The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Meanwhile back in the stone age...I was looking down at what I had done, the blood in the water far below, the limp body unresisting as the tug of the churning rapids pulled it off of the rocks. I was horrified by my own acts, by the death I had dealt with my own two—...with Eevan’s own two hands. But I knew there was no turning back now.

I/Eevan ran back to the village, shouting for help, “Jovan has jumped to his death!” We found “Jovan” cold and dead, washed ashore perhaps half a mile downstream. I buried “Jovan”. I mourned Eevan even as I became him. But even wrapped in my own dark thoughts, I was touched by Navya’s mourning. Cunning Navya blamed herself for Jovan’s death. Her grief and her tears were unfeigned and heart-wrenching. Her pain was every bit as real and deep as mine. We comforted each other. She shared her true guilty heart. Guiltily I faked sharing Eevan’s heart. Eevan had long been ready to join with Navya, but now Jovan was ready too.

So I did join with Navya and we had a good life, as long as I did not plumb her avaricious thoughts too deeply. She tried to manipulate me with her natural talents; Lady MacBeth might have learned a thing or two from her. With my talents though it was easy to counter her. I did not become the jealous, spiteful tool of her ambitions that she no doubt would have made the real Eevan.

But this was not an angry, unhappy joining! She was beautiful, and our sex was wild and satisfying, especially as I learned how to tune my arousal to hers. I loved her, but not like an equal, not like a partner. Centuries, if not millennia, before there were “domestic animals”, Navya was my pet. Oh, we were normal. We were “leading citizens” and good parents. We had many children; some of whom survived to adulthood. (What is the phrase? “Nasty, brutish and short”? Yes, that’s the way it was). But make no mistake, I controlled Navya simply by outmaneuvering her over and over again, and she was my reluctant...but well-loved...pet.

None of my children had my talents. If there was any genetic component to my psychic abilities, it must have been lost to humanity with the death of my virgin body. But somehow Jovan’s “mind” and it’s abilities had transcended Jovan’s “body” which had given birth to those abilities, like a butterfly from a caterpillar.

Now Eevan was the one who seemed to have eldritch powers. Eevan was the one that could see the minds of man and beast. They said that the spirit of Jovan haunted me. That was far too close to the truth for my comfort, so I laughed it off. In point of fact, the laughing was easier for me than it had ever been before. At least some of humor, some of personality, must be chemical, genetic, because it seemed that some of Eevan’s traits: his easy smile, his joking nature, his temper—quick to burn and quick to cool—became mine. It was as if Eevan was haunting me.

As I aged and gave up the hunt, youngsters turned to me for training, adults turned to me for judgment. There was no real “chieftain”, but I was first among the old wise ones. It was a good life, but too short for me. The end was coming, but I knew a way out. So I began to practice body swapping, at first with children, but later with adults. Always careful that “Eevan” was secluded, far from anyone else, when each swap occurred. That way the panicked person in Eevan’s body would go unheard while I enjoyed his or her body. Amazingly, I got away with it. Of course, no one believed the children’s stories, and the adults knew that everyone would think them mad if they told the same stories. Even so, long forgotten tales of “Jovan haunting Eevan” began making their rounds in the village again.

I was soon good enough at it that I could swap with anyone, instantly and painlessly. My plan continued to unfold. I went about choosing my target. Having sampled most of the minds in the village, I settled on Deetga, a strapping young man and a fine hunter. Residing in his body made me feel so alive. He was so strong and swift; his senses, so keen; his wits, so sharp; his passions, so powerful. Living in Eevan’s ancient 41-summers-old body felt nothing like that!

Intentionally, I began to play the mad, senile old man. It cost me my stature in the village, but I knew it would save my life. The last of my teeth had rotted out. My hair was white and thin. Navya had passed on the previous winter, and my bed was cold and lonely. Some nights I felt a twinge in my chest and feared that I would run out of time.

Finally I could wait no longer. I put my plan in motion. For several days I raved that I was really Deetga, and that Eevan had stolen my body. My children cared, but like the others, they stopped listening to their poor mad old father. I recall sensing my youngest daughter, my baby, suffering under the pain of my decline. She wished that I would die.

In the middle of the fourth night of my madness, I swapped permanently with Deetga. He immediately started screaming out in the dead of night exactly the mad ravings that I had spent days conditioning the entire village to ignore. Deetga couldn’t understand. No one would believe him. His despair pushed Eevan’s already decrepit body into steep decline. Deetga’s mind died in Eevan’s body in less than a month.

Once more I was young and strong, captain of the hunt, lover of the most beautiful woman in the village. That woman was my middle daughter, Selka, the spitting image of young Navya. Yes, it was weird, but how could you really call it incest? I thought this would be the secret to my new life, living, aging, swapping old for new and living again. But after only five years I was unutterably...bored. I had done all this before; even in Deetga’s wonderful young body, there was no particular thrill in doing it again.

I knew there was a bigger world out there, and I wanted to live in it. When we moved seasonally from hunting ground to hunting ground, we often encountered other villages, other nomads, moving just like we did. They had strange names; they made strange crafts; they spoke strange words; sometimes we could not understand these others at all.

Of course, when young Jovan first met these foreign tribes; he always understood them perfectly. I’m actually certain in retrospect that I must have saved our village from war at least twice. Those foreign tribes were never quite so foreign to me.

Now, as Deetga, I often felt the presence of hunting parties from those other tribes. I began to imagine trading my boring life as Deetga for a new life in a new village. One day I just did it. I don’t know what my village thought of the madness that possessed “Deetga”. I don’t know what the poor man whose body I now possessed thought of his fate, trapped now in Deetga’s body. I do know that everyone in my new village thought “Cowmpu” was acting pretty weird for a week or two, until I had read enough language and custom and shared experience from the minds of those around me to pass as “normal”.

But it wasn’t enough. Within a month I was bored again. And so when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped again. And again. And again. I had no sense of geography. I had no sense of ethnicity. I had no sense of direction, of purpose, of time. I wandered and sampled and observed and wandered. I swapped and ate and hunted and fucked and swapped.

I know that at some point—decades? centuries?—after I first left home, I actually became homesick. I tried to find my way back to my tribe in the hill country. But it was hopeless. Which tribe? Which hill country?. It’s even possible that I found my home and did not realize it. There was no one in any of the tribes that I knew; no one in any of the tribes that remembered a “Deetga”, a “Selka”, an “Eevan”, a “Navya”, a “Jovan”. You’ve heard it said that you can’t go home? Try living several lifetimes away and then try to go home. You literally can’t.

So I gave up. I resumed my wandering with a vengeance. I crossed deserts, jungles, and endless savanna. I think I must have spent the better part of a millennium in Africa before crossing—via the farthest body-swap I had attempted to that date—over the Pillars of Heracles into Europe. The pale-skinned people amazed me. It was the skin color I remembered from my youth, but I had not seen it in so long that I had assumed my memories of younger days must be mistaken, a misremembered dream.

Sometime after that, maybe a century later, maybe two, I first encountered what I now call a “cusp”.

I was somewhere east of the Black Sea. Don’t ask me where; no maps, right? I swapped into a tribe that was doing something truly different. Instead of foraging for fruits and vegetables, they were growing them. I was shocked. This was genius. They were beyond making tools: hunting tools or digging tools or porting tools, things that helped them acquire food. They were actually making food, right there in their village. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Beans, squash, beets, carrots, berries, all growing right at arms length. They still hunted for meat, but everything else, most of their diet really, just required planting, harvesting, and a little bit of maintenance and pest control in between. And since the killed “pests” were edible for the most part, it even lessened their need to hunt!

Look, you’ve lived with the idea of agriculture all your life. You’ve almost certainly never even met someone who didn’t grow up in an environment permeated with crops as the main source of food. You don’t know what this meant, and I can’t even begin to explain the full scope of this invention.

I left the village and came back as a stranger just to ask questions. After all, one of their own asking such questions would seem too weird. I brought meat, most of a side of auroch, as a peace offering. Even so it was touch and go for a bit. After gaining some trust I tried to find out how they had come up with the idea of planting food. The village chief tried to claim credit for the whole idea, and no one would gainsay him, but in all their minds I could see that they had learned the technique from another village further to the east.

So I swapped my way into that village and started in with the questions right away. So what if they thought me mad? I wasn’t planning to stay. My questions pointed me toward another tribe to the southeast, which led to another and another. Eventually I reached a village where even the greyest heads were puzzled by the very premise of my question. As far as they knew, they had always grown their own food. Nobody had “invented” anything.

And so I realized that I had missed the cusp of a great sweeping change that was sure to overtake all of humanity. “People” were changing. You have to understand that this was actually a somewhat scary thought for me. Places might be different, hot or cold, wet or dry, flat or hilly, with different flora, fauna, skin colors, languages. But where it mattered to me—minds, bodies, social interactions and roles—people were all pretty much the same. What if people changed so much that I could no longer sense their thoughts? What if people changed so much that I couldn’t swap into their bodies?

But fear wasn’t bothering me nearly as much as the other thing on my mind. There was an emotion that I don’t think I had experienced since...since the day I threw Eevan off the cliff. I was jealous. Here I was, an immortal spirit who had lived for thousands of years, and someone else, one of those short-lived worms that I used for MY needs, had come up with this brilliant, game-changing idea of planting crops. I was the one who had lived thirty lifetimes, experiencing them through hundreds of eyes. It should have been me that did this amazing thing.

So I resolved that if I couldn’t be the innovator, at least I would be the perfecter. Of course, back then I didn’t have words for all these feelings and ideas, but I knew what I wanted nonetheless. I resolved to swap-travel everywhere that food crops were grown, learn what worked and what didn’t, and then become the ultimate farmer. Well, I can only say that it seemed like a worthy goal for an immortal body-swapping spirit at the time.

In only 20 years of this exploration, I got my second cusp shock, the one that truly humbled me. Having seen the power of the domestication of food plants, I still didn’t make the leap. But, again, one of those ephemeral humans somehow did. I started encountering villages that had penned up herds of goats. Again, I failed to trace the practice back to it’s roots. I had somehow missed the genius spark of creation again. But the very idea of animal husbandry, of domesticating herds on the hoof, amazed me. I simply had to admit that being immortal did not make me a genius. That even given the idea that flora could be bent to serve mankind, I did not make the leap to see that fauna could be bent the same way.

Not only that, but the more I travelled, the more I saw different ways that different peoples, who obviously had no contact with each other, had domesticated animals. I found peoples that not only used their goats for food, but milked them to help feed their own babies. I found peoples who had harnessed aurochs and were using their muscle power for carrying heavy burdens. I found peoples who had tamed wolves—almost as partners more than as slaves—fulfilling an amazing variety of purposes: catching pests in the fields, entertaining, protecting and babysitting children, helping with or even leading the hunt. Every new innovation shocked and humbled me.

But I steeled myself anyway. I told myself that I would study this for as long as it took, hundreds or thousands of years if necessary. There had to be something to know about this wonder that could only be discovered by someone with a much longer perspective than that of a short-lived mortal.

To make a long story short, ultimately I succeeded. After only 500 years of observation, I could tell that domestic goats were much different than the still-wild goats that were the ancestors of the modern ibex. Domestic goats had become smaller; they had shorter and less threatening horns; those that had been used for milk had changed even further, with the females displaying large distended udders even before giving birth. And they were well on the way to becoming the voracious eaters that they are known to be today. Garbage disposal on the hoof! A few centuries after that insight I could tell that domestic wolves—dogs—were separating dramatically from their wild forebears, and even dividing into breeds according to how their masters used them.

Some ten thousand years before Darwin I was beginning to formulate a theory of micro-evolution. I could see these animals changing to favor the traits that their human masters wanted most. Of course, I didn’t have all the pieces, and I never did make the leap that Darwin did into macro-evolution. I never did see that mutation and survival advantage could, given an unfathomable amount of time, account for the entire variety of life on earth. Hey, give me a break! I was just a 3,000-year-old cave man.

So in any case, I had finally made a breakthrough that was beyond the reach of mortals. But it took me more than another century to figure out what to do with that breakthrough. I was living as a farmer on the banks of the Nile, not far from modern-day Luxor, when I was suddenly stricken with a heart attack. Out alone among my herds, I almost died before I found a suitable swap body miles away.

My fright was palpable. My “immortality” had almost ended right then and there. And I had been riding a 23-year-old healthy body. This was simply not acceptable. I HAD to have a better pool of bodies to draw upon. And that is when I began my breeding program. I found a large number of isolated villages, in Europe, in Africa, in eastern and southern Asia, and I began to breed them.

My approach was much like that of any man who wanted to domesticate a wild animal.

Foremost I cowed them into submitting to my overlord-ship. It’s not hard when you can swap grown men and women with helpless children and torture the children into submission. But such methods were brutal and, unfortunately, wasteful. Some of my slave villages were entirely wiped off the face of the earth before they submitted.

At the same time I protected and nurtured them. I scoured the world for the best weapons and fighting techniques known, and brought them and taught them to my slave men. They learned how to defend their villages against wolves, bears, big cats, and of course against that most dangerous predator that walks on two legs. I helped them avoid and survive famine, drought, and war. I made their lives better.

And ultimately, of course, I bred them purposefully. I chose the mating pairings and changed them at will. I tortured those who defied me, those who fucked someone who was not their approved mate. I bred my slave men for strength, health, and vitality. Well, at least up to age 40; I had no interest in riding any man older than that. I bred my slave women for beauty, for lustiness, for subservience; I wanted them to be my ideal mates.

This involved not only pairing slaves that had the traits I sought, but also bloody merciless culling. I remember one village in which the men had developed an alarming disease that killed them horribly and painfully in their mid-twenties. I now recognize that, in breeding for extreme male sexual prowess, I had probably induced early-onset prostate cancer. I certainly didn’t know that at the time. I ended up killing the entire village except for two unaffected families. Other culling was necessary too. It turns out to be very hard to breed sex-linked traits into an animal population. I had to slaughter many a tall, muscular woman and many an effeminate, servile man to get the effects I truly wanted.

But it worked. In less than two millennia I was seeing consistent results. Even so, keeping up my herds began to consume all my time. At my peek, I was holding over 45,000 well-bred slaves in thrall worldwide (well, in the world I knew about). It was gratifying, but it was too much work. I never travelled anymore except to slave villages in crisis. And I was having trouble keeping my thralls enthralled. Young men tried to escape my tyranny and sometimes succeeded. Young women despaired of ever finding happiness and killed themselves. Besides all that, I became worried that another cusp would occur in the greater world, and that I would miss it because I never saw any humans but those in my herds. So, gradually, over the next century or so, I cut back my herds, bloodily, mercilessly. I eventually came down to 10,000 as the number of “domestic” humans that I could successfully keep under control and still have time to live in the wider world of “wild” humans.

And so I was there and watching as the stone age gave way to the bronze age, and then as the bronze age gave way to the iron age. I didn’t overlook the invention of the wheel, woven cloth, the bow and arrow, the fired clay pot, or the broadsword. And all the while I was fine-tuning my slave populations, introducing tendencies, physical traits, and heritable behaviors that pleased me. Large firm sexually-sensitive breasts. Vaginal strength and sensitivity. High sensory sensitivity in women in general. Powerful visual and aural acuity in men. Penile length, thickness, and stamina. Voluntary control of orgasm in both men and women. Submissive tendency in women to surrender that control to their man. More and more and more. As recently as ten years ago I noticed a trait in some of my slave men that I decided I wanted in all of them. I expect to see stable results in five hundred years or so.

And that brings us almost back to the current moment, to which I’m sure you are eager to return. Our heroine has been “broken” on the wheel of my discipline and is no longer confined to my training apparatus. I have swapped us back to the penthouse again. She is once more prostrate before me while the color commentator recounts the last play, over the roaring of the stadium crowd. Knees and head down, ass up, suddenly again on the cusp of an orgasm, arms outstretched on the floor toward the delicious smell of her Lord. The discipline was necessary, but ultimately my control over her is based on the submissive, nymphomaniacal body in which she currently exists; the result of nine thousand years of focused breeding.

Briefly she considers making a break for it, running for the front door, or even to the balcony door to leap to her death. But I plant the next seed, the first one that is fully-formed sense memory. In her head she hears me whisper, «“Discipline”»

She begins to shudder uncontrollably, but at last gets a grip and murmurs, “How may I serve yo—”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

Angrily, her head comes up to look me in the eye. “How may I serve you, My Lord?“

“Such attitude. Do you need more discipline?”

“NOOO! No, My Lord.” Shaking again, she takes longer to tamp down her terror, but she does. Forehead to floor again, she says, clearly, evenly, meekly, “How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“Get me a beer, bitch.”

Frozen, for a second, she had thought she might get...a reward. «Cynthia! Pull yourself together. It’s just a dream. You don’t really belong to this anim- “Discipline”»

With an audible squeak she rises to her feet and runs for the kitchen. The bottles are right on the top shelf of the refrigerator. She hurries back out to the couch and holds the beer out for me to take.

I look up at her. “Is that anyway for a servant to present something to her Lord?” Inside her head: «“Discipline”». She did it herself that time. I smother a smile.

Falling to her suddenly weak knees, she catches herself with her free hand and rights herself. One hand holding the bottle, one hand under it, she stutters, “Y-your beer, My Lord.”

I look at it with disdain. “The cap?”

“S-s-sorry, My Lord. Please let me take care of it!” Running to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers she finds a bottle opener. I’m too amused to tell her it’s a twist-off; besides, one more admonishment might cause her to faint. Pop. Run. Kneel. Hands and beer out-thrust. Eyes down. “Your beer, My Lord.”

I take the bottle from the broken heroine without acknowledgement. Ignoring her. Watching the game.

Confused «Did I do it right?» and still on the cusp of orgasm, she ponders begging me for...something, but she is far too afraid to interrupt. So she remains kneeling before me, hands in her lap «No! Too tempting!», hands now on her knees, looking at me, waiting, squirming in her need. As I take pulls from the beer and watch the game, her eyes pool with tears. They slide down her cheeks and drip silently into her lovely cleavage. But still she waits.

“That hit the spot. I’ll have another,” I say, waving the empty in her face. She takes it reverently and patters to the kitchen. “Oh, and make me a sammich,” I say over my shoulder. Oh, I am so evil.

Of course she gets the reference; I’m testing her. But she passes the test. A look of rage flickers briefly across her face, but her terror and lust quickly overwhelm her reflexive feminist reaction. She shudders at how far she has fallen, but quickly shakes it off and is back on task. She gets out the beer and then frantically puts it back «It’ll get warm». She finds the bread cabinet. Three types of bread. In the refrigerator, a ham, a roast, a turkey breast, four types of cheese, a head of lettuce, a beefsteak tomato. «Too many choices! What if I get it wrong!! “Discipline” Oh, GODS!»

Two hours ago this was a strong, proud, independent, heroic woman. Now she is about to have a nervous breakdown trying to make a sandwich. I can’t say it enough; I’m very good at this.

Buckling down she somehow overcomes. If there’s anything she knows, it’s food. The fear comes from what she doesn’t know, which would be me, my tastes, my preferences, my likes and dislikes. But she’s striving mightily to get past that fear. She has no choice.

Choosing bread, meat, cheese, peeling and washing a large leaf of lettuce. She cuts 3 generous slices of roast beef, looks over at her Lord, and cuts another. 2 slices of cheese. 3 slices of tomato.

«What else? What else? Heat it!» Meat and cheese go into the microwave.

She debates taking me the beer now and decides against it. Finally done she finger-tests the warmth of the meat, gives it another 10-second bump, takes it back to the counter, assembles everything.

«Um...Cut it!» She gives it a nice diagonal cut and adds two party toothpicks from the box she noticed when she was searching the drawers earlier. One more look in the ’fridge again and adds a pickle spear to the plate.

Inordinately proud of herself for someone who has just completed a task that a grade school child could accomplish, she is two steps out of the kitchen when she realizes she forgot the beer. Fighting panic she somehow manages to get the sandwich back to the counter without dropping it.

Beer. Open. Grab. Hurry. Kneel. “Your beer and sandwich, My L-Lord.”

I take the offerings from trembling hands. “Good girl,” I murmur. She visibly relaxes until she sees the face I make upon biting into the food. “Whewe’s th’ muftid?” I say around my full mouth; I have no need to practice etiquette around a piece of property.

She doesn’t understand what she did wrong. Shaking like a leaf «“Discipline”», she ventures, “What’s wr-r-r-r-rong, My Lord?“

Swallowing, I try again, “There’s no mustard, you worthless cunt.”

“LET ME FIX IT! Icanfixitletmefixit, My Lord. PLEASE!” As I hand the plate back she rises unsteadily to her feet and runs to the kitchen in tears.

“You know,” I call after her, “You’re new, so I’m trying to be patient. But I have to wonder if this level of incompetence reflects a need for more discipline?”

She squeals—squeals!—as quaking hands open the ’fridge. In the door...3 types of mustard. «OH NO! ohno-ohno-ohno. I can’t do this.» She calls from the kitchen, clearly in agony, stuttering in terror, “M-m-m-m-my Lord? What type d-d-do you wa-w-w-wa-wa...prefer?“

“With beef? The brown.”

Grab. Squirt. Then she’s back in seconds, kneeling, head nervously bowed as if expecting a fist, proffering the sandwich again. She flinches as I take a bite and chew. “Good girl. Pleasure yourself.”

Groaning loudly, one hand snakes down into her still-dripping snatch, while the other rises to pinch and roll a still-hard nipple. Trembling, crying, whimpering with relief, fear, lust, she works two, then three fingers into her silky wetness, while her thumb strums her hard clit like a banjo string. She’s barely able to remain upright while watching me eat, drink, and watch the game. Her eyes drift down to the bulge in my pants, and a thrill leaps from her sex out into her whole body. But...still she sits on the edge. She still...can’t...cum. Endless time passes.

“Time to clean up.”

She has heard me speak but she’s too far gone to make out the words. She has practically become a liquid. Her arousal is a small pool on the floor, sweat covers her body, drool drips from her slack jaw, and tears stream from her eyes. She can hardly maintain an upright posture, and she’s quivering like jelly. “Wha...wha...what?...My Lord?”

“Get your lazy ass off the floor and clean this shit up!” I yell.

Stunned, she tries to rise, slipping on the slick puddle beneath her and falling over twice before she stands, swaying and shivering. Then she is in motion, in mortal fear of “discipline”. Bottles disposed, plates and utensils washed, counters wiped down and dried. She surveys the living room, cleans up crumbs and bottle rings, and gasps in dismay at her own leavings, a smeared puddle of cunt juice and sweat. Running past the front door without even a glance toward “freedom”, she finds the hallway to the bathroom, grabs a spare towel and runs back to clean up the slimy mess she had left in front of her Lord’s couch.

While she goes off in search of a laundry bin for the towel I get up to inspect her work. There has to be something.... She’s back, standing in the kitchen doorway, bracing herself to keep from falling over. Looking at me as I’m looking at the sink. “You left water.”

“M-m-m-my Lord?”

I sigh. My expression says I dealing with a slow child. “You left drops of water in the sink. If it dries there it will leave spots. Do you think it is okay to leave water spots IN MY SINK?“

She falls hard to her knees, and begins to crawl to me. Looking up, pleading with her eyes.

“CLEAN IT UP!”

Honestly I’m not really such a psycho neat freak, but cultivating the pose of an obsessive neatnik turns out to be very handy in slave training situations like this. It works for me in much the same way that it works for drill sergeants with raw recruits. I walk around her, back to the couch. She sobs as she lifts herself up by the counter. She grabs a dishtowel in a violently trembling hand and somehow wipes out the sink, not neglecting to sop up any drops under the spigot, not missing her own tears and sweat that she now finds on the counter-top and lower cabinets.

Suddenly unable to walk again, she crawls back to the living room. She knows she cannot resume jilling herself; she doesn’t deserve a “reward”. She wants to beg me not to “discipline” her. She wants to beg me to fuck her. She fears that she cannot face me at all. She can’t understand how any of this has happened to her. «Is it dream logic? How can I fight it? “Discipline” OH GODS, HELP ME!» She can’t think of anything else to do, so she finds her spot on the floor, her original spot, knees and head down, ass up, arms stretched in fervent prayer before her Lord. She composes herself as best she can.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“I think I’ll fuck you now.”

She brings herself to her elbows and looks up at me, tears streaming across the idiot’s grin on her face. I point to the couch, and she crawls to it, still unable to stand. She rolls over onto the couch, legs spread wide, looking up at me in joyous wonder, idly massaging a magnificent tit with one hand.

I waggle my finger “No,” and gesture for her to turn over. I briefly consider making her give me a blow job first, but she is already on a jagged edge. Besides, she can’t possibly be even minimally competent at fellatio. I don’t want to have to send her back for discipline, not today.

Now she is on all fours, chin resting on the arm of the sofa. I strip off my shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers, not hurried, but not making a spectacle of it either. I turn to show her my rock hard erection, huge and thick. Her eyes grow wide as saucers and she lets out a loud, involuntary whimper.

I position myself behind her sopping womanhood and idly rub my dick against her abdomen. “What do you want, bitch?”

“OOOH, I WANT YOU, MY LORD!”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Please fuck me, My Lord. I’M BEGGING YOU!”

“Compose yourself and try to tell me exactly what you want.”

“I...I wa...". Her frustration is epic, but she will not be denied. “PLEASE, My Lord. Ram your beautiful cock into my slimy, horny fuckhole until I c-c-cum.”

“Good girl.” I can see the relief wash over her. She has done well. She will be rewarded. I position my swollen glans at her dripping wet engorged labia, and...

I swap her back into her body.

Cynthia’s eyes snap open immediately. The nightmare—wet dream?—is over. She’s in her bed, soaked in sweat, reeking of sex. Her covers are ripped to shreds, and the crotch is torn out of her pajama bottoms. A river is running between her legs. Her clock shows...3:28 AM. She screams her frustration loud enough to rattle the knick-knacks on her dresser. Almost against her will she imagines me thrusting inside her and finger-fucks herself to orgasm...not as good as the one in the training room...not as good as the one that was building inside her when she woke from the dream. Even as she drifts back to sleep, she is...disappointed. «I came much harder than that in my dream»

Back in the penthouse, my cockhead is still idly rubbing against her labia, torturing my slave. Anna? Annette? Anita? I can’t remember. “You found a spare uniform?”

“Unnnngh Yes, Master. Several. But I couldn’t find any extra boots...nnnga or tiaras or arm bands”

“That’s fine. You put it in the mail?”

“Express Courier, Master. NNNNNgh, Two days.“

“Excellent. You masturbated her? How many orgasms?”

“I...lo-OST count, Masssss-ter. I couldn’t stop them, but they were so...weak. Oh! I ripped up her b-b-bedsheets and URRRR HAHH! pajamas too-oooooo.“

I pause behind her for a moment, feeling her desperate need. “Good girl,” I say, as I slip frictionlessly into her warm, tight cunt.