I hadn’t heard from Debbie for a couple of days, nor had I run into her. To keep the façade of our budding relationship together, I called and left a message for her. Even though I was interested in her “that way,” our relationship was tarnished by the fact that she was basically a lab rat and I was her overseer. The only thing that kept me from feeling like a complete asshole about the things I had done, and apparently would continue to do to her, was that the price of non-compliance was death. For both of us. The EMCSA was fantasy, a place where conscience rarely got in the way because it was not real. I was now living the Archive’s essence, and finding that it wasn’t so much fun, because, volcanic sex and fetishes aside, it did involve conscience.
Debbie wondered why I sounded so down when she called me back. I lied yet again, and told her that work was just horrendous. She clucked sympathetically, and told me that at least we’d see each other Friday night for our date. I silently doubted that I’d feel a lot better about myself by then. “I know just what to serve you for dessert,” she lewdly intoned. That was followed by a regretful sigh, “Better not go there tonight. Don’t have time for sex. Schoolwork calls.”
I could hear her sunny smile, and it drew an answering one from me, despite my depression. I realized that I’d been living next door for two years to somebody who could have interested me without mind control. This fake relationship could have been a real one, and none of this would be happening, because she wouldn’t have taken the data entry job. I knew that because she would have wanted to spend more time with me, and money… I was sure that we would have made enough between us. Conscience is a loud bitch who won’t shut up.
Friday night, I took her to a restaurant famed for its steaks and wine selection. She looked at me strangely when I told her where we were going to dine, and openly wondered about the price tag. I shrugged, saying, “Can’t take it with you.” She still fretted until I gave her a hot kiss and said, “It’s OK. My investments are remarkably good right now, and I’m not spending more than I can afford. Besides, I’d like to treat you the way I think you deserve to be treated.” OK, so I’m a romantic mind-controller at heart.
Debbie had stars in her eyes for me throughout dinner. Afterwards, she said, “I’m not quite ready to go home yet. I’m enjoying being out with you.” I suggested that we go to the restaurant’s cigar and martini bar next door, where a jazz band had started playing. We found a table, and Debbie lit a More with a teasing, knowing smile. I gave her a peck on the cheek, and got up to browse the walk-in humidors, leaving her at the table, unable to stir my blood. She regarded me curiously when I came back, while watching me unwrap the cigar I had selected, but said nothing. The waitress punched it for me and took our drink order.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Debbie finally said, and I told her that I enjoyed a good cigar on occasion. “Huh,” she exclaimed, “guess I didn’t ask that in the game.” I politely offered her a puff. “No thanks,” was her immediate reply. “Way too masculine. It’s difficult enough smoking these in public,” she elaborated, indicating her More. “It kinda looks like a cigar, but I can just imagine what my co-workers would say if I showed up smoking a cigar on break.” Before I could tell her that fine cigars weren’t made for smoke breaks at work, she excused herself for the ladies’ room.
While she was gone, a well-dressed, middle-aged couple sat at a nearby table, and the man removed a pocket humidor. Private stock, I mused. Then he did something unexpected: he removed two cigars of differing sizes, punched them, and handed one to his female companion. She expertly, patiently, lit her own while he did the same. This was obviously not a novel experience for them. She drew, and thick smoke began to slowly flow from her nose. Despite her age, she was attractive, and looked every bit the cultured cigar lady, perfectly comfortable flouting public convention. Her bearing combined with her classy attire to give her an aura of sophistication and mature sexiness. I forced myself to look away, towards the other side of the stage, feeling more than a little full down below, and wondered if Debbie could look as sexy in the same circumstance.
Debbie gave me a kiss on the cheek when she returned, and sat close, so I put my arm around her. She sipped her martini, listening to the band, occasionally closing her eyes to lose herself in the music. This allowed me to steal enough glances at the elegant cigar woman to keep me full, but not quite rock-hard. Right after watching her issue a beautifully lit, long, thick stream of smoke from her lips, I made an instant decision.
Debbie was reaching for another cigarette as the band finished “Harlem Nocturne,” and I said, “CS. DS. LO. Obey and Become. Ten-Gamma-Ten.” Her hand froze, hovering over the pack of Mores, an expression of extreme interest and complete attention on her face the only sign (and quite subtle in public, I clinically noted) of her condition. I whispered directly into her ear in the relative between-song silence of the nightclub. “You will look around the room, naturally. When you have seen three women smoking cigars tonight, you will become very, very curious and want to try one here, tonight. And you will like it.” The bandleader raised his horn, so I closed the open door to her mind before the next song started.
She finished removing the More and lit it, showing no sign that anything had changed. When the band went on break, she casually looked around the club, taking in the decor as the house lights came up. “This is a nice place, Ray,” Debbie said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “You take me out to such—nice—” She looked around again, and I asked her if we needed the waitress. “That would be great… I’m not sure that I want to go home right now. If that’s OK with you.” I nodded. She excused herself again after asking me to order her another chocolate martini.
This time when she returned, Debbie turned to me and excitedly said, “I’ve never seen so many women smoking cigars!” I feigned a casual air as I took a leisurely look around the room while noting that it was no longer an exclusively male domain. “I can see that,” she said, wrapping her arm around mine and then leaning close. “How would you feel if I… ummm… ummm… tried one here tonight?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper, sounding worried.
“Well, this is as good a place to do it as you’ll get. Nobody around us is going to give it a second thought. And I think you’re sexy regardless,” I encouraged, trying not to sound smug. I knew what her decision would be. She asked the waitress about the humidors, shyly adding, “This is my first time with cigars.”
The waitress smiled and said, “Don’t worry, we get that a lot here. Follow me, and I’ll help you.” Ten minutes later, Debbie was at our table lighting her first ever cigar, a slender panatela under the waitress’ tutelage. Once again, I wasn’t quite prepared for the impact the fulfillment of my fetishes had on me. I went from full to ready to ram Debbie senseless before she had gotten a quarter of the way through the cigar. A cigar that I had commanded her to try, and an experience that I had programmed her to enjoy using my power of mind control over her. It was insanely exciting. I could barely wait until she had finished enough of the cigar to make a calm exit.
For her part, Debbie noticed my enchanted staring at her, and although she misinterpreted the exact source of my enthusiasm, her earlier programming made it easy for her to extrapolate that what she was doing was raising my heat level for her. She played it up. She had also noticed my glances towards the chic cigar woman, although they were much briefer now. By the time Debbie was halfway finished with her cigar, she had almost perfectly assimilated the style of the woman who had first attracted my attention, occasionally inhaling the strong smoke without any sign of discomfort. As we climbed into the car, she asked, “So am I sexy with a cigar, too?” in a husky voice, with her eyes full of lust. “But it gave me an idea for something else to suck on…” We barely made it into my apartment before the clothes were off.
Once she had returned to her side of our common wall the next morning, and the memory of our evening out no longer inspired a flash of heat, I was left alone with my thoughts and nothing to do, which was the worst thing in the world for me. My idle solitude allowed the magnitude of what I had done to hit me and my heretofore silent partner, my conscience. I had had a fetish flash at the cigar bar, and I had changed Debbie to provide more fuel to that particular fire. There was no deliberation and no consideration for someone that I had thought I was beginning to really care about. I did it because it excited me. More importantly, I did it because I could, without causing any negative consequences to myself. And in a moment of absolute self-candor, I admitted that having the ability to do what I had done was almost as exciting as the result. It appeared that I had complete control of Debbie’s mind. The surge of blood to my dick at that thought was even more troubling than the sum of my brooding. I was now officially an evil mind-controller. This wasn’t the kind of fantasy I enjoyed at the EMCSA.
No, it wasn’t. But this was real life.
I went to a loud, packed-to-the-gills nightclub by myself that night, to get away from both Debbie and my increasingly maudlin thoughts. My sense of self-worth as a decent human being had taken an incredible pounding over the last few hours. Even though the environment was happy and carefree, I wasn’t, and it showed. That, along with my seeming lack of interest in the chase, made me stick out from the rest of the men in the crowd. Perversely, it also seemed to act as one hell of an aphrodisiac, because attractive women in droves were starting conversations with me.
It didn’t take long for my mood to improve. It seemed that sensitive brooding colored with sadness, but not self-pity, signaled young women that this was something that they personally needed to fix. My conscience stubbornly refused to let me pull the trigger on any of the offers I received, and I left the club at one a.m. with six unsolicited phone numbers. As I drove home, I mused that a couple of months ago, it would have been two or three, and I wouldn’t have left by myself.
I was awakened the next morning by the sound of my doorbell. “Courier for Ray Grant,” the speaker said. That shot Sunday down the tubes. An hour later, the cell phone rang. “Cigars, Mr. Grant? When did this happen?”
“We went to a cigar bar after dinner Friday. She got curious and decided to try one. It’s no big deal,” I said, trying to keep the surliness out of my voice. “How do you know?”
“Miss Stafford has friends she communicates with,” Mr. Scary idly replied. “She related the experience in… enough detail. Anything you care to relate, given your … special area of interest?”
“Gentlemen don’t tell. There was a reason that we came back to my place.”
“In that case,” he began, sounding entirely too smug for me to have any sense of comfort, “I’ll tell you exactly what happened at Peterson’s cigar bar after your dinner with Miss Stafford last night.” I felt completely naked and transparent by the time he finished his incredibly accurate description of what happened in the cigar bar. “What happened after you and Miss Stafford arrived at your apartment does not interest me in the least. What I want to know is, was her interest in cigars prompted by you?” There was a long silence. “Need I remind you that you are a paid consultant?” No, the phone call already did that, I sourly thought.
“How did you… figure all that out from her conversations?” I asked, incredulous. He reminded me that Debbie was under close surveillance. I sighed, “Yes, I used the trigger in public,” and my sense of being a decent human being disappeared again. He queried me about what happened and the circumstances, Debbie’s reaction, and if I had a sense that anyone noticed. I pointed out that his agent hadn’t noticed anything, and that I had been discreet. I relayed the clinical part of my observations to him as well, feeling less human with each word.
“It sounds like you’ve achieved an unscheduled milestone, Mr. Grant,” he said, not quite able to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Congratulations. I knew we had chosen wisely.” I asked him if that was it. “There’s still a matter of a phone call using the trigger,” Mr. Scary reminded me. “However, when you complete that task, your—experiment—will be granted an additional month. Enjoy your time, and your slave.”
Ouch. He was really good at twisting the knife in my gut. Not only was I under contract to control Debbie, I had been unable to resist the temptation of being in control of her, and had used it for my own selfish ends. At least she wasn’t my complete slave. That thought failed to soothe me.
Even though I knew that Debbie had midterms approaching and we said that it would be best for her if we didn’t see each other until afterwards, I called her the following weekend to accomplish the next item on Mr. Scary’s list. I spoke her trigger carefully, and when she said nothing over the phone in return, I assumed that she was in programming mode, and so gave her her command. “Debbie, you are becoming aware that you are horny. You will become increasingly hot, and it will distract you from your schoolwork until you are insanely horny, and you will be unable to concentrate on your schoolwork at all. The only thing that will satisfy your urge is anal sex. You will not be able to get back to work until you have had Ray fuck you in the ass. You love the idea of Ray’s cock in your ass and the thought of him thrusting in and out of your ass makes you ten times more horny and distracted. You will find that when he does, your ass is as sensitive as your pussy. You know that you must convince him to fuck you in the ass, or you will not be able to get any schoolwork done. Zero-close-zero.” Lab was in session. All that was left was to wait for her arrival.
About three hours later, there was a knock on my door. “Ray? Are you home?” sounded Debbie’s muffled voice. I opened it, prepared to fake surprise, but I didn’t have to. There was a freshly lit tipped cigar between her fingers, and she took a long, effortless drag as she walked in. I stammered something about our agreement not to see each other. Before replying, she stood in my foyer, lifted her head, and slowly exhaled the smoke from her entry drag. “Kind of distracted,” she casually replied. “Thought it was time for a break.”
I wasn’t sure what to say about her cigar, but I was too busy gaping, already on my way to erect. “So… what do you think?” Debbie playfully asked, even though she already knew the answer. “Do these make you hotter than Mores do?” My mouth hung open, as she actually posed for me, fully aware that I was going to watch her take another drag, and silently encouraged me to keep watching as she exhaled. “The really good cigars take too long,” she continued, without waiting for a response. “So I found these at a local store, and thought that maybe you could—help—me with my distraction,” Debbie smiled. “Especially after last weekend.” She slowly walked towards me, her every movement sensuous. She stopped just beyond my reach, and took a demonstrative drag, french-inhaling the thick smoke, and, after leisurely tilting her head back, Debbie exhaled slowly, mesmerizingly, through her nose. I may have had the power of mind control over her, but she had control of me by my other fetish, and had become amazingly adept at using it to get what she wanted from me.
She knelt in front of me, unzipped my pants, and started a slow, incredibly sensation-filled, blowjob, pausing on occasion to drag on her cigar and make my cock vanish in a haze of smoke, before engulfing it anew with her wet, warm mouth. When I was more rigid than I could ever recall being, she slowly stood, half-turned away from me and purred, “I wanna do something different this time, Ray.” She punctuated her request with her final posed drag and exhale, exuding pure sultriness in waves. I followed, seemingly led by my erection, which hadn’t lost any of its hardness.
She shimmied out of her jeans with deliberation, her back to me, with her intent clear: I should watch. She rubbed her ass cheeks invitingly as she swayed, husking so softly that I had to strain to hear her in the quiet apartment. “Ever wonder what it feels like to fuck a big girl in the ass? This big girl wonders what it would be like to be fucked by you in her ass… C’mon… be my first… Do me in my ass, baby…” Debbie tossed her head and shot me a look of concentrated wantonness over her shoulder, red hair partially obscuring her face, before snapping it back the other way. Her generous hips swaying with incredible invitation, she headed for my bedroom, removing her top as she went. She swung it gently over her shoulder, behind her, as she got to the bedroom door.
As soon as she disappeared, I resumed breathing, or more accurately, panting, and I quickly followed. “C’mere, baby, gotta surprise for you,” she growled, voice thick with passion, reclining naked on my bed. She quickly sat up and recaptured my cock, drooling freely as she bobbed her head, threatening to take me into her throat, but always pulling back at the last instant. Debbie handed me a small bottle of lubricant. “Let’s do it, Ray… I want you to fuck me in the ass,” she said as she climbed on to her hands and knees, swaying her pear-shaped ass. She lowered her head and raised her hips, thrusting her ass at me in emphatic punctuation to her invitation.
I had no idea how much of the lubricant I spilled on the bed in carelessly coating my cock and the entrance to her nether regions, but there was enough in the right places for me to easily penetrate her asshole with the head of my cock. “OOOOHHHHHHH…” was all that Debbie said, followed by a satisfied, “mmmmmmmm” as I pushed myself further in. I gently began rocking back and forth, my orgasm feeling imminent as the unfamiliar tightness of her ass sent thunderbolts through my body. However, the pressure eased as I went deeper, and the very short wiggles of initial penetration gave way to increasingly long strokes of fucking. “Ohhhh… Ohhh… Ohhh…” Debbie sighed with each smooth forward thrust. It wasn’t long before her body responded with equally smooth thrusts in time with her sighs and counter to my own movement.
Her asshole was too tight for me to pound at her, and that kept my once-imminent ejaculation at bay, prolonging our fucking. Soon, Debbie’s sighs turned into panting whimpers, “Ohhh… Ray… Ohhh… Ohhhmigod… Ray… Ohhhh… I’m… I’m… ohhhh… I’mgonna….” Her body began to quiver, interrupting our perfectly synchronized sex. Suddenly, Debbie moaned, “Oooooohhhhhhh…” low, long, and sweet, and her juices gushed out of her with a loud “splat” underneath us. “Ohhhhhhhh, I’m cummmiinnnggg!” she exhaled, her voice raised an octave or two. Her back turned red, arching, changing my angle and the friction of her ass against my cock.
“Gonna… gonna… gotta…” I gasped. Debbie began to grind against me, and I sighed deliriously, “Cummmmm…” My cock swelled and shot deep into her asshole.
“Yesssssssssssssssssssss!” Debbie hissed in approval as I fired volley after volley inside her, snorting with delight, my mind turned into mush, a bright white light behind my eyes obliterating my sight with each powerful contraction. “Ohhhh… Bayyyyy-beeeeeee… Ohhh god… Oh, Ray… Oh, Ray!” she encouraged, before abruptly going into her own final orgasm.
We lay next to each other afterwards, my sheets a wet, sticky, glorious mess, tiny rips in them where, somehow, Debbie’s nails had managed to snag previously-loose fibers. She sighed contentedly, and rolled over to face me. We kissed, the first time our lips had met all afternoon. This had been about pure physical need, a need that I had created, and one whose magnitude I had greatly underestimated. “So tell me, Ray, you never did answer my question.”
I struggled to recall any recent conversation we had, and the only thing my brain could recover was the incredible heat that had permeated my apartment after her arrival. That sent a painful, but definite, twitch to my cock. I hoped that she didn’t have any more ammo for my fetish; otherwise, she’d be losing some more study time. “What question did you ask?”
She grinned at my short-term memory loss, and then noticed my filling cock, which made her grin grow even wider. She playfully brushed it with a finger. “If only I had the time…” She physically shook herself back to her original train of thought. “Cigars or Mores? I’ve been on the internet learning all kinds of smoking tricks.”
Memories replayed more vividly, causing more blood to flow into my cock, and making my nuts throb. It wasn’t really a pleasant sensation, making me wish we could have this conversation at a different time. Wait, my brain said, under the powerful influence of the painful sensation, you can. “CS. DS. LO. Obey and Become. Ten-Gamma-Ten.” The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think objectively about what I was doing. But now that I was there, and Debbie was regarding me with attentive wonder… “Debbie, you will remember the questions that you have, but you will hold those questions until we are alone and you have fewer obligations. Right now, you will find that when you start studying again, your concentration will be the best it has ever been, and studying will be ten times easier, and you will retain information ten times as well and be able to work with it ten times better. You realize that this has been fun, but that you have to go back and study, and that is the most important thing right now. Zero-close-zero.”
The light went back on in her eyes. “Ummm… Actually, Ray… Hold that thought,” she apologetically offered. “I’m thinking a little more clearly now, and my brain is nagging me about my midterms. I really don’t have the time to go there now—as much as I would like to.”
“It’s OK,” I tried to reassure her. “I understand… but this was fun.”
She smiled and kissed me. “Yes, it was, and if I had more time—”
I cut her off with, “You’d better get dressed and get out of here,” smiling. She agreed, and fifteen minutes later, she was back in her apartment. I hoped that the command I’d given her would help make up for the two hours that I’d stolen from her studies. The last thing I wanted was to negatively affect her career—that would be obvious, and something told me that Mr. Scary would not be pleased about that.
Late the following evening, I received the inevitable phone call. “Mr. Grant, the care that you take with your commands is most impressive. I must admit that I was very skeptical of the potential for success in this project. However, given the evidence available from our surveillance of Miss Stafford, I take it that she completed this milestone to your satisfaction—and therefore, ours.”
“Yes, she did,” I replied. “Does this mean that we’re good on this?”
The line went quiet for a long time, and my stomach began to get very upset. Mr. Scary finally said, “The accomplishment of these three milestones has been sufficient evidence for my superiors. They believe that you may have discovered something very, very valuable to us.” I waited, holding my breath. “Therefore, I can say to you with great assurance, that the temporary nature of—everything—has been removed.”
I let out a great whoosh of air, exhaling, “Yes!” into the phone as an enormous sense of relief saturated my entire soul. “So is this the last contact we’ll have with you? I mean, I’ll miss the consultant’s pay, but I can do—”
Mr Scary interrupted me. “Not exactly, Mr. Grant. While the temporary nature of your status is removed, you are still our consultant. Just consider it as having had a successful alpha-test and now you’ve been given the green light for a full beta, to use terminology that you are familiar with.”
The party going on in my heart had just been summarily shut down by the cops. “You mean that I’m still on call?” I cautiously asked.
“Again, Mr. Grant, not exactly,” he answered, his tone all business without a hint of conciliation. There are medium- and long-term effects to discern, as well as some other—conditions—that need to be tested. Your compensation will continue, but the schedule will now be quarterly as opposed to milestone-driven. I hope the amount is adequate to insure your continued interest and effort.”
“Could I say no if it wasn’t?” I rhetorically asked him.
“That’s what I thought,” I grumbled. “So when exactly will this—experiment—be over? When will Debbie and I not be responsible to you? When will the milestones and the monitoring end?”
“As I said at the beginning of this trial, Mr. Grant,” Mr Scary calmly replied, “we will let you know. That has not, and will not, change. Are we clear on that?”
“Crystal.” My stomach lurched and my mouth turned desert-dry.
“Have a pleasant evening, and you might consider rewarding Miss Stafford with a first-class weekend somewhere nice.”
I fired the cell phone into the nearest waste bin, hearing it shatter as it landed on the steel bottom, put my head in my hands, and cried. I began to mentally prepare myself for the second incredibly long Monday in as many weeks, because the chances of my getting any sleep tonight had just vanished.