The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sitting at her desk at her “day job” on a Monday morning, Claire was supposed to be verifying her sales orders, but her thoughts kept going back to her nightly patrols as “Cardinal Girl”. Or rather her lack of patrols. Since that fateful night last month when she had been raped in a back alley, she hadn’t had the nerve to go out again.

What’s the point, she thought, if I’m just going to go down on the first goon to call me a “bitch” or a “slut”? She moaned involuntarily at the thought, and felt the moisture between her toned, silky legs.

Damn, that’s the third pair of soaked panties today, my last fresh pair. Fuck it, I’ll just have to leave them on.

As she thought, her pen moved back and forth in her mouth, back and forth. Her tongue slathering it lovingly on each stroke. Four more whole hours before she could go home.

And do what? Watch TV?

Her life as a superhero had been on hold for weeks. It was tearing her up. It was driving her nuts. But she couldn’t start patrolling again until she got her act together.

And who knows how long that will be!

“Claire! My office! Now!”

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit

The pen came out of her mouth with a loud, wet pop, as she stood and followed her boss. Claire had no idea what she had done wrong this time, but she knew she was certainly about to find out.

As she closed the door to Kelly Latimer’s office, she knew that her emotion-sensitive eye shadow was probably a yellowy-brown reflecting her fear and embarrassment. How much things had changed in only the last couple of months.

Three years ago, Claire Clark had come fresh out of college, summa cum laude, with a unique and incredibly difficult double major: A B.S. in Mechanical Engineering and a B.B.A. in Marketing. This was all the more amazing considering how much she hated math. But she loved making things, and she loved selling things, so she had bulled through it. Her furtive attempts at using her meta-human powers as a superheroine in college had convinced her that she was going to need to augment those powers with some technically sophisticated equipment. If she were going to make this “Cardinal Girl” thing work, she would need know-how and funds. The know-how she had, with the grades to prove it. The funds would have to come from somewhere else.

Months before graduation, She had interviewed for an associate sales position with TropoDyne, one of the top engineering supply companies in the country. The interview process wasn’t easy. It was a grueling three days in the double-dip “man’s world” of engineering and sales. But she had the chops, and she cinched it in her final interview. That interview was with the VP of government sales, Ms. Kelly Latimer. They hit it off immediately. To Ms. Latimer, Claire was Kelly herself at age 22; to Claire, Kelly Latimer was the woman she wanted to be (in her civilian world) in 15-20 years.

When Claire had started at TropoDyne under Ms. Latimer, they had slipped seamlessly into their roles of mentor/mother and protégée/prodigy. Kelly showed her the ropes. Claire soaked it up like a sponge. And then she converted it all into money. She had blown past sales quotas like they were nothing. She routinely doubled or tripled the quarterly objectives Kelly set for her, even thought they were higher bars than any of the other junior staff would even consider.

Early on, Claire had worried that her civilian career and her cape career would come into conflict. But the only conflict between them had been which would be the biggest success. For every “Cardinal Girl Saves the Day” newspaper clipping, there was an attaboy from TropoDyne for landing the hard client, for making the key sale, for outmaneuvering the competition. Her life was good.

Now it was almost her three year anniversary at TropoDyne. But it was also two months after her fateful encounter with the Disgruntled Doctor. Her cape career was in the toilet, and her civilian career was not doing too much better. Ms. Latimer had to call “new Claire”—the Disgruntled Doctor’s degenerate ditz—on the carpet twice in the last month. For missing meetings, for spacing out in the meetings she attended, for screwing up orders, for losing sales, for unprofessional dress...appearance...behavior. Gone was the easy camaraderie of two women excelling in a man’s world. Gone was the look from Ms. Latimer that said Claire was the organization’s rising star, the fair-haired girl wonder.

Claire was fucking up and she knew it.

As soon as Claire shut the door to her boss’s office, Ms. Latimer began to lecture with exaggerated patience, “Claire, two of your biggest orders of the year arrived on site today and both were rejected. Do you have any idea which two orders those might be?”

Claire wracked her brain but kept coming up empty. She shook her head. “I...I don’t know, Ms. Latimer.” She might be losing her edge, but she still knew better than to call her boss “Kelly” at a moment like this.

Kelly looked down at her notes and then continued, “Delivery of a 75-yard long, 4-foot diameter carbon-fiber-composite shaft was rejected at the Savannah River Site. And two miles of flexible high-pressure tubing were rejected by Newport News Shipbuilding. Claire, why did you send an aircraft carrier drive shaft to the world’s largest heavy hydrogen producer and miles of gas containment tubing to a military shipbuilder?”

Claire’s mouth dropped open. She had mixed up the orders. There are supposed to be checks in the system to prevent screw-ups like this, but they’re not perfect, and the buck stops with the person who wrote up the orders. That would be Claire.

“Claire, this is a royal cock-up, and it’s going to cost us thousands to fix it. But besides that it’s going to put both customers weeks behind schedule. They’re pissed at us, Claire. Newport News is talking about dropping us as a preferred vendor, but the thing that’s saving us is that they like...you. Or at least they like the Claire who took over their account last year. You have to fix this. And it will take more than just charm. I’ve set up a teleconference for all morning Thursday, starting at 9:30.

“You have to make this right, Claire. You screwed this up. Fix it. Can I count on you?”

“Um, yes, ma’am. I’ll fix it!”

“You’re damned right you will. Go home, Claire. In fact, make these next few days half days in the office, half at home. Figure out what they are going to say Thursday morning, what they are going to want. Figure out what you are going to do for them, how you are going to make it up to them. You can do it. I know you can.”

Without another word Claire is gone.

Kelly pursed her lips in thought, Should I leave it at that? No, this is too important. She reached for her phone. “Chad, can you come to my office please?“

The next several days passed in a blur. During the mornings, Claire was at the office making calls, taking calls, checking, double-checking, and triple-checking her orders, and trying as hard as she could not to think about her obsessions. It was a godsend.

Even before this last screw up, she had already been finding it impossible to make it through the workday without thinking about her crimefighting problems. Which led to thinking about the fucking Disgruntled Doctor. Which led to thinking about the changes to about her silky, honey-flavored, big-titted body. Which led to thinking about satisfying her body’s insatiable craving for orgasm. Which led to thoughts of jumping her male coworkers (How had they not noticed her yet? Maybe almost three years of being the ice queen had frightened them off for good!). Which led to marathon bathroom masturbation sessions, with the Cardinal Cuffs (that she now carried in her purse) locked around her wrists, as she used one hand to strum her clit and stroke her twat, while the other probed her ass. Which, ultimately, led to the release she needed, and the shame that she felt because of it.

Over the past two months, her intense need for bondage during sex meant that masturbating with the cuffs was the quickest reliable way for her to get off at the office. And it generally cost her her whole lunch hour, if not more. So with her half-day schedule for the last few days, she had been able to wait until she got home to do it right. “Doing it right” entailed a number of important advantages for her. At home she could use a much wider variety of bondage gear on herself than just her high-tech handcuffs. At home she could be as loud and nasty as she wanted, calling herself every slut-shaming name in the English language—a luxury she had to forego when jilling off in the office bathroom stall. And last but not least, she could take her time—sometimes as long as two or three hours—to reach a much bigger, much more satisfying “big O” comfortably in her own home, in her own bed.

All three short days this week, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, she drove herself home one-handed. But her free hand was not in her pants. She was incapable of getting off without some kind of bondage, and she still had just enough presence of mind not to waste masturbation that wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how badly she wanted it. No, her free hand was pistoning in and out of her mouth like a dildo, feeding her oral obsession, practicing relentlessly for the inevitable next man to rape her face. It gave her time to think. And she spent it thinking about how she was going to do herself when she got home.

All three days, she took her leisurely afternoon delight. All three days, groggy and famished she made herself a late lunch. All three days she completely forgot that she was supposed to be spending her time strategizing about the client meeting. By Wednesday she was emerging from her afternoon orgasm thinking about nothing but food and her larger predicament, the growing needs forced on her by that genius asshole villain.

By Wednesday night she was frantic. Claire’s afternoon orgasm was long forgotten as her evening horniness began to overwhelm her. All she could think about was sex; she knew she was getting worse. She knew she had to find a solution to this, just for her own self-respect. If only she could find someone to help her. Someone who could help her manage her nymphomania. Someone who would not take advantage of her.

And then she had it: Rubber Ranger. She had accidentally stumbled on his secret identity about two years ago. To prevent him from freaking out about it, she had shared her own identity. Rubber Ranger was definitely a bush league hero. He had been patrolling for over fifteen years compared to Claire’s three, but he was still a third stringer trying to make second string, nowhere near Claire’s league of ass-kickery.

His power was basically two-fold. First, he could stretch, bend, expand, contract himself—or any part of himself—into any shape. Second, he could make himself—or any part of himself—any range of stiffness from diamond-hard to Jello-soft. His metahuman ability had manifested in early childhood—rather than the more typical, and embarrassing, puberty—so his power over himself was lightning quick, almost a reflex, and very finely controlled.

In point of fact his control of his power was so good that he didn’t even wear a uniform! As a consequence of the strange way that she discovered his identity, Claire had also discovered that his tan “costume” was actually his own skin, stretched and strained to look like a skintight unitard with an embossed “RR” logo, hooded mask, gloves, tights, boots, and even fleshy “boxers” covering his privates. He actually roamed the streets buck naked, and nobody even knew!

She started to rock herself back and forth just thinking about it. It was an amazing happenstance that she had caught him changing, since even the elegant sophisticate’s face he wore in civilian life was completely different than the lantern-jawed do-gooder face he used to fight crime. It was the most perfect disguise imaginable, doubly misdirected by the fact that he wore a “mask”.

As a hero, He was great at catching and subduing the regular crooks that he normally pursued, but he was almost worthless against supervillians. Bullets, knives and brass knuckles couldn’t hurt him, but anything even slightly exotic: flames, ice, lightning, magic, telekinesis, could wreck him in a heartbeat.

He would probably cut off an arm for the chance to team up with me! Claire mused, Even now! And here’s the best part, she thought as she rocked unselfconsciously on her sofa. Suddenly giggling, she pulled her thumb from her mouth with a loud wet slurp and said gleefully to herself, “He’s as queer as a fucking three dollar bill! A complete flamer!” She let out a squeal just thinking about it.

Rubber Ranger’s civilian identity, Charles Brewster, was a local dressmaker-cum-fashion-designer of some repute. He made his living, and it really was quite a good one, making one-of-a-kind dresses and costumes for people with very, very deep pockets. Furthermore, with his riches and niche “fame” he was every inch the gay-man-about-town, always seen at all the best places with one boy-toy or another on his arm.

“It’s perfect! We can team up together. I can tell him everything. Then I can do the heavy lifting, and he can ‘sidekick’ for me, watch my back, keep me out of trouble. And he won’t take advantage of me. Shit, the very idea of fucking my honey-sweet silky wet cunt would probably make him blow chunks!”

That night she couldn’t sleep thinking about talking to Chuck in the morning, but eventually she managed to jill herself to dreamland, wearing manacles attached to each other by a foot of chain, pinching her tits, strumming her clit, and slut-talking herself harder and dirtier than a whole crew of construction workers.

The next morning, Thursday morning, she felt better than she had in weeks. She had a plan! She was going to save her superheroine career! She called in sick to work, showered, and put on her “best” new clothes, the ones that showed off her perfect bubble ass, her tanned honey-flavored skin, her full, round, gravity-defying DD tits, her cleavage glitter, her emerald-green belly jewel, and her shiny silver waist chain. Not the stuffy old-maid business clothes her boss made her wear at work. She let her ass-length shimmery, full-bodied, copper-colored hair hang free. Not piling it up in the severe bun as Kelly insisted she do for work.

Claire felt sexy. She felt confident. She was ready to go. Her eye shadow was a joyful azure blue. Take that, boss lady!

But as she climbed into her car, almost as if by telepathy, she got a call back from the office. It was Kelly Latimer’s number.

Having just thought of her boss/mentor/mother in a less than flattering way, she answered the phone a bit hesitantly, a bit guiltily.

“Um, Hello?”

“Claire, how much vacation time do you have?”

Uh-oh. That can’t be good! “Uh, I dunno, Kelly...Ms. Latimer, lots?“

“Sigh Never mind, Claire. Let me check.” Silence for the longest half minute of Claire’s civilian life. “Okay...look Claire, you sound perfectly fine, but you called in sick on a day when you have a last-ditch meeting to save your biggest client...whom I’m transferring to Chad effective immediately. In fact I’m transferring all your accounts to the other junior staff. You have...27 vacation days. Use them.“

Kelly’s tone changed. She was giving one of her set speeches, and not one of the good kind. She was saying things to Claire that she never would have believed she would say to her brightest employee, “It’s become increasingly clear that your professional—and, dare I say, personal—goals have changed...drastically...in past two months. You’re not the girl I hired, Claire. You have over a month...five weeks...to get your act together and figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life. If you’re still this ‘new Claire’ at the end of your vacation, don’t come back.”

She kept on, but Claire was too much in shock to understand it all, something about “disappointment,” and “generous severance package,” and “please get help,” and “think of you like a daughter, even still.” Claire was rocking back and forth in her driver’s seat so hard that she was practically ping-ponging between the steering wheel and the back of her seat. Eventually she realized Kelly was wrapping up. Claire popped her index finger out of her trembling mouth and somehow managed to end the call, hopefully coherently.

This was it, the end of her civilian life dream. It was deader even than her superheroine dream. There was no fucking way that she could stop being the “new Claire”—the Disgruntled Doctor’s twisted toy—in just a month! In fact, she was getting worse, and she knew it.

She worried frantically, brain kicking into overdrive, If this thing with Rubber Ranger doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. And even that only solves my “behind the mask” problem; I can’t even imagine how I’m gonna earn a civilian living!

Suddenly she had a vision of her future: pole dancer by day, crime fighter by night. “Orw mebbe th’ otha way arwound,” she sobbed loudly around her thrusting thumb, shaking uncontrollably, head and tits pressed up against the steering wheel.

Pop! Out came the thumb in shock. “I’d be lu-lu-lucky to keep a job as a stripper. They’d prob’ly f-f-f-fire me when I start f-f-f-fucking every customer who catc-c-c-calls me. I’ll have to be a f-f-f-fetish whore, whips and chains and l-l-l-latex.” In spite of herself she was getting horny just thinking about it, which only plunged her deeper into despair. After endless time she began to pull herself together. It actually helped that she couldn’t find her keys; it gave her something else to think about. She eventually found them under the driver’s seat; they must have slipped out of her hand during the phone call.

But the damage was done. The easy confidence of mere minutes ago was completely shattered. She was a beautiful mess. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, she started the car and headed for “Chuck’s Custom Finery” at its trendy uptown location.

As Claire nervously entered the store, Charles Brewster was in the back room, working on his latest creation, but he noticed her on the security monitor. It was hard not to. It was not unusual for painfully beautiful women to walk into his store. Heck, his current project was for a Brazilian supermodel. But just about anyone who walked in, tall, short, good, bad, or ugly, had at least some fashion sense. This girl looked like a Barbie doll that had been dressed by a 10-year-old future porn star. The clash between the day-glo green tube top and the pink micro-miniskirt were bad enough, but lacy red bra and body glitter behind the tube completed a symphony of gauche. And bright yellow eye shadow? A glass belly emerald? A waist chain? What was with this girl?

Flipping on the security system sound feed he heard her ask the clerk for “Chuck Brewster,” saying that she was a “friend.” As far as Chuck could tell he had never seen this girl in his life. The clerk was about to buzz him, and Chuck was ready to tell the clerk to blow her off...until she said her name: “Claire Clark.”

Oh shit! He had heard through the grapevine that Cardinal Girl had had some sort of...makeover, but this was too much! The “Claire Clark” he knew looked like a skinny tomboy, maybe very slightly butch, with short mousy brown hair and almost ghostly pale skin. This tanned hardbody with the ass-length copper hair could—well, if properly attired—steal that Brazilian supermodel’s boyfriend from right off the model’s arm. All it would take would be a little smile, a little wink, and a come-hither crook of her finger. Before the clerk even reached for the intercom, Chuck beat him to it.

“Send her back, Dustin-babe.”

“Are you sure, Chuck?”

“Yeah, Claire and I, we’re old, ah, friends. Family really.”

Making a face at her as if she were a bad smell, Dustin hesitantly pointed to the back room. “Just through the doors on the right there, Ms. Clark.”

Through a maze of mirrors, bolts of fabric, dressmaker’s dummies, and sewing machines, Claire shimmied up to Charles Brewster. She was biting her lip, too nervous to speak. So Chuck started the conversation. “Claire, honey...is that really you?”

Claire broke down into tears. She spilled everything. She told him about the Disgruntled Doctor’s twisted “games” and the “penalties” she had paid for losing...The body changes...The jewel and the chain, the makeup and the glitter, the perfume and the honey-taste that were all bonded to her permanently...The perverted behavioral changes. She dumped everything that had happened since, all of it: the rape on her last patrol last month, the loss of her job this very morning, her waking nightmare that she would spend the rest of her days living out a bad BDSM porno in real life.

Chuck was shocked! Chuck was appalled! Chuck was, rather unheroically, afraid.

Claire took no notice as Chuck withdrew into himself. A cold, calculating tone crept into his voice. “Claire. Honey-baby. You can see that you’re going to have to give it up...don’t you? You can’t be a hero like, like...this!”

“But, but...Chuck, I don’t have anything else. Cardinal Girl is all I have left. I can’t give it up,” she said, stomping her foot angrily, childishly, “I won’t!” Her eyelids turned an angry red.

Something in Charles Brewster changed. He knew what he had to do, but first he had to see how far gone she was.

“Claire, humor me for a bit. Let’s try a little...hypothetical, Hmmm? Let’s suppose you get captured by some super-villain. I know, I know, it’s never happened before—”

“But it has happened! That rat bastard, the Disgruntled Doctor. Weren’t you listening at all?”

“Sorry, Claire, this is a lot to take in all at once. Let’s say it happens again. But this time he strings you up with a rope.”

Lightning fast, one of Chuck’s arms snakes up through an overhead pipe and back down to snag Claire, first one arm and then the other, pulling them up over her head. The worst behavioral effect takes over now, the one the Disgruntled Doctor never told her about, the one she discovered in that back alley the night she was raped. The bondage was arousing her, and when a man arouses her, her powers disappear.

“Chuck, lemme go!”

“Just be patient with me, Claire. So, he’s got you where he wants you and he starts calling you names: ‘Cardinal Cunt’, ‘Cardinal Cocksucker’, ‘Cardinal Cumrag’.”

Claire moaned. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Her eye shadow changed from an angry red to lusty pinkish-purple. Her hips began to thrust back and forth, fucking an invisible prick. Brewster’s eyes grew wider, more shocked than ever.

“Oh gawd, Chuck. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to do me.”

“No, Claire. Remember, I’m the Disgruntled Doctor, and before I give you the long, hard, hot fucking you want, you have to give me the information that I want. So tell me, slut, where do all you little super-whore-oes have your little team meetings?”

“O-o-o-o-oh! I c-c-can’t tellllll you.”

“Sure you can, bitch! Tell me and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll rape your pussy. I’ll rape your face. I’ll rape your ass.”

“O-o-o-o-oh Ga-a-a-awd! No-o-o-o-o! We m-m-meet...I...I...can’t. It’s wr-r-rong.”

“Wench-twat-rapedoll-fucktoy-cumdum—”

“Aaaaarrrgh! We meet...meet on the t-t-t-top floor of the Hammmmilton Building! Please fuck me! I can’t stand it anymore!” Her eyelids were now a deep, royal purple. A rivulet of slick juice was running down her left leg.

Shit!, thought Brewster, She just gave up the HQ for the city’s chapter of the Hero’s League! And in less than a minute too! This was serious stuff. The last time the League HQ location had gotten out, some supervillain had managed to hit the place with a Sidewinder missile. Nobody had died, but it wasn’t pretty.

He let her go, disgusted. She gave him a dirty look, fished out her Cardinal Cuffs, and began masturbating right in front of him. “Okay, Ch-ch-chuck. You had your funnnnn. But you know, I wouldn’t really rat out the League. You knnnnnow that, right?”

Chuck didn’t know anything of the sort. In fact, what he knew was that she was a ticking time bomb.

Something more in Chuck changed. He was still angry. He was still afraid. But, against all possible expectations of anyone who might have known “Charles Brewster”, he was also very, very aroused.

As quickly as she could, Claire reached her climax. She released the cuffs, staggered to her feet, and peered at Chuck pleadingly. But something about him looked different—less the dressmaker-playboy—more a cold, feral stranger. And then she noticed another difference, one that caused her to fixate upon him in horror. There was an unmistakable tent forming in Chuck Brewster’s dress slacks. Oh Gawd! she thought, He’s not really a fag! Ohgodohgodohgod...

Hands over her mouth, a thumb slipped inside involuntarily. Her knees gave way. Her eye shadow turned yellow with purple flecks. She collapsed in a heap onto the now-wet-shag-carpeted floor. She began to slurp at her thrusting thumb crazily, while nervously rocking back and forth, back and forth. Wildly she wracked her brain for any hope to hold onto...anything at all. He had already proved that he could completely ruin her. And that was when she thought he was playacting. If she thought he really wanted her she’d have no hope at all.

But he can’t want me, right? I’m a woman! But there was the hard evidence right in front of her.

Hard, heh. Then she had it. He can make any part of his body any shape...soft...or hard.

She went from frightened to furious in a heartbeat. Pop! went the thumb. “Geez, Chuck! What is that between your legs? Some kind of fucking joke? Do you think this is funny? You scared me half to death!“

But looking into his eyes, she could see that Chuck wasn’t kidding around. His expression was deadly serious. “No Claire. You see...I’m not really gay. That’s all a part of my cover identity. ‘Chuck Brewster’ is just as much of a mask I wear as ‘Rubber Ranger’ is.”

Oh Gawd! thought Claire, If Rubber Ranger isn’t real, and Chuck Brewster isn’t real, then who the hell is this?

“No. No! ‘Chuck Brewster’ can’t be just another mask! You can’t be het! You’ve got a rep as a gay playboy that can’t be faked! Hell, your Facebook ‘Relationship’ entry is an ‘It’s Complicated’ with a guy named ‘Raul’. You’re as famous for marathon butt-fucking as you are for fashion design. Chuck, you’ve got to be gay or I’m a goner! You’ve got to be gay...or...at least...really...really...n-n-noble?”

A cold, calculating, unfamiliar voice responded, “Look, Claire, gay...straight...it’s not an on-off switch. It’s not even as simple as a spectral line between 100% gay and 100% straight. But if I were to try to reduce it to that linear continuum, I’d have to say that I’m at least 80-90% hetero.”

“But the sex stories. The incredible sex stories. Did you pay all those guys to lie?”

“Claire. I can make any part of my body—any part—long. And thick. And hard. At will. I don’t need to be sexually aroused to perform sexually. And for that matter I don’t need to be sexually repelled to suppress an erection. The only reason you saw mine now is because I let you. Look, Claire...I’m not a very powerful cape. So I go to great lengths...truly, truly great lengths...to protect my real identity.”

In a swift, easy motion Chuck flowed out of his clothes. He began to idly fist his huge phallus. Claire’s eyes grew wide with horror and fascination. She was unable to turn her gaze away from the enormous erection in front of her.

“You know my secret identity, whore. The way you are now, you might give it away just to get a good ass-fucking. I’m not nearly as noble as you hope I am, fuckdoll. But even if I were that noble, cumbucket, I’d still have to do damage control. You are ‘damage’, cocksucker, and so I’m gonna control your Cardinal Candy-ass. Forever.”

Each profane name hit her like an erotic fist, compelling her to submit, to give, to be used.

I can’t escape, she realized to her horror, I don’t want to escape.

With one ever-so-flexible arm and a hand hard as a diamond and sharp as a knife, he sliced off bra and tube top and miniskirt and thong. With the other arm, pencil-thin and dozens of feet long, he wove a perfect shibari rope binding crossing back and forth over her arms, torso, legs.

I can’t fight. I don’t want to fight.

At the end of his rope-arm, his hand in front of her mouth reshaped into a long thick dildo. She had been on an emotional roller-coaster to say the least. With that and her shocked arousal, her powerful oral fixation took over; she immediately began pumping her cock-pad lips up and down over Chuck’s dildo-hand.

I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

With his free hand her blessed tormentor reached for the intercom. His voice and face were suddenly “Chuck Brewster” again, although everything else was her new Master.

“Dustin-honey, Claire here is going through a bad time and I need to be here for her. Would you close up shop early for me?”

“Are you sure, Chuck?”

“Oh yeah, Dusty. It’s really bad, an abusive prick of a boyfriend, family trouble, and she just lost her job. There’s gonna be screaming and shouting and throwing things. I wouldn’t want to scare the customers. Or worry you.”

“Okay, I’ll, ah, just finish up the bridal display and then—”

“No, babe. Lock up now. This volcano is about to blow.”

“Are...are you gonna be okay, Chuck?”

“Oh, Dusty, you’re so sweet. She wants to break dishes, not me. I’ll be fine. Look, honey, we’ll just call these 3 hours a full 8, okay? You can finish the display in the morning.”

“Um, sure Chuck. Thanks!” In minutes Dustin is carrying his bike out the front door, pulling out his keys, locking up, riding off, gone.

Chuck picked up helpless Claire and carried her—ass up, tits down, bound, and dildoed—toward the nearest full-length triple-mirror. He placed her in front if it while she pumped away at his hand.

She saw her own defeat: from the left, from the right, and head on. She saw her own humiliation: from the left, from the right, and head on. She saw her own enslavement: from the left, from the right, and head on. She felt desire and arousal greater than she had ever felt before.

Chuck walked around her and stood between her and the mirror. His throbbing monster cock started to drive her absolutely insane.

She saw her betrayer: from the left, from the right, and head on. She saw the beautiful cock that would own her: from the left, from the right, and head on. She saw her future as a fuck-slave, worshipping at his feet: from the left, from the right, and head on.

The dildo-hand exited her mouth with a loud, sucking pop, and before she could say a word, Chuck’s massive man-meat went in.

Her need was a screaming stream of profanities that could not escape her pillowy red lips. Her questing, burning eyes were topped with deep indigo twilight lids. Her nipples were painful pink-brown rocks jiggling under her soft glittery quaking tits. Her full flowing hair was a silky copper curtain that rose and fell in front of his legs as her head pumped vigorously up and down. Her tanned honey-flavored baby-smooth skin was a virtuoso’s instrument of pleasure, ready to be played. Her bare hot pussy was a raging river craving to be dammed, an empty void yearning to be filled.

She knew it would be a long, hard day, and then a long, hard night, and then another just like it. Forever and ever.

She wanted this. She needed this. She belonged to this. She was lost.