The Mistress' Mistress

Author's note: This was a long time in the writing. It happened in spurts (pun intended), and there were gaps of over a month where nothing happened and the ending got substantially rewritten in my head. And then I did most of the constructive parts of the ending while cybering two sessions at once. That usually helps. But I'm not entirely happy for the ending, for which I have to apologise. But I do hope you enjoy it anyway!

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Her clothing was inappropriate, which helped his mood a little. Technically she was wearing a dress, but it managed to look like a blouse and skirt so that the suggestion of accessibility between hem and hem, along with the way the silken black fabric followed her curves without clinging, added an extra hint of excitement. The hem of the skirt finished above her knee, the sleeves at her wrists and the straight-edged neckline went from the very edge of her neck to slightly south of her nipples, in a narrow V of pure white skin.

She didn't have real curves - not as he would qualify them. The neckline was in no danger of revealing too much of her breasts, her legs between dress and black stilettos were barely more fleshy than bone and her arms, while difficult to define with the eyes in their slightly shimmering sheaths, were clearly more slender than his wrists had ever been.

Her eyes, when she focused on his across the expanse of the table, which was only when they were talking, were a smoky grey that defied depth perception and made them appear to be holes in her severely perfect face. Her fingers were long and almost bony, and preternaturally coordinated. When she wasn't writing or speaking she was spinning her pen, and not with the casual circles of most who picked up the trick at University, but so fast that the faceted stainless steel surface sparkled and all he could see was a whir with the occasional flicker of a straight line registering on his stunned eyes. Almost as an afterthought she kept it spinning between fingers and thumb, stopping it abruptly when she spoke or wrote, and always with the pen in exactly the right position between her fingers.

When she looked up to speak to him but didn't still the spinning of the pen, he was so effectively taken unawares that he didn't move his focus from its flicker.

"You look tired," she said in a voice warmer and less clipped than her normal tones, and with no hint of the questioning rising inflection that normally accompanied those words.

"Yes," he said candidly and with a hint of wonderment that he had responded at all.

"You are growing very sleepy," she continued in exactly the same measured, even tones.

"Yes," he repeated, and this time there was no hint of anything except agreement in his voice.

"You are asleep," and, just like that, the concept of 'free will' ceased to be entirely relevant.

#

She considered him with an amused smile playing across her straight lips. The bigger their egos are, she reflected, the more easily they could be toppled and the more definitive their fall. She was still spinning the pen, and his eyes were still, glazed over, fixed upon it. Slowly, she stopped. His eyes didn't waver. "Look at me."

His eyes did not move.

That was worrying.

"Look at my eyes."

Obediently, his gaze slid up from her hand to her face, and half-focused on her grey eyes.

Ah. So. He was one of _those_. Interesting, and more than a little tiresome. But, if pedantic she needed to be, pedantic would have to do.

She would also have to be careful. It would do no good to push too hard too soon and lose him, with potentially dangerous, if not merely embarrassing, consequences. Well, one way to find out and maybe turn the tables. But first...

"Is this room bugged?"

"No, Mistress."

Well, _that_ was an eye-opener! Mistress indeed! Promising, but also curious and curiouser. Where the hell did that come from?

"Is it monitored in any way?"

"No, Mistress."

"Is it possible that it is monitored but you are unaware of it?"

"No, Mistress."

This was getting tiresome.

"Why not?"

"I have had the room swept."

Well, that was more like it. Now, where was she? Ah, yes...

"Have you been wondering if I am wearing a bra?"

"No, Mistress."

"Why haven't you been wondering if I am wearing a bra?"

"I'm not interested in your breasts, Mistress"

Oh, here it comes. Always the breasts.

"Why not?"

"They're too small, Mistress"

She sighed.

"Have you ever heard that small breasts have more sensitive nipples?"

"No, Mistress."

"You will remember that. You will remember that small breasts have more sensitive nipples, and you will remember that if a woman has small breasts she will scream in ecstasy when you bite them, and you will feel more of a man, and it will be easier for you to make her cum. You will like the sight of small breasts because they will make you think of what you do to the woman who has them. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Well he had passed the shock test, anyway.

"When you wake up, you will wonder if I am wearing a bra, and will try and look for my nipples. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Good. Just one more thing.

"You will return to this trance when you see my pen spinning, and hear me say the words 'You are feeling tired.' Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Good. Just one more, other thing...

"Why are you calling me Mistress?"

For a moment he almost looked confused, and she had the agonised thought that she had overstepped the mark.

"Because... You are my Mistress."

"Who am I?"

"My wife."

For the first time in a lucrative career of abducting the minds of men, she was rendered speechless. WHAT THE FUCK???

"What is your cue to go into a trance?"

"When I see your pen spinning, and you say 'You are feeling tired'."

Ah. That could be a problem.

"What was your previous cue to go into a trance?"

"When you said 'Because you're mine, squirrel'."

For a minute she desperately grappled with the impulse to burst out in hysterical laughter, and only managed to suppress it by a mighty effort of will and pinching her nose hard to block her airways. But it was a close thing. Squirrel? Christ, what did they get up to? It was time to get serious.

"From now on, both your previous trigger and your new trigger will send you into a trance, is that clear?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Well, that was a relief!

"Who am I?"

"My Mistress."

"And?"

"My wife."

And there it all fell into place. She wondered how long he had been regularly hypnotized, and what sort of luxurious, pampered existence his wife lead. For the first time in a long time, she felt a small twinge of jealousy, but soon suppressed it. She also wondered whether hypnotism predated marriage. She was positive that this wife had D-cups at a minimum. It wouldn't be hard for someone like that to eliminate competition by setting a post-hypnotic command that anybody with smaller breasts was unattractive.

Oh well.

"When you wake up, you will not remember this session. You will only remember that you were thinking about your last instructions from your client. You will also wonder what style of panties I am wearing. You will not notice that any time has passed." Hang on, there was an opportunity here... "Although you will realise that you had lost track for a few seconds. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Good. "You will wake up when I have counted to 3. 1... 2... 3 and I can bring that to you on Friday."

Blinking desperately and aware that his concentration had wondered but refusing to admit weakness, he attempted to regain an upper hand by being decisive. "Right," he said as though he was glad she had finally reached that point, without quite managing to remove the last vestiges of confusion from his face. He dropped his eyes to his notes again, and as his gaze travelled down her dress his eyes flickered across her chest and juddered to a stop for a second, another fleeting moment of confusion flickering across his forehead and making her nipples harden with satisfaction. He snatched his gaze down, desperately, but his eyes jumped up to steal a quick glimpse at her waist through the glass tabletop.

So that had worked as well! Let him wonder, she thought smugly. He'll get it wrong, but let him wonder. She had the amused thought that he might interpret her command liberally and wonder if she was wearing panties at all, but decided on balance that his pedantry under hypnosis suggested that no, he would wonder what type she was wearing.

She began decisively tidying up her notes and documents, dropping them into her stylishly thin, painfully elegant briefcase beside the laptop that was so thin most people didn't realise it was there. Taken unawares, he was reduced to decisively snapping on the lid of his pen. Well, it was his office so at least he wouldn't have to leave. She closed her briefcase with a decisive snap, pushed back her chair and stood up decisively. "Until Friday, then," turned and walked out with heels click-clacking on the floor tiles.

She made it all the way to basement garage without smiling, climbed into her Jaguar and locked the doors, placed her briefcase carefully on the seat next to her, pulled a small adjustable vibrator out of the glovebox, arched her back in the seat to lift her hips far enough to let her comfortably slide it in and be held in place by her panties (leather G-string) and then turned it on to the lowest setting. She dropped back into the seat and gasped once or twice until the sensations had settled down and she could regain composure, then drove home with it buzzing away deep inside her.

There was an accident that held up traffic for fifteen minutes when she was most of the way out of the city, so her self-control was quite severely tested, but even so she managed not to cum until her garage door had closed behind her, the screams bouncing off the walls and echoing. Maybe next week she could afford to turn it up one notch.

#

A courier dropped off her proposal before their Friday meeting and so when she arrived, dressed this time in an actual blouse and skirt, a little more conventional although the fabric had a spiral pattern woven into it and her stockings were a light spider-web design, with her briefcase held immobile at the end of her left arm, she had everything in place for a productive meeting of collaborators.

And when the secretary had left after they had worked out their joint proposal, she had quite enough time to tell him that he was tired, and then that he would be inviting her for drinks after work at a bar that he hadn't been to before but which she frequented regularly, because he was curious to see what it was like. She also withdrew the pen-spinning as a requirement of the hypnotic trigger: He was progressing very well, and she had the worrying thought that if she used something other than a pen (say, a swizzle stick) he might be too literal to let it affect him.

She tested it, of course. No sense in letting a good result and confidence con you into being amateurish.

He asked her without too much cognitive dissonance. Her command regarding small breasts and her panties, combined with his natural predatory instincts and a little seeding of moral ambiguity towards extramarital affairs, had worked their magic well and made him at least sufficiently curious enough to want to get into those panties (whatever he thought they were). Plus, he seemed so curious about why he was curious about wanting to try a new bar that he wanted to go there anyway now.

She drove home on the lowest setting still, but managed to hold on until she got out of the car, and almost took a step towards the house, but holding her legs together to walk was too much for her and she collapsed on the concrete screaming.

#

That evening, she dressed in a blue silk dress that plunged to her lower back and stopped not much below her hips, but would have been modestly cut in front if it hadn't clung to every curve and revealed her absence of bra but stopped enticingly short of the shapes of her breasts, even with her nipples clearly showing. She had bare legs, and blue high heels and when the club's owner saw her, he served her personally, presenting a scarlet drink made to a recipe that only she knew of.

"Would you be needing one of your special drinks for your man tonight?"

"No thanks," she said with a smile and a sip. "He's mine already." Sodium pentathol was her usual aid hypnoir, but the touch of alcohol combined with embedded commands would be more than enough tonight, particularly when he saw what she was wearing.

A key passed hands, and she pulled up her dress to clip it to her panties, giving him a quick glimpse of a thin strap that he recognised with an ache in his groin and a smile on her face.

When she turned away to examine the room, he headed out the back with a strained and determined look on his face. A barmaid who had been covertly observing their interaction licked her lips and followed him.

A few eyes tracked the doll-like figure in the blue dress, male and female alike and with predatory or sadly hopeful gaze, but even the most brash and optimistic could tell that she was not to be approached lightly.

He arrived five minutes late, and looking unimpressed by that fact. As she herself had only arrived when she intended to because she had access to the locked staff car park, she forgave him that. His eyebrows shot up when he was handed a double scotch neat when he got to the bar, and even further when he tasted it. Hypnotism: Every hostess' friend.

The impact of first the sight of what she was wearing (it had taken her a great deal of thought to find exactly the right angle at which to stand for maximum effect) and then the shock of being handed his favourite drink, right down to the brand, made him gulp more than intended and it took only the most subtle of subliminal prompts - the brief angling of her glass towards his, the quick succession of rapid sips - to fool him into drinking more. The quality of service (the second barmaid had not yet returned, but the remaining one was up to the demand this early in the night) was such that it was refilled without him even noticing.

Which suited her perfectly. What the alcohol started, skillful posing and and the occasional meaningful flash of expression completed in completely unbalancing him and putting her in complete authority of the sexuality of the situation. Married or not, if she had whispered in his ear that she had a room on site, he may have gone panting to bed with her anyway.

But that wasn't what she had in mind. You just can't trust a man unless he's properly hypnotised. It's so much easier to relax when you know that they will do what they're told, and only what they're told.

So she waited until he had finished his second double scotch, had it replaced and was failing to cope with her conversation but still thought he was managing it, when she leaned closer towards him, sliding into his personal space with a confident assurance that made him feel suddenly uncomfortable in his y-fronts, and whispered "You are feeling tired." Besides, the first barmaid was returning with a rumpled T-shirt, a smug smile on her face, an unconscious slow lick of her lips and a slightly stiff gait, and that struck her as a good sign.

His eyelids drooped right on cue, his voice slipped into a monotone and he uttered "Yes, Mistress" as though he had been practicing for years, not just two weeks.

"You are going to follow me. I will walk through two doors and lock them behind us. After the second door we will be in a room with a bed. You will stop in the middle of the room, take off your shirt, stand still and await further instructions. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good. Follow me now."

As she turned away from the bar, a practised hand had unhooked the key from her G-string with nobody spotting either the movement or her underwear.

She opened the door with the same practiced hand, stepped aside as he passed through, followed him and turned around to lock the door behind her. When she turned back, he was standing obediently watching her, naked from the waist up. Her breath caught in her throat.

His body was almost inhumanly tightly built, with muscles that only moved sideways when other muscles needed them to. She felt herself flush from her face down over her breasts and deep between her thighs. Her hands moved of their own volition as they pulled the straps of her dress off her shoulders and peeled it down off her breasts, betraying how little the fabric had revealed while still giving the thrill of concealment withdrawn.

It was the first time that he had seen her breasts, and she got a perverse thrill from his hypnosis-state lack of reaction as his eyes looked steadily into hers and her nipples inched forward towards him.

She followed their lead, slowly walking towards him, his eyes staying steadily fixed on hers as her own roved over his body, until the difference in their heights meant that his field of view included her breasts and, if he were looking at her breasts, his field of view would include the damp spot on her G-string.

She was so aroused that she could barely speak, or concentrate. There was a dizzy feeling in her head and her focus jumped from muscled curve to muscled curve to the expensively tailored, non-revealing crotch of his pants. The buzzing in her ears she could ignore, but without being able to concentrate she was left with an erotic statue.

She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, took a deep breath through her mouth to avoid his scent and said "Look at my breasts," then stifled a moan and bit her lip.

A few seconds of composure, as a fire raged between her legs, and she felt able to open her eyes. His steady gaze was focused on her chest, and at the back of her brain her woman's instincts kicked in to draw back her shoulders and draw in her already concave belly, the fire that coursed through her sharpening her focus and her self-control, putting her back in the position of power that she craved, and drawing her lips back from her teeth in a vampiric grin.

"Do you like what you see?" She asked with a purr.

"Yes, Mistress," he responded, still with a neutral voice. She half closed her eyes and sighed happily.

"Why do you like what you see?"

"Because it excites me, Mistress."

A brief flash of annoyance threatened to sour her evening before she said, evenly, "Why does it excite you?"

"Because I know that I can make you scream in ecstasy, writhe uncontrollably and cum hard enough to squirt when I play with them and bite your nipples, Mistress."

Only the shock of what he said prevented her from losing control and balance at once. "What did you say?"

"Because I..."

"Quiet! Why did you elaborate that much?"

"Because you told me to elaborate whenever I was talking about you, Mistress."

Ah... That had been a nice trick for his wife to play! It was a pity that she would never be able to express her gratitude properly.

"Drop your pants and your underwear, boy."

The grin on her face widened as he undid his belt, the button, and the zip, then hooked his thumb into the waistband of what turned out to be jockey shorts and pushed them both off his hips, a ripping of velcro from the waistband of the shorts letting everything fall about his feet.

His pants had been better tailored than she had imagined, and his jockey shorts more generously concealing than she had thought possible. When his engorged cock was released and whipped out, her knees buckled and she landed heavily in front of him, mouth reaching as if by instinct.

If his body was well-built, his cock was overbuilt in proportion. It was enormous - not especially long (although more than capable of filling her entirely) but nearly two and a half inches in diameter, uncircumcised and ribbed with veins that looked as hard as iron. She wrapped her hands around it and opened her mouth.