by Paul Blades
Blackthorne reveled in his orgasm. His lust spilled throughout the room. Dolores and the maid swooned as his psyche pierced them and filled them with desire. He sent fierce messages of pleasure through his hands to the body of the now enthralled woman.
When his discharge was finished, Jonathan eased the lovely woman's head off his loins. He didn't need to tell her her duties. He had implanted them deeply inside of her. She would serve her husband joyfully. She would also report to him, Jonathan, anything her husband did that might not be in Jonathan's interests. All that had already been accomplished with a simple twist of her mind. He needed to complete the show for Conway's sake.
Conway's mouth was hung open in stupefaction. He had just watched his wife, who spurned oral sex, reach climax just from sucking off Blackthorne's cock. And she had done it willingly, enthusiastically. She had stripped in front of all of them without a word of protest. Could this be real?
Jonathan addressed the dizzy, satiated women. “Anna, listen to me,” he said. The woman's eyes sprung open. “You aren't finished yet,” he reminded her.
The woman's face lit up as if she had remembered she had left the gas burner on at home. Keeping her hands folded behind her back, she shifted on her knees and faced her husband, her new lord. Tears began to flow to her eyes. Her face cringed in misery. “I'm sorry, Charles,” she said, earnestly. “I'll never do it again, I promise. Please, please forgive me. I'll do anything for you, I promise, please.” She was staring into his face, searching for a sign of redemption. Her cheeks were wet and her chest heaved. “I'm so sorry,” she whined in a long, mournful voice.
Conway looked at her. The man had done it. He had really done it. Anna, comely and enticing in her naked submission, her expression grim and remorseful, was his again and he could do anything he wanted with her. He hurriedly released his already stiffened cock from his pants.
"Come here and suck my cock, Anna. If you do a good job, I'll forgive you."
Anna sobbed in relief. She walked on her knees over to him and laid her head in his lap. Her rejoicing mouth engulfed his cock and she began to suck it lovingly. It took Chuck only a few minutes to come. His eyes rolled back and he groaned as he shot his sperm into her mouth. Anna drank it readily, joyously. When Chuck was done, he patted her on the head. “That was great, Anna,” he said.
"So,” Jonathan asked the sated CEO, “do we have a deal?"
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CHAPTER NINE
Of course they had a deal. Jonathan knew it all along. He had pilfered Anna's mind at lunch and saw immediately Conway would play ball. He had just a few more words for Anna before she left with her new lord and master.
"Anna,” he told her, “I want you to look at something.” He pulled from his pocket a small, metal replica of the pentagram he had mounted in his library and in the servant's dorm and soon would have mounted in every room of the huge mansion, even the bathrooms. “I want you to take a good look at this, Anna,” he said. She had turned when he spoke to her and she shifted towards him on her knees, a dollop of her husband's cum on her lower lip, her arms still dutifully pinioned behind her back as if held there by iron chains. Her vision shifted from Jonathan's face to his hand. As she gazed at the 3” wide, dull copper colored, round object, he created a wellspring of lust and fear inside the young woman.
"It's the symbol of your submission, Anna,” the blond man told her. He was standing before her, the disk held at the level of her eyes. “It is the talisman of my will. Whenever you see it, you will remember what you have become, my servant, and the servant of my followers. It will strengthen your need for obedience and you will obey anyone who shows it to you. It will drive your lusts, cause your pussy to burn with need. Tomorrow, after your master goes to work, you will return here and a copy of this symbol will be marked on your body as a permanent reminder of who you now are."
Anna stared at the symbol with horror. She could not tear her gaze from it. The thought of carrying such a powerful and dreadful reminder of her enslavement on her flesh was terrifying and she felt a deep ache of fear inside her. Jonathan stroked that fear until it became a well of pain.
"As you feel now is how you will feel when even the thought of disobedience crosses your mind. Kiss the talisman and let its power fill you."
The frightened, anguished woman cringed at the thought of contact with the evil sign, but she was compelled to obey. She bent her head foreword, her straight, jet black hair framing her face like a curtain. Just as her lips touched it, Blackthorne sent another, fierce message of fear and lust through her. She moaned and sobbed and her naked body trembled, unable to tear her lips from the offensive object.
"All right, Anna,” Jonathan finally told her. He released her mind and she collapsed to the floor.
The symbol, of course had no power. Jonathan was not a magician or a wizard. He couldn't put spells on things. But if a frightened, enthralled mind thought the device had power, then it did. Anna would cringe with fear and lust whenever she saw it. And more conveniently, if he ever had the need to take Anna way from Chuck, she would be useful to any of his followers who possessed one of the precious talismans.
Anna, at Jonathan's urging, rose from the floor and sought out her clothes. Chuck also rose to his feet. He watched his altered wife as she dolefully redonned her bright, happy dress and wondered if he had just sold his soul to the devil. He looked at Blackthorne. Maybe he had. But it was going to be a swell ride.
After that, gaining full control of the workings of Marjoram Industries was easy. He didn't grant his favors to all of the Board members, just the ones he and Conway agreed were essential. Anna was very useful in convincing the men's wives or lovers to come visit the mansion, where she cooperated enthusiastically in their enthrallments. The talismans were made in extremely limited editions and he granted access to them sparingly. He had had them constructed in a way that only the originals, made under his strict license from a dye he kept locked in a special safe he had designed in his bedroom, would be recognized by the women as authentic, thereby eliminating the risk of counterfeits.
And so over the next few months, Jonathan began to look for an appropriate location for what was his next need. He needed, in essence, a fortress which would provide him unlimited privacy, a place to conduct some of his experiments and a barrier that would make the task of his pursuer, when he came, more difficult. It would need to be remote, but not so inaccessible as to restrict his need to move about the country. When he learned about the relative sovereignty of American Indian reservations, and came to appreciate the still powerful pull of old customs and beliefs among them, especially among certain Indian tribes of the American Southwest, a plan began to formulate itself. He made a study of various reservations and tribes and came to believe the Apache Chiracahua Reservation near the New Mexico panhandle was perfect for his needs. It was extremely remote. The citizens of the reservations were poor and the land barely supported them. Their beliefs in their heritage was strong. And the Apache warriors had been among the most fierce and feared in the American West.
He made a long, exhaustive study of Apache religion, history and culture. He even hired an Apache to teach him the language, something, to his instructor's amazement, he was able to master in a few short weeks. Having prepared himself, he flew down to Los Cruces and drove in a large motor home, along with his familiar and her three handlers, to the reservation. He had paved his way by sending a message via his instructor to one of the more prestigious shamans. Word was returned he would see him.
He met the old, haggard priest outside of a broken down trailer deep inside the reservation. Jonathan had learned as much as he could about the man before he came. He spent most of his days meditating and praying. He survived by giving blessings and performing ceremonies for fellow tribe members, receiving food and other offerings in return. No one was sure how old he was. His father had fought with Geronimo in the last, great Indian uprising in the West. Sometimes, he would disappear
for months at a time, only to be found one day back at his perch in front of the teepee, meditating in the scorching New Mexico desert sun, waiting for a customer.
Jonathan, his familiar and her handlers accompanying him, had to travel twenty miles along a washed out, dirt roadway to get to him. The small, dirty and rusty, aluminum trailer rested on its axles and sat about 100 yards or so off of the road. He was able to negotiate the motor home to within about 20 yards of it. It had no heat, hot water or electricity. The blazing desert sun glinted off of it almost painfully. He left the women in the van and slowly approached the ancient man who was sitting cross legged outside of a small, torn and tattered teepee. He had long, thin, sparse, grey hair that was being cast about by the strong, hot wind. He was wearing a faded, cotton, brown and white checkered, long sleeved shirt buttoned to his neck, an old and torn pair of bleached out jeans and worn, yellowish work boots with a hole in one of the soles. His eyes were dark and piercing, his face wrinkled, with deep gullies in his cheeks. “Ta hey,” Jonathan told the man and sat down across from him. The man repeated the greeting and resumed his silence.
The two men, the otherworlder and the priest, sat in the desert sun for two hours wordlessly. The old man kept his eyes closed for most of the time, opening them now and again to take in the form of the blond haired white man and then closing them again. Jonathan could feel the old man probing him with his mind. He let him and examined him in return. He was a man wise in the ways of spirituality and a strong believer in the powers of emotions and dreams. Jonathan let his own powers flow through the man, letting him feel them, understand them. He could not control the old man or any males for that matter. He could read their emotions and, to some extent their minds, when thoughts and emotions were coupled strongly together. The old Indian, however, was a ruler of emotions and thoughts, and his musings were impenetrable.
At the end of the second hour, the old man suddenly got up and went into the shabby tent. He returned with a bottle of whiskey and two battered tin cups. He poured some liquor in both and offered one to Blackthorne. He raised his cup and said, “Ta hey.” Jonathan repeated the toast and drank the harsh, strong liquid down.
The man finally spoke in Apache. “Many years ago, I had a vision about a man like you. He arose from the mist in the dreams of a white woman. He had powers like yours. The man came to me with an eagle's feather in one hand and in the upraised palm of his other hand he had the sun. He was a very powerful spirit. Everywhere he stepped the land turned green and fruitful. He gave the men strength and made the women fecund. He spilled his seed onto the ground and a great fire erupted, driving all of our years of suffering away. The people turned back to the old ways and the land, farther than an eagle can fly in a day, was ours again."
The man paused and took a breath. He was not finished and Jonathan knew better than to interrupt him. After several minutes, he resumed.
"I do not know if you are that man or not. You have the powers the vision spoke of. The woman is here. I would see her."
Jonathan sent a strong message to his familiar in the motor home. Diane spent most of her days under the spell of lust and need he had imposed on her. She did have times of clarity, times, usually when she would bemoan her fate and yearn for freedom, but she was too strongly bound to the dream man to ever think of trying to leave him. Not that she would have had any opportunities to do so. She was carefully guarded at all times by the three young women her dream man had recruited. And each time she dared to conceive of her separation from him, her soul would ache and she would break into tears.
The naked, blond woman came tip toeing out of the motor home. She was unused to being unescorted and was usually fettered or bound. The bright, early afternoon sunlight blinded her at first. She put her hand over her eyes and saw the old man sitting in the dust and her lord sitting opposite him. She was frightened. He had sold his beautiful sister Nadine to those men many months ago. Was he going to sell her to the old man? Had she served her usefulness to her mysterious and powerful captor? She began to cry as she approached the men slowly and fearfully, walking carefully over the rocky, pitted ground in her bare feet, her large breasts swaying and jostling, her hands up and out from her body for balance. Her thick blond hair had grown longer since she had been enthralled and, caught in the strong wind, it cascaded behind her like a flowing mane. Jonathan's servants kept her pale, voluptuous body clean and soft. Her outward appearance showed none of the ravages her psyche had born. She was a beautiful, almost angelic sight. On her belly, above her hairless mons, she bore the tattoo of Jonathan's pentagram.
When she finally reached where the men were sitting, Jonathan compelled her with his mind to kneel next to the old man, her back erect, her knees spread, her hands crossed behind her. He could have wiped her fear away with a thought. He did not care to. He wanted the old man to feel the strength of his power in her.
When Diane was settled next to the old man, he spoke again. “I want to feel her soul," he said. “Do not interfere."
The old man got up from his cross legged position and knelt in front of the trembling, unhappy Diane. The man had spoken a strange language. There was something going on between the two men and she couldn't tell what it was. The man raised his head level to hers, placed his hands on either side of her face and peered into her eyes. He held her there, her vision locked to his, for a long time. His black, almost dead eyes were transfixing to her and she quickly lost herself in them. Suddenly, she felt like he was inside her. There was a bright light in her head and she could feel the inquiring probes of his consciousness piercing her brain. Her mind screamed in terror. She tried to move away from the old man with his gnarly, old hands, wrinkled face and steely black eyes. She was paralyzed. When her mind reached out for her master, seeking his essence, she could not find him. Her whole body cringed with anguish.
Finally, the man had seen enough and he withdrew his gaze from her. Diane felt she had been released from the torments of hell. Her chest heaved for breath and her body was shivering. The man knelt in front of her for a few moments, considering her naked body. He then came closer to her again, reached out his strong, hot, wrinkled hands and proceeded to examine every inch of her flesh.
Diane cringed as she felt his scratchy hands flow over her shoulders and arms. He examined both of her hands carefully before returning them to behind her back. He lifted her heavy breasts, weighing them, teasing the fat nipples to hardness and then pushing them against her chest as if testing their resilience. He then leaned over and took her teats in his mouth, one after the other, suckling at her long and hard until she moaned. She whined when he pushed her callously over into the dust and took his time feeling the muscles of her legs from the very tops of her thighs all the way to her ankles. Rolling her over, he ran his hands along her back and over her rump. He was silent as he worked; his only sounds an occasional grunt or wheeze.
The dazed and terrified familiar obeyed the man without questioning his right to manhandle her. Her arms stayed pressed behind her back obediently and she remained deathly silent except for little moans or cries when the man probed a muscle or moved her body this way or that. She didn't know whether she should pray the man find her body satisfactory for whatever purpose he had or reject her. In the first case, the dream man might leave her here with him so he could work some cruel, inhumane purpose on her. On the other hand, if she were found unsuitable, her unhappy ruler would certainly inflict prolonged, intense punishment.
When he had rolled Diane again onto her back, he placed his hands under her pale thighs and raised them, pushing them back until her knees touched her breasts. He then dipped his gray haired head and placed his lips on her hairless, exposed sex. Diane jumped with passion and fear when she felt his hot lips and tongue press against the tender flesh of her vulva. A fierce warmth spread from his mouth over her loins, up her torso and into her brain. Her body shivered as she felt him run his rough tongue along her crevasse up and down and back again until it softened an
d yielded and he could thrust it inside her. Diane could see the man's scraggly, gray head between her thighs, feel his iron grip on her legs. Her back arched painfully over her folded arms behind her. She looked desperately for a view of her lord. She saw him, sitting calmly, looking dispassionately at her. She was frantic that her worries about being sold to the old man were coming true. She wanted to cry out to him, to beg he not send her away, but she knew too well the punishment for speech. She had started to cry again. Neither the old man nor the being who had enthralled her paid it any mind. The man's tongue had begun to excite her beyond tolerance and the confused and terrified woman gave out a low, unhappy moan of passion. The man's long, hot tongue was pressed deeply into her velvet passage. It was like he was trying to taste her, to gain the flavor of her soul. She could feel it washing along the sides of her lush canal.
The old man, satisfied at last, finally released her and pulled her back to her knees. She was covered with sweat and dirty and dusty from rolling on the ground. Her face was wet with her tears and her beautiful, long, blond hair was tangled and knotted.
