The Addicted Natural


Chapter 11 – The White Witch of Walden – Prelude II


A QUICK DISCLAIMER


Remember back in the first part of this story when I related my conversation with Menlo, and I told you that bad guys always try to justify their actions. Well, in keeping with that tradition, here I go ….

First of all, I NEVER suggested to ANYBODY that Dee should call me “Master.” She just seemed to slip right into the habit, and when I didn’t immediately reject the moniker, it became a permanent part of her vocabulary. When I voiced my discomfort with the title to Brenda, she told me that there was no harm in it, and since Dee felt so satisfied by saying it, I finally just accepted it. I DID insist on the hard fast rule that she was never to use the term in public, and she complied, just as she complies with all my rules.

And now, on to the question that I’m sure is uppermost in everyone’s mind: the money. 

Everything I made Dee do in the three weeks following her induction into our family was done in accordance with her last will and testament. Well, sort of. There’s a big difference between giving money away when you’re dead and giving it away while you’re still alive. Fortunately, we happened to have access to a real financial expert – Dee herself, though I never let her remember any of the extensive transactions she made during that time. The choice of charities was her own. And the terms of sale of the mutual fund were entirely her ideas. The mansion and grounds, which she had originally earmarked for a state park, went to an organization that helps battered women, and that was MY “recommendation.” I thought it appropriate, considering Dee’s abusive past. The money for the new building on campus that would bear her mother’s name was Brenda’s idea. (Dee had originally just set it up as a general contribution.)

And yes, Dee was right in her diary, there was exactly ten million left over. I had her put the entire amount into a brokerage account in HER name. That, along with the diamond necklace (which appraised for almost another mil – it’s in the safe in my home office), and the lake house and the Mercedes, was all that Dee had left of her fortune. And I don’t know; maybe she was right about financial people only being remembered in terms of “winners and losers.” Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. All I care about is that she’s alive and happy.

My office is one of the nicest rooms in the lake house. Obviously, it was once the domain of Robert Darlingshire, but I’ve now turned it into my own. The girls are forbidden to enter without permission. I soon began sitting at the big desk and writing the outline of what I hope will someday be my attempt at the great American novel. But every Thursday afternoon at one o’clock, Dee knocks at the door and I let her in. She enters with eyes downcast. I immediately order her to look into my eyes, and she is quickly put into a deep trance. Then she logs on to all of her mutual fund programs, catches up on the past week’s financial developments, and she makes whatever sales and purchases she deems appropriate. The woman is absolutely phenomenal. In the past year, despite a sharp decline in the DOW, she’s seen a total profit of over 10%. Ten percent of ten million. Even I can do THAT math.

When Dee leaves the office, she not only has no memory of what she has seen there, she also has absolutely no knowledge and no interest in what she’s just done. Brenda’s promise to her of “never having to think about the money again” has been kept. In the meantime, I HAVE used just a little of it. The boat, the truck, some nice acquisitions in my book collection. Pretty small potatoes, considering. Still, I guess you could argue that I’ve taken advantage of her. 

Who am I kidding? OF COURSE I’ve taken advantage of her.


BRENDA AND THE BLUE GYM BAG


Before I get to the evening that changed all our lives (Dee’s birthday), I feel obligated to shed some light on the relationship between my two women. 

First, about their sexual relationship. It’s true that I DID have something to do with that, but quite honestly, it wasn’t ALL my doing. The sparks were always there. I realized early on in our lives (as a threesome) that I would probably not be able to keep up with the two of them sexually. And, quite frankly, the idea of two women having a sexual encounter has always been a turn-on for me. So, at various times, while I had each of them in their hypnotic “rooms,” I would bring up their most intimate feelings about the other, and I’d gently encourage their curiosity regarding a more physical relationship. Dee had immediately agreed with me (but I know now that by “suggesting” a sexual encounter, I had probably just changed her entire mindset on the topic of lesbian relationships). I couldn’t have Dee being the aggressor, though, since Dee is subservient in ALL things. So she simply became subconsciously anxious, waiting for Brenda to make her move.

Brenda, for her part, was much more resistant. Once again, I resolved not to take her into her “lower room” in order to change her sexual orientation, but we had long conversations in her hypnotic “Bedroom Nirvana,” and after many sessions talking about Dee’s sexual responses, the feel of her skin, the gratification of letting her please the person she loves, etc, etc, Brenda finally began weakening. I could see the “looks” she started giving Dee at certain times when she thought she wasn’t being observed, and I knew the time was coming soon. 

I couldn’t be more pleased with the way things have turned out. Now, they are not only as close as sisters, they’re as close as lovers, as well. My frequent hypnotic reinforcement keeps their desire fresh and strong, and ever since that first afternoon in the boathouse (there have been many others – it became a favorite rendezvous), Brenda has displayed no resistance at all when it comes to her newfound bisexuality. 

Brenda has always been the more dominant of the two, but I get the impression that she doesn’t come by the role naturally. She has, from the beginning of OUR relationship, been an obvious submissive, and she relishes that. She became the aggressor in her love affair with her friend simply because submissiveness is something Dee needs more than she does. While it may not seem very obvious to you (the outside observer), Brenda is an extremely loving individual that seems to naturally slip into whatever emotional part her fellow actors in life most need her to play.

Now, there is no doubt that Brenda has always been more sexually excited by the existence of the blue gym bag than either Dee or me, though I must admit it has brought us all many hours of pleasant diversion. We’ve watched the pornographic videos, and I let the girls read the books, which they did together in Dee’s room. And they loved to experiment with the nipple clamps and vibrators, though they usually seemed to think it necessary to ask my permission before they delved into the treasures of the gym bag for their own gratification.

Very shortly after we moved to the house by the lake, Brenda surprised both of us at the breakfast table with a strange request:

“Freddy, can I have $1,347?”

I put down my newspaper. “What?”

“I need $1,347. Please? I don’t want to let you know what it’s for, so please don’t ask. Can I? Please?”

“You want to buy something?”

“Yes.”

I grinned at her. “Does that include the sales tax?”

She suddenly looked flustered. “Oh. I guess not. I suppose you should include … uh ….”

“One hundred and eight,” Dee said matter-of-factly, and when I turned to stare at her she explained. “Eight percent in Illinois. Well … $107.76. Just round up to One-Oh-Eight. Plus the $1,347 is $1,455.” She got up and started clearing the dishes.

“Do YOU know what she wants?” I asked her.

She blinked at me. “Well … no. I was just trying to help with the math.”

I couldn’t suppress a laugh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, then flipped Brenda one of my two credit cards. “$1,455,” I said, grinning. “Not a penny more.” Tomorrow was Thursday. I’d just have Dee transfer another couple grand into my account when I had her in my office for her weekly “financial trance” session. I had to admit, I was certainly intrigued. But I didn’t have to wait long.

That very evening, when I got home from school, I was greeted with a sight I will never forget. There, standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely naked, stood Dee; her eyes cast submissively downward, her hands by her sides. The nipple clamps adorned her heavy breasts, and from her posture, I guessed (correctly) that the butt plug was inserted in her pretty ass. Brenda had made a “sexual presentation” of her friend before for my amusement and titillation, but this time there was a distinct difference. Every single strand of Dee’s pubic hair was gone.

I walked silently up to the lovely girl and observed her closely. She didn’t look up; only blushed furiously. Several feet away, Brenda stood nervously, like a starving artist at her very first gallery opening. She seemed to be holding her breath. I walked around Dee, examining her closely from all sides, then paused in front of her and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. She jumped a little, but did not look up.

“Spread your legs a bit, please Dee.” She complied immediately. I put my palm on the flat of her tummy and ran my hand slowly between her legs. She made a mewling noise.

“Is this permanent?” I asked Brenda.

My wife replied in a small, uncertain voice. “Yes.”

I’d read about permanent hair removal treatments in the newspaper. This, I assumed, was “the bikini area” the ads had mentioned. 

“Brenda, please come over here and stand behind Dee.” She did as I told her, quickly but nervously. “Closer,” I commanded, and she pressed herself into Dee’s back. She slid her hands around her body, holding her just below her chest, as if doing so was very natural. Dee leaned back into her slightly, and Brenda’s hands rose to cup and squeeze the full breasts, lightly flicking the clamps with her fingertips.

I was still wearing my suit and tie, but I knelt on the tile floor, gently lifted Dee’s right leg and put it over my left shoulder, then leaned forward and began to lick the soft flesh. It was amazingly smooth, and her skin smelled of baby powder. She was wet, and she tasted wonderful. Within seconds, she was coming very hard.

I let her body shake and quiver for awhile, and finally, after her uncontrollable moans died down into heavy panting, I got to my feet and stood once again before her. She seemed unable to control her emotions any longer, and she threw her arms around my neck as Brenda let go and stood back away from her. She was crying softly, and I could feel the harsh metal of the nipple clamps through my shirt. “Please,” she begged meekly. “Please, Master. Take me, please! I’ll do anything. Anything ….  I can suck you! Or you can do it in my ass. You like that! Please ….”

I took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

Later that evening over a dinner of chicken Caesar salad and hot bread, the girls giddily related their day-long adventure at the “hair removal clinic.” They had obviously been very nervous, excited, not just a little turned on, and above all else, extremely anxious about my response to the permanent nature of thing. I listened attentively, and then felt it necessary to seize control of the relationship again. I had come to realize some time ago that Brenda often lived submissive fantasies through Dee’s subservience.

“Brenda, where’s my credit card?”

She displayed her nervousness again, and raced to get it out of her purse. I took it and handed it ceremoniously to Dee. “Dee, tomorrow morning it’s Brenda’s turn. I want you to order them to leave a small patch of hair just above her slit. They can do that, can’t they?”

Brenda suddenly blushed beet red, and Dee answered quickly. “Yes, and they can even shape it, almost like a tattoo. They have a whole book of pictures. They can make a little heart, or an arrow, or … or just about anything!”

“You pick, Dee. Anything you want. No more than two inches in diameter. Everything else smooth and bare. And Brenda, you are not to say anything to influence her in her choice of design.”

Dee looked very excited at the prospect. Brenda lowered her eyes and blushed even more.”

“Golly!” she said softly.


The following night, as we lay catching our breath in bed, I rolled onto my side and raked my wife’s body with my hungry eyes. Her body glistened with a thin sheen of sweat; her breasts rose and fell rhythmically with her ragged breathing. She looked up at me and gave me a thin smile.

“Gosh, Freddy,” she said softly. “You took me so … so … hard! You haven’t done it to me like that for a long time.”

I trailed a finger lazily between her breasts and slid it farther down her moist skin to her newly denuded slit. She exclaimed a sharp “Aaaahhhh!” and arched her hips upward against my invading finger. She grabbed my wrist, and her body was wracked with yet another violent seizure as she pulled my hand away.

“Please, Freddy! Please! I don’t think I can take any more!”

My fingers were thick with a mixture of my cum and her own copious fluids. I rested my palm on her flat tummy, and then began tracing the strange patch of hair that had been left a few inches below her naval. This remaining pubic hair was very short, but the jet black patch was in sharp contrast with her pale skin.

“What is this shape?” I asked.

She was still struggling to catch her breath, but managed to answer. “I don’t know. The guys at the hair-removal place had never seen anything like it. Dee drew it on a piece of paper, and they just copied it. She didn’t have a name for it, but she said that’s what she wanted. She said it just suited me.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed. I’d never seen anything like it, either.

It was a seven-pointed star.


DEE’S BIRTHDAY PRESENT


(I should pause here and explain that officially, outside of a substantial brokerage account and annual income tax filing, Dee Darlingshire no longer exists. Let’s face it; she had barely existed before. She had only met a handful of people in her entire life, her father keeping her a physical, as well as emotional, hostage. Brenda and I kept up that sham, which was pitifully easy. Dee’s only identification now was a debit card from my bank account which bore the name “Dee Smith.” No one in any of the stores she frequented for groceries knew her by any other name. As a child, she’d never met anyone around the lake house, since Old Man Darlingshire had confined her to the house and grounds, and had literally kept her cloistered and at his constant beck and call. At Brenda’s suggestion, we had always introduced her to others as an employee, and Dee seemed to appreciate the anonymity more than anything else we could have done. It’s a very sad commentary that Dee, who had once been a topic of tremendous mystery and speculation in the business media as the sole heir to the Darlingshire fortune, was literally forgotten now that everyone thought all the money was gone.) 

There are little traditions and rituals in every family, and our household was certainly no different. Well, okay, we WERE different; and come to think of it, so were our traditions and rituals. 

Somehow, Tuesdays became “Naked Dee day,” or at least Tuesday evenings did. Brenda would spend the afternoon preparing her, bathing her, doing her hair, and from the moment I came in from work, Dee would not be allowed to wear anything (except an apron while she was in the kitchen). She really makes a rather fetching nude, and through constant hypnotic suggestion, she was never allowed to become comfortable with her nakedness. Sometimes, she would sport some of the mementoes from the gym bag, and from time to time, she would even be restrained by the handcuffs during dinner, and Brenda would have to feed her. It also became ritual during theses meals for Brenda and I to carry on long talks (often about Dee herself), completely excluding her from the conversation. Brenda often commented that this was the best thing for Dee, who needed frequent emotional reinforcement for the subservient role in life she so desired.

I enjoyed seeing the two girls wearing negligees and nightgowns, and as time went on, this became the standard evening uniform after dinner. At bedtime, however, the slinky garments were also shed, and it was my rule that we would always sleep in the nude. Even when I chose to sleep alone, leaving them to “their own devices,” they were forbidden to wear anything from bedtime until morning. 

We would all eat out once a week, whether in a five-star establishment or just fast food. And once a month, I would take one of them out for a “night on the town;” just the two of us. A real date. This event was almost always preceded by a day-long build-up, in which one “sister” would excitedly help the other prepare, primping and cleaning and brushing and gossiping. The two of us (my date and I) would not only spend the evening at an entertainment of some sort (a play or movie, usually) and dinner, but we’d get a motel room for a romantic night-long getaway. The next day, the two girls would chat and giggle, while the one left behind pried her female lover for every detail, sexual as well as romantic.

There were many evenings of “threesome sex,” as you might imagine, but I would most often pick one of them to share my bed for the night, while the other would sleep alone in Dee’s room. And this (as if it wasn’t a strange enough practice on its own), often led to yet another bizarre occurrence. For many times, during the height of sexual coupling, I’d become aware of the other one watching. Once in a great while, I’d catch the two of them staring at each other as I manipulated my partner for the evening closer and closer toward her orgasm. It was as if they could share the feeling through their eyes. During the height of our coupling, it was not uncommon for me to hear the other, across the room and peeking around the door, moaning out her passion as the girl I was fucking began to lose control herself. It was actually kind of spooky. But (I argued with myself), not completely unheard of. After all, lots of people like to watch.

The one habit I could never seem to break Dee of was her sneaking into the big bedroom during my nights alone with Brenda, curling up on the floor and going to sleep at the foot of the bed. Several times, I tripped over her as I stumbled to the bathroom in the middle of the night. As autumn progressed, and the nights got cooler, I’d often find her there, shivering with cold. I’d chastise her and quickly hustle her into the big bed with Brenda and me, where we’d warm her with our body heat. Usually, Dee would have no memory of coming into the room. Even when I’d leave her hypnotized in her own bed for the night, she’d show up later in the master bedroom at the foot of the big bed. Brenda never commented on the odd practice, but she bought a thicker oval rug for the bedroom, and she started leaving a blanket on the floor.

I have always been terrible at picking out presents. It’s not that I’m an unfeeling sort, it’s just that I don’t seem to possess the talent for knowing exactly what it is that people most want. Fortunately, Brenda is a master of the art. And so, when Dee’s birthday rolled around in early December, Brenda took matters into her own hands and spent a small fortune on reservations for one of my “romantic evenings out” alone with Dee for the following week. It included a showing of “The Barber of Seville” and dinner in a super-posh restaurant in the city. I HATE opera, but I knew in my heart that Dee would absolutely love it.

Dee’s birthday happened to fall on a Tuesday, a “Naked Dee Day,” and despite my suggestion that we forgo the ritual on her special day, Brenda insisted that it would only make her first birthday in our “family” all the more memorable. I had long since learned to trust my wife in matters of the heart, and so I raised no objections. Brenda went all out for the evening, and spent two hours preparing Dee for her big birthday at home. 

When I came in that evening, I was greeted by the lovely site of Dee, nude and blushing, in all her finery. The pair of nipple clamps was the one that attached to her labia, her hands were cuffed with the long-chained device that allowed her arms to hang submissively at her sides, and the butt plug was obviously in place. A marble cake (that Dee had baked earlier in the day herself) sat tantalizingly on the counter. Brenda had decorated it with sugary roses and violets, and there were 25 candles scattered about its top. An envelope, obviously containing the tickets to the opera, sat next to it, and “To Dee, from her Master” was scrawled across its front. Dee absolutely glowed.

After my normal kisses “hello” to each of my women and appropriate comments on Dee’s appearance that complimented them both, Dee was unshackled, allowed to put on her apron, and she began putting the finishing touches to dinner preparations while I read the evening paper and mail. Dinner was an enormous success, as was the cake and coffee, and when the time finally came for presents, the tickets were such a surprise that Dee burst into happy tears and hugged me tightly, despite what must have been some painful tugging on the nipple clamps. As I returned the embrace, I glanced at my wife, who simply smiled and winked.

“And do you have a gift for Dee, my dear?” I asked Brenda, when things had settled down again.

“Yes, Freddy,” she replied in a rather small voice. I was suddenly on my guard. I knew that voice. She had something up her sleeve; something I wasn’t going to approve of (but somehow or another always consented to in the end). And the way she was staring down at her plate, the way she seemingly couldn’t make eye contact, boded ill indeed.

“What is it, Brenda?” I asked nervously. Dee suddenly seemed to catch the undercurrent, and was immediately silent; her wide, innocent, pretty eyes looking questioningly between the two of us. Brenda took a nervous breath.

“Freddy, I want Dee to have your baby.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I want you to make her pregnant, Freddy.”

I still wasn’t sure I understood her. I started to laugh, but didn’t. Brenda seemed very serious. “Um, Brenda … I … uh … Maybe we should talk about this; just the two of us ….”

“No, Freddy, I want her to hear. This is my gift to her.”

I glanced at Dee. She had assumed her familiar posture, her hands on her lap, her eyes cast submissively downward, the way she always did when Brenda and I would talk about her at dinner. Normally, this seemed to give her a sense of subservience that was a gratifying part of her nature. Now, she blushed almost painfully red.

Brenda had put Dee on birth control pills (the same ones she, herself took) on that first day she had come to live with us in the small house in town. I admit, there were a few anxious days on my part when I realized that our first two unprotected couplings might have culminated in a young heir to the Darlingshire empire; but Dee had had her period right on schedule, and she’d been as regular as Old Faithful every month since. The fact that the girls’ cycles did not overlap was especially pleasing to me. In fact, everything about my life was especially pleasing right now. But a baby has a way of changing things. A baby has a way of changing EVERYTHING.

“Brenda ….”

“Freddy, I know you don’t think it’s a good idea, but that’s because you’re not thinking about it the right way.”

I shook my head and prepared to reason with her. “Brenda, think about how it would look. We’ve been introducing her as our housekeeper. But if Dee has a baby, then everyone would assume that her baby is mine.”

Brenda still couldn’t look me in the eye. “It wouldn’t be her baby, Freddy.”

“What?”

“The baby would be mine.”

“WHAT!?”

Now she looked up at me. Her eyes were clear, her voice steady. She’d really thought this out.

“She would have your baby, but it would be raised as yours and mine. That’s the only way it could work. It’s the only way the baby could truly be yours. We would all raise him, all of us together. But when he got old enough, he would think of ME as his mother. Dee would be his nanny. Don’t you see, Freddy? It would bind Dee to us. PHYSICALLY bind her. She could never leave. Never. If she did, she would be leaving her own son. Even when we’re all old and gray and our son has moved away from home, Dee would still have to stay with us; stay to see him when he visits; stay to see our grandkids. She would know, now and forever, that her slavery is permanent. There could be no greater bondage.”

I was absolutely flabbergasted. The idea was so insane it was practically demonic!  

“Brenda, that’s crazy!” I said as calmly as I could. “You can’t impregnate a woman against her will!”

“It won’t be against her will, Freddy. She will do it because she loves you, and because you order her to do it. She will bear your child and give him to you because you command her to do so.”

“Brenda, this ‘slavery” thing is just a game! Babies are real!”

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Dee’s enslavement is very, very real. And doing this will only underscore that reality. It will make it tangible. It will force a commitment to honor the ‘slave’ contract. For all of us. This would make it FOREVER, Freddy.”

I took a deep breath and ran my fingers through my hair. She was doing it again. She was winning an argument by using logic, but her logic was like no other in the world.

“What if I don’t want a baby?” I said defensively.

“Come on, Freddy,” she scolded softly, smiling. “A son to take fishing? How could you resist?”

“NO!” I said firmly. But the damage had already been done. The mental image was there. Everyman’s dream: he and his son in a boat at sunrise. Two poles and a bond as strong as blood. If I couldn’t shake that picture from my head, I’d never be able to talk sense into her.

“I thought you wanted to have your own children. We’ve talked about it.”

“There’s plenty of time, Freddy. Dee is older than me.”

“Three years!”

She was smiling broadly now. She knew she’d won. “Plenty of time, Freddy.”

I was losing it. I had to think of a way to convince her, convince both of them, that this couldn’t POSSIBLY work. “You could never make people believe someone else’s child is your own! There are doctors and nurses involved. We couldn’t hide a childbirth!”

“We wouldn’t have to,” Brenda replied calmly. “Think about it. Dee would go through a normal pregnancy and normal medical treatment. She’d simply use my name.”

“That’s crazy!” I repeated. “What about insurance? She’d have to have identification! She’d have to give them her Social Security number.”

“We’ll use cash,” Brenda said. “No one will ask for identification if we don’t USE insurance. And she’ll give the doctors MY Social Security number. And MY name.”

I blinked. It couldn’t be that simple. I tried desperately to think of something that wouldn’t be covered by such an easy ruse. Exasperated, I turned to Dee. Her eyes remained downcast. She was still blushing; and she was shaking.

“Don’t ask her!” Brenda said suddenly. “Order her, Freddy! Command her to have your baby!”

I tried to ignore my pretty wife. “Dee?” I said gently. She looked up, tears in her eyes. I couldn’t read her expression, but it was obvious that she was deeply moved.

“Don’t,” she urged softly, and I wisely remained silent. “Please, Master. Please don’t ask!” Her voice caught and she began to cry in earnest. I didn’t know what to do. I think I’m like most guys: crying women unnerve me completely. I watched, speechless, as Dee moved her chair back and stood up. Brenda did the same, and in another moment, they were in each other’s arms, holding one another tightly, crying. I shuffled my feet beneath the table and waited patiently for this crazy female emotional moment to finally wind down. When, at last, they were dry-eyed and normal, Brenda turned Dee’s naked form toward me.

“Command her, Freddy!” she urged.

I sighed and stood. Once again, I was climbing onto the stage of this very strange play that had become my life. Dee stood before me, very meek, very demure, and very, very desirable. I took a deep breath.

“Dee.”

She looked up with big, brown, shy eyes. “Yes, Master?”

“Go get me your birth control pills, Dee.”

“Yes, Master!” and she moved off toward the guest bathroom as fast as her butt plug and three-pronged nipple clamps would allow. Very quickly, she was back, handing me half a dozen foil-backed pill dispensers. I took them, threw them away in the kitchen wastebasket, and then turned back to my excited slave.

“Dee, you are going to have my baby,” I said sternly. “I’m going to make you pregnant.”

She cast her eyes downward. “Yes, Master.”

And she smiled.


DEE’S QUICKENING


“It takes a willing slave to sustain a vicious master.”

That quote, oft used, haunts me to this day. Somehow, I found myself ever deeper in the role of master to my two ladies. It may seem to you that I was being duped by my lovely slaves, who seemed to consistently WISH for more and more ways to expand that role. I truly didn’t know what to do. I loved them both absolutely. I wanted nothing more than to make them happy and free. But the thing they wanted most was to be more completely mine. A true conundrum. 

The next Tuesday, normally Naked Dee Day, was instead her big night out with me. I walked through the door, home from school, to be brought up short by a sight that I can only describe as astoundingly beautiful. Brenda had gone out and bought Dee a forest green velvet dress with a plunging, nearly pornographic neckline. Her hair had been done to perfection, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more stunningly fascinating woman. I complimented Brenda on her artistry, kissed her good-bye, and Dee and I were on our way.

The big city is a good hour and a half away, but we made decent time. My dread of the operatic evening had been hovering over my head for a week now, but somehow Dee seemed to sense my reluctance, and she’d devised a method of sustaining my interest that again left me absolutely shocked. In our private box in the opera house, she positioned her chair slightly behind me, leaned forward, pressing her breasts in to my back and shoulder, and spoke softly into my ear throughout the performance, translating the words as they were sung. It WAS much more interesting when you could understand what was being said. I had had no inkling that she knew Italian, and told her so when we had been seated for dinner. I fought a losing battle to keep my gaze above her prodigious cleavage (a thousand greedy eyes raked her luscious form that evening, and she blushed almost continuously). She astounded me even further by telling me that she was fluent in Spanish, Italian and French, and that she was nominally proficient in Japanese and Russian. I couldn’t believe I’d made such a brilliant beauty a hypnotic cook and housecleaner!

I left to go the bathroom for a few minutes, only to return to find that drinks had arrived. She told me she’d ordered a “genius” for me, though the pint of stout next to my plate was obviously a Guinness. This, as it happened, was exactly what I’d intended to order, which was not entirely surprising. Dee seemed to have an uncanny way of serving me things I wanted at home before I’d even asked for them. Oft times, it was a particular type of tea, or perhaps a favorite meal. At first, I considered it unnerving, but I eventually got used to it. I’d long since chalked it up to the idea that she’d become so attuned to my needs that she could read unintended body language or moods. This, however, was the first time she’d gotten me something that she obviously didn’t even know the meaning of. She’d told the waiter “a dark beer called genius,” and the guy had figured it out. I pointedly asked her how she’d come up with the order, but she just shrugged and changed the subject.

She’d gotten herself only a glass of water, and when I asked her why she hadn’t ordered wine, she answered that now that she was trying to get pregnant, Brenda had decided that alcohol was strictly off limits. I suddenly had a flash of inspiration. 

I passed my hand over her glass and proclaimed: “Dee’s water into wine,” then I smiled innocently at her.

“What did you just do?” she asked, grinning suspiciously.

“You can get drunk from that glass of water now,” I told her.

“I won’t get drunk from a glass of water!”

“You will from that one. Do you remember last night, when I hypnotized you?”

“Brenda and me, yes.” I’d gotten into the habit of putting them both into a trance simultaneously. It saved time.

“Well,” I replied craftily, “I gave you a strong post-hypnotic suggestion that when you heard me say that trigger phrase and saw me pass my hand over the glass, the water would affect you just the same as wine. That way, you could enjoy the effects of alcohol without actually drinking any.”

“Really?” She stared hard at the glass. “You really did that?”

“Yes.” Of course I hadn’t, but if I wasn’t entirely mistaken, Dee was so susceptible to suggestion, that the mere belief would make it so. I looked knowingly at her.

She took a sip. “I don’t feel anything.”

“You will.”

And she did. By the end of the meal, she was happy, giddy and very tipsy. When she first “realized” that the water was having an affect on her, it became her favorite topic of conversation, and she praised my “total control” over her, physically as well as mentally.

Our hotel was in the same building as the restaurant, so all I had to do was lead my drunken lovely to our room, where she immediately attacked me, clawing at my clothes, smothering my face in kisses; caressing, stroking, licking.

I retaliated by being very slow and agonizingly gentle. I stretched the act into an hour-long seduction, when it was obvious from the beginning that all she really wanted was to get my sperm into her fertile womb as quickly as possible. Slowly, methodically, I brought her to first one gentle, shattering orgasm with my tongue, and then another with my fingers. When I finally mounted her humping, straining form, I made my deep, slow, rhythmic strokes last a long, long time, and she came twice more before I finally, finally emptied my balls deep inside her.

She cried softly and nestled into my embrace as we lay in bed afterwards and basked in the afterglow of our pleasure. Finally, she looked up at me and asked softly: “Do you think that was the time? Do you think I’m pregnant?”

“Dee, this could take awhile.”

She snuggled into me. “I hope I’m pregnant now. I’ll remember tonight forever!”

I sighed. “Dee, I have to ask you this. Are you sure you want to go through with Brenda’s plan? I won’t make you give up your child. You can still have one if you want, but you don’t have to give it up.”

She hugged me. “Brenda’s right. Brenda is ALWAYS right. At least, where emotions are concerned; you know that. And she’s right this time, too. If I have a claim on the child, it would never REALLY be yours. So, I’ll give you my child. I’d give you my soul, if I could. I’d give up my life, gladly, if you ordered me to. I was born to be a slave, Fred. It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life, but I always thought it was only a dream. I didn’t think it could ever really happen. And when it finally did, it was … beyond a dream that my master would be my one true love.” She hugged me tightly and I could feel her tears on my chest. “I’m so happy ….”

But that wasn’t “The” night. Dee’s period started right on schedule two weeks later, and she was so bitterly disappointed that Brenda called me home from work to hypnotize her and reiterate the fact that this wasn’t some “failure” on her part. January’s cycle again proved her to be without child, and despite my continued (and often exasperated) explanations that there are many, many women in this world who are NOT on birth control and still NOT pregnant, Dee’s always-gay demeanor slowly became strained.

But February came up gold. Or at least blue, which was the color of the little stick Dee pissed on which (as some of you may have guessed) is the result of a positive pregnancy test. Success!

Good grief, what had I done?! A baby! The implications were staggering!

As the weeks and months stretched on, there was absolutely no change in shy, meek, demure, subservient Dee. Well, but then again, there were. She still went about her chores. She still seemed to live to serve both Brenda and myself. She still cooked and cleaned and did all sorts of chores. She still came into my office every Thursday and made obscene amounts of money in various mutual fund investments, (though she neither knew nor cared). She still brought me tea whenever I wanted it (but had not yet asked).

Brenda became a self-styled expert on pregnancy. She bought dozens of books and downloaded literally hundreds of articles from the internet. She established a strict diet, and a rigorous exercise program, which Dee followed without comment or question. Thanks to my positive blood type, there was very little morning sickness. And thanks to the diet and exercise, there was very little change in Dee’s body … at first. But that would obviously, inevitably change. 

A few of Brenda’s books and articles referred to a sharp increase in sexual appetite during pregnancy, and after she’d mentioned this to her, I often suspected that Dee’s propensity for mental suggestibility spurred just that. The girl was absolutely insatiable. Fortunately, there were two of us to keep up with her.

She began to “show” in late May, though it would still be quite awhile before she would be forced to wear maternity clothes.

On a pleasant spring evening in early June, Dee was serving us from the stove as we sat around the kitchen table. All at once, a very strange expression twisted her pretty face into a look of startled shock, and she sat heavily in one of the chairs. Immediately, Brenda and I leaped up and stood, concerned, on either side of her.

“What’s wrong?” Brenda yelled.

Dee looked up into her eyes, then over to me, before settling her gaze down at her gently protruding midriff. “It moved,” she said softly.

And, happy and relieved, Brenda and I knelt beside her, lifted her shirt, and placed our hands on her bare belly. It took awhile. But then it happened.

The little tyke kicked.


MAXINE


Later in June, I fixated on the idea that the girls needed a little extra protection when I wasn’t around. I decided on another addition to our family. I’d always wanted a dog. A big dog. And now was as good a time as any.

I hustled the girls into the car and headed to the local pound. On the way, I made myself perfectly clear. It had to be a male, since I was tired of being hopelessly outnumbered. It had to be a puppy, since I wanted to train it from youth. And I wanted something big, like a Labrador or some other retriever. They were agreeable. Anything I wanted, they said.

But as soon as we walked in, they both squealed delightedly and raced to a cage on the other side of the room of yapping, howling canines, and knelt, ogling and petting the dog inside. It was small. It was female. It was already two years old. And there was absolutely no way I was going to dissuade them. The attendant told us that this particular dog was scheduled for destruction the next day; and that was that. 

Dejected, I paid the “adoption fee” for the little beast, and the girls put her in the back seat between them. The thing was what I’ve always called a miniature collie, but I’ve since found out it’s something called a Shetland Sheepdog, or “Sheltie.” It weighed barely over ten pounds, smaller than normal (probably due to abuse), and it didn’t have a name. I muttered to them that I had really, really wanted a big dog. I’d gone there for a “max,” and we’d wound up with a “mini.” And so the girls decided on the name Maxine.

The dog absolutely adored me. It would follow me around whenever I was home. It would lie patiently at my feet when it sensed I didn’t want to play, and would bound around me ecstatically when I did. She DID prove to be a good watchdog. And, oddly enough, she had another amazing talent. She was a fishing dog. She would sit quietly in the boat as I fished, watching my line with patient interest. If I got a strike, she would perk up her ears. And if I hooked into a sizeable fish, she would bark and jump around until I’d landed it, and then she’d stand proudly over it, as if she’d caught it herself.

She proved to be a great dog. She really loved me. She really loved the girls.

And, a couple months later when she met the White Witch, she really loved her, too.




