The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She was an odd duck, that was for sure. All British and proper and long legs and blond hair, neatly tucked beneath her perfectly-seated military-style hat. Her name was Allison, and even that was so veddy, veddy British. She was a stereotype, exactly what an American TV viewer would think a British woman would be: polite, efficient and well-mannered, with a lot of “pip-pip”’s and “cheerio”’s and even a few “all that sort of rot”’s. Thematically, she was right out of a W.E. Johns novel and her slang so 1930’s London that you would swear that she was made up, and maybe she was.

Monica Wentworth was eager to find a good chauffeur, but all said and done, she considered not hiring the young woman. Her credentials were excellent, but Monica got a bad vibe off of her. There was something just not quite right about Allison Hartnell. It might have been the way that she was too British, with her crisp, clean chauffeur’s uniform, complete with miniskirt and go-go boots that hugged her every, beautiful curve. Or the medium-length cigarette holder she always seemed to have stuck in the side of her kissable mouth with its light pink lip gloss. Maybe it was that odd monocle that magnified her amazingly blue left eye, making it seem like it was boring a hole right through you. It may just have been the too-proper way she sat, on the edge of the chair with her legs pointed leftward, primly closed and her gloved hands clasped together in her lap. Whatever it was, Monica Wentworth felt uneasy looking at her.

Monica reasoned that maybe it was her own fault. She had recently broken up with her fiance, Cabot, and she wasn’t in the best of moods. He had called her a lesbian. She knew it was just something cruel to say, but she resented it. At 35, the petite, dark-haired Monica had spent her life in pursuit of men, never once looking female-ward in her life. She adored all men... Well, all men except Cabot at the moment.

“It says here,” the heiress noted, looking over Allison’s application, “that you worked for Jeremy Sitwell in New York for two years. I happen to know Jeremy. Why did he let you go?”

“Well,” said Allison, in that Received Pronunciation so favored by the BBC (not a hint of a regional accent), “Jeremy, that is, Mr. Sitwell, was so very kind to me. Yet he was forced to leave for Germany recently and left me in a bit of a sticky wicket, if I might say so, Mum. I mean, what’s a girl to do? Still, stiff upper lip and all that. One must go on.”

Monica had never seen a girl say so little with so many words. Another reason to dismiss her. Still, Allison had made it all the way from San Jose to San Francisco for the interview. The least Monica Wentworth could do was let her have that time with her. Maybe she could recommend Allison to a friend looking for a female chauffeur. Maybe Roger Banks could use her.

“Miss Hartnell,” Monica said, looking up from the paperwork, “I don’t really think you’re a proper fit for the position... ”

“Oh, but I think I am,” Allison said, smiling evilly.

Monica looked into the monocle, and the world became that eye.

Sweet and salty touched her lips and Monica swooned. She smelled something; something pungent and powerful and feminine, working its way up her nose and into her head, making it cloud over like a London fog. Gloved hands pulled from the back of her head, leading her into that wonderful scent. Monica was drowning in it and it clogged her nose and mouth like a tidal wave. She gasped for air but didn’t really mind that the air wasn’t there. She wanted to drown in the sickly sweet goo that was coating her nose and throat and brain. She gulped in the aroma like the smell of honey in a beehive and all she wanted was to lose herself in it.

Monica blinked. Where was she? She looked at the young woman sitting across the desk, who was smiling a wicked little smile at her. The girl’s hair was long and loose, like it was pouring out of the crooked chauffeur’s cap and spilling down the sides of her face. The monocle had been on the left eye, hadn’t it? Why was it now on the right? Allison had one leg hanging from the arm of the chair and Mrs. Wentworth could see a glimpse of the young girl’s panties. I’ll bet she perfumes them, Monica thought idly, then blushed at her own observation.

“As I said,” Monica continued, “I don’t know if the position is right for you...”

“Oh, fuck me,” said Allison, grinning. “I think I could ‘ang about, luv.”

Monica looked into the monocle again and was lost.

Monica Wentworth was on her back, her $3,000 business outfit ripped open by her own hands as if she hadn’t been able to wait. She felt an unknown woman’s soft tongue on her mound, licking in the places that a man could never find. It was probing her like some living female lathe, rubbing the shape of Monica’s vagina and reminding her that she was nothing more than a sex machine for the pleasure of others. She moaned.

“Shhhhh,” Miss Allison cooed into Monica’s ear. “Let the little slut earn her keep, ‘ey?”

Monica tried to respond, but there was something plastic and thick in her mouth. Smooth and firm, it slid in and out like an eager lover without the warmth. Miss Allison’s hips moved perfectly as the plastic worked its magic on Monica’s throat.

Monica blinked. Miss Allison took a drag on her long cigarette holder and carelessly flicked the ashes onto the floor. Was the cigarette holder always so long? The young applicant stared lasciviously at the older woman and her bright red lips cracked into a lusty smile. One of her legs was hanging over a chair arm, her shaved cunt exposed as she sensuously stroked it up and down with leather-sheathed fingers. The monocle seemed to have moved back to the left eye, with its obsidian black eye shadow and the eye winked through the lens knowingly at the heiress.

“Um, uh, as... As I was saying, Miss Allison,” Monica continued, flushed. “I... I don’t know if the position is worthy of one such as you.”

“No probs, luv,” Miss Allison said in a throaty, smooth, enticing voice. “I’m well up for it, know what I mean?”

Monica looked into the monocle for guidance and it was there.

Mistress Ally worked the opera-length latex gloves over monica’s arms and the wentworth woman stood still, happy and horny. monica stood wobbly in the seven-inch heels and stockings that Mistress Ally had insisted that she wear. The corset was cutting off her oxygen but she didn’t mind. The monocled eye throbbed and twinkled and told her what she should do as she stared at it, unable to look away.

The Mistress’ perfume-scented leather digits stroked enticingly up and down monica’s sloppy-wet slit and she pursed her lips and whimpered, daring not express her pleasure unless Mistress Ally allowed it. her ankles and knees felt rubbery and weak and she leaned on Mistress Ally for support. The Mistress, meanwhile, was blowing smoke into the non-smoker monica’s face. she inhaled, as she had been instructed, and the smoke clogged up her throat and made her cough.

monica blinked. she looked at Mistress, who was casually smoking with the incredibly-long cigarette holder as if it was the way every woman should smoke. Hadn’t the monocle been on the other eye previously? monica giggled. she was such a silly, silly girl sometimes. She grinned a wide-opened smile at Mistress, her head bobbing around like it was a fishing float, which is exactly what it felt like. I’m such an empty-headed little fool, she thought to herself and grinned wider still, staring with complete fascination at her Mistress.

“As... As I was saying, Mistress,” monica tittered inanely, “i’m just not worthy of you.”

“No worries,” Mistress observed, brazenly sliding two leathered fingers in and out of her drenching cunt. “I’m gagging for it, monica. Get your American arse over here and lick me.”

monica found that she couldn’t stand on such rubbery legs, so she collapsed on the floor and crawled to her Mistress, her tongue oiling itself for the chance to service Mistress’ beautiful slit. she giggled all the way over to the chair where Mistress sat spread-eagle and nuzzled her nose against the commanding vagina that had so captured her will. Mistress’ hands cupped her noggin from behind and shoved monica’s empty little head into the wet, controlling sweetness. monica swooned, grateful that Mistress allowed her to be the chauffeur, but Mistress was doing all the driving.