The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

They lift the shot glasses.

“Za tvajó zdaróvye”

“Zah tvaya darovya”

Two more vodkas down the hatch.

“No. Noooooo. Tvajó. Jo. Joooooo.”

“Tha’s wad I sed.”

“No ’s’not. Never min’. So...so...the two most...STUBBORN people...Iveevermet. They finally go head-t’—head...An’ both heads are still ATTACHED at the end...An’ yah can’t tell me a friggin’ thing about it.”

“Nodegzackly, Kallip-Kallip-Kalliiii’panda. I jus’ can’t tell yah th’ bes’ stuff.”

“’S’not fair, ragmuf-ragan—...rag-a-muff’n.”

“Life’s not fair.”

“No, i’sss’not. So...what CAN yah tell me?”

“Well, y’know my dear Auntie Anti-o? How she swears up and down tha’ she wuz nev’r mar-marrdy...wedded to a man?”

“Yeah, an’ all the other ol’ broads stan’ behin’ ’er and nod th’r heads up-an’—down whenever she does?”

“Well, she was.”

“Duh. No shit, Sherlip-sherp...geenyus. So what?”

“He wuz one-a Heracles’s’s twen’y.”

“SHE MARRIED HER FUCKING SLAVEMASTER?”

“Shhhhhh. Kee-pit down. Assalootly. No shit.”

“An’ tha’s NOT one-a th’ biggies?”

“Nope.”

“Mother-FUCKER.”

“Assalootly. Le’s talk about som’thin’ else. So...Kallio-poley, you learn’d how t’ drink men unner th’ table in Russian?”

“Nah. Not rilly. Those guys ’r’ proz. I kep’ up with ’em. Mos’ of th’ time. They were lotza fun tho’. Only one prollum. Drunk Russians reeeelly like Yakov Ssssssmirnoff.”

“Yeah, so wassa prollum with that? I like ’im too. He’z funny.”

“In Soviet Russia, ice drills you.”

Cindi busts a gut. Nearly falls out of her chair laughing.

“In Soviet Russia, ice drills you.”

Cindi slaps her leg. “Tha’s rilly funny!”

“In Soviet Russia, ice drills you.”

“Heh, Heh, um.”

“In Soviet Russia, ice drills you.”

“A’right. I heard yah!”

“In Soviet Ru—”

“GIVE IT A REST, KALLIOPE.”

“Eggzackly!...So anyways, after the third month I hadda tell ’em that if they sed it one more time, I wuz gonna hav’ta leave bloody footprints inna snow...allaway back to the coast.”

Cindi laughs again, then pauses. Thinking of what she knows about Man’s World she has to ask, “Um, did they know you well enuff by then t’ take that threat siris-sirs...sear-ee-us-ly...by then?”

“I wuz ten-time champ at Sadderday-night drunk arm-resslin’, mebbe ’leven-time. So...yeah.”

Cindi loses it again. She has to grab the table to avoid falling off her barstool.

Then comes the saddest sound in the world. Last call from the bartender.

“One more?”

“Nah, bedder not. I godda get s’m’ sleep. An’ yer gonna hava helluva hangover t’morra, Ossifer Kalliope.”

“Ooooo-kay. Give yah a lift?”

“Are you fuckin’ crazy? Yer not gettin’ behind a wheel! No, lemme ‘raise the shield’ an’ I’ll fly yah home.” Cindi closes her eyes and a look of concentration comes over her face for a minute. And then she looks up, sober as a judge.

Of course, Kalliope has been a judge before, so she can’t imagine what’s so all-fired sober about them. But her friend is sober. Definitely sober.

“’S’not fair.”

As they walk out the door of Nike’s Wings, Cindi smiles. “Life’s not fair, Kalliope.”

“No, i’sss’not. Di’n’t we do that one alreddy?”

“C’mon, Kallio-pooh-bear. Let me give you a lift.” It’s the only place in the world where it’s safe for her to fly in civilian clothes. She picks her friend up off the ground and away they go.

“Looks pretty fr’m up here. You ever comin’ home to stay, kiddo?”

“Probably not, K.”

“’S’a’right. Yer a hero. Makes us all proud...Did I tell you I love you?”

“Yeah. Right before that last drink. You’re my best friend, Kalliope.”

“HEY! Don’t say it like yer never gonna see me again!”

They touch down at Kalliope’s door. “Sure, hon. Are you gonna make it in okay?”

“’Course I am. Door-t’—door service. Hhhhhhhoo could ask fer more? G’night, waif.”

“Good night, teddy bear.”

Minutes later, laying in her bed in her room in her mother’s executive mansion, she was ready for this day to end. It was a short day really with the massive time zone shift, but with her exhaustion from not sleeping the night before it shouldn’t be too hard for Annette to sleep. Even so, Cindi’s mind is buzzing.

«Antiope wasn’t the only one who fell hard for her slavemaster. Mom wasn’t either. Take me, My Lord! Please take me! Please take me now!»

Suddenly she is in the pet bed in the penthouse. It’s still mostly dark, but not completely. Rising and looking out the window she can see that dawn is breaking. Her Lord is snoring softly...no, that must be Greg. Julia said that Master never sleeps. Her collar is on the dresser. She puts it on, and very, very carefully pulls down the covers.

«AHA! This must be the famous “morning wood” I’ve heard so much about!»

Slowly she crawls up onto the bed and takes Greg’s member into her mouth.

The male echo of Julia’s Aussie accent rises from the other end of the bed, ”OOOOOONNNNNNNNNGGGGGGHHH Annie, we don’t have toime. Master’s gonna swap me out any min—“

Cindi, pulls off and looks up suddenly, the nametag on her collar lightly jingling. “Mr. Wolfe, I presume?”

Greg is in shock, but manages to return volley, “Ah, Ms. Royal. Pleazhah t’ make your acquaintance. Um, lit’rally.”

She grins and goes back to work.

Muttering under his breath, he says, “Well, at least bring your wiggly arse over here so OI can NNNNNGGG return the fayvah.“

POP “Yes, sir, Mr. Wolfe. Right away!“

After she repositions herself they resume again, pleasuring each other. After a few minutes he gives her a sharp slap on the ass. Then, after a moment, he disengages.

“Sorry, luv. You don’t know the code, do you.”

She grips him at the base and takes her time sliding off. “Code, Mr. Wolfe?”

All this “Mr. Wolfe” stuff from one of the mightiest superheroines in the world is making him even stiffer.

“Ah, okay then. Shahp smack on the roight cheek is our code for ‘cum’.”

“Our?”

“Annette’s and moine. When moy mouth is, um, otherwoise occupoied.”

“Oh, sorry. Won’t miss it again!”

“No, you won’t,” he says with a smile giving her another identical whack.

Cindi falls off her own elbows as the orgasm hits her, but then goes straight back to work on his woodie.

“Boss says two minutes, luv.”

She begins to work him harder and faster. His tongue makes magical sparks fly on her clit. As the moment approaches, he gives her one more good hard smack and unloads into her mouth. Even through the orgasm she has the presence of mind to swallow it all. But she begins tongue-cleaning him anyway just for good measure.

“Good morning, Cindi.”

While continuing her slurping and licking clean-up, she responds, ”MMMMMMMMM I want to be your slave forever. I could never be happier. How may I serve you, My Lord?“

“Well, I sent you here first so you could get a head start in the shower.”

“Oh. Sorry, My Lord.”

“No, no. I liked your idea of how to start the day better, else I would have stopped you.”

“Yes, My Lord. Thank you.”

“But we are just a touch behind schedule. We only have eight hours, if that. Let’s not waste them. Maybe we should shower together to save time.”

“MMMMMM Your wish is my command, Lord.“

I smack her ass one more time and roll us over so I can get up. She is a moaning, writhing mess as I disengage and go to start the shower.

By the time she gets there the shower is good and hot, and I’ve got the shower mitt lathered up with Annette’s body wash and ready to go.

As she enters the shower she sees what I’m doing. “Wait...My Lord...We’re not going to...?”

“No. We’re going to get you clean.”

I’ve seen more puppy-dog eyes across the eons than you can imagine, but rarely as artfully executed as by Cindi right now. “But...My Lord?” She cups her breasts and pouts.

I hold firm, but only over the strongly-voiced protests of my own penis. “You are going to make me breakfast, wench. But first we’re gonna clean that filthy body before it goes into my nice clean kitchen!”

As she submits to the inevitable, I hand her the shampoo. Then I start at her feet and work my way up. Of course, I do take care to ensure that her vulva, her ass cheeks and her glorious jugs are especially clean. One must prioritize, after all.

By the time I am rinsing off her shoulders and back, she is ready to rinse the 3rd stage of product out of her hair. As she leans back into the water, I dab at her nose with the mitt.

She stops and looks at me dead-seriously. “Please, My Lord, if I let you use that soap on Annette’s face, she will be very upset with me.“

“Hey! Who’s Lord around here?”

Cindi drops to her knees and looks up at me. If anything she does “silent pleading” even better than “puppy-dog pout”.

I raise my hands in defeat and say, “finish up.”

Cindi rises, picks up the face soap and does face, ears, and throat while I re-lather the mitt and begin on myself.

As I step out of the shower Cindi is just finishing daintily daubing herself with the towel. I take it out of her hand and snap her ass with it, eliciting a loud yelp.

“You’re wasting time. Get in the kitchen, baby bitch. Ham and cheese and whatever omelet for me and whatever you’d like for you. Coffee. Surprise me with a fruit juice. I want to be done with breakfast within an hour. Go.”

«“Less talk, more action.“» She is doing that, not me. With no more than a passing glance at the mirror at her wet hair she is off and running.

When I emerge from the bedroom a few minutes later dressed in jeans and polo shirt, wonderful smells are coming from the kitchen, and coffee service is waiting by the couch.

Stepping into the kitchen, I kiss Cindi deeply, a promise for later, and give her some commands to streamline her breakfast: permission to use cups, implicit permission to eat, etc. Then back at the couch I fix myself a cuppa. Cindi has remembered that I care which coffee; a small note on the platter by the pot reads “Kona dark”.

Breakfast does actually proceed fairly efficiently, although Cindi is really bothered by her wet hair. She wolfs down her fruit salad and begs me for permission to “take care of Annette’s hair”. I remind her that she belongs to me, not Annette, but I tell her she can after she cleans up from breakfast. I have to add “if there’s time” to her retreating back.

So soon we are both ready to start the day. I tell her to bring me what she finds in the hook inside the hall closet door. She returns with the leash, carried in her teeth. That’s the spirit, Cindi.

Taking the leash from her, I begin, “Good girl. We’re going to go for a little walk. But first we need to establish some commands and some appropriate behaviors. You will be my well-trained, happy, and obedient pet. Do you understand?“

“Um, not exactly, uh, My Lord. We’re going, um, out?”

“Yes. Now—”

“Like this, My Lord?” She gestures to her naked form.

“Not exactly. You will be wearing shoes.”

Cindi is suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness. Did you know that it’s possible to blush with your whole body?

While her head is still spinning, I attach the leash to her collar. “Now, as I was saying, you will perform as commanded, immediately, enthusiastically and cheerfully. Your main commands are ‘Heel’, ‘Down’, ‘Sit’, and ‘Speak’. Do you understand?”

Nervously she replies, “Um, obey cheerfully. ‘Heel’, ‘Down’, ‘Sit’, and ‘Speak’. Yes, My Lord.”

“Now let’s define your commands. ‘Heel’. You will walk one pace behind me, on whichever side I am holding the leash. If I change speed, if I change direction, you will keep pace with me. If I stop dead you will stop without running into me.

“If for some unfathomable reason I break into a run, you may drop another pace further back. Heel is an implicit command whenever I am moving. If I start to move and do not say ‘heel’, then you should act as if I had. In general, I will only say ‘heel’ if you miss your cue, or if you seem distracted at the moment I start moving.

“I will not consider ‘missing your cue’ to be a failure, but merely a imperfection. There are only two ways you fail at ‘heeling’, falling behind or bumping into me. Either would be grounds for punishment.’

«Oh Gods!» thinks Cindi «If they are all this complicated, I’m sunk.»

“’Down’. Kneel with your body and thighs upright.“

“’Sit’—“

“Excuse me, My Lord. Nothing more for ‘Down’?”

“Only that you will do it immediately, enthusiastically, and cheerfully, no matter what, but I shouldn’t have to say that again, should I?”

She finches. “No, My Lord. Sorry.”

“sigh Alright. ‘Sit’. Kneel in a sitting position, ass touching heels of your feet.“

“’Speak’. If I order you with any variant of the word—’answer’, ‘tell him’, ‘go ahead’, whatever—you may give one and only one response to whatever statement or question has come up. You will refer to the person asking politely as ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’. If I say ‘continue’ or ‘converse’ or some such you have my permission to engage in a conversation until I say ‘stop’. There is some implicit behavior here as well. If you look up at me for permission and I nod, that means ‘speak’. You may only speak in response. Otherwise remain silent.“

“I can never make any sound, My Lord?” she says with fear. Looking in her head I can see that she is thinking of all the times in her life when she has seen a child being cruel to a dog.

“If you are in pain or distress, you may make appropriate nonverbal noises. I will see what’s bothering you, unless I am doing something more important, like talking to a person. No words though. And don’t abuse it. No whining because you’re bored. If I say quiet, you will stop, unless it is a matter of life and death.“

Cindi nods.

“Any other verbal commands you will follow perfectly and silently. Cock your head to the side if you don’t understand a command. I will decide whether to clarify or punish. Outside of commands there are other behaviors that I require. If I give someone permission to touch you, you will do more than just allow it. You will enjoy it. You will revel in it. If I give the leash to another person you will behave for that person exactly as you would for me, until the moment I request or take the leash back.”

She nods again.

“So, do you need to practice?”

Cindi looks up at me expectantly. I smile. “Good girl. Answer.”

«Good girl! Reward!» “N-no, My Lord. I think I understand. I am a happy, well-trained, eager puppy. My Lord...I...I want to make you proud of me.“

My smile broadens. “I want to be proud of you, Cindi. Don’t let me down.“

And so I take off walking. Cindi instantly falls into step on my right, heeling perfectly. She almost misses a step though when I walk past the front door to the hall closet though.

“Annette’s topsiders are on the floor of the closet somewhere. Fetch them and put them on.”

Silent obedience follows. Soon she is heeling again, leaving the flat for the first time, walking out into the world stark naked at her Lord’s behest.

The hallway is short but wide and luxurious. There is only one other door, and of course the elevator. I press the down button and wait. She waits silently, one pace behind me. Her nipples are hard as rocks. Her sex is warm and wet. All over her body she is covered with goose-flesh. Her heart is racing. Her mind is racing.

«What is He going to do with me? Where is he taking me? What will people do when they see a naked woman on a leash? Will they confront us? Arrest us? Try to take me away from him?»

The loud double-ding from the lift is the only thing that prevents her from missing her cue.

«“Pay attention, Cindi. Those are all my problems, not yours.“»

Cindi snaps out of it. I’m speaking directly into her mind in her actual physical presence for the first time. It shocks her, but it reminds her that I am not without resources to handle...situations. As we board the elevator, she resolves to be the best damn puppy in the history of dogs and to leave the rest to me.

“Down.” She is on her knees looking up at me with a bright, adoring smile. Soon the elevator double-dings again. A small, 60-ish woman in a blue frock enters. An expression of shock crosses her face briefly as she notices the naked girl on the floor. But she recovers quickly and smiles.

“Oh, Mr. Wolfe, is this your new pet?”

Cindi is clearly not surprised by the Aussie accent. She has a pretty good idea where she is by now. She is beginning to get the idea that maybe I have the whole city enthralled somehow. The woman’s question is certainly not NORMAL. As far as she knows people don’t typically walk around naked on leashes as pets in Falkirk, Western Australia. She relaxes a bit. «He has everything under control.»

I answer in Greg’s voice, “Yes, she is.”

“She is SO beautiful. May OI, uh, pet her?”

“Go roight ahead.”

She reaches down to stroke Cindi’s hair. Cindi leans into it, smiling up at the woman.

“What a good girl. What’s her name?“

Cindi looks at me and I nod.

“My name is ‘Cindi Cumdump’, ma’am!” she says, as brightly as Rebecca of freaking Sunnybrook Farm, holding up her nametag for the woman to see.

The woman jerks her hand away, shocked again. But she quickly recovers and resumes petting. By now the elevator has stopped again. Three men and another woman are there, all dressed in smart business suits, clearly successful, clearly well-to-do, but all very deferential to “Mr. Wolfe”, despite his, um, unusual companion.

“May I, Mr. Wolfe?” One of the men clearly has decided to get into the spirit of the thing, gesturing toward Cindi.

“Sure,” I say.

He drops to one knee. He runs a hand up her arm, across her shoulder and collarbone to her nametag. “Cindi Cumdump, eh?” Down her chest into her cleavage. “OI bet you’re a good little cumdump, aren’t you, Cindi?” Under her breast, hefting it, rolling a nipple.

Cindi is thoroughly repulsed by this guy, but she smiles at him shyly and pushes her chest out proudly. «“Good girl”»

“Speak, Cindi,” I say.

Cindi is a five-year-old girl talking about candy. “Oh, YES, sir! I love it when My Lord dumps his cum in me. It’s one of my favoritest things!“

“’One of’, Cindi?” I ask amusedly, nodding my head for her to speak.

“Well, My Lord, I like it lots when you make me cum too!” Cindi hugs my leg and looks up at me worshipfully, incidentally dislodging the man from her breast.

The elevator dings at the ground floor. Cindi’s admirers reluctantly disburse. I move toward the exit, and Cindi rises and heels smoothly in my wake.

The ground floor of the condominium tower complex is large, open and opulent, with an atrium, a sunken fountain area surrounded by chairs and tables, shops and restaurants all around the edges, and a prominent concierge desk near the main entrance.

It’s really more like a small upscale shopping mall than a condo building lobby. More importantly at the moment though, it is a hub of activity. People are everywhere, going to work, coming to work, shopping, window shopping, having breakfast with friends, having a leisurely cup of coffee with a newspaper or a book.

But now a wave of “time stoppage” seems to be sweeping through the crowd as people recognize “Mr. Wolfe” and are shocked by the stunning bit of naked eye-candy obediently trailing behind me.

I’m looking back at us through several of those other sets of eyes and I happen to notice that Cindi’s “full body blush” has returned. She was doing well with just the few of us in the elevator. But this place is more public by several orders of magnitude.

Inside her mind she is battling the frisson of fear that engulfed her as we walked out of the lift. Dozens of pairs of eyes—if not over a hundred—are all slowly but surely training themselves on her. On her nakedness. On her vulnerability.

It’s all she can do not to run around in front of me and hide herself against my chest, under my sheltering arm. And by now you’ve seen many times the effect that fear and humiliation has on her body. A sticky rivulet begins to run down Cindi’s right leg.

She has no time to get used to it either. People are greeting “Mr. Wolfe” right and left, but I just wave and keep in walking. When I stop to talk to the uniformed doorman, Cindi almost slams into me, but manages to stop with just the barest brush of her breast against my back.

“Taking the morning shift today, Rupert?” The doorman is a large man, mid-forties and stout, not quite as tall as me. He has a pock-marked, rugged face more likely to be found on a farmer or a miner than on a spotless attendant to the wealthy residents of this place.

“Charles’ woife is under the weather, sir. And what with the little ones at home, he took the day. OI figured OI could pull down a double shift, roight? Rather than put some stranger at the door.”

People are coming in and out of the doors as we talk but Rupert notices everything important about every one of them. Cindi notices them too, staring at her, leering at her. Her need to fuck is starting to overwhelm her. She’s sidling to her left, trying to get behind me, to shield herself from those eyes that are tormenting her. That’s not what I want, I need her to suffer more. It’s important.

“Sit,” I command. Then I take two steps away from her. There, she’s completely exposed again. Of course I’m still engaged conversing with Rupert though all that.

“That’s foine. Tell him OI hope she feels better soon. If not...don’t pull another double. In fact, let’s see if we can fix this now.” Nodding toward the concierge desk, I say, “Have Fenton foind four quality nurse-nanny candidates to help out until—it’s Samantha, right?—until Samantha’s better. Send them over to interview with Charles, and let him pick the one he loikes. Tell Fenton OI mean ‘quality’ boy his standards—no, moy standards—not Charles’s. Oh, their oldest is, ah, ‘special needs’, isn’t he? Tell him to make sure all four have impeccable autism credentials.“

“Yes, sir. Charles won’t know what to say, sir.”

“Gotta take care of moy men, Rupert. You’re watching moy front door. Speaking of which, OI need you to come with me.”

“Um, away from your ‘front door’, sir? The one you need me to watch?” Inside he feels like the headmaster is telling him to play hooky. He’s a bit suspicious.

“Yes, Rupert, OI need you to help watch something more important.” I nod back toward Cindi.

“Miss Annette, sir?” Now he’s just confused. He’s never seen Mr. Wolfe’s wife behave so strangely. Of course, he’s never seen this much of Miss Annette period. She’s not been in the habit of traipsing around in her birthday suit like some fetish slave girl before, so perhaps she’s finding the situation a bit odd herself.

“Yes, Annette and OI are going to need a lookout.”

“Um, OI see, sir.” After a sigh and a stray thought about “lifestyles of the rich and kinky” he faces the inevitable. “Very well, sir. What about Charles?”

“We’re just going over to the park. You’re mostly just going to remoind people that it’s a proivate park and that OI own it. There should be plenty of toime for you to call Fenton when we get there. And let me just make it clear that what you’re doing for me is important. OI’m asking you to help me protect something that is more important to me than all the entrances to all the buildings OI own in the world.”

Cindi heard that. Rats. I thought she was too far gone to pick up what we were saying. «“Don’t get a swelled head, baby bitch. That doesn’t mean what you think it means.” » At least I think I meant the importance of the plan, not of Cindi herself. I have to get hold of myself.

“Yes, sir. Very well then.” Rupert replies, oblivious to all this subtext.

And off we go. Cindi heels obediently. She’s a bit cold out on the street naked this early. But it’s bearable. The unseasonable warmth is holding; soon she’ll be fine. The warming trend is a stroke of luck. I hadn’t expected to need to put her through this exercise for another month. But she’s way ahead of schedule. Here we see many more shocked expressions at the naked woman, collared, leashed and submissively following her man. But everyone minds their own business. Good.

The ordinance has been out for four years now. Long enough for everyone to get used to it. It wasn’t hard for me to get the “Exposure Ordinance” passed by the city council. What was hard was keeping in out of the news. Hardly anyone living outside of Falkirk itself knows anything about it.

We’re waiting at the light to cross into the park, and I’m beginning to think bringing Rupert was overkill. Just then an angry man accosts me. I should have seen him coming, but I was too focused on Cindi. Quite the little storm going on inside her head right now.

In any case, the angry fellow starts in with words instead of fists, so we have some time to react.

“OI don’t know what you’re game is, mate, but you better let go of that poor girl, roight now!”

Rupert intervenes, “OI would take a different tone if OI were you, mate.“

“But he’s making her walk around starkers. It’s indecent exposure at least. Probably abuse too. OI’ve got a daughter her age, and... HEY...Stop that, you lummox!”

Rupert holds the man away from us, facing the street. “Do you see the soign, mate?“

On a post over the street is the sign Rupert is indicating. A blue shirt with a red slashed circle over it: “No Clothes”.

“Since you’re apparently new to town, mate, let me clue you in on the ‘Exposure Ordinance’. Any property owner can mark his publicly-accessible proivate property as ‘nudity allowed’ with a sign like that.“

“But this is a public street!”

“This is a publicly-accessible proivate street. The entire twelve blocks surrounding and including that park across the street is proivate property. That includes the streets and footpaths.”

“That’s crazy! Who could possibly own twelve proime blocks of downtown in the capital of W.A.?”

“The cobber you were just assaulting for starters; he’s my boss. Just pull your head in, mate.” It works. The angry fellow steps off.

Of course, all this excitement has just drawn more attention to Cindi. Of course, that just makes her want to sink into the ground even more. Finally the light changes. We cross the street into the park.

From somewhere—maybe from the cheerful green park itself—Cindi is finding her emotional second wind. «“Immediately, enthusiastically, and cheerfully”», she reminds herself, adding a bit of wiggle and bounce to her step.

It’s just a small park, only two city blocks total, but it’s well-landscaped, with plenty of trees and flowers, some nice grassy spaces, and a small but scenic pond at the far end. Despite the clothing-optional surroundings it’s a popular morning hangout for mothers with small children, but none are here today, as I intended.

I stop at a bench overlooking the pond. I order Cindi to sit, on the ground, of course. Then I take a seat, on the bench, of course. Cindi is looking at me with an amused but warm expression.

“Speak.”

“I’m wondering if I should go chase the geese, My Lord.”

“No, I’d have to let you off the leash. There are laws about that sort of thing, you know.”

She stifles a laugh.

Rupert is pointedly facing the other way; he’s on the phone to Fenton, the concierge, arranging help for his mate Charles. Fenton is an officious prick, but he’s the best “finder” on the entire continent. If I needed those four nanny candidates to all have left-handed grandfathers, he’d still get it done. His talent is a bit wasted as a concierge, but I need him to mature a bit before I move him up into the ranks of the company.

Back to Cindi, “On the other hand, if you wanted to dig up a bone, I know where you can find one.”

A shocked look crosses her face, but she stays silent.

I almost finish saying “Speak” when she blurts out, ”Here, My Lord?“

She’s actually right to be shocked this time. Public nudity may be legal here, but public sex acts most definitely are not. Of course, that’s not going to stop me today. I put my hand behind her head and guide it between my own legs. She soon has me exposed to the world, and then she’s deep-throating me. Immediately, enthusiastically, cheerfully.

Across the pond at the far corner of the park is a sort of concrete sculpture garden. It’s become a popular gathering place for skateboarders, as I intended. Although it’s a school day, four self-styled juvenile delinquents have decided to ditch school today, as I intended. They are over there, jumping and shredding and smoking, as I intended.

It wouldn’t take much of a seed to make them notice what Cindi and I are doing. It would take almost no prodding after that for them to decide to come over and see if they can get in on the action. It would be easy to make them them believe that they caught us breaking the law and that they can blackmail us.

Cindi is already under orders to treat anyone holding the leash exactly as if it were me. She would do it. She would gang bang those dirty punk teens if I were to hand them the leash. She would hate every moment of it, but she would do it for hours on end if that’s what I wanted. She would do it, immediately, enthusiastically, cheerfully, because her Lord demanded it.

So why am I hesitating? I’m not worried about her catching something nasty from them. I know these boys are clean. In spite of their tough-talking badass image, they’re all drug-free, and they’re all virgins, as I intended. It’s not as if I’m not going to do much worse to her down the line. I’ll have to. It’s the only way the plan will work.

In the end, looking down at her—joyously sucking me off in public—I decide. It’s good enough just knowing. I know that she would do it. So I don’t actually have to make her do it. That makes sense, doesn’t it?

There are truant officers out looking for the boys; I let them find them. I let Cindi finish giving me my morning trim. I send Rupert back to his post at my front door.

Cindi and I take a leisurely walk around the park, now not as empty as I had been keeping it. She attracts even longer stares now. It’s not surprising with the cum dribbling from her chin onto her tits; her idea, not mine. Then I take her back home. She worships at my feet. We fuck like rabbits for the remainder of the morning.

While Cindi’s making lunch, I’m lying in the couch slowly consuming the beer she just fetched me. I’m wondering what the fuck went wrong out there. The set up was perfect. Why didn’t I pull the trigger? Am I getting soft in my old age? If so, my sudden senility has really rotten timing. If I screw this up twelve thousand years of life may come to a sharp, sudden end.

But she truly was ready, weeks ahead of schedule. She would have done it. Did I really have to prove it? To myself? To her? Maybe I need a telepath to read my mind. Maybe someone else could tell me what’s going on in there.

Cindi can tell that I’m moody. She thinks she did something wrong, but she’s not sure what. So for lunch she’s making me a Monte Cristo sandwich, with strawberry yogurt and steak fries. She’s trying to make ‘hunky guy comfort food’. She’s trying to cheer me up. It’s adorable.

As for the plan...well, there’s always next time. And speaking off which, ah, there’s Cindi with the plate and another beer. As she rises with my empty I gently grab her arm.

“Just a sec, Cindi.”

She resumes her kneeling/sitting position, eyes still full of concern.

“Next week, actually eight days from now, we will have a guest for dinner. The guest has requested rack of lamb. I need you to prepare a shopping list for Annette.”

“Should I make dinner for two or for three, My Lord?”

“Three.”

Her mood brightens a bit.

“The guest may have a big appetite.”

And dims. Without a word, she rises, finds a pad and pen, begins scratching out a rough note. She feels a twinge in her belly, but ignores it. She’s wondering if she should go the British route—mint jelly, some sort of veggie, rice or potatoes—or do something a bit more...creative.

The twinge returns with a vengeance. What if Annette’s body is getting sick? What if she caught something traipsing around naked outside? Cindi has never been sick before. She doesn’t know what it feels like. She knows intellectually about incubation periods, but has never actually felt the slow onset of illness.

Cindi approaches me cautiously. I’m watching football, live Aussie football, “aerial ping-pong”. There’s no need to keep up the “dream” pretense with recorded American sports any longer. It’s St. Kilda versus the hometown Eagles. Alas, the Saints are steamrolling them.

“My Lord, I...I’m sorry to bother you...but I think—”

I turn, sit up, and give her my full attention. “You think you’re sick.”

I examine what she is experiencing for a second. The twinge has an urgency to it, as if it is telling her to do something, to decide something.

“I have to bring back Annette, just for a few minutes.”

In her bed in her mother’s house, Cindi lies suddenly awake, hoping Annette is okay. She can hear Hippolyta moving around downstairs, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake her daughter, the girl with the super-hearing. She’s still tired, but the sunlight streaming in the window makes it hard to sleep. She rolls over and covers her face with a pillow. Annette will be back here soon, she should at least try to go back to sleep.

In the penthouse a groggy Annette snaps alert.

“Master, I’m pregnant, or I will be, if I allow this embryo to implant.” She says with a shy, happy smile.

“Boy or girl?”

She concentrates for a minute. “Boy. Greg’s, of course, Master. ”

“SHIT.” That complicates things a bit. I want Greg Wolfe to have sons, lots of them. But the plan...

“Flush it.”

Smile turns sad. “Yes...of course, Master.... It’s done.”

Okay, I can tell what you “pro-lifers” out there are thinking, so let’s clear the air. First of all, what part of immortal evil spirit don’t you understand? Can you imagine what I used to do about unwanted (by me) pregnancies before I bred this feature into my slave women? Actually, I’ve been trying to work my way up from “evil” to “amoral” for several millennia now, and I think I’m doing pretty well. So get off my fucking back.

Second, it’s not a fucking abortion! Blastulas fail to attach to uteri all the time. All I’ve done is made it a conscious act. And it works both ways. Can you imagine how many pregnancies I’ve saved by forcing attachment of embryos that otherwise wouldn’t have attached? No? Then drop it.

Now while we’re on the subject, I can see that some of you are wondering what the big deal about Greg Wolfe having sons. It’s just this: he’s a nice guy.

You see, I screwed up. I’ve mentioned that I’m not a genius, haven’t I? Like the fool who found the trickster genie in the bottle, I made my wishes in the human genome. Of course, I had to wait hundreds or even thousands of years for those wishes to come true. Yet even with all the time in the world to see it coming, I, like that fool in any trickster genie story ever written, failed to see the unintended consequences, the collateral damage, the ways in which I had knocked things out of balance.

It all eventually caught up with me. I have partially corrected the women. If you think they are pliant now, you should have seen the bio-automatons I had for slave women two thousand years ago. Not one of them could have made Julia’s “underpaid prostitute” joke or Cindi’s “chasing the geese” joke if her life had depended on it. They were obedient, they were horny, but they weren’t fun. They didn’t have personalities—humor, sadness, anger—I wanted all that back.

So, having recognized my excesses with the women, I started trying to correct them. I still have a long way to go, but it’s going okay. Unfortunately it took me much longer to recognize my excesses with the men.

Most of my men are, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking sons of bitches. If I didn’t ride herd in them, literally, most of them would become criminals, sociopaths. As is, they are all nominally civilized, some are outwardly friendly even. But almost all of them are needlessly, pointlessly cruel to their women, some even to their children.

My women are who they are; they do get off on the abuse. But ultimate power corrupts, ultimately; at some point most of my men carry their mastery of my women too far. So for a typical slave-woman, the thrill is interspersed occasional periods of despair and despondency.

Ten years ago I first took notice of Greg’s father because of his twin daughters. They weren’t dreading the future the way my teen girls are prone to do. At first I thought that it might be something innate in them, a new female trait to spread through the herd. But the more I watched them, the more I realized that they saw their parents’ relationship as a positive example. Both of them...each of them wanted something like that when her time came.

You see, Benjamin Wolfe was clearly the alpha male of his family: high, low, and middle justice. But he was a benevolent dictator. His wife, Michelle—Shelley—didn’t just submit to him; she clearly adored him. And the feeling was entirely mutual. This was one of my slave families that didn’t have to masquerade as a modern, well-adjusted, upper-middle-class, first-world family. They were one.

This was something I had to spread to the rest of the herd, the sooner the better. I searched the herd and found five other similar men, out of five thousand. But hey, I have the ultimate long-term perspective. These six would be the start of a project that would be complete in no more than half a millennium. That’s perfectly acceptable to me.

All but two of them had sons. I ordered the other two to remedy that situation at their earliest convenience. It’s not often that I requisition children directly. The two families accepted the order as a compliment and an honor, and got right on it.

But of all six of these first-generation “nice guys”, Benjamin Wolfe was the gold standard. The Wolfe family already had a son, their youngest, Greg. At sixteen it was too early to tell if he carried his father’s complex and subtle dominant-but-nice nature. Unfortunately, Ben was 41, and hence had been “retired” by vasectomy the year before.

Of course, now I do know that Greg inherited that aspect of his father’s nature. Needless to say I am more than a bit eager for him and Annette to have sons.

That’s all there is to it.

So now, of course, I come to you enterprising souls who want to know how Annette did all those amazing things. Answer: I have no freaking clue.

First I bred them to be able to tell when they were pregnant, the earlier the better. When they could do that, I bred them to be able to tell the sex of the child. When they could do that, I bred them to be able to tell who the father was. After that, and this was the really hard one, I bred them to be able to terminate the pregnancy as soon as they became aware of it.

I don’t know how they do any of it. But I do know that targeted, focused, long-term breeding programs work. Period. And that brings us back to where we started.

Now Cindi is back. She realizes that whatever distress she was feeling is gone. I tell her that Annette took care of it. She’s confused, but she gets back to her meal planning.

When she’s done she comes to me, kneels, and reverently presents me with an envelop addressed to Annette. She cleans up after lunch. She comes back. She prostrates herself. She begs to serve me.

“My Lord, Yesterday you let me tell two people, two people very important to me, that I love you. My own mother knows and accepts that I serve you as a God. You found out what my mother was hiding all these years. You made her tell me who my father is.

“I’m so grateful to you that I can barely put it into words. I love you more than life itself. I would walk naked through Piccadilly Circus at high noon for your pleasure. During the Super Bowl I would kneel naked at midfield and service every member of both damned football teams, if you only ask. I stand ready and willing to serve you in any way that I am able. How may I serve you now, My Lord? What can I do to make you happy?“

I smile. No, I really didn’t need that little demo, did I? “Well,” I say, “I was thinking about seconds...“

She looks up, a bit confused. “More potatoes, My Lord?”

“More Cindi.”

We have about an hour and a half left. If we’re lucky. We’ll put it to good use.