavy wrapped furniture over the sidewalk. Increased traffic of every kind during the day. A fancy Porsche and an older but well-preserved and gleaming Jaguar sedan parked close to our drive at night. I had been busy at work with a new data project just coming to market, and because, while my older daughter—now 21—was in college, it seemed as though my younger daughter’s volleyball and extra-currivular activities filled every spare second of non-work time. So, I had not identified who exactly it was had moved in two houses down. I just really had not paid the whole matter much attention.
I was too tired, really, to pay attention, too, when I came home late on Friday night to find the Jaguar next my teen’s battered old pickup in the side parking area just off our drive. I thought maybe there was a party somewhere on the block, as there often were in our upscale enclave, and so space was tight. If it happened again, I thought, I might put a note on the Jaguar’s windshield warning the owner that her or she was trespassing. But you always want to be slow to get crosswise with neighbors.
I pushed in through the front door as usual, set my briefcase in the corner and went on into my home office, not seeing anyone, and not really recognizing that was odd. When I checked my calendar, and pulled a couple of files I would need on Monday out of the file cabinet, I paused. I realized I had heard sounds I could not identify. Breathing hard? Groans? Recently my wife had gone through a workout phase and set up a very decent fitness center in one of our unused downstairs side rooms. But on checking, there was no one in the gym. Was something wrong? Someone hurt? No alarm bells went off, per se, but I felt vaguely curious.
Now sort of half-alert, I wearily wandered through the rest of the downstairs portion of our home, and then started up the back staircase. I realized that the door to our master suite was slightly cracked, and that is where any noise I was hearing was coming from. Not surprisingly—my wife was sweet and lovely—I was still completely taken with her twenty-plus years in—and sometimes everyone seemed to gather up there with her, as if it were a virtual upstairs kitchen. I often laughed about it to myself.
When I pushed the bedroom door open, I was completely unprepared for what I saw.
My youngest daughter, just turned 18, was stretched out on our large king bed; I could tell it was her by her volleyball-toned thighs, lace socks she loved inordinately, and the familiar butterfly tattoo on her hip—all I could see of her. My wife was nowhere in sight, which was unusual, because it was not typical for anyone to be in our bedroom suite if my wife was not there. Instead, two strangers were there with my daughter: a shapely blond woman and a younger, sweet-faced young Asian American I sort of half recognized as possibly an old friend of my older daughter.
What they were doing, however, was not computing in my mind. I stood for a moment completely voiceless, trying to understand, kind of a stranger in my own space. I felt weird, slow, old, dumb.
The blond, who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, was, as a second glance confirmed, strikingly good looking. She had a finely groomed and shaped tanned body, beautiful flawless skin. I had an excellent basis on which to make this judgment, because she was right there in front of me, very near, and very nearly naked. She was wearing a white, possibly leather bikini, with a normally-shaped bikini bathing suit draped on substantial but delicately-curved, natural-looking breasts. The bottom half of her ensemble involved stringy straps that seemed designed to highlight her hips and thighs, but left her ass mostly exposed. I could not see all of her because she was positioned over my daughter’s face, with her crotch resting, apparently, on Tina’s mouth and chin—facing away from me.
The other woman in the room, my elder daughter’s friend (?), was undressed in a blue bikini that also showed off her shape and would have been considered skimpy if not juxtaposed just then (for comparison) with her colleague’s minimalistic white bit of nothing.
As I inhaled a breath to speak, protest—this was my room, my private space—the blond, who had already turned to look at me grasped the curvature of one side of her butt as if offering it to me, and said firmly, and manner-of-factly, in a very sane and normal-sounding voice. “Hang on. You’ll be next.”
I am not a violent man, but in the moment, I felt invaded, angry and quite honestly ready to throw the insolent interlopers out each bodily. I am not in my thirties anymore, but I have been an athlete all my life, and work out regularly—all the more since my wife became so obsessed with her fitness routines—and it did not seem likely I would find doing this too difficult. But, facing the real world and the constraints of society, I pulled out my cell phone and was already dialing 911, when—I saw at that moment, my daughter, Tina, wriggle, and heard her make a sound I instinctively recognized—as pleasure. I realized she was enjoying what was being done to her. The sexuality of the tableau had not struck me, perhaps because I was still in some way in work mode or a ‘job’ state of mind.
But then it did. And I thought of the embarrassment my daughter would suffer if police came and—And that was when the moment unraveled. When I paused to think, I thought of a thousand other things, thoughts and sensations cascading down onto me and into my head like an avalanche. I felt overwhelmed, and therefore uncertain.
Maybe she had been moving all along, but now it became clear that the stunning blond was firmly and gently stroking her crotch, her pussy, on my daughter’s face. And suddenly I was hit by what I could only imagine must have been an intense dose of pheromones. I could smell the feminine smell of the woman, or—after a glance over at my daughter’s high school friend and seeing her hand tickling the front of the little triangle bottom she was wearing—women, and it triggered something in me. I realized I was hard in an instant, maybe harder than I had ever been in my life. I was incredibly excited. I mean, Melinda, I recalled the Asian American girl’s name now—was masturbating eagerly. And the blonde was—hot. Young, intensely vital and steamingly hot. I am a girl Dad, and I work in an office with a staff over half women, and I like it. But sex is kind of a taboo subject in most contexts and it had been a long time since I had thought of—well what was I thinking? I thought of my wife, maybe starting to weigh out a comparison, and then the seedy and small-minded thought came that I was glad she was not there. Not now. Not just … yet.
But the women in my room, all three of them, were younger than me, almost a full generation back, and they were in my bedroom where I slept with my wife—my private space, doing—I had no idea what! It was way out of line and inappropriate and several other adjectives I could not drag out of my muddled mind just then. And what the hell did she mean, I’d be next?! Could anyone possibly have been more presumptuous?! Arrogant? (Hot?) I started, I imagined, to raise hell—or started to speak. But the blond, still gently rubbing her pussy with the kinds of muscles that women have that drive men crazy, held up her finger to tell me to wait. To the younger woman standing by, she said, “The combination of the drink and pheromones is all it takes, with the right conditioning. He will be happy to—uh “—she smiled warmly at me “—cooperate.”
Again, I had just come home from a busy and difficult, but frankly very normal job on a normal Friday afternoon, in a normal, if slightly upscale suburb of … ah hell. I had lived a pretty tame and normal life since my time in the military, truth be told. I had never been to a sex club, and while I had slept with a dozen or more women before my wife—I was branded a player, embarrassingly, back then—that was twenty years ago and my life had been tame since then.
My tongue finally loosened, although honestly, I still felt high, or dizzy, and I said, “WHAT are you doing? Why are you in my bedroom?” I would have spoken to my son, but it was obvious that he was in some weird way quite incapacitated, with his face still buried in the blond mis—the blond stranger’s beautiful pussy.
Wait—what?
The blond did not answer immediately, clearly aware of my confusion and internal conflict but after a few beats she said, in that radio-announcer’s clear voice, “It’s getting a little difficult to think, isn’t it?”
As she said that, I realized I could smell something else in the air, and wondered if they had been burning incense to cover their activities. But then I lost that thought entirely. There was just too much mental and physical sensual input invading my brain. I was barely hanging onto control, onto my sanity, really. This was just too weird. And it was—hot.
“I’m taking your daughter just now. She is so sweet, and thanks to you, very polite.” She looked down with a smile. Tina moaned, as if on cue. Although well muscled and an athlete, likely a match for the blond, she was completely docile for some reason. “Melinda will handle most of Tina’s training and conditioning, and she is already in my circle, so I am allowing her to watch and learn some … technique.”
Nothing the blond said made sense to me yet. “What are you telling me—what is going on…?” My volume was rising, even as I fought the inclination to just relax and watch what was happening.
The blond mistress held a finger to her lips almost as if to suck or kiss it. But she meant “shush.”
“This is a lot to absorb, Mentari, but your world is changing. You will love it soon, very soon. But just now you are still fighting it.” Her tone could have been that of a highly-credentialed therapist empathetically explaining a psychological condition. She smiled again down at my Tina, almost affectionately. “Tina has surrendered now and is completely mine, aren’t you Teeny? Slave?”
There was a vague mumble of consent from somewhere under her crotch. “Your wife is fully enslaved,” she added in the same kind of tone one might remark that there was a bit of breeze out this afternoon. Very normal—but not. She turned and smiled at me, very sweetly. “So there is just you.” I saw her glance at Melinda and realized someone was locking the bedroom door. Why? That seemed ominous.
And then—it didn’t. I found the fragrance I was smelling more and more attractive. Nice ambiance, a part of my mind said; I wonder if they make it in a spray, lol. I wondered about all kinds of things like the ability of the body to absorb ambient chemicals and natural means of assimilation—one of my technical areas—and then realized I was just confusing myself. I looked back at the blond as if for advice, and she answered, quite sympathetically, “What to do. What to do…” as if mirroring my thoughts.
Or thinking them for me. She made a kind of shrugging expression as if to say again, “what should I do?” Asking the question for me. Helping me out. I thought, Yes, what should I do? What does one do when one comes home on a normal Friday afternoon from a normal job in the US to find …
“Well,” she continued a little more briskly. “First thing is, I think you ought to kiss my ass to thank me for enslaving your sweeeeet wife. She really is lovely, and a fighter. And daughter.”
What?! For a moment my lethargy was interrupted. Had she really just said what I thought I heard? Was any of this really happening? I looked at the blond’s face, trying to read it, to find an answer there. Her eyes drew me in and I felt myself sinking, and my thoughts stilling. Her eyes were a goldish-green—very captivating. They regarded me steadily and unabashedly, with a kind of utter calm. I thought—and then I didn’t think. She clutched her ass again, almost delicately, and for some reason I noticed then that my mouth was watering. In fact, I was intensely conscious of it—and not much else, except what a shape this woman perched on my daughter’s face on my bed owned. It was as if the golden-green hypnotics above had squeezed my brain down into a focus on a shape that, over eons of evolutionary time, had come to stimulate a reaction in male human minds just as was happening to me now. I have always had a tendency to overthink things, and I was thinking now of all the ways that evolution has conditioned us to react sexually to certain visual, aural and aromatic inputs…
I felt a hand on my forehead, and it seemed as though some sort of lotion was being rubbed into it by a delicate small hand, and then there was another hand on my shoulders pushing me downwards onto my knees. Melinda. Melinda really was a cutie and she smelled really good. Had I always thought that, when she was visiting my older daughter? I winced at the thought. But I realized I felt very good and very grateful and I did in fact want to kiss that incredibly shapely ass. I mean, the blond, Laura, was hot. Who wouldn’t?
But I resisted. A little. I straightened with some effort, and said, “No. I—uh. No. this is not right. This is my room; it…”
Laura, whose name had somehow occurred to me, although I am still not sure how, was looking me right in the eyes, and I considered then that maybe she had some special hypnotic powers. I realized I did not fully know if she were even human.
Things were happening here that I really did not understand. What was in that smell, in those chemicals, the ointment, I could now feel sinking into my forehead, into my brain.
Mistress Laura—where did that name come from?—said quietly, with deep and authentic kindness and understanding, “No? Nooo? Awww, you don’t really want to fight it. Look at me. Look at my ass. Breathe in. Breathe deeply. What could it hurt to give a little kiss…?”
She made a cute moue with her lips, a sexy sweet pout, kind of childish, especially in contrast to her prior demeanor, and kind of playful, but again very disturbing and confusing, just the one expression. Her words now were breathy and faded a little at the end, as if drawing me closer, drawing me in. I realized I had inched closer to her; I was right next the bed. She reached a free hand up and, inexplicably, tapped my forehead just very lightly. But something popped in my mind, in my body in my soul. She took my chin in her hand, which would have seemed rude in any other situation, but seemed for some reason extremely charming and kind to me right then, and said, “You will be so happy. As your wife is. And you really really want to submit to me. You want to be enslaved.”
I had not heard anyone talk about slavery except in the most evil contexts, and this—that word—almost knocked me out of my fog, again.
“Slave? Sl—slavery?”
“Yes, Menti. Mhmmm.” She glanced over at Melinda, who had moved behind me and slightly to the side, as if for confirmation or proof. And Melinda, while smiling almost gleefully but maybe also maliciously, did, indeed look completely smitten, excited, gloriously—enslaved. Enslaved!? Enslaved.
“Think about it,” she went on, and I was, very intensely, with my thoughts shooting in all directions. “Hmmmm? I am going to take you and your family turn you, condition you—oh I know there will need to be lots of regular training, the regular dosing and audio recordings with subliminals; you will learn to love and cherish the smell of my used panties when I rub them on your face—but you will give yourselves to me completely, and quite happily. You need to start thinking slave thoughts. Have you ever considered bondage? You will call me mistress. You have no choice with the drugs and the hypnotics and subliminals, but rest assured Menti you will be happy. You want this and will want it. Forever.”
She released my chin with a gentle draw downwards and dug her fingernails into that stunning ass again. And I felt Melinda’s small hands on my shoulder and the crown of my head again. My knees felt weak and I was dizzy and so I mostly fell down onto my knees, with Melinda, my daughter’s friend, guiding me, helping me, kindly making sure I did not simply fall over from the drugs. I could hear a little trill of laughter as I dropped.
“He is the easiest of all. He is completely turned. Converted.”
With a slight glance up at where Melinda stood behind me, Mistress said, “Yes. Sometimes the strongest-looking men have the most unusual fantasies. They have never had to fight social norms the way women do, so they are unprepared for the unusual.” She smirked. “Lucky for us. So good for us.” She winked at Melinda, obviously fine with my seeing it and picking up the implications. That was part of the conditioning, I realized. She wanted me to think about how her psychology worked and let that condition me further. And then the thought of how my thinking of the psychology conditioning me, made it seem even more inevitable.
“You use the intelligence of smart people against them.” She was speaking again to Melinda, or both of us, then she clutched her butt cheek once more and said sweetly but firmly to me, “Now kiss me. And think how grateful you are that you and your family are becoming my slaves. You love giving in. Think about it—how strange, and evil—oh yes, evil as your concept of deeply strange and unsettling things you do not understand—and scary and sweet and sexy it is. Think how perverse it is to be grateful for this.” She waved her free hand around vaguely, but I understood the circumstantial reference. “And about how you will soon be feeling my sex on your face. Feel the pheromones. They feel so good because they men have been conditioned to react favorably to them for a half million years. They make you feel good, as they should. You feel so good. You want to be my slave, and you are so happy to give in to me this way. So—you are grateful.”
I recognized as she was speaking how upside down and backwards this was, how weird, perverse, and completely inconsistent with all rationality to which I was accustomed, how out of the world she was to be talking to me, a stranger, this way. But I also felt that she was right about at least one thing. I wanted to touch my lips to her skin. I did. I wanted to follow through on the act of obeisance, even just to try it, even if it was pretend or unreal. Like in a movie or a play. Theater. Was that what this was? I considered it might even be a dream. Either way would make it all forgivable, not irrational. But the sweat on the back of my neck let me know it was real. I thought even then and wonder now if Laura’s skin might have magical properties, or if she had put some chemicals there to affect me. We think of ourselves, we human beings, as free-willed creatures, and rational, logical, but the fact is even tiny bits of chemicals too small to see can throw everything about us out of kilter. We are so vulnerable to external influences, so inherently compromised, as they used to say about Marine’s who fell in love overseas. And I was so turned on I thought I might come in my pants at any second, and that alone distracted me with embarrassment. My mind was like a computer blinking “error” on absolute overload, on the brink of crashing and losing all data.
I leaned forward and kissed the spot to which the beautifully manicured finger was pointing. And I immediately felt rewarded.
“Good boy. Good boy. You are so handsome and good for your mistress. You like serving. You really were meant to be a slave to us—uh—to us, weren’t you?” Her weird words and calculatedly-insinuating wording made my mind spin further. It was all so weird that her tone alone made it normal again. Somehow the human mind adjusts and adapts to the most extreme alterations in its environment. That is maybe how we have survived as a species and maybe that is what was happening to me now. But I simply listened and felt validated. “You are so easy, and that pleases you. You want to please me, don’t you?—very badly.”
The skin just by my lips did have a kind of electric charge and I felt deeply changed as I performed this token ritual. (I kissed her ass again.) The significance of me kissing her ass was obvious, and not because I said anything, but also because she had expressly put it in those terms. It did seem to represent me thanking her, obediently, for her enslaving me and—my wife? I wondered where my wife was, the person whom, until this day, I had considered easily the sexiest person I had ever known: now she was in second place. But where was she? I had pulled slightly back and was breathing deeply, now seemingly taking in eagerly the odors that had affected me so. Mistress Laura shifted and lifted her hips, her elegant pelvis just slightly, and Tina slid out. “Go join your mother, Teeny. Put on the headphones and watch the screen and think about how good it feels to give in and be enslaved.” Laura’s smile and her eyes made it seems as if she were extolling a favorite ice cream flavor, and enjoying the imagined taste; she winked at Tina, who seemed to drink in the wink and Laura’s eyes like a nights’ first shot of bourbon. “And .. how good it feels to have me on top of you.” Tina went into the suite’s small sitting room without a word and without looking at me.
But I could not look away from the dazed and utterly smitten look on her fine, girlish features. I wondered if she had ever looked at me that way, doubting it, and what my face looked like just then. This thought made me blush and feel hot and further accentuated the way the social pressures we all feel all the time were being manipulated to push me in this new direction. I felt helpless, and mechanical and very excited in a very intense and perverse way.
Laura was busy with this aspect of what she had to accomplish, so quite practically, as she spoke, she reached out her free hand and cupped it around the back of my neck. I had not realized I was still so close to her. But she pulled me under her thighs so that I was stretched out on my back just as Tina had been when I arrived. The physical transition went very smoothly, because I helped, instinctively. I realized I was not just cooperating with her intentions as I perceived them. I suddenly wanted this very very badly, yes, more than I could ever remember wanting something in my life. The thought of oral sex has never been a strong urge; I have enjoyed pleasuring my wife, but a big part of that—the thought of how private and personal her sexual center is—had to do with her overall personality. In other words, it was, in my mind, never that her pussy was exciting per se, but that the pussy of this woman with whom I was utterly smitten and who was so intelligent and talented, was extremely hot no matter how it smelled, looked or tasted. For the first time, I had that same feeling with Mistress Laura, my new focus in life. Her pussy smelled sweet and musky and very aroused in a wonderful feminine way—I realized she thoroughly enjoyed and go off on enslaving me, bringing a new resource into her stable—but the real charge was from the incredible honor and sharing nature of allowing me to experience this amazing woman, or goddesses, really, incredible center, her sex, her most private par. Here in front of me and then pressed against me was the source of life only she and women could provide. I think I moaned, and I heard again the light tinkle of Melinda’s laughter. A thousand thoughts and objections came to my mind. But I was way past caring about social mores or normalcy. My god, or goddess—to have Mistress Laura’s pussy on my face! To be able to know and taste her, learn her odor. I wanted to remember not just the delicate slightly-perfumed aroma; I wanted to recall the feel, the moisture. I wanted it to soak into me and bind me closer to her. As my new mistress began to lower herself onto me, I felt a new rush, as the smells increased. It was like her pheromones, perhaps enhanced (as I later learned) with the medicines she applied topically, were rushing straight into my brain, being absorbed through my nose, my mouth, my taste buds, the pores of my skin, my ears.
If you have ever tasted a really beautiful woman’s pussy at the height of sexual excitement, this was ten—a hundred—time more intense. As the soft firm flesh of Mistress Laura’s—I was still not sure how I knew her name and I was already using the word “Mistress” in my thoughts—pussy centered and weighed down on my face, I felt as though I could come through the contact alone. Maybe my face would orgasm. My brain was going through paroxysms, and I did indeed feel so grateful that she was doing this to me. Resting her beautiful, sexy, warm and smoking hot pussy on my face. It was so wonderful. I knew that I was meant to be a slave, even if, had Laura not moved in next door or just down the street, I might never have been aware of this aspect of myself. But that it was perverted and unexpected, and unlike me and just plain untoward made no difference—or it just intensified everything. As her pussy began to move, massaging my face, and rubbing her moisture and smell into my skin like hypnotic oil, I welcomed it.
“Let me feel how much you want it, Menti,” I heard. A voice came from above as if from heaven. That was the nature of my experience just then. “Pull me down on you, revel in my taking you…” Her voice hissed a little. “You love my taking you. You love the change that is happening. You want to give yourself to me totally, to obey me, to learn to obey.”
The word “obey” seemed to shimmer in my mind. I knew that I DID want to obey her now. Who could not want to obey her, if it led to this smell, this feeling, this thing that was happening in my head, in my body, to the feeling as her moisture ran into my mouth and onto my tongue. It was so good, so rich, so right. And I knew she was enjoying the taking, too, as she moistened to the point of dripping, and this made me proud and hotter still, the thought of how powerful she must feel herself to be and how wonderful all this was.
I of course reached up and reverently grasped the lissome hips above me, feeling the rich perfect skin, touching the shape of that amazing ass and pulled gently, respectfully, pleadingly downward, begging her with my touch to take me, turn me, convert me, condition me into more of what I already was, her slave.