tagMind ControlMy Four Aces Ch. 03

My Four Aces Ch. 03


Note: This will make a whole lot more sense to you if you read Chapters One and Two first . . . or maybe not. "Sense" is such a relative term.

Do me a favor—don’t reprint, republish or upload this story to another source without my permission. If you choose to refuse me this favor, teams of ravenous attorneys will descend upon your duplicitous, plagiaristic, thieving ass. Or not. But I don’t envy you your karma.

In Chapter One, Paul gave his fairly new girlfriend, Kim, a dose of a mysterious powder called Q’injo, given to HIM by a buddy who swore that it was "the only true aphrodisiac in the world." It worked. What Paul doesn’t realize is that Kim tasted his semen within the allotted one hour time frame of the powder’s active phase, binding her to him for good (or certainly for lots of good sex). As Paul’s buddy tells him, "the high of being with you becomes like the best sex-and-romance high ever and the withdrawal of being without you is worse than heroin and nicotine withdrawal combined." In Chapter Two, we saw the Q’injo experience from Kim’s perspective, as she wrote in her diary about events in the laundry room on that first day and then an encounter with Paul on campus later that week. Very hot stuff. Go back and read it already!!

3: Hot Date Redefined--Early Evening

The story of my first real date with Kim AFTER I gave her the Q’injo is a long one. Not only because it was a long night, but because it was so full of incident, revelation and the addition of new players on the kinky little stage we were setting for ourselves. Be patient with me as I tease it all out for you in two or three parts, of which this is the first.


After our little adventure in the theatre building, I was really looking forward to our date that night. Based on the way she’d jumped right into my game, I was betting Kim was too. As much as the control I exercised over her turned me on, as I watched her reactions to what was happening, I saw a lot of what attracted me to her in the first place. She carried herself with a bold, mischievous attitude toward life. It showed up as flirtatious and coy, sometimes, but while I’d known her, she’d never hesitated to jump right in if the situation demanded that something be done. I’ve got to be honest and say that she seemed to possess a confidence I found myself lacking most of the time—at least in the bad old days before Q’injo. These days, I was feeling very much on top of things.

I arrived right on time, expecting to wait, sit with her parents making uncomfortable small talk, as I’d done on our earlier dates. She was a woman, after all, and the apple of mommy and daddy’s eye. I could tell Mr. G_______ was the protective sort. He’d grilled me pretty thoroughly on my Goals in Life the first couple of times I’d been there, but seemed to have relaxed a bit the third time.

Her mom was another story. She liked me fine from the minute she saw me (fooled her right off, in other words—or so I initially thought). Millie G______ was a well-put-together brunette, sharing Kim’s 4’11’ stature and nice ass, but with somewhat more on offer in the boob department. I could tell she was also the source of Kim’s sensuality and the sweet nature that attracted me to her in the first place. She was obviously one of those moms who becomes the favorite of all her kid’s friends: easy-going, funny, and still youthful in a good way, not that desperate thing some mom’s develop when their daughters start bringing home guys. Millie was invariably polite and welcoming to me, offering me a drink, making sure I knew it was cool to call her Millie, and telling Mr. G_______ (Byron, though he didn’t give me the impression it was cool to call him that) to turn off the game and talk with me while she was in the next room.

It struck me as a little odd, on the night of the second date, that Millie didn’t hesitate to let me know she thought I was an attractive guy, saying stuff like, "I’m starting to appreciate my daughter’s taste in men," and "You’re so much cuter than her last boyfriend." (Byron was so absorbed in the football game, I don’t think he even realized we were in the room). At the same time, like I said, she didn’t dress too young or have obvious piercings and tatts, or even wear too much make-up like most of the moms in the Please Mistake Me For Her Sister Club tend to do. Anyway, I was waaaay too focused on Kim at the time to notice anything out of the ordinary in the behavior of this woman who was old enough to be my mom, even if she sure didn’t look it.

Things took a turn to Weirdsville on the night of my third date with Kim—this was about three weeks ago now. Mr. Millie (Byron) had been out at some meeting. Millie and I stood in the kitchen, waiting for Kim, while Millie chopped vegetables for dinner. I was sipping at a nice little vodka tonic she’d made me. She had some white wine next to the cutting board and accidentally knocked it over.

Apparently the spare towels were in a drawer right where I was leaning and, rather than ask for them, she just stepped right up to me and reached for the drawer handle that was inches from my butt. I tried to step aside, but she kind of had me pinned, since she was only inches away and looking up into my face from the same angle that Kim does, frank appraisal in her eyes. She said, "You have very nice eyes, Paul." I stammered out my thanks, finally managing to edge to the side so she could open the drawer she needed. As she stepped back, I caught a powerful whiff of clean, fresh woman and a hint of perfume, lingering from earlier in the day. Fumbling a bit for something to say, still surprised by her blatant invasion of my comfort bubble, I’d asked her what the perfume was.

As she mopped up the spilled wine, she said, "Top of the line Chanel." Then mumbled something which I didn’t ask her to repeat, but finally translated as, "Give a girl a bottle of this and you’re guaranteed to get something back." Now I know this all seems so blatant as I tell it, but I have to say that, at the time, it was more subtle than it sounds in retrospect. Besides, it would never really occur to that earlier version of me that Millie might be trying to tell me something. I think she realized she hadn’t gotten through, too, because when I think back on it, there was kind of an amused smile on her face for the next few minutes until Kim came out and we left for out date. In my defense, all I can say was, this happened pre-Q-injo and I notice that my sexual senses are now much heightened. I don’t think a hint that obvious would pass me by now, but at the time, I was in my Oblivious Man identity and so didn’t quite follow the thread all the way to the spool. Tonight, as I pulled up, I thought about that moment again and its real meaning flashed into my brain. Then I thought better of it. There’s no way I needed the grief that trying to make Kim’s mom would cause . . . although I now had the tools at my disposal to make it easier.

But it was date time and dad was probably sitting in the living room with the game on a his feet up, so I put on my best Eddie Haskell face, preparing for at least a few minutes of small talk and canned laughter with the ‘rents.

When Kim opened the door, I was surprised that it was her and not Millie, as it had been on the previous occasions. I almost took a step back from the impact of seeing Kim. No further thoughts of Millie that crossed my mind for a while.

I don’t know how to say "she was devastatingly beautiful" in a way that really conveys how exceptional Kim was in that moment. How do some girls do it? They take this essentially very simple dress, black, no frills, pull it on, go zip, zap, zing with the make-up, twist their hair around and blow hot air on it and, pow! My pulse accelerated and my dick, in parent-safe neutral seconds before, started its gradual progress through the stages of wood. (You know what I mean: you go from no-wood at all to balsa to pine to oak to teak . . . and then you switch to metal and run up THAT scale).

But enough about my hard-on. Kim was amazing. Innocent, sleek, alluring all at once—and as soon as she smiled, any intimidation-factor suggested by that description melted away and her inherent cute, playful side was back in full force. I wanted to take her in my arms and cuddle her, protect her and cherish her—and then slam her against the foyer wall and pound her until she screamed for mercy. Some women just have that quality. It’s like a talent—she can improve upon it or neglect it, but if she doesn’t have it in her, she’ll never learn it.

One of the great things about what I’d done to Kim was that I didn’t need a line with her. I could play the game if I chose, but didn’t have to bother anymore if I didn’t feel like it—but with her standing right there, looking like that, she’d earned every bit of genuine appreciation I had it in me to give her. Dispensing with the absolute need for all the dating bullshit was liberating, though, so when I said something about the flowers I’d brought for her not doing her justice, it wasn’t a hustle. I meant every word of it. She took the compliment and the flowers with grace, putting the latter into a vase before we left. The former went into that deep well of chick-memory that allows most women to recount, in detail, every nice, or every rotten, thing anyone has ever said or done to them.

In that moment, I was kind of wishing I’d never used the Q’injo on her, because I wanted her to fall in love with me on her own, without any hypnotic inducement. Then, as I turned us to the door to leave, she changed my mind.

She grabbed my arm as we stood in the doorway, leaning into me with her entire body and raised her mouth to my ear, where she whispered, "Daddy, I had to dry myself off for ten minutes down there before I put on my panties or they would have soaked right through. Are you as hot for me as I am for you?"

My dick (yes, we’re back on that subject again), already considering its options, gave another jerk. This was all unexpected, which was very much okay with me. She was exercising that independence of will that I’d made sure to incorporate into her conditioning. In other words, she was just being herself, only without any inhibitions she might have once felt about such behavior.

As I reached up to stroke her hair, she shuddered and moistened her lips. When I traced my fingers down her neck, she closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip, trying to contain the pressure that had clearly been building inside her at least since this afternoon, when I’d exposed her, had her play with herself and then suck me off without giving her satisfaction.

Come to think of it, that was kind of mean of me.

I leaned in to her ear, still not clear if there was someone about to walk in on us from one of the several doors that opened into the foyer. "What do you want, baby?"

Since her ear was now close to my face, I heard her when she whispered, "You. Now."

Then I kissed her, ever so softly, on the ear, and traced my tongue down her satin-smooth neck. I’m such a tease!

From deep in her throat came a low moan of "Please!"

I pulled back and nodded, but with a questioning look on my face, as if to say, "Okay, but where are we doing this?"

She closed the front door softly, put a finger to her lips to signal me to silence, then grabbed my hand and led me down a hall to the back of the house and her bedroom.

I was looking around, more interested in the possibility of parents or siblings seeing us than in the décor, though it was a nice place—definitely upper middle-class with taste. Big, too. I’d never gotten past the front door when picking her up for previous dates and made a mental note to ask her about her dad’s line of work.

Once in her room with the door closed behind us, she said, "My dad’s working late, my mom’s on the phone and I want you so much, I can’t wait any longer!"

With that, she thrust her small, manicured right hand down the front of my pants and grabbed my iron with those talented fingers even as she pressed her mouth into mine.

Despite my gut instinct to just go with it, I pulled away, leaving her panting. Two rules I’d already developed about exercising control in this direct way were these: take charge from the outset and fewer words were better. Still, I had to check something out.

"Can your mother hear us in here?"

"Not from her room."

"What if she comes downstairs?’

"She won’t," and I could see the need growing in her face and hear the pant in her voice as she saw that she was getting close to a good dicking. "She’s talking to her sister and they always go on for hours."

I knew that was no guarantee that they’d do it this time, but I was excited and she was obviously craving it. I had to teach her that she could have it when she wanted, but on my terms—and the risk of being caught was adding to the thrill for both of us, as it had earlier in the afternoon.

As I sat on the edge of her bed, I glanced around. Behind me, in a pile two feet deep against the headboard, were stuffed animals of every variety. It was a typical young woman’s room in many ways, with photos and mementos of high school and adolescent celebrity crushes dominating a room that still hadn’t fully matured out of girlhood. The girl in question, looking fully matured into her lust anyway, quivered like a tuning fork, waiting to see what I wanted from her.

I looked her steadily in the eye with a confidence I didn’t fully feel, then said,"Take off the dress. We wouldn’t want it to get messed up."

She blew me away when I first saw her at the front door not five minutes ago. The slow, seductive way she stood, slung her feet, one at a time, onto the bed beside me to unstrap her sandals, then reached behind herself and unzipped that dress just ground away at what little restraint I still had. She shrugged the dress off her shoulders, then let it fall gently to the ground, revealing those taut nipples on her small, upturned breasts, a gracefully fluted waist and slim but supple hips. There was that black thong I’d asked for. She turned, her body dancing in and out of the dim light cast by the small reading lamp beside her bed and hung the dress on a hanger, then stretched her slight frame to slip the hook over the top of the closet door. The twin globes of her ass beckoned and I knew what I had to do.

When she turned back to me, I swear to you, my heart skipped a beat. Her body in that light, with heels and the thong, was fabulous, but really it was her eyes. They looked at me with a passion and adoration I was finding more and more addictive. As it turned out, this was a very appropriate metaphor for what was going on for her as well.

I held out my hand for hers and she took it, stepping toward me at my gentle tug.

That darling nibble at the lower lip betrayed her excitement. I was beginning to identify that as a sign of her profound arousal.

Her "Yes, daddy," was almost inaudible. And the, still tentative but with a hit of determination, "But can I ask you something before we . . . before you start, please?"

I nodded.

"I . . . I’m not sure how to say this," and she had to look away, which made her even more appealing, in that moment, than I could have imagined possible, even after the emotional tugs I’d felt just looking at her all evening—hell, all day! I mean, she was already mostly naked and trembling with excitement—how much more could I want? And yet, there it was. Shyness layered on top of all that other stuff just made me realize I had to have her right then and there.

"What is it, Kim?"

"I don’t know what you had in mind right now. I think it’s what I’m wanting, but I’m not sure so I just . . . I have to ask . . . I need you to . . . to fuck me, please. I need it so much and I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I feel like, if I don’t get it soon, I’m going to . . . I don’t know . . . get sick or something. I try to play with myself and think of you and it’s really good, but it just doesn’t really get me there and I know you can do it for me. I think . . . I know you’re the only one who can."

She stopped talking for a minute and looked back at me. She must have seen the slight bafflement on my face and I think it scared her, because words started to come out of her in a rush—and I felt a chill run from my stomach right into my balls as the full importance of what she was saying dawned on me.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," she continued, "but I’ve been – well, it’s been hard to think about anything but you all week. I dream about you at night and I think about you constantly all day and then, today, the things we did . . . oh, God, I’m such a slut! And you made me do it and I should be mad, but I’m not. I was scared, but so hot, especially when Doctor Hawkins saw me, and, like I said, I should be mad, but I’m not because I LOVED it. And. . . and I love you because I love who I am when I’m with you. And I love that you still want me, even after I behaved like that!

She took a gasping little breath, then plunged right back into the story of her feelings. Her hands twisted fetchingly in the air, giving form to the tumble of words.

"I mean, it started the other day, when I came by your place and we . . . we did it for the first time. That was fantastic. But then I did something that I’d never done before and I stuck my hand inside my pussy after you filled me up. . . and I had your stuff . . . your cum on my fingers. . . and I licked it . . . and it was SO good! I’ve thought about that a lot in the last few days and I think that was when I knew you were it for me, forever and always. I know it sounds so cheesy, but you can’t feel what it feels like inside my head. In my heart. I just know. It’s like knowing an apple is red or knowing how to breathe without thinking about it. Some things just are what they are and you are . . . something about the way you are with me and the way I get when I’m with you, I’m. . . it makes me . . . free. And I want you to always, always, always be my daddy."

I had to sit there a minute and take it all in. This was what I wanted—but I’d tried to get it without the consequences Jim had warned me about. He told me that any woman who tasted my come within an hour after consuming the Q’injo would be addicted to me—very strongly addicted to me and my cum, that she’d be my "slave," in whatever way I decided to define that for her. He’d emphasized that I should be careful about allowing that heavy imprinting to happen, because it meant the woman was going to be dependent on getting some from me on a regular basis from then on. "From then on" implied "forever" and THAT was a level of commitment that had never crossed my mind before.

Kim stood in front of me, her eyes locked on mine. We really looked at each other inside and out in that moment, I think, for the first time. I’d flipped a switch in her somewhere deep with my conditioning and subsequent treatment of her. Ever since I saw her on campus today, a similar switch in me had been under pressure to flip—and once it went, it was the difference between "off" and "on," dark and light, casual and committed. It wasn’t any kind of conventional commitment, but then I had tossed "conventional" out the window when I tossed that powder in her Diet Pepsi and let her drink it.

That’s when I realized it was a done deal. I could be scared if I wanted, but it didn’t change anything. As my dad always told me, a man lives up to the responsibilities he incurs, even when he didn’t realize he was incurring them. She was mine and I had to do something with her. Right now, the precise nature of that something was pretty fucking obvious. The rest would have to take care of itself as we went along.

I stood, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into me. "It’s going to be all right, Kim. Daddy’s going to make everything all right."

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