Alexander Ch. 01

Author's Note: This is the first chapter in a twelve-part series. The series overall is largely a mind-control series, but there are strong threads of non-consent/reluctance as well. This is, of course, purely fantasy. All sex should be enthusiastically and joyfully consensual. Readers who might be triggered by lack of consent should skip this one. All characters are over the age of 18. In fact, they're all over 25. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

--

The ring came in the mail.

Alexander was expecting it without much enthusiasm. The family mostly rejoiced when Great Uncle Julius died. He was widely rumored to be a terrible person. Alexander's mother refused to even speak his name. "I had a terrible, horrible, villainous ancestor and all I got was this dumb ring."

Even a couple of grand would have gone a long way to sorting out Alexander's current woes. Restaurant work was busy enough after the pandemic, and the pay had been getting better, but not as fast as other things were getting more expensive.

The same day the ring came, Alexander got a note from his landlord that rent was going up by four hundred bucks if he wanted to renew. He wasn't sure he was going to make rent this month, and he wasn't sure what kind of apartment he could downsize to.

A studio with the head of his bed next to the refrigerator seemed to be pretty near the bottom of the totem pole.

Most of the staff at work lived with roommates. Whom they complained about incessantly.

The ring sat in a dish on his desk with some paperclips and rubber bands for a week. It wasn't much to look at either, a dull, gold band with a flat black stone in it. Onyx maybe.

It was the day his laptop died that he put the ring on his finger.

The laptop was an old Dell, and he knew it was dying. He kept all his poems in the cloud, because he knew the beast was on the way out. He was doing the usual thing, watching porn instead of actually writing when the screen froze. A woman with disturbingly fake breasts was in the midst of a bad-acting moan when the sound turned into a buzz and the screen froze.

He couldn't even turn the damn thing off. It wasn't quite old enough to have an actual power switch, just another keyboard-button that didn't respond when he jammed it. He couldn't even turn the volume down. He just unplugged it and let the battery run out, which didn't take long because the fan was running hard. That was the last time the old Dell ever booted. What a way to go.

Maybe it would be a good thing. Going back to writing poetry on paper. Fewer distractions.

Alexander frowned at himself. Who was he kidding. His phone still worked. For now.

But that was the moment. Not like he had any money to spare, but he was tired of being in his shabby little unaffordable studio, and there was a bar down on the arterial with half price pints until seven. He put the ring on, grabbed his phone, and decided to honor the death of his computer with his own private wake at the pub. He considered the ring to be his way of dressing up. From death to death. On impulse, he brought along his notebook. Maybe there was a poem in that.

Another reason to go the pub was Ellie, the bartender. She was a smoking hot lesbian. Could have had any man she wanted, which is probably why she had given up on them completely. She flirted shamelessly with all the customers, her cleavage bringing in the big tips. But she only went home with women.

Alexander was in service, he knew the drill. You don't hit on the bartender. He just liked to look, and Ellie clearly liked being seen.

So he pulled open his notebook, put a few words on the page:

"From Death to Death"

The ring came in the mail...

He had no idea where to go from there. Accumulation of specific detail. The gold had a dull, rich gleam to it in the barlight. The black stone gleamed in a kind of interesting way. Maybe not onyx. Something with more depth than that. Alexander wondered what it might be worth. Maybe it was a better inheritance than he had initially thought.

"Hey A! How're you today?" Ellie brought him an IPA.

"Well, my computer just died, so there's that."

"Bummer. Always a good excuse to trade up tho right?"

"Yeah, maybe so." He didn't want to confess his absolute poverty.

Alexander doodled around in his journal, trying to find the poem. Trying to find the essence of death. A few beers in, he was pretty sure he had the essence of death well understood, but every word he put down on paper was moronic. He could tell as soon as he scrawled something that it was total garbage. He wasn't a poet. He was just another loser with a master's degree working as a line cook. Any glamor was purely in his imagination, but none of it made it to paper.

But a strange thing happened. After happy hour, Alexander usually switched to PBR, but he was feeling a little profligate. How many days a year did he lose a laptop, after all? And since he was just another drunk at the bar, just another failure in the making, why not fully embody the experience.

"Give me another IPA," he said to Ellie. It was busier now, and they had a barback maneuvering behind the bar as well.

Ellie looked at him in an odd way. "Yes, Alexander. I will give you another IPA."

Something in the tone of her voice was odd, and Alexander noticed that she didn't ring it in.

He shook it off, but it only made the next thing a bit more interesting.

A couple had taken the seats to his left. They were a few years older than him, late twenties probably. The woman was attractive, but not on display. Alexander had the sense of full curves obscured by modest fashion. The guy had that reek of success. Jock build, square jaw, dressed in the kind of expensive casual that says "Yeah, I'm wealthy, but it hasn't gone to my head yet, and I want you to know that." Or maybe: "I don't want to make you look bad, bro, so I'm wearing this normal guy costume." He caught their names, Tom and Monica.

Alexander laughed to himself and began writing more of Tom's imaginary fashion-phrases down in his notebook.

The city was full of these kinds of people. He didn't like how they made him feel. In college, they had been the ones partying their way to mediocre grades while he immersed himself in the greatest of human achievements: the great art, literature; the transformative discoveries of science, the ideas that changed global understanding of the human experience.

And now they were buying brownstones in Cobble Hill, summering on Fire Island, and sitting next to him in his bar. Making him feel like a failure.

Alexander put some words down in his journal about justice. They weren't happy words.

"I should go check in on Emmy," Monica said.

"Relax, babe, that girl Isabel has it covered. She doesn't need you calling every twenty minutes. She came with a four point nine three star rating."

Clearly that point zero seven was still bothering Monica.

Alexander impulsively butted in, speaking to Tom: "You should go check in on Emmy."

He meant it as a kind of equal rights joke, still feeling the raw injustice of the world. But even as he said the words he could feel it falling flat. At least he wasn't slurring his words. He was afraid he would just come across as a drunk, rather than a Poet of Justice.

Weirdly, Tom said, "Yeah, I'll do that. Hang on, Monica, I'll be right back." He pulled his cell phone out and ducked out of the bar.

Monica looked at Alexander with neither gratitude nor friendliness.

"Maybe you should mind your own business," she said.

Alexander flushed with embarrassment. Thank god he worked in the kitchen. Dealing with these people in the front of house would never work.

But something was niggling at Alexander. Tom didn't seem like the kind of guy who would listen to domestic suggestions from a stranger.

He pulled in his courage, but even so it came out as something of a whisper.

"Shut your mouth, you bitch."

She pursed her lips, looking at him with extreme distaste. She pulled her purse close and reached for the light jacket she had slung over the back of her barstool.

"Stop," Alexander said.

And she did.

"Just sit normally. I didn't mean to upset you."

Pretty much a lie. Still she relaxed back into a normal sitting position. But she was watching Alexander. Her eyes looked scared now. He realized he didn't want her to be scared. He had been standing up for her justice after all!

"Relax completely," he said. "Everything is going to be fine. You know that."

The fear didn't leave her eyes, but she did relax more. She still hadn't said a word.

"Go on, take a sip of your wine," he said.

She did, reaching for her glass of red, trembling just a little as she did so.

Tom slipped back in next to her. "Just like I was saying, Hun, it's all good. Isabel has it covered, and Emmy's doing fine."

Alexander glanced at the ring. It seemed to have a dark, lustrous glow in the black depths.

Monica didn't say anything, but she looked at Tom in a scared, pleading way.

"What's wrong, Mon?"

"Nothing's wrong, Tom," Alexander said. "You need to go home now and really check on Emmy. You will wait patiently until Monica gets home. I'll take good care of her."

Tom clearly struggled with this. "What the fuck?" he said, even as he got back out of his seat.

"You will make no fuss about this, just act like everything is normal."

Tom clenched his jaw, something between rage and terror showing in his expression. But he put on his suede jacket.

"You won't say anything to anyone. Relax now, and stay relaxed. It's all normal."

Tom didn't look like anything was normal, but he did seem to relax, as he left the bar.

Monica turned to Alexander, her expression composed, but a deep fear in her eyes.

"Pay for all our drinks here, Monica. Leave a great tip. Behave like everything is totally normal."

Ellie gave him a very strange look when Monica paid, but the bar had gotten busy and she didn't have time for whatever drama was playing out at his end of the bar.

* * *

Right now, this couple knew nothing about Alexander. He didn't know if he was committing a crime or not. What would you even call this, by way of a crime? But if it was, they would have a hard time finding him. Well, unless they asked a few people at the bar. Alexander laughed. So much for his career as a criminal mastermind.

Still, he could let it all end right here. He'd proved his point: to himself, that something seriously fucked up was going on. It had to be the ring. And to Tom and Monica, that their precious perfect life was not out of reach.

He didn't need to take it any further.

"Follow me," he said.

It was twilight. Rains had washed the city in the afternoon, and the streets still glittered with the wet. A scent of earth, of flowers, of newly budded leaves.

Monica followed him.

He had to find out the limits of this thing. If this was legit, his whole life could change.

Who knows: if his laptop hadn't died, maybe he would never have put on that ring. Maybe he would never have gone out in that strange state of mind. Maybe he would never have discovered this strange effect. The ring had come with no explanation, no instruction manual.

Why him?

Did it matter?

Alexander set his doubts and fears aside. He led Monica the block and a half to his apartment, and she dutifully followed.

The elevator carried them up with its usual rumble and shudder. He could see Monica's expression of distaste layered in with the fear.

"Wait til you see my apartment," he said.

He let them in, and indeed, her glance around his tiny space left him no question about her disgust. He did rather wish he had kept things tidier.

He shut and locked the door.

"Take your jacket off. You can lay it on the desk there."

She did so.

"You can speak now, but softly, in quiet tones only."

"What the fuck is going on," she said, her voice low.

"Apparently, and this is news to me too, you have to do what I tell you."

"I see that. How is this happening? What are you going to make me do? If this is some kind of hypnotism, you can't make me do anything I don't want to."

"Do you want to be here?"

"No! I really don't."

"I guess it's not hypnotism then."

She considered this. Frowned.

"Be happy," he said.

Her frown did not shift.

"At least look happy," he tried.

She lifted her gaze to him, and smiled, although it was a strained smile.

"You're not a very good actress, are you?"

"Not really."

"And you're not feeling any happiness."

"Most assuredly not."

"What are you feeling? You must answer honestly."

"I'm really afraid," she said. "This place is depressing, and you are grotesque, taking advantage of this situation, taking advantage of me."

Alexander could just let her go. But he steeled his nerve.

"True. I could. Take off that blouse, now."

There was a moment of struggle in her, but her hands reached for the buttons and soon the blouse joined the jacket on his desk. He was right: she was curvy. Large breasts held firmly by an industrial strength bra.

"Why are you doing this? I have a baby girl. Why me?"

"Pretty much just bad luck for you," he said. "But you have everything, don't you. Look at this place, look at me. A master's degree, for what? For a crappy job and a crappy life. It's about time I get what I deserve."

"Jailtime?"

"Funny. You can shut up again now."

"Really, though," she continued. "You could use this for good. You don't need to do this."

Alexander considered his wording. "Be silent."

She stood, silent.

"Take that skirt off."

She did, easing it over her broad hips.

"Feel yourself getting aroused," he said, as an experiment. He could clearly make her do what he wanted. He could not seem to control her thoughts. It didn't look like he could control her emotions. What about her sensations?

She didn't say anything, and it was hard to tell whether there was any change in her expression.

"Really strongly now, feel strong sexual arousal," he said.

She continued to stand before him, in bra and panties. Was she moving her hips a little, or was that his imagination?

"You can speak, softly still. Tell me what you feel. Be honest."

"Fuck this is terrible," she said. "I do feel it."

"Feel what?"

"Um... arousal. H... horny."

"What does that feel like?"

"Warm? Wet. Like an ache. Like a hunger deep inside."

"Good." Alexander remembered some porn he had seen once. "Good girl. Everytime I say that phrase, 'good girl' -- you are going to feel a jolt of pleasure through your body. That arousal will only get stronger."

"This is fucking disgusting," she said.

"No more words. You can't say any more words. You must make the sounds of what your body feels."

She sneered at him, not speaking.

"Good girl."

She let out a little whimpering moan, and immediately seemed to choke on it, almost gagging.

Alexander laughed. He took a moment to simply appreciate the strangeness, the wonder of it, this power he found himself with. And the absurdity, this fancy, wealthy woman, standing nearly naked in his room.

"Come here," he said. "Kneel. Get my cock out."

She followed his instructions, and when he gave her a 'good girl' she moaned a little, again choking against the sound even as she made it.

"Only good sensations now," he said. Then, making sure: "Your body only feels good sensations now. Everything is pleasure for you. Every touch becomes pleasure for you. The more aroused you make me, the better it feels for you. You are going to make me cum. I'm going to cum in your mouth. And when I do, you are going to cum with me. The absolute strongest orgasm you have ever had."

And then: "You can speak, softly."

"You filthy, nasty, horrible--"

"Put your mouth around my cock."

She did so. He was still soft. As exciting as this was, he had a few IPAs to overcome. But he felt the twitch as soon as she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock.

"Suck me all the way in," he instructed. "Make me hard."

She did, although she still seemed to be trying to curse him, even as she slurped him in, pressing her lips to the very root of him.

Alexander felt himself thickening, swelling in her mouth. It wouldn't be long before he got hard. He wasn't huge, no pornstar cock, but maybe a bit bigger than average. It would be hard for most women to take him all the way. He'd never had a girl deep throat him before. He'd always fantasized about what that would feel like.

"You have no gag reflex, now or ever," he said. "It's gone. The deeper you take me, the better it feels for you. It feels like it's satisfying your own need when you get me all the way in."

She made a sound around him, probably "Fuck you."

But she also moaned.

"Feel that arousal even stronger now," he said, even as he felt it himself, his cock beginning to really stiffen.

She groaned. Tears ran down her face.

"Good girl," he said, and jammed himself all the way in, feeling her desperately gripping and swallowing around him. He held himself there, feeling her groaning, her hands scrabbling at his hips.

When he pulled out, she gasped for breath, and made an intense, guttural sound of pleasure.

Alexander was breathing hard, watching her swirl and slurp around the head of his cock. She no longer looked like she was fighting it. She was moaning and slobbering. He saw she had a hand under her panties, rubbing herself, or at least holding herself there.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She looked up. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her gaze was hard to read: was it lust? Hatred? Something else entirely?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck you, shit eating asshole," she said.

Hatred, then.

He plunged back into her mouth, pushing himself all the way in, and feeling her body shudder with the powerful pleasure of it.

He was hard as a rock, and there was something else flowing through him. Something he had never experienced before. It was a pleasure, but deeper. Something powerful settling into place. He noticed it, as a sensory experience, like a warm, dark current flowing through him. Confidence. A connection to something deeply primal in himself. He growled and grunted as he shoved his fully hard, thick, pulsing cock into this wealthy woman's throat. He felt her groan and whimper.

He wasn't going to last long.

He found he didn't want to.

He could feel his cock swelling with his impending explosion. She could feel it, too. She began bobbing more urgently on his cock, popping the head of him into her throat, gasping for breath between plunges, bringing both of them to the edge.

"Now."

His body went rigid, he jammed her head against his belly, a surging wave of power rising through him.

"Strongest ever," he spoke into her, as she writhed, impaled on his cock.

He felt the release, powerful, and qualitatively different than any orgasm he had ever had. It wasn't just pleasure, it wasn't just climax, it was victory. It was total domination. It was absolute possession.

Spurt after spurt went straight down her throat. She was making an almost inhuman sound, vibrating into his body. She struggled wildly, swallowing, climaxing, and desperately heaving for breath.

When he let her go, he watched his long, still-hard cock spring from her mouth.

She collapsed on the floor, curled into a fetal position, trembling, gasping, sobbing.

"Pull yourself together," he said.

She tried. She seemed weak. She continued to quiver and tremble. Her voice was ragged.

"What have you done to me?"

"Was it good?"

"I... I can't say."

"Answer. Fully and honestly."

"It was terrible. You just raped me. You made my body betray me. It was the best thing I have ever felt in my life. I feel horrible. You are horrible. You are a terrible, disgusting person."