Hypnotic Adventures of Cinderella Ch. 06

Cindy's eyes went wide. Raymond seemed clearly taken aback, but he turned to his date's friend, the maid, and he stared at her curiously before once again addressing Bonnie. "I don't get it. Why the elaborate story?"

"I have no secrets from my friends," she said, suddenly serious. "Cindy's the sweetest girl in the whole world. I know that she'd love to go out with you, but I want her to know the whole story before she does."

He regarded all three of them and finally broke out in a boyish smile. "Alright, I get it. Well, Bonnie, I hope you and Juno enjoy the evening together. Somehow, I think you will. And Cindy, if you would consent to letting me escort you to dinner, I promise that there will be no ulterior motives involved. I'd really like to take you out. What do you say?""

"I ... um ..." She looked questioningly at Bonnie. "... sure. I'd love to."

"I think that whole story is so amazing," Juno said, putting a hand on his arm. "I hope you find her someday."

"I'll let you guys know," he responded. He put out a hand to Cindy. "Shall we?" She let herself be led around the vehicle and settled into the passenger seat of the sports car, and she waved wonderingly at the other two as they sped off.

On the way to the restaurant, which was down south, out in the country, he talked about the weather, about the region, about the history of the places they passed, and on and on. He kept stealing little glances at her ... at her face, at her figure, at her legs, which were in a new pair of nylon stockings. He made her feel feminine, alluring, and she glowed in an almost permanent blush. Eventually, she began to loosen up a little and respond to his banter. And finally, they were talking and talking and talking. The restaurant was wonderful. EVERYTHING was wonderful, though there were awkward moments, like when he wanted to order wine and she pointed out that she didn't bring her purse along, so she had no ID. She didn't bother to mention that the ID would not have allowed her to have the wine, anyway. During the "makeover" that afternoon, her appearance had gone from 18 to 24 in 30 minutes flat.

Eventually, of course, the topic of conversation turned to books, though it was obvious that he was very reticent to do so, afraid that he would bore her. The result of this focus of discussion, however, left him astounded that a girl so shy and reserved would speak her mind so honestly. For example, Cindy espoused the belief that "Slaughterhouse Five" would eventually become known as one of the one hundred most important books ever written; but she also believed that "Breakfast of Champions" was a literary failure (simply too "cute," she said). Whether he manifestly supported her opinion or vehemently disagreed, he suddenly realized how starved he was for the mental opportunity to do either with any human being, much less someone he found intoxicatingly attractive. As the talk continued, they physically drew closer, leaning toward each other, resting a hand on each other's for emphasis.

She asked about his "collection," and he told her that he sought "pulp" books and magazines. When she professed her ignorance about this type of literature, he explained that cheap, literary magazines of the 1920's, 30's, 40's and 50's were made from 100% pulp paper, like newspapers and the old-style comic books. In 1939, when the "modern paperback" first appeared in the U.S., they also used cheap paper (and only charged 25¢ per book). A few companies, such as Gold Medal and Lion, printed "paperback originals;" in other words, first editions in paperback. He was flabbergasted to find that she was hanging on his every word. He talked about the importance of first editions to collectors, their condition, and their dust jackets.

"Dust jackets," she remarked, nodding. "Slip covers are for furniture."

And he froze. A long, full minute passed, during which she realized what she had said, and she lowered her gaze, blushing. At last, she stole a peek at him. He was pale, and he was shaking slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, honestly. "I ... I didn't mean to say that. Please ... can't we just keep talking? I would really like to keep talking to you. I wouldn't mind if we kept talking ... forever."

"It was you," he said breathlessly. "You were there. You're the girl in the library."

"Yes," she said in a voice so slight that he almost couldn't hear. And then, slowly, the expression on his face changed ... changed to display the worst possible emotions he could have, in her opinion. Happiness, joy, contentment, longing and love all shone in his eyes. And a tear slid from hers. "Oh, Raymond," she told him in a hushed tone, "can't you see what type of girl I am? Can't you see that this is one of those books you start reading, and you know, instinctively, that it can't possibly have a happy ending?"

He barked a laugh. "And yet, we keep on reading, don't we? Some books, you simply can't put down. And I don't CARE what 'type' of girl you are. We are human. We fall in love first and then spend the rest of our lives adapting to 'types.' But we do adapt. And I do love that girl I held in my arms that night. And if you are that girl, then there's nothing you can say that would make me believe that you aren't in love with me, too. And I also refuse to believe that our ending won't be happy until we finish writing the story ourselves."

She was really crying now. "Oh, please. Please take me out of here. Take me somewhere and ... and let me hold you again. Just for a little while. Please."

She let him help her out of her chair; and she let him lead her out to the car; and she sat silently in the passenger seat, trying to control her tears; and she watched as he pulled into the first motel they came to; and she stood silently beside him while he paid cash to the man at the front desk and listened to him make snide remarks, like: "Can I help you with your luggage, folks?" and "We have a free breakfast down here in the lobby from six to nine-thirty;" and she leaned into him as he put his arm around her and led her to the elevator and down the hall and into the plain room. But then she was lost in a world where there was just the two of them. He held her, crushing her in his arms, and the kiss went on and on and on and on. She let her body collapse into his, clung to him with what little strength she could muster, and felt the room whirl around them. His lips were at her neck now, his hands at her back, unzipping the new dress, while she kept her arms wrapped around his neck, allowing him access to whatever part of her he wanted.

She toed out of the heels as the flimsy dress slid down her body and pooled at her feet. His hand seemed to only stroke her back, and the bra miraculously snapped free of her. She allowed him to push her body back away from his, let his gaze rake her breasts and nipples, and she blushed demurely as he muttered to himself: "Perfect. Just perfect." This was the first time she had worn nylons stocking and a garter belt in her life, but fortunately, he seemed to have had at least some experience with them, for he made short work of the task, and she lounged back on the bed, completely naked, waiting for him as he disrobed, exactly as it had happened during their last encounter two nights before.

They kissed again, like the two thirsty lovers they were, drinking from the tender contact, but their desire never quenched. His hands were all over her, and hers responded, grasping him, stroking him, releasing her hold on his cock only to fill her hand with his balls. He groaned into her mouth and responded by finding and fondling her clitoris, pinching it lightly, pulling on it.

"Oh, please," she begged. "Don't make me cum yet! I'm ready for you! Please?"

"You sure are," he told her, kissing her again and then grinning down at her. "You're soaking down there."

She blushed. "I can't help it. You make me feel so powerless!"

He positioned himself between her legs while she reached down again, grasped his cock and guided it to its target. Then she reached back up and put both arms around his neck. The tip of his rod was in, but he didn't push down into her, and with a whine, she began straining her hips upward. "Please! Don't make me wait anymore!" And he began pushing into her, slowly, slowly. She gasped loudly and began to shiver. "Oh, Raymond, I hope I'm the girl you want me to be," she said in a little-girl voice.

"But you know you are, don't you?" he moaned, pushing further in. Further yet. And finally, finally, they were pressed together ... firmly together, touching from head to toe. "You're the one, Cindy. We fit. Do you feel it? You do, don't you?"

One of her hands was in his hair, "Oh, Raymond. Oh ...."

He began his rhythmic strokes now, and, sensing that she wanted him to take her hard, he made his downward thrusts powerful, harsh, almost violent. Immediately, her legs came up and encircled his hips, pulling him into her with all her might. "OH!" she cried after each crushing assault. "OH! OH! OH! OH!" and eventually her exclamations went up in pitch and volume, until the dam burst and the orgasm flooded her body. He was right behind her, and with a shout, he slammed fully into her body, crushed her to himself with his strong arms, and his cock lurched and pulsed inside her.

Long, long minutes later, resting on their sides but still clutching each other, his cock still impaling her, they both sighed, their desperate embrace easing as their bodies nestled together. "Would you really have done that to every girl in the city until you found me?" she asked him.

"A horrible sacrifice, I know; but even THAT would have been worth it to find my one true love," he said, seriously. Then both their faces split into smiles, and they laughed.

"Where will we go on our honeymoon?" he asked her, abstractedly. And she was silent for a long minute before he realized that she was crying again. "Hey, Cindy, what is it? Whatever it is, we can work it out. I promise you."

"I belong to someone else," she said sadly, quietly.

"You're married?"

"No, no. I mean I REALLY belong to someone else. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I am a slave. I can't leave. I don't think I could EVER leave. Deep down inside, as much as I love you, I don't think I WANT to leave! It's SO confusing ... I don't suppose I could ever really explain it to you ... not so you'd understand. Can't we just hold each other tonight and pretend? Can't we have each other, just for tonight and ...?"

"No," he said simply, silencing her. He untangled their bodies, finally letting his half-engorged cock slip from its new home inside her, and he propped his head up using two of the pillows; then he gathered her back into his arms, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Instinctively, she threw her arm across his chest and her leg over his lower body and hugged herself to him. "Now," he said calmly, idly stroking her bare back. "You enjoy being a slave, is that it?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, at the moment, you are mine. I will not let you go until you tell me whatever strange story it is that you have to tell. This is my very first command to you ... one that you MUST obey. Tell me, Cindy. Tell me now."

And she did.

From first to last; from the moment she had set foot in the mansion until this day with him, she told him. She left nothing out. Each character in the drama was described in exacting detail, each encounter, each desire, each demand, each response, each act of surrender, each emotion. He broke into the tale frequently, asking questions ... which she answered immediately and honestly, holding nothing back. The only long interruption came when he asked her if either Pablo or her "Daddy" had ever done it "with her on top;" and when she had answered both in the negative and with inquisitive wonder about how such a thing was supposed to work, he scooped her body atop his, had her sit up, straddling him, and insisted that he provide a demonstration. Perhaps this explanatory exhibition would not have taken so long if he hadn't been so persistent on showing her what he could do with his hands in this position, rolling her nipples between thumbs and forefingers, then sliding one hand down between their bodies and rubbing her clit as she pumped herself up and down on his hard, unyielding shaft, causing her to arch and strain and shiver and moan and quake and cum and cum and cum; which sparked his own rather animated orgasm. This, of course, led to another period of recuperation ... but finally the story continued. Counting the aforementioned questions and demonstration, it continued for three hours.

In the end, he had to admit that Cindy had become so hypnotically, emotionally and physically entangled with this crazy household's occupants, that indeed, she might NOT be able to break away from them, and he resolved (to himself) that any attempt to wrest her away would have to start with Stepmother herself. Without her consent, he felt, Cindy would never be his. Exhausted, they arose, dressed and left (despite having to miss the free breakfast in the lobby). Fortunately, the front door of the mansion had been left unlocked. Cindy passionately kissed him goodbye, went upstairs and she finally crawled into bed a little after three o'clock.

For the rest of her life, she would never forget the next day. Still arising at six-thirty, she set about her normal routine. The change in that schedule came about noon, when Stepmother insisted that Cindy wash and dry all the bedspreads and sheets in the UNOCCUPIED bedrooms upstairs, and that she press the sheets! She stripped all the beds at once, made six trips down to the laundry room, and started the task. It would take hours, she knew, resulting in her missing her exercise and "mental conditioning" periods. It further surprised her when Pablo brought her dinner on a tray, so that she could continue, uninterrupted. Finally, long after dark, Cindy had brought the clean, wrinkle-free items back upstairs and had just finishing replacing them on their original beds, when Stepmother called her into her office.

"Cindy, I have some news that you might find a little unsettling. Please sit down, my dear." Nervously, she did so. "I know from various conversations I've had today that you've become acquainted with that fine young man who took Bonnie out on a date the other night," the woman continued. "Now dear, please don't get excited, but I just got a call from Bonnie. She and the gentleman ... Raymond, I believe his name is ... went to Las Vegas this afternoon and got married."

Cindy blinked. "Married?" she asked quietly.

"Yes dear. I realize that you and he had been ... um ... intimate during the party I asked you to attend. And I know that it's very, very easy to form ... an attachment with a boy under those circumstances, and I feel horribly responsible, in a way. But you see, that had been my design from the beginning ... to get a wealthy young man interested in Bonnie; someone who could support her in the style I'd like her to live ... someone that could be ... well ... manipulated, I guess you could say. So, you see, this worked out exactly as I had envisioned it. But, my dear Cindy, I NEVER wanted to hurt you. I'm so sorry if it has."

Cindy blinked again. "What about Juno?" she asked, feeling dull and puzzled.

"Juno? You mean the girl I met in the hall the other night? I'm sure I don't know ANYTHING about her. You'll have to ask Bonnie when she comes back after the honeymoon."

"Honeymoon," Cindy echoed. She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I'm just the maid," she muttered.

"Exactly," Stepmother said, nodding. "I'm so pleased that you appreciate the hierarchy of modern society and your place in it. I just knew that you'd understand." The woman stood up. Cindy looked at her for a moment, and did the same, and then allowed herself to be led to the office door. "Now, look at me please, dear ... yes, right into my eyes ... just like that. You are VERY tired, aren't you, Cindy?"

Cindy sagged. Her thoughts seemed muddled and uncertain. "Tired."

"Yes, dear. Now, go to your room, please. Just go right to bed. As soon as you lie down, you will see your metronome in your mind. Off you go, now."

Dazed, Cindy did exactly as she was told. She stripped out of her clothing and stretched out under her blankets, knowing that she should have a lot to think about, but she was too sleepy to do so, and anyway, the metronome was clacking in her head. It seemed only a few minutes later that her alarm was sounding.

In the shower the next morning, she started to cry. She cried as she dressed, and halfway down the stairs, on her way to breakfast, she suddenly decided that she wasn't hungry; so, she sat down on the steps, buried her face in her hands, and she cried some more. She was alright for most of the morning, and actually took a level of pride in the fact that she finished the daily bathroom chores without shedding a single tear. But something happened during lunch, and she left her food untouched and raced to her next chore, sobbing. She realized that she could handle things if she simply kept working, concentrating only on the task at hand, never wavering. And so, she worked through her "conditioning" period ... Stepmother said she was busy, anyway ... and when it was time to exercise, she rushed to get dressed, then set her machines at a higher level, almost reveling in the pain from her screaming muscles, refusing to stop even once, though her lungs were threatening to burst. During her crunches and other calisthenics, she counted loudly, blotting out any thoughts. But, alas, in the shower, there was little to distract her, and so she found herself sitting on the cold tile floor, letting the hot water wash over her nakedness, crying, crying.

For the first time, she changed her schedule without approval from Stepmother, and she worked at cleaning the downstairs hallways and foyer, skipping dinner, as well. Pablo approached with a tray of food, but she refused. He, however, simply would not leave her side until she had consumed something, so she took a bite of the sandwich and told him to be gone. Not enough, he argued, and again stood firm. They squabbled for awhile, and in the end, she ate about half the meal before he finally, finally left her alone. About ten o'clock, Stepmother herself came to her, but seemingly only to comment on how tired she looked. At that point, however, Cindy was consumed with an almost overpowering drowsiness, and it was all she could do to stagger up to her room, strip, and crawl into bed.

The next day started out to be a repeat of the one before. Cindy alternately cried and worked, but finally began to justify occurrences in her mind. She would ALWAYS be a slave, a maid, and a girl whose body was meant to comfort men in need. She would NEVER be free, or independent, or self-sufficient, and she would NEVER deserve the happiness reserved for those who were. She should try to find comfort in these truths. But then, of course, she would start crying again.

She reported for her mental conditioning period at the appropriate time, but instead of placing her immediately in a trance, Stepmother wanted to talk. Cindy was almost desperate for the peaceful oblivion of hypnosis, but tried to give the woman her full attention. And what she had to say was yet another harsh shock. "Cindy, I'm going to be departing on a long trip soon. And, I'm going to be leaving you in charge of the house and all its affairs."

"In charge?!" Cindy gasped. "I am a SLAVE! I can't be in CHARGE of ANYTHING!"

"You are a slave, and you will damn-well do as you're told," Stepmother said firmly, but without a trace of anger. She saw a myriad of emotions crowd into Cindy's expression. "Don't worry, my dear, I wouldn't be making you do this if I wasn't certain ... beyond any doubt ... that you could handle the assignment. I will spend the next few days explaining exactly what things you have to do, when you have to do them, and how they will be accomplished. I will be available by phone and email. We will even have a daily video conference via computer, and I can hypnotize you for brief periods then. You WILL do this, Cindy. You will NOT argue."