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Chain Reaction (mf mc? md? nc?)
By hypnovoyerAThotmail.com
***
Notes and Disclaimers: This story is a hypno-fetish fantasy.
It contains adult language and situations, and features
examples of fictional characters doing illegal, immoral
and/or impossible things to other fictional characters as a
prelude to sexual activity. If you 1) are under the age of
consent in your community, 2) are disturbed by such concepts
or 3) want graphic 'on-stage' sex in your pornography, then
please stop reading now.
Permission is granted to re-post this story unaltered to any
on-line forum, as long as no fee whatsoever is charged to
view it, and this disclaimer and e-mail address
(hypnovoyerAThotmail.com) are not removed. It would also be
nice if you told me you were posting it. If you wish to read
more of my stories, you can find some more of them at
http://www.mcstories.com and http://members.xoom.com/voyer
Copyright Voyer, 1999
***
I'll admit, before these things happened to me in real life,
I used to read fictional stories about similar events on the
Internet. Hell, I still do sometimes on a warm Sunday night
like this one, when I sit alone hunched over my computer.
These stories all seem to begin with grabbers of lines like
'It all started that day in desert with the strange lights',
or 'He found the book while cleaning out the attic.' When I
finally recently decided to sit down and write this, I tried
to come up with something similar, but in the end gave up.
Mine begins with:
It just happened.
And when it did, it happened in the local supermarket.
It was a Friday afternoon, and I and all the other worker-
drones from the neighborhood had stopped there on our way
home from our weekly toils. (In my case...Where? Doing what?
Doesn't matter now. It was an office. I sat in a crummy
little cubicle behind a crummy little desk and shoved pieces
of papers and packets of electrons around all day.) I was
pushing my cart up the one of the frozen food aisles, half-
listening to the whiny squeak of the front left wheel and
trying to decide what I wanted in the way of TV dinners for
the coming week. Then I rose up from my thoughts and there
she was. I squealed the cart to a stop and the rest of the
world ground to a halt as well.
She was standing further up the aisle, intently scanning the
contents of one of the tall freezers, the handles of one of
the market's ugly square plastic hand-baskets clenched in
one set of fingers and a lumpy package of frozen peas in the
other. A thirtyish woman, she had on a chic little business
outfit, a jacket and skirt that were nicely set off by both
the purse slung over one shoulder and her matching bob of
light brown hair.
I had never seen her before in my life.
I still don't know what it was. Love, maybe, but I had been
in love before that moment and it didn't feel the same. (It,
the old love, hadn't worked out in the end; I was single and
very much unattached when this happened.) But love is
different every time, or so they sometimes say, and was
there anything else that it could have been? I mean, she was
very pretty, but she certainly wasn't the most drop-dead
gorgeous woman I'd ever seen. Nevertheless, as I stood
there, the world still frozen around me, it was like I was
watching some movie and the director had ordered one of
those long camera zooms, one that closed in on a character's
face until it fills the entire shot. At the precise moment
the zoom stopped, she paused in a very distinct sort of way,
straightened up, and slowly swiveled her enormous head in my
direction. Time started up again around us. We looked at
each other.
There was a long moment filled with the store's syrupy Musak
and then the basket and the peas slid out of her well-shaped
hands. Both hit the floor, and something inside the basket
shattered and began glopping its reddish contents out across
the carefully sterilized vinyl.
She started walking towards me on clicking heels, a stiff-
legged walk that gradually edged itself towards a run. Her
expression was one of almost one of panic. Not concern about
what was happening to her, I think, but a growing fear that
I might turn out to not be real, might slip away into
nothingness before she could cross that endless distance and
reach me.
Not that I had any intention of disappearing. I stepped
around my cart and she was there, in my arms, pressing her
slender body tightly against mine, wrapping her own arms
around me, kissing me frantically, her nimble tongue sliding
eagerly into my mouth. She was a tiny little thing and she
had to go up on her toes to make full contact.
The kiss seemed to go on forever. Finally, I broke away if
only to come up for air. I looked down at her and she stared
back, her hazel eyes shining, her breath coming in hiccupy
little gasps.
Something obviously occurred to her and she dropped to her
knees, started fumbling with the zipper of my jeans,
fighting to get at the rising bulge underneath. I realized
what she was planning and somehow found my voice:
"No."
She instantly broke off and looked up again. Her wide-eyed
expression sent a sharp bolt of pain through me; she brought
to mind the image of a kicked puppy.
"Not here."
Her smile was back with the same flickering speed and I
helped her to her feet. Sparing a glance around, I noticed
that there were two or three other people in the aisle. None
of them paid us the slightest attention, but I didn't
particularly feel like sticking around to give them the
chance.
We abandoned the cart and basket to their fate and left the
supermarket, breezing out through one of the empty checkout
lanes. I caught a glimpse of a bored cashier giving us a
mildly quizzical stare, the only one who even seemed to see
us. Then we were gone, out into the parking lot, out into
the afternoon's gloom and gray drizzle. We paused there on
the yellow-striped concrete and kissed again, me lifting her
all the way off of the ground this time. I turned us slowly
in a circle.
Then we went to my car and drove back to my apartment,
abandoning her car as we had the baskets.
She tried again to kneel before me during the creaking
elevator ride up to my floor, to service me, and again I
stopped her.
I finally gave her the chance in the front hall of my place,
and it was definitely worth the wait. She'd gotten very good
at it somewhere, and I came in her mouth, down her throat,
almost immediately. She swallowed every drop.
Then we worked our way into the bedroom, leaving a trail of
clothing behind us.
I discovered as I entered her that she was a virgin.
And as she came, she screamed my name, which I had yet to
tell her.
* * *
We lay in bed together. It was dark outside, and bits of
rain still splatted desultorily against the window. I looked
at her naked curves, a series of white arcs in the glow of
the headlights passing by on the street below, bringing to
mind a collection of moons orbiting some distant but
friendly planet.
"What's your name?" Obviously, this was me asking.
"I..." She paused, and cocked her head quizzically. Then she
smiled simply and openly, a smile with no shadows lurking
anywhere in it. "I don't remember." She rolled up next to me
and started kissing me again, just as hot and eager as the
first time. After a long moment, I tore myself away and
spoke:
"You don't remember? How could you forget your own name?"
"The first thing I remember is seeing you in the
supermarket." She paused again, looking inward, obviously
thinking deeply now. Her petite fingers absently twined
their way through my chest hair. "No. I take that back. I
was... there was... a woman before that." Her voice was
grave. She turned her gaze back to me. "But she died when I
saw you. No... not died. She just came out of her cocoon,
and became me."
"No. Listen. This is very important. You have to remember.
Remember... that woman's name."
"You aren't going to send me away, are you?" Her eyes were
very wide now.
"No. Of course not. Never. But I want to know your name."
She lay there and stared helplessly into space.
I had an inspiration.
"I order you to remember your name."
"Camilla." She blinked as the words spilled out of her
mouth, my words and tone obviously punching a button
somewhere down in her brain. "My name was Camilla
McCormick."
I sighed.
"Your name is Camilla McCormick. Do you understand?"
"Of course. My name is Camilla McCormick"
"Where do you work, Camilla?" Seeing her expression I held
up a hand and cut off her reply. "Where do you go to make
money for me?"
"I make money for you at Wheatley and Associates. They
import specialty foods, mostly from Europe. I work in the
payroll department." She continued, still grave and calm.
"Would you like me to steal some of the company's money for
you?"
"No, Camilla. That won't be necessary."
For a moment I just held her in my arms, feeling her warmth.
What I had felt when I entered her seemed to render my next
question academic, but I asked it anyway.
"You aren't married, are you?"
"Oh, no."
"What about a boyfriend?"
"No. She... I was saving myself for you."
"You... you've never even had a boyfriend?"
"Oh, some. But I never let any of them have sex with me.
Real sex. I knew I belonged to you. I was waiting for you."
A pause. "Waiting in my cocoon. Even then."
I considered asking her how she differentiated between real
sex and the fake kind, but then decided it wasn't important.
I'm most definitely sure, however, what we did next fit into
the former category.
She moved in with me of course, easily abandoning her
previous home and existence except for her job. Life settled
into a delightful daily routine: a wake-up blow job for me
at seven on the dot, a long hot shower together, Camilla
using her own soapy body to clean mine, then work for both
of us, then more 'real sex' until we tumbled exhausted into
bed. (Or at least tumbled to rest...) On weekends, we'd go
somewhere enjoyable in between having sex. Until...
* * *
It was a few weeks after Camilla and I had come together,
and we were at the city art gallery downtown. As a treat, I
had let Camilla decide where to go on our outing that day. I
still had to pry out information about her past, her likes
and dislikes, a piece at a time, but she finally remembered
and/or admitted that before falling into my orbit she had
enjoyed going to see the paintings. So we went.
It was a wet and miserable weekend, but a still-surprising
number of people had come; the place was fairly crowded. We
slowly wound our way through the mob, stopping at various
paintings that were Camilla's particular favorites. While
not an out-and-out expert, she turned out to be quite
knowledgeable about the subject and I enjoyed hearing her
comments. She certainly knew more about such things than I
did.
The moment it happened this time, we were studying a large
seascape ('Battery Point #42' by a man named Ingerhold; we
have a print of it now, hanging in the dining room...)
Camilla was snuggled nicely against my side, her hand doing
equally nice things up between my shoulder-blades, when I
glanced across the room and saw... her. The second one.
There was another camera zoom in my mind as the crowd froze
in place, its collective babble cutting off. She was
standing in front of another seascape, this one a painting
of a lighthouse high on a cliff, all blues and greens and
greys. Her back was to us, her arms tightly crossed around
her waist, her carefully aligned fingertips visible to me.
She was blonde, two or three inches shorter than my own six
feet and rather more voluptuous than Camilla. I couldn't see
her face, but I knew that it didn't matter. I looked down at
my first conquest as the world came back to life.
"Camilla? Do you see that woman over there?" I didn't bother
to point. There was no need.
"Yes, Andrew." She glanced in exactly the right direction.
"She belongs to me as well. Go over there and fetch her to
me, would you?"
"*Yes*, sir!" She smiled, her expression radiant, and she
deftly slipped out of my one-armed embrace. She almost
skipped across the room, rather childlike in her tight-
fitting jeans and T-shirt and jacket, the crowd seeming
almost to magically part before her. I watched as she came
up to the blonde woman and placed a gentle hand on the arm
of her target's fuzzy purple sweater. The woman turned
without surprise and looked down. Seeing Camilla, she tipped
her head to one side and smiled, showing an impressive
mouthful of white teeth. She then turned her gaze to me.
Somehow, even through the thick sweater and her own pair of
jeans, I could see her wide nipples pop to attention, her
sex ignite and dampen. Together, they came back across the
room. The newcomer had lovely deep blue eyes and delicate
features which were a nice contrast to Camilla's snub-nosed
cuteness. She and I kissed for a long moment, Camilla
watching happily from one side. Finally I freed my lips and
took a step back. I spoke gently but firmly.
"I order you to remember your name for me."
"My name is Elizabeth Benetine, sir." She smiled again, a
Julia Roberts smile, one with too many teeth that were too
big, but was still somehow perfect.
I took her in my arms again and we kissed more thoroughly,
turning in a slow circle, completing the link between us.
Welding shut the bands that held her soul.
Then the three of us went out into the wind and rain and
drove back to our apartment. Actually Camilla drove, while
Elizabeth and I were busy in the back seat. At the
apartment, we had real sex all afternoon. Three-way sex was
a new experience for all of us, and we learned and
experimented with the various combinations and possibilities
as we went. We fell asleep still tangled together, waking to
Sunday sunshine. In an added bonus, Elizabeth proved that
morning and thereafter to be an excellent cook, better than
Camilla and I put together. Elizabeth moved in with us as
well, and we stopped living on TV dinners and Chinese take-
out.
* * *
Number three was Celeste, a friend of Elizabeth's and a co-
worker at the same engineering firm. She became suspicious
about Elizabeth's sudden change in lifestyle and followed
Elizabeth to my apartment one drizzly Monday evening.
Elizabeth and I were, unsurprisingly I suppose, having sex
at the time, but Camilla answered the door when Celeste
started banging on it, and she then brought the intruder
into my presence.
Celeste has the most wonderful hair it has ever been my
fortune to see or touch, a vibrant river black and thick,
long and lustrous. As soon as I saw it, as soon as she saw
me and realized the truth about our relationship, I had her
do a long slow striptease beside the bed, finally unpinning
those gorgeous tresses and positioning herself beside me,
over me, on the bed. The strands dangled over and around me
like silken moss dripping from the limbs of some black-
hearted Ent, and I could just run my fingers through it.
Celeste held perfectly still, her dark eyes wide, her body
subliminally quivering with the overlapping orgasms while I
stroked her hair. Camilla joined Elizabeth in working on
keeping my penis hard and happy, their tongues moving in
practiced tandem, around and around, up and down...
It's a good thing that Celeste joined us when she did, since
she later admitted to me that she had been considering
having a large chunk of her hair cut off. Now that she had
two sisters to help her keep it in order, it wasn't as much
trouble for her and she could let it grow even longer for
me. It's down almost past her ass now.
* * *
And so it went. A month after Celeste, there was Gabrielle
Dubois, my dark-skinned, black-hearted little night-
creature: she slithered into my cab as it pulled up to the
curb, a puff of toxic smoke which casually cut off the
waiting Celeste on the sidewalk. Unlike my first three
girls, when our eyes met, there was resistance. She recoiled
from me, almost screaming, scrabbling for the handle of the
door, which had swung shut behind her:
"No!"
"No what?" I smiled and raised my eyebrows. Otherwise, I
stayed as still as the frozen traffic.
"*No*!"
The traffic came back, honking at itself and churning the
slush.
Celeste joined us, sliding into the open front seat and
giving the cabdriver my address. We pulled out into the
street, the cab's wipers squeaking tiredly at the sticky
white flakes.
Gabrielle's compact, muscular body slid across the seat to
me, methodically preparing itself for sex, even as her
steely knife-edged mind still tried to draw away and slash
at me.
"No..."
I made her wide mouth shut up by kissing it. Even as her
talons clawed at my back, her lips and tongue began
helplessly to respond. And more than respond. About that
kiss and all the ones that have come after it, all I can say
is, all I want to say, it's a good thing that it's Gabrielle
who is the underling in our relationship. She'd have eaten
me alive otherwise, perhaps literally. Part of her still
hates me to this day, a venomous, powerless hatred as black
and thick and deep as Celeste's hair. Somehow, it adds a
extra dash of spice to our love making, which is loud and
physical and violent, filled with vituperative and highly
imaginative curses. I immensely enjoy her hatred and I'm
almost positive that she does as well, which is probably why
she has been allowed to keep it.
* * *
And then there was the cold winter night where I attended
the annual local performance of the Nutcracker over on the
Eastside. I sort of had to; Gabrielle was one of the
dancers. My Christmas present for the year was tall flame-
haired Jessica, who was waiting for me right outside the
performance hall after the show, standing under a large
elegant umbrella and watching the snow drift down with a
rather lost, waif-like expression on display behind her
glasses. We looked at each other, and for an eternal moment
the snow hung unmoving in the air, silt stirred up from the
bottom of the sea.
I didn't kiss her, at least not then. We just twirled
together for another long eternity, discarding her umbrella
and getting snow in our hair and on our shoulders and down
the back of our necks. Finally Gabrielle came stalking out
and we all went back to Jessica's penthouse. Once there,
Jessica and I danced another slow waltz without rising from
the carpeted floor, a performance conducted under the green
and red lights of a tree which was as tall and as stately as
its owner. Gabrielle got to play maid and serving wench for
the night, much to her undisguised displeasure. It was just
a shame that she had to leave her costume behind at the
hall; it would have made it all even more perfect... (We
have a copy of that costume now. Gabrielle wears it a lot.)
I mentioned the penthouse. Jessica was (and is) very well
off, thanks to her late father's investments (HTI and
Yankovich and Western Techtronics and the list goes on...)
and she had been generally quite frugal, carefully saving
and re-investing most of her money so it would be finally
available for my and her sisters' use, after I claimed her.
We moved in with her; she (I, if you prefer) actually owns
the entire building so there was plenty of room for
everybody and no more possibility of nosy landlords or
neighbors. (Although, as I have hinted before, our
activities generally seem to be invisible to the world
around us. I've never been seriously tempted to push it, but
I sometimes wonder what would happen if we all went and had
an orgy on the steps of City Hall. Would the other
pedestrians even break stride as they walked past?)
More importantly, none of us ever have to work again. I quit
my job at once, but my girls' reactions were more varied.
Celeste still works for Eastbay Engineering. Gabrielle still
dances in front of audiences, because that's the only time
she's truly happy, apart of course from when she is at the
absolute height of enraged sarcastic orgasm, my cock
spurting deep inside her. Elizabeth has become a full-time
master chef. Camilla has taken up painting, and is getting
quite good at it, if I say so myself. Ingerhold's work is
about the only one we now have that she didn't do.
* * *
I currently have six girls. Two months ago I answered a
knock on the front door of our country home during a violent
thunderstorm, and there was Teresa on the wide stone stoop,
barefoot and wearing only a flimsy pink teddy which had
begun to plaster itself to her generous curves. The moment
of the freeze caught her in the middle of a lightning-flash,
giving her clear pale skin an almost transparent quality, in
contrast to her dark brown helmet of hair. When time resumed
she collapsed into my arms, sobbing a mixture of hysteria
and relief. She's proven to be the only one of the six who
is able to resist me or any of my commands, even for a
moment. (Although as I have already noted, a part of
Gabrielle wants nothing more than to rip out my heart with
her freshly-sharpened talons and stomp on it with her
sharply spiked heels...)
We have no idea who she was or if 'Teresa' was even her real
name; she had no ID on her when she arrived, no jewelry, no
identifying marks or scars. Her only possession, the teddy,
was expensive and exquisitely made, with no manufacturer's
label. Someone must have given her a lift to our door since
she wasn't actually that wet, but she's never been able to
remember her last name or any details of her past, even when
I directly order her to. I suppose I could hire someone to
find out who she was easily enough, but something tells me
it's a matter best left alone. In the end, the other girls
all got together and voted to give her the last name of
'Trilby,' and if you have lots of money, constructing a new
and totally legal identity for someone is frighteningly
easy...
She hates wearing any more clothes than essentially what she
arrived in, and she spends most of her time flitting
contentedly around whatever house or apartment or villa we
currently inhabit, keeping things clean and in order. We've
also discovered she's quite the musical virtuoso,
particularly on the piano, which makes Gabrielle about as
happy as she ever gets; she prefers having live music to
practice to. On Saturday nights I have Gabrielle dance for
me in front of some of Camilla's paintings, while Teresa
plays the piano and Celeste kneels naked before me, her head
tilted back so that her glorious hair is fanned out across
my lap, sliding across my exposed cock. Elizabeth works on
dinner in the kitchen, and thus all of my senses are
engaged. I am a happy man.
* * *
And so things currently stand. Are there more women out
there, waiting for me? I don't know. Why was I given the six
that I currently have? I don't know. I certainly didn't do
anything to earn them that I am aware of. There don't seem
to be any other men like me around, although maybe they are
as invisible to me as I am to the rest of the world.
And perhaps... At this very moment, I sit alone in my office
on a Sunday night. (Sunday... like much of the world, it is
my day of rest. Depending on schedule and circumstance, I
take at least one of my girls to my bed every other night of
the week.) Spring is coming. I have the windows open onto
the garden and the warm air comes in, carrying with it the
sounds of frogs and the scent of renewal.
I sit alone and type these words into my computer's word-
processing program, cutting and pasting and dragging and
rearranging.
And perhaps... maybe by putting all this down, finally
clicking on that 'save' button at the top of the screen, I
will be breaking the spell that binds the seven of us
together. Perhaps this was never something that was meant to
be pinned down, defined. Perhaps tomorrow morning my six
girls will all wake up and be free of my influence, whatever
that influence is. Which is one reason why I try to be a
kindly... master?, and let my... slaves? generally do what
they want, even when they (all except Gabrielle of
course...) beg me to order them around, to tell them what to
do, to treat them like dirt. If they are freed someday,
maybe the others will keep Gabrielle from killing me, or at
least hold her off long enough for me to make good my
escape...
But on further reflection, I'm not terribly worried.
Scanning back through the disjointed ramblings I have just
spewed forth, I see that I haven't become to come close to
capturing the feeling of it all. The spell still runs free,
the chain is unbroken, the demon uncaged by the feeble
attempted pentagrams of my words. You, the reader, out
there, whoever you are, can't grasp the essence of the
circle that the seven of us have been forged into.
Particularly those six moments when the connections were
first made, when the world both came to a stop and came to
life. I can't describe it, not really, because I don't know
it. I don't want to know it.
All I do know is, I now look forward to rainy days with
great anticipation...
(End)