I stood over the once-proud beauty. Taking her hair in one hand, rubbing my manhood up and down her cheek. A trail of cum left behind on the smooth skin. She was an angel drenched in my seed, and filled with it too. And I had more and more to flood her with—more than I could believe. My need to take her, fill her, shape her, was endless.

“You’ll be mine. Forever.”

“I’ll be yours. Forever!”

She repeated obediently.  Fervently. Blissful warmth tinging her voice like the lip print around a glass. After a dose of my cum, they all repeat whatever I say. They believe whatever I say. My words become the truth that the core of their thought wraps around.

“You love my cock.”

“I love your cock.”

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

“You'll be my love slave. From now on.”

“I'll be your love slave from now on.”

“You love being in love with me.”

“I love being in love with you.”

“You want me in charge of your life.”

“I want you in charge of my life.”

I was getting hard again already. Even in her tranced state, she could sense the growth of my member as it edged toward her face. Her plush, perfect lips strained forward, wanting to hold me in the sweet warm cradle of her mouth.

Control is big for me. It's what I want, I've realized, more than anything. But with this particular beauty on her knees before me—gorgeous almost beyond compare, and who had otherwise possessed a completely indomitable will before tasting my seed—now swearing her life over to my care, I realized truly that this situation was all entirely out of control.

Even mine.

* * * * *

East Side Pages, the bookstore where I worked, was a doomed enterprise. And like most doomed enterprises (even all of them?), there was much to admire about it. No one cares about something terrible falling apart, after all. Or at least if they do, they’re not sad about it.

In the middle of a city conflicted with every manner of race, gender, and class issues you could imagine, the bookstore is a natural equalizer. Cross-sections of every kind of people like to read. And in reading, they more about their own problems, more about the arguments that oppose them. They discover compromise and re-evaluate the strength of their positions. From fiction they learn the lives of others—a lifetime of reading fiction is the lifetime of knowing the lifetimes of thousands, for somehow even in all the strange lie of their factual being they contain a reality more spiritually satisfying than any other. New viewpoints, articulated and elaborated, backed with evidence and anecdote, are the lifeblood of new ideas to solve problems which plague communities for ages. It’s a privilege to work in a place with so much concentrated wisdom, humor, and hope.

But over the past few months, all that privilege had been weighed down by the cold realities of finance, and its ceaseless shadowing of every movement my beautiful boss, Dawn, had to take to try and keep us afloat.

Like most dooms, the doom of East Side Pages started with a person. And like most doomed persons, that doom started with her flaws.

She has an enormous number of qualities. Besides being absolutely heartbreaking beautiful and blonde (and of course, I would lead with that, horndog that I've become), she was intelligent, decisive, and introspective. As an eloquent speaker in the LGBT community, she found her purpose in society as the lesbian who gave back—the organizer, the meeting-former.

Dawn’s purpose, specifically, was that she wanted to save all the women in the city from patriarchy. Men were, while not necessarily foul creatures, fundamentally flawed creatures whose rule was perpetuated and validated simply by the fact that they had always ruled. I’ve got my graduate degree in liberal arts. I know exactly where her arguments are coming from, and I even drew from them to write my thesis.

But it’s funny how a little thing like having eager sex slaves to do your every last erotic bidding sort of rearranges your thoughts on the ills of patriarchy.

Everything I do to Mallory, my sex slave girlfriend, is absolutely perfect and correct. I know, because she feels wonderful with each new command, each new action I do to her. And I know she feels wonderful because I ordered her to feel that way, because her sensational body had become, over the past five days since I had discovered my incredible power, little more than the living instrument of my will upon her.

Just as she wanted. And just as I had made her want.

Thoughts on equality, noble and well-intentioned, start to slide away under the force of so much perfect, sensual control of a beautiful woman like Mallory. And the young, tiny beauty Lori. And I started to daydream, much more than I should, about taking Dawn somehow, and maybe even her beautiful black partner, Celise.

But Dawn’s flaws weren’t that she cared about equality. It’s just that she cared too much—past the point of sense. Every weekend, East Side Pages held a new fundraiser for a different cause, and each fundraiser with its own set of drinks and eats and seating, all of which was paid for out of the store’s earnings. She could have taken money from the fundraising itself, a token fee even to cover expenses, but she always insisted that the increased presence of bodies in the store would make up the lost revenue. She had too much guilt, and too much introspection of that guilt, to ever do what she perceived as taking advantage of the plights of others.

But it was the same bodies at every fundraiser, or near enough. And so they had seen what Dawn’s bookstore had to offer. And they didn’t care to buy any more than they had the week before, or the week before that, or so on.

This was all compounded by Dawn’s rallying against the status quo. Everyone who lived in that status quo—the entirety of the middle class—felt unwelcome in her store. Even the kids who grew up with the store, went to the rallies and parties she organized, eventually got nice jobs and started to feel their own wealth as a form of oppression when inundated with Dawn’s rhetoric. But those nice-job-havers wanted to enjoy their wealth, like anybody did. And Dawn’s positions didn’t allow them to enter her shop without guilt.

Dawn’s one last shot at redemption was the Ice Festival. The problem was, she didn’t have a chance of making it happen.

But I did. I was going to stop the doom of East Side Pages. I had the power in my hands. Or...well, my cock, really.

Thursday was the day before the Festival. Dawn was out of the shop, trying to drum up local business support for the Festival and to ensure that they would be doing their part. The owner of a nearby knife shop, Blade Works, was actually in charge of the festival itself, but there was no way that Dawn was going to leave her fate up to someone else.

She had her own control issues, just like I had mine. It’s just that mine ended up being more pressing than hers.

So, that morning, I was at the counter with my beautiful girl, Mallory, slowly grinding my fingers into her bare, wet pussy from behind her as she tried to catalog inventory. She wasn’t doing a very good job. It was a mean thing to do, distracting her like that, but I couldn’t help myself. Mallory was an absolute beauty.

The tiny pleated skirt she wore showed off the extravagant, shiny length of her tanned, toned legs. High heeled gladiator-style booties lifted her ass even higher, shaping her delicious curves for maximum male engagement. The only modest thing about her outfit was the shirt she wore, just a regular blue tee with a pink bear on it, but with the dense heaviness of her rounded chest and the way my presence made her nipples constantly erect in helpless arousal, there was nothing truly modest about it. Her dark hair was wrapped in sexy layers of volume around her hair, pinned up in an elegant mess. Small shiny strands attended her cheeks and brow.

“Baby, I know you’re…what you’re doing, but…”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “You’re so sexy when you squirm.”

I leaned in, letting her feel the hardness of my length against the bare back of her thigh. “You feel what you do to me?”

She gasped lightly. “How are you hard? After last night, and this morning…god. Master…”

Oh yeah. That was nice. Hearing her moan out my title like that.

Over the past several days, every time she’d gotten a load of my cum—and that was several times a day, if I could help it—I washed her beautiful brain with some basic tenets:

- She trusted me completely.

- She loved me totally.

- I was her Master.

- She was my eager, happy slave.

- Obeying me gave her pleasure.

- She loved my cock.

Occasionally, depending on my mood, some other notions would get thrown into the mix. That she wanted no man but me. That she was thrilled to be my girlfriend. That she daydreamed about being my wife.

That one in particular—the wife daydreams—was interesting to me because it seemed to wear off after a day or so. It was a passing fantasy, one brought to my mind as I had her under the influence of my cum and I imagined her beautiful young body in a bridal gown and covered in my cum. But then, the next day, she kept hinting at our life together, at what sort of weddings I liked, that sort of thing.

Ick. No thanks. Maybe, but not yet. Why commit myself like that to Mallory when potentially I could have any woman in the world think that way about me?

Strangely, though, just not mentioning that particular command anymore seemed to make it go away. Or push it under. Perhaps every time she went under, the most recent commands held the most weight with her?

I’d have to do more testing to find out. And sliding my fingers deeper into the hot, slippery wet folds of her pussy, I definitely knew that showering Mallory with my cum and layering her servile mind with commands was one thing I could do whenever I felt like it.

She bit down on her lower lip, the only outward sign of the pleasure coursing through her body as my fingers worked their magic. Her hips pressed back against me in subtle, controlled movements—the kind of restrained motion that wouldn’t draw attention if someone happened to glance our way. Her breathing remained measured, almost professional, even as her inner walls clenched around my digits in rhythmic waves.

“That’s it,” I whispered against her ear. “Cum for me, baby. Nice and quiet.”

A shudder ran through her frame. Her free hand gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening slightly as she fought to maintain her composure. From the outside, anyone walking in would see only a beautiful woman flushed from exertion, her eyes slightly glazed as if she’d been concentrating hard on her work. They wouldn’t see the way her thighs trembled. They wouldn’t hear the tiny, strangled breath she released through her nose as the orgasm rolled through her.

It was this duality I loved most about what I’d done to her—the way she could maintain that veneer of normalcy while being completely undone beneath my touch. She was a walking contradiction: the perfect employee on the surface, utterly enslaved to my desires underneath.