tagMind ControlToymaker Ch. 03

Toymaker Ch. 03


And then, I hit my real windfall.

I'm not actually going to tell this part of the story in detail. I found the wife of a very rich man, and conned her to the tune of over two hundred thousand. I played it well and she never suspected she'd been taken. But due to the way the con was structured, it wasn't in my best interest to run into her again, which meant I was going to have to relocate. And that meant dumping Majorie.

I found that hard. It's not that Majorie and I had much in common. She was young and there was enough of an age difference that conversation went slowly sometimes. (This became an ongoing problem - my turn-on is women in their twenties, but intellectually I need someone with more life experience.)

But in spite of that difficulty, she was turning into a hot, hot fuck, ever more enslaved to the storm of emotion she felt at my feet. And I loved that. Call it shallow, sure. But I was hooked on her sexual ecstasy.

I considered convincing her to move with me -- I probably could have done it. But I'm not that much of a prick. She had a life; dragging her with me as my sex slave meant taking that away from her until, eventually, I really did tire of her.

But I am a bit of a prick, because the argument that swung it for me was just this: I could find another Majorie, in fact an endless variety of them.

My last "regular" night with Majorie was memorable. She knocked on my door, wearing only a tight tee and shorts. It was part of our routine - she had to come to me looking slutty, and risk being seen that way at my door by neighbors. When she got through the door, she took it all off, walked over to me, knelt down and kissed my foot. She was always in flames by that point -- she'd been well conditioned, by many orgasms. She'd also been forbidden to masturbate, or come with anyone else, so I was deeply associated with her sexual gratification.

I stood her back up, and walked her over to the largest window in my apartment, and pulled back the curtains. It was evening and the room was lit, and anyone happening to look our way would get an eyeful. She turned deep red.

"Look up."

She did, and found I'd replaced the curtain rod with a steel bar. There were two handcuffs locked onto it. She gasped.

"Put them on."

She did, and I bound them to the opposite sides of the windows, so her arms were wide apart and up over her head, forcing her to step up against the window glass. She was already starting to shake.

I put ropes around her ankles and drew those apart as well. She whimpered a little as the coldness of the glass pressed against her nipples. She knew better than to beg for mercy, but horrified embarrassment washed off of her, along with arousal.

I got behind her and moved my hands, slowly, up over the inviting curve of her hips, and along her sides. And then I pushed slutty hunger and need into her mind. I let shame and lust fight it out in her for a time, and then pushed harder, to make sure lust won.

We were many floors up, so she couldn't be seen well from the street, but there were plenty of buildings around with a good view of the window. I cupped her breasts, and began working her nipples, squeezing them between my fingers and forcing them against the glass.

"Are you wondering how many men can see you, right now? How many can tell you've been bound here and are being toyed with? How many are taking their cocks out and stroking?"

My hand shifted, and suddenly I caught her hair and pulled her head back, roughly, so I could demand kisses from her mouth. She tried to resist kissing back, but that didn't last long. I bit her lips and then broke the kiss.

"Take me to bed," she moaned.

"You'll have to earn that," I told her.

I fetched a device I'd had special built for this occasion. It was a vibrator, but it was not one that a woman would ever have invented. The body of the device had elastic ties on it, making it easy to attach to a leg. The head swiveled, so it could be positioned easily. It also... adjusted. Part slid inside, and curved upward, like a typical vibrating dildo. Part stayed outside, overspreading the clit. These two parts clamped together under the tension of a screw, trapping the clitoris between them. With the screw tightened, it didn't move no matter how much the woman writhed, and there was no way to back away from the vibrations. A control wire ran from it, allowing me to independently control the vibrations of the inside and outside parts. A design like this had been developed in the 80's for some research that never saw the light of day. It had been quietly nicknamed the Bitch Tamer.

I spent a few minutes attaching it. Majorie couldn't see what I was doing very well, but it wasn't hard to guess, and even before I turned it on she was panting.

"How... how do you do these things to me?"

"You'll never know. Lick your lips. I want you to think about the men who are watching you."

"There's... I mean, no one's looking... are they? Did you... oh gods, did you tell people to watch?"

"Yes." I turned on the vibrator, on the lowest setting.

"Oh shit. Oh shit no. No, it's wrong. James, please! I don't like this!"

"You're lying." Which wasn't quite fair; her horror and her secret craving to show off were in a locked battle again. "The reality is, deep down, being wanted makes you hot, and the more men that want you, the hotter you get. "

I flicked the room light off and on a few times. Show time. She whimpered in erotic horror. "Fuck," she whispered. "There's someone in the building across the street, he's looking-"

I turned the vibrator up a notch, letting the relentless, uneven vibrations sink into her skin. She gasped.

"I'm going to toy with you until you don't care who sees what."

"James, please no, someone will call the police-"

"In this city? Now you need to be silent." I came up behind her, and tied a blindfold around her eyes. "That will make you harder to recognize. Now you need to listen. The vibrator has twenty settings, and you're on number two. Every time you make noise, I will turn it up a notch. Do you understand?"

"Yes -- shit!"

I turned it up to three. She gasped in rage, and I turned it up to four. I could see her shivering. Every woman was different, but back in the day, most women would come eventually on five, pretty damn fast on ten, and the toughest, most stubborn would go to pieces around thirteen. Twenty had only been used to punish women after they came too soon.

I ran my hands over her back, and then along her sides, slowly, enjoying the full swelling of the sides of her breast. "Men who see your body, all want to fuck you, Majorie. Not make love to you: fuck you. You know this. You feel their eyes on you, and it makes you hot. You've hid that, learned to fight the arousal, but tonight you won't be able to. Tonight you'll lose all control. The thought of men throbbing, wanting to fuck you, pound you, pumping their swollen meat in their fists while watching you fight not to come..."

She bit her lip, but she was already molten inside. I slapped her ass suddenly, and she squeaked; now she was up to five.

"Rigid cocks wanting to plunder your mouth, pussy, ass... aching to open you, pound you, taking you selfishly, demanding more and more from you... men wanting every part of your pretty, pretty body under their huge rough hands, man watching you whimper, sliding helplessly into sluttier and sluttier need, thinking about what it would feel like to push into you just as you lose control..."

I dipped my finger into some oil, and pushed it without warning into her ass. She shuddered from head to toe, her imagination going out of control.

"And now, one more little surprise for you." I opened my laptop, plugged in headphones, and put them over her ears. "There. You can hear me through this microphone? Just nod... good. There really are men watching you, my pretty slut. But I made a deal with them. They had to call into my laptop, and when I click, you'll be able to hear them all, through the headphones. They won't speak to you. They'll just masturbate while looking at you, and you'll hear the noises they make. One hand on the binoculars, another on their cocks... they are almost all here. Get ready, Majorie."

She exploded in every emotion possible, at those words. Lust, rage, excitement, shame... I had to sit down just to process it all, and for a moment I couldn't speak or think. But I pulled myself together, and clicked the button.

There were only two men actually on the line. There are not a lot of people I'd open Majorie up to like this, even though a distant window. But a friend had hacked me up something a little special, and I was also able to play three recordings into the mix. They were also masturbation sounds, and they had nothing to do with Majorie, but she'd never be able to work that out. She'd just hear a lot of men coming.

Men and women are deeply wired to get off on the sounds of the opposite gender cumming. It makes perfect sense; the female orgasm convulses the belly in an attempt to draw sperm in deeper, so evolution knows that's a good time for a man to cum. Majorie tried to fight her reaction down, but those sounds sank straight into her mind, and she was fully aflame in seconds. I got behind her and stroked her again, cupped her breasts, bit her neck and ground my cock against her ass. She moaned, suddenly and long and deep and helplessly, and I turned the controls up to eight.

Then I pushed her, stopped, pushed her again... she fought like mad to hold it back, but then there was an explosion in her mind -- I guessed one of the guys on the line was cumming. She arched helplessly, and what she felt, even over the lust, was a kind of intensely pleased satisfaction. Her body had made a man come. A second after that and she was throwing herself over the edge as hard as I've ever felt.

I pinned her there and turned the control up to eleven.

She screamed, repeatedly, writhing in a kind of agonized ecstasy, her mind a bright white flame of desperation. I slapped oil on her clenching ass, took my cock out and ground it against her, and got my fingernails into her nipples. And there must have been another orgasm on the line, because that's when I found out that it was possible for a woman to come even if I was pinning her down. She came magnificently, and started screaming "Fuck me! Come on me while they watch! Use me! Fuck me up!"

I think I set a record for getting a woman out of handcuffs. She topped to the ground, still tied by the ankles, and I got the vibrator off of her and myself in her. She kept coming, holding the headphones to her ears and sobbing in desire, working her hips for me, unable to stop coming. I pounded her until I couldn't take it another second, then pulled out, and came on her breasts and belly. I fingered her, gasping, until she kind of went still. Then, with trembling hands, she cupped the cum off her skin and licked it up. The headphones slid off her; the line had gone dead.

She whimpered incoherently, and it took me a few seconds to realize she was saying "close drapes... close them..."

I staggered to my feet and closed them. She crawled to my feet and wrapped herself around them. I smiled down at her.

"There's -- things -- in a woman -- that should never come out," she whimpered. "Darkness... No one should see... you made it come out... scared... so scared... you're evil..."

"Yes." I scooped her up, and carried her to the bedroom. I kissed her and pet her all over, just enjoying how nicely shaped she was and how utterly I could bend her. Shuddering, she fell asleep, clinging to my thigh, with my hand in her hair. She was perfect. I'd have to find another one like her.


Want to know one of the quick ways I can pick up cash? I go to a bar, especially if there's a convention in town. I strike up a conversation, and complain about being psychic. When the laughing starts, I wager ten dollars (it moves up for fifty after a few scores) that I can guess what number they are thinking of, from one to ten. I don't actually read thoughts, but there's a simple trick that makes it work for me. I have them write the number down and hand the paper to one of their friends. Then I close my eyes and say the numbers from one to ten, aloud, slowly. When I speak their chosen number, there's a little emotional spike that happens, no matter how good their poker face is. I get it right over 95% of the time --when I run into the very rare people I can't read, I still have better than one in ten odds of getting it right, because there are patterns in the numbers people pick.

I have no idea why, but men in general rarely pick the number two, and women strongly avoid one. Few people pick ten, and plain women never do. Women are very fond of prime numbers. People who have just eaten, amusingly, often pick eight. And mostly, everyone likes seven.

My best run was the night that a convention of bankers was in town. I made two thousand that night; there's nothing like the foolish arrogance of people who think they are the masters of the numbers. Every one of those fuckers brought one of their friends over, so they could watch them lose, too.

Between poker winnings, investments and the last windfall, my cash position was around four fifty. If I gave it over to an investment broker to handle, I could just let it grow at 7%, and that would take care of my eventual retirement, but it wouldn't give me current income. And as much fun conning rich women was, it wasn't a game I could play twice in the same town.


I made an anonymous, fifty thou contribution to the university. It was a conscience thing; I'd blown up their gear, and I didn't blame them for shutting down the research.

That afternoon, I got a call.

"James... it's Angela."

"Hello, beautiful," I said. "I'm... surprised to hear from you. How are you?"

"Not well," she said. "I'm in voluntary checkin at Madison. You've heard of it?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry... Was it your work? I know you did some high pressure stuff."

I sounded cool, but I was suddenly terrified. Madison was psychiatric.

"No," she said. "It's... more personal issues. I'd like to talk to you. I know we weren't... anything but fun and games, but I really need to talk to you about... those fun and games."

"Angela... What does your doctor say about this?"

"Please, James. I just need to talk to you. Here, at the hospital. It's not more than that, just talk. As friends."

I owed her this. "I'll be there in about an hour," I said, and hung up.


There was no fuss about letting me talk to her. As a voluntary patient, she could see anyone she liked. We got a small room to meet in, with a soundproof door and a window onto the main floor.

She gave me an tentative smile. "I'm going to go straight to the point. Since I stopped seeing you, I've had... issues. Sexual issues. I keep flashing back to the things we did, imagining them vividly. It was happening at work, when I slept, when I saw friends. I'd feel uncontrollable sexual need. Sometimes I got release by masturbating over and over. Sometimes I couldn't get release at all, no matter what I did. And then I... started throwing myself at guys, trying to get experiences like... we had. That was... a mistake," she said, her voice fragile.

"I'm so sorry," I said, earnestly. "But I don't think we should get back together, it sounds like I was somehow very bad for you-"

"Not asking for that," she said, unsteadily. "We were never together, James. We were just playmates, friends with amazing benefits. If I wanted another playdate, I wouldn't have asked for it here. I'm here to ask you if you... did something to me."

"That's cr -- that's absurd. What could I have possibly done?"

"I looked you up. You were doing parapsych research at the university, and they cut you off, very suddenly. No one would say why, but maybe it was an ethics issue? What were you researching?"

"It wasn't an ethics issue -- we had a lab accident and ruined some expensive gear. And we'd had no results to show for months of work... they just pulled the plug, that's all. We were studying the effects of mental activity on random chance, and nothing to do with anything remotely sexual."

"And the next night, we were playing poker and you had all the luck in the world. Including getting lucky with me. I practically crawled to you, and had orgasms like no one's ever seen. Every time I was with you I was a volcano, and... I've never been like that, ever. And don't take this wrong, but you're too old for me, and even so, just sitting here, I want you. I don't know what happened, but there's no way this is normal. You were studying random chance -- which sounds like luck to me. That's an expensive wristwatch you've got there. People say your poker game is pretty damn good. Maybe poker isn't as random for you as it is are for me? Maybe nothing is."

"Even if it was possible to affect random events -- and I was looking at random events at the quantum level, nothing as macro as a playing card -- that doesn't affect how cards are shuffled. You're way, way off base."

"But it could affect your luck when it came to knowing what to do with those cards. James... I know you have something going. When we were together, I was insanely needy -- when it suited you that I was needy. I wasn't otherwise. And you're a great guy and all, but you're not what usually flips my trigger. I'm not the sort that licks feet and begs for sex. Women like that are out there, but I'm not one of them. I know exactly what I like and don't like... but now I'm obsessed with things that used to horrify me. And even when I... arrange to get them from other men... it doesn't work. Fuckdamnit... I'm broken. And I think you are responsible somehow."

"Angela, I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what happened to you, but it makes me very sad, and I hope you can get good help here." I got up to leave.

"Alright, you won't talk. Let me make you a different proposition. Let's go pro together."

"There's no such thing as teams in pro poker. And you know this. Pairs get spilt up at the tables, for very obvious reasons."

"But online, it can be arranged."

"No. There are ways of detecting colluding players. My play is clean. I'm not going to muddy it up, not when I have a real chance to go pro someday."

"James... please. I want what you gave me -- no matter how you did it. I wasn't an ice queen when I was with you. I was... I had something new, wild, I felt alive. Please give it back to me, even if it's not good for me, I don't care!"

"Goodbye, Angela. I hope things get better for you. Don't call me again."

She cried, and I couldn't block out her sadness. I left.


It was at this time that I realized just how wicked I'd become. I can't describe my reaction to this well. I knew what I did was wrong and selfish; I just didn't care much. Somehow, being able to do something, made it ok that I did it. Nietzsche might have been proud of me, but I was not proud of myself.

But I certainly didn't stop, even after seeing Angela. I realize, now, that I'd stumbled on a drug so addictive that I'd gone out of control on the first day. At the time, I only knew I was on a joyride and made women moan in delight, and it was all good.

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