The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Up to Eleven

by Pan


Eric stared at the email, his heart sinking. He could practically feel it in his boots.

He should have seen it coming, really…but he hadn’t.

The past few months had been the best of his life. Since his wedding day, he’d considered marrying Jamie to be the smartest move he’d ever made, but now it was clear to him that popping the question had now been usurped by purchasing the app.

Purchasing the app, and somehow calibrating Jamie’s arousal to such a perfect loop.

He’d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to glitch out, or for Jamie to get suspicious, or to get inexplicably sick of it.

But it hadn’t happened.

If Eric had been tasked with designing heaven, it would have looked exactly like his the past few months. Each and every day, his wife and he would have a quickie at lunch. He’d cum inside her—or, on rare occasions, onto her—and then they’d repeat the experience at dinner.

All of his fantasies (well, the ones he felt comfortable sharing) had come to life. Eric had cum into his wife’s hair, on her chest, and after he’d spent several weeks building up the courage to ask, she’d even let him cum onto her ass.

He wasn’t completely confident that she’d have agreed to anal, if he’d asked, but there was certainly no evidence to suggest otherwise. Maybe for his birthday.

Everything was perfect. Perfect.

And then…

“Honey,” Eric called out, his voice wavering. Jamie appeared within moments, dressed in the French Maid outfit he’d purchased from the internet. His cock perked up at the sight, but he mentally slapped it back down again.

He had something to deal with first.

“What is it, master?” she asked, a deliberately-docile look in her face.

She knew exactly how to turn him on, and he loved it.

“Look at this,” he said, turning his monitor to face her.

The look of stupidity she’d so diligently learned for him disappeared as his wife read the email, then turned to him.

“What’s wrong?”

Eric closed his eyes and mentally counted to five.

She was right, of course. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, there was nothing wrong to see. He went away all the time. But by chance, he hadn’t needed to since the good times had begun. The last time he’d had to leave was during the “weeks of One”.

What was Jamie going to do without him there twice a day, to get her off?

He’d had to work through lunch on several occasions, and by the time he was able to service his wife, she’d actually been at a Nine.

A Nine!

She was all but gibbering as she desperately tore his clothes off, and Eric had never before felt his wife so wet.

If he’d known it was orgasm-based, he would have felt a lot better about going away for a week. But he’d done some tests, taking full advantage of the fact that Jamie was so happy to obey his every command. At one point, he’d forbidden her from reaching climax for two full days…but the effect on her libido hadn’t been what he’d expected.

After he came inside her (or onto her), her number still dropped, even without Jamie receiving an orgasm of her own. The drop wasn’t as extreme as if she came, admittedly, and her ascent afterwards was far quicker than average, but it had led him to a simple conclusion—it wasn’t getting off that satisfied her.

It was getting him off.

To confirm, he’d instructed her to get herself off while he worked, using some toys that he’d ordered online. Again, the effect on her number wasn’t what he’d expected.

Yes, it had dropped, but the shift was only a fraction of what happened after she got him off. A Seven to a Six…and she’d bounced back to a Seven less than an hour later.

And so Eric had tried a third experiment. It hadn’t been easy, but he had made love to his wife without reaching orgasm. Jamie had been alarmed, but he’d assured her that it was perfectly normal (that may have been true for some, but Eric had never had any trouble cumming) and that he was still more than satisfied.

To his surprise, checking the app revealed that Jamie was again very nearly as satisfied as she was when he came, forcing him to revise his theory once more.

She hadn’t been lying when she’d used the classic line. Sex really wasn’t about getting off. She cared not for her own orgasms, or for his.

It was sex that satisfied her, pure and simple.

And so what was going to happen when he was gone for seven days, and completely unable to give her the twice-a-day fuck they’d both grown accustomed to?