Renee raised her eyebrow disapprovingly as I placed my empty glass back on the table. “That’s your second,” she pointed out, “and I’ve barely taken a sip of mine. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I shrugged. “I’m having a rough time, is all. Work has been insane, and I’ve got this stupid bake sale to plan for the PTA, and the kids have been ill and it’s all just … gurggh.”. I make a face and dangle my hands to show the depth of ‘gurggh-iness’ I’m feeling.
“You *look* tired.” says she.
“Wow. Thanks!” I reply, “That’s good to hear.” I picked up my glass and fiddled with the stem. “Also my husband thinks I’m having an affair.”
She spluttered a fine spray of surprise through her Chablis. “Wait, what? Are you?”
I sighed. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t have *time* to have an affair. That’s the problem. We haven’t … you know … in weeks.”
“He thinks you’re getting it somewhere else?”
“Uh huh.” I shook my head, “He doesn’t get that maybe I’m just not that interested.”
“In him?”
“No, I mean … you know … in sex.”
Renee just smiled and nodded to my empty glass. “Maybe you need to get laid? Stress is a killer, you know.”
I groan, “Oh God, that reminds me. I’ve promised Louise that I’ll go and see a hypnotist.”
She makes her incredulous face. “A hypnotist?”
“Yeah, she went on and on about it for hours. She swears it’ll help me relax. She said something about my energy being misaligned. She may have used the word ‘Chakra’.”
“Christ.”
“I know, but she means well, and maybe it’ll help?”
“Ha, yeah, or they’ll brainwash you into being some kind of mindless sex-kitten”.
I burst out laughing, “Chance would be a fine thing. I could do with some mindless sex.”
The following Saturday found me outside an ugly brick townhouse in a soulless part of town. A brass plate at the side of the door read “Mephistopheles and Mesmer, Quasi-Licensed Hynpologists At Large”. I frowned and pushed the buzzer. After a few moments, the door creaked open to reveal a tall gentleman of dramatic appearance. He had a high widow’s peak with a lick of red hair jutting straight up, making his forehead look even longer than really was. He wore black pince-nez on the long, thin nose that sat broodily above his cruel mouth. Completing the picture was a neatly triangular beard which had been waxed to a point just above his breast bone. He wore a dark purple suit with a red handkerchief in the breast pocket. He looked devilish: like a crude sketch of villainy. He regarded me for a couple of seconds, twirling his beard around his finger, as though calculating how much I weighed.
“Yes?” He asked, finally.
“Hi,” I said, somewhat taken aback, “I’m Mrs Morteaux, Ivana Morteaux. I have an appointment for a -“, I inspected the piece of paper I was clutching, “A deep-cleansing relaxation session.”
He smiled at me without showing his teeth. “Excellent,” he purred, rubbing his hands together, “I’m Dr Mephistopheles. You’re here just in time. You had better step into … ahaha … my parlour”. Thunder boomed ominously through the streets.
“Um…okay,” I said, casting a quick look at the sky, and followed him into the house. He led me down a long hallway of sepia portraits into a small, chintzily decorated room, and ushered me to an armchair.
“I just have a few things for you to … aha … sign”, he said, and handed me a clipboard and a biro. The pen, I noted, had red ink. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Oh,” I said, taking the proffered papers, “That would be smashing, thanks. Milk and two sugars please.”
He made a funny little mock bow, ending with a flourish of his right hand, and walked from the room. While he was gone, I read through the paperwork. It all seemed very standard. Indemnify. First party agrees. Entertainment purposes only. Liabilities with respect to. The aforementioned. I skipped through to the end of the forms and scrawled my signature.
I looked up as the doctor returned. He set the tea down on a low table by my chair and, muttering under his breath, checked the paperwork. He took the opposite chair and said, “So, Mrs Morteaux, what seems to be the problem? How can I help you today?”
I sighed, “I’m not sure, to be honest.” I confessed, “My sister recommended you to me. I’ve been under a lot of stress recently, and it’s been affecting my home life. I’ve been a little, uh, uptight.”
He tugged gently on his beard and peered into my face. “I see. You need some help to, ahem, loosen up?”. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large gold watch, “I think we can help you there. Just keep looking at the watch and listen to the sound of my voice…”, and the next thing I knew, he was walking me out of the front door and I was blinking in the afternoon sunshine. I felt calmer, I felt refreshed.
Sunday was dull, we saw my parents, I took the kids to their various clubs and social meetings, and I had to make a costume for a school play. Monday I had a late shift at the diner.
I had been rushed off my feet all afternoon, and I was tired and grumpy when my last customer came in. I saw him as soon as he opened the door and let himself in from the rain. Tall, dark, handsome. He had cheery blue eyes under a mop of black hair and, as soon as he saw me, he smiled meltingly. He sat toward the back of the diner with his arm across the top of the chair, sprawled comfortably in the cheap plastic seat.
I effected my best Customer Service Face and walked over to take his order.
“Hi!”, I said, “Miserable weather we’re having, huh? Can I getcha something?”.
“Well aren’t you just the most beautiful thing I’ve seen today?” He replied.
This is the sort of thing that happens when you’re a waitress working late. Flirtatious customers are fun for the first week, but rapidly become a nuisance.
“Uh-huh”, I said, “That’s very kind. So how about some coffee? Maybe some pie?”
In response, he just looked at me. That doesn’t do it justice – he *regarded* me, as though I were an exhibit at a gallery. His eyes took in every single inch of me, travelling from my hair and my face down my neck. He stared hungrily at the swell of my breasts under my work blouse, and glanced over my arms, taking in my painted fingernails, slightly chipped from the day’s work. He inspected my waist, and the soft curve of my hips and swept his gaze down the length of my legs to my feet and back again to my eyes. Ordinarily this would make my skin crawl, but for some reason I felt an urge to twirl for him, to display myself. I wanted to let him see me. I wanted to be desired. A strange electric tingle played across my skin, like the delicious chill of a breeze on a hot day.
“Uh, yeah,” he drawled. “Coffee sounds great. Just black, please.”
I flashed a weak smile and stammered “C-coming right up!”
I felt strangely flushed as I walked away from the table. My pulse was quickened and a strange heat was rising at the nape of my neck. While I made the coffee, I thought about his eyes undressing me and, as though on auto-pilot, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse, and rolled my skirt up by a couple of inches before returning to the table with the coffee. “Here you go.” I said, and leaned all the way down as I placed his cup on the table. He looked up at me and smiled again. He made no attempt to hide that he was looking down my newly unbuttoned top. “Can I get you anything else?” I asked.
“Well how about your phone number?” he smirked.
I blushed. “I’m married”.
He held up his left hand and showed me his wedding band. “Me too.”
I looked at him, gauging his expression. After deciding that he was serious, I pulled my pen and notepad from my blouse pocket, wrote my mobile number down, tore off the page and handed it to him. He blew me a kiss as he pocketed it and I felt my pulse skip a beat again. I felt butterflies in my tummy. I felt a tingle between my legs.
“I’m Mark,” he said.
“I’m Ivana.” I replied, and we shook hands.
That night I was sat watching TV with my husband, when I felt my phone vibrate. I slipped it from my pocket furtively and swiped it unlocked. The message made the hackles rise at the back of my neck. “Hey it’s me Mark this is my no. What you up to? Xx”
I glanced over at my husband, but he was utterly engrossed in the show. “Hey! Not much just chilling. You? xox”. My heart beat faster and I nervously placed the phone on the arm of the couch where I could see it.
When it vibrated again a moment later I nearly leapt from my skin. “Same. Lol bit bored.”. I turned off the vibration and quickly thumbed a reply.
“Thats a pity. Can I help you with that? xx”. My heart is in my throat. My husband is still oblivious. I sit on the edge of my seat, scarcely daring to breathe.
“How about you send me a pic? ^^”. I switch the screen off and sit in silence for a few moments. I feel the electricity in my skin again and I say, “I’m just going to the toilet”, and make my way to the bathroom. When I get there, I undo my blouse completely and – after much ado with lighting and angles – I take a selfie from a high angle, blowing a kiss, my cleavage pushed upward. I quickly do my blouse up again, and send the photo to Mark before deleting it from my phone. I remember to flush as I leave the bathroom, and go back downstairs. A minute later, the light on my phone flashes again.
“Fuck. You are so sexy. I would love to kiss those tits of yours. xxx”.
I smile to myself, “Maybe I’d like that too”, and I attach a smiling kissing face.
That night I made love to my husband for the first time in weeks, and I felt such passion that I had to bite his shoulder to stop myself from screaming as I came.
On Tuesday, I woke up in a great mood. After I got out of the shower, I fetched my work clothes from the wardrobe and laid them on the bed ready to wear. As I was towelling my wet hair, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and took a moment to admire myself. I hadn’t lost my figure, despite the kids: my legs were long and shapely, and I still had my girlish little waist and pert, firm breasts. As I looked at myself, I remembered the thrill of Mark’s eyes devouring me and frowned at the clothes on the bed. A sudden urge overtook me, and I put them away, then picked out my shortest skirt. Underneath it I wore stockings and a garter belt that my husband had bought for me one Valentine’s day. I kept my blouse unbuttoned and wore heels instead of my usual flats.
As I walked to work, I felt a new bounce in my step. Every guy I passed snuck a look in my direction, and the tingling feeling came back every time they did. By the time I had reached work, I realised that my panties were soaked.
I got a lot of attention that day, and I made sure to put an extra wiggle in my walk, and to find lots of opportunities to bend over. The more attention I got, the hornier I felt, and the hornier I felt, the more attention I craved. At lunch time I went to the corner store and I bought a pack of lollipops. I got a strange quivering thrill from sucking them while I spoke to our male customers, pulling them from my mouth from between pouted lips; twirling them around; licking the tips. After lunch things got quiet, and so I amused myself by sending increasingly dirty pictures to Mark: under my skirt, between my breasts, peeking into my panties, peeling apart my glistening labia. That evening, I was supposed to attend a PTA meeting, but I was tired, and instead – for the first time since our honeymoon – I sucked my husband’s cock until he came down my throat.
Wednesday I had a night shift. I wore the same skirt and stockings combo, but I forewent the panties. Every time I bent over, I was so aware of my naked pussy, freshly shaved that morning. When I got home, my husband was already in bed, and so I stayed up until 2, swiping through Tinder and clicking my way through Pornhub. I placed a towel down on the chair and I watched clip after clip of slut-wives sucking cock, getting fucked in car parks and glory holes, cuckolding their husbands. I fantasised about choosing a young, virile man on Tinder and inviting him over to come and fuck me on the couch, or over the kitchen worktop, while my husband slept upstairs, none the wiser. While I browsed, I teased my clit with one finger, edging myself for an hour before I eventually came, soaking the towel in my cum.
Thursday I worked the afternoon, and I skipped the bra, too. I admired myself in the mirror before I left. My bare breasts were squeezed tight in my too-small blouse so that my nipples were clearly visible. They hardened as I watched, sticking up through the thin material. My eyes were made up with smokey eye-shadow and heavy eye-liner, and my lipstick was a dark cock-sucking red. I pouted at my reflection and giggled at myself. I looked like a bimbo.
The weather was grey and drizzling as I walked to work, and I was glad of my umbrella, but my blouse still ended up semi-transparent, and I was keenly aware of male eyes crawling over my tits. As I walked I got a text from Mark.
“Hey hun,” I read, “free tmrw?”
I thought for a moment before replying, “Maybe. Got something in mind? xx”.
“Wondered if you fancied meeting up for a drink?”
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Sending flirty text messages was one thing, was I really ready to meet up with a stranger?
Work was dull for the first few hours, but around 5pm a group of guys came in together. They were laughing and shouting as they entered and took a booth together at the back of the diner. Fortunately, the place was empty when they arrived, so I waited a few minutes for them to settle noisily down. When I walked over to take their order, the one closest to me gave a low whistle.
“Well looky here”, he said, “ain’t you a picture of perfection?”
I blushed and curtsied. “You like what you see?” I asked.
He gave a dirty chuckle and said “Shit, honey, why don’t you scoot on to my lap and I’ll show you just how much I like it?”. His friends laughed with him, eyeing me up. I thought for a moment, then shrugged, and slid myself into his lap, placing my arms around his neck. His eyes bulged from his head and his friends fell silent. “Hey, sweetness, now what are you up to?” he asked.
I just pouted at him. “I thought you were going to show me something?” and I wriggled my butt in his lap. I felt his cock pulse underneath me.
“Well now,” he said, “I’m not looking for any trouble, you hear?”
I took his hand, ran it over my breasts and squeezed it there, then slid it down over my midriff and underneath my skirt, to where my shaven pudenda was wet and warm against his fingers. “That’s a pity.” I purred, and closed my eyes, resting my head on his shoulder. I heard one of his friends chuckle nervously, like a kid in trouble at school as my victim began to probe me with his finger. I felt his cock jump and twitch underneath me and I wriggled against it, enjoying the feeling under my butt. His friends were utterly silent, completely dumbstruck by what was happening. I felt him kiss my neck and I groaned, rubbing his hand against my wet sex. I let him finger me for a moment, then rose to my feet again, shook my head, and smoothed my skirt down. “So can I get you boys any coffee?”
He looked at me slack jawed and stammered for a moment before recovering his composure. “How’s about we just skip straight to that sweet dessert?” he swaggered.
I just shook my head, “I’m afraid I’m working right now, but maybe you could leave me your number and I’ll text you some other time?”
They goggled at me in silence for a minute, and then meekly ordered coffee. As I walked away with their coffee order, away from their hushed, urgent conversation, I pulled my phone from my apron pocket and tapped out a reply to Mark. “Sure. Where? When?”
The answer came as I was in the bathroom, working myself into a lather. He sent me the address of a nearby bar, and in response I sent him a 30 second video of my spasming vagina clenching around my three fingers.
Work seemed to crawl the following day. I had dressed up in my now-normal outfit: a tiny blouse, microskirt, stockings, no panties or bra, killer heels that pushed my ass upward ad gave me a tottering gait. My work clothes had attracted some attention: a few customers had made lewd comments, and one guy had risked placing his hand on my ass while I took his order. One youngish lady had told me that I looked like a disgusting, cheap slut and I should be ashamed of myself, and this – for some reason – made me even wetter than the compliments.
Finally, it was time to leave and I walked to the bar where I was meeting Mark. The evening air was chill and I was profoundly aware of my flowing juices and perky nipples as I walked. It occurred to me that the venue for our tryst was in a run-down area, and my thoughts turned to the dangers of being out on my own dressed like this. These thoughts frightened me and turned me on at the same time.
Just as I was about to reach the bar, I received a text. “Hey you. Mark here. Sorry I have to cancel I can’t make it 2nite can we rearrange xxx”. I felt disappointment crash down on me. I had been so excited.
I stood there on the corner, flicking through my phone idly, wondering what to do with my evening. I was outrageously horny, all dressed up in my tiny skirt, my tits visible through the cheap cotton of my blouse. I shouldn’t have been surprised when an expensive black car pulled up beside me. The driver rolled down the window and said “Hey, baby. You new around here? I haven’t seen you before.”. My skin began to tingle. The young man in the car was smooth-skinned and well-dressed. I found myself slinking over to the open window and leaning down to look him in the eye, smirking when I saw him ogle my exposed tits. I pulled my lollipop from my mouth.
“It’s my first time,” I said, “want to break me in?”
Twenty minutes later, I was in a public bathroom, gripping the sides of a wash basin, $100 clutched in my fist, while my first customer ploughed into me from behind. I watched him in the mirror, his face contorted as he pounded me with his trousers around his ankles. I was still wearing my skirt, with my blouse completely unbuttoned so that my tits spilled out, jiggling every time he thrust into me. I was so turned on by the thought of being a whore that I began to orgasm as soon as he entered me. He only lasted a few minutes. His hands groped my breasts roughly, pinching and squeezing my nipples, while his cock slammed into me over and over. As he fucked me he muttered to himself, calling me a slut, a whore, a horny bitch, and his words sent sparks of arousal directly to my soaking wet pussy. The rhythmic clenching of my vagina milked his cock and he shuddered as he spurted his semen inside me. The feeling of a stranger’s cum in my tight pussy made me go weak at the knees, and I gave him a long, grateful kiss goodbye when we parted ways.
As I walked home I could feel his cum rolling down inside me, and this feeling aroused me so much that I couldn’t help but flick my clitoris from time to time under my skirt, pausing by a lamp post to rub myself there in the street. As soon as I got home I ran to the bathroom and pushed out his load, feeling faintly remorseful as I flushed it away and wiped myself clean. I slipped on a pair of panties and a t-shirt and went to bed.
My husband awoke into semi-alertness as I slipped into bed beside him. He curled up behind me, spooning me, and sighed happily. I lay awake thinking about my first customer, fantasising about quitting my job and turning tricks full time. I could spend all day getting fucked by strangers in dirty bathroom stalls. The thought turned me on so much that I moaned quietly under my breath. A few minutes later I felt my husband’s hand tracing along my side, up and down. He stroked and scratched my back gently, and then slid his hand around to my front to squeeze my breast. He was groping me with another man’s cum still coating the walls of my womb, and I felt my body responding to him. I reached behind me and placed my hand around his stiffening cock. He responded by kissing the back of my neck, and I gently stroked him up and down while his fingers rolled my nipple, tugging at it gently. I pulled my panties to one side and slipped him inside me. He thrust into me in a single stroke and grunted “God, you’re so wet”.
I wriggled back against him, feeling him move inside me. “I’ve been thinking about you all day” I lied. As he began to pump me, lurid images played in my mind’s eye.
“I want you to fuck my ass”, I whispered, “I want you to cum in my tight ass.”
He moaned his assent, and I slid him from my dripping snatch and rubbed his head on my sphincter. He was slippery with my juices and the last remnants of a stranger’s cum, and the head of his member slipped past my puckered ring with only a little discomfort. He gently forced me open, and when he finally sank his length into me, I felt full to the point of breaking. I was too sensitive, every tiny movement of his cock sent waves of pleasure and pain through my body. He stretched me inside and my muscles relaxed to accept him, and I started to push backward onto his shaft. His hands continued to play with my breasts while I massaged his prick with my tight hole. As we picked up speed, I began to masturbate: I ground my clit under forefinger and pumped my vagina with two fingers. When he pushed inside me I could feel his cock through the thin membrane separating my ass and my pussy, and I tried to rub him through the flesh. We came noisily together and laid spent for several minutes before he pulled out of me.
I lay awake for hours, cum dribbling from my ass and my pussy, and for the first time I realised that my behaviour over the last week had been unusual. What had happened to me? I thought back over the last few days: the sex, the whoring, the slutty outfits, the lollipops, the sexting. Where had this come from?
With a shock, I realised. This had all begun after my visit to Dr Mephistopheles. He must have done something to me while I was in a trance. The realisation made me flash with anger, but something else as well, and I rubbed myself to one final orgasm thinking about how I would confront him.
The following day found me again outside the nondescript house in the nondescript street. I pushed the bell on the little brass plate and waited. Dr Mephistopheles opened the door and raised an eyebrow in surprise. He looked me up and down, dressed in a microskirt and a hooter’s t-shirt, and said, somewhat taken aback, “Well well, Mrs …. Morteaux? Can I help you?”
He made me tea again, and listened quietly while I told him about my week. His eyebrow became steadily more elevated as my antics became more extreme and he seemed genuinely concerned for me. I finally finished my story and he sat in silence for a moment, thinking. He shook his head, “Mrs Morteaux, I’m afraid I can’t help you. You seem to be under the misapprehension that I’m responsible for this somehow, but that’s quite impossible.”
I goggled at him. “But you hypnotised me!”
He smiled a little, his thin lips turning up at the corners of his mouth, “No, madam, I just waved a watch around and mumbled some mumbo jumbo. You fell asleep. I imagine you were tired. Once you had nodded off, I finished my tea and worked through some of my accounts before it was time to wake you up again.”
“But … but that’s *fraud!*” I spluttered.
He just sighed, “Mrs Morteaux, my company name is ‘Mephistopheles and Mesmer’. I ‘hypnotised’ you with a gold pocket watch. The forms you signed made it completely clear that this was for entertainment purposes only, indeed, the very nameplate outside my office reads ‘quasi-licensed hypnologist’. I quite fail to see how I could be any more clear. I’m not a hypnotherapist, nor a therapist of any other kind; merely an entertainer.”
“But then, how do you explain my behaviour? Look how I’m dressed for heaven’s sake!”
He smiles at me again, “If I may be so bold, Mrs Morteaux, I would venture that the reason you’re acting this way is that you *want* to. I’m just your excuse.”
I look at him disbelievingly for a few moments and then stand up. “I see what this is,” I said, and I bent over the chair, displaying myself to him. “It’s okay, Doctor. Your conditioning worked. See how compliant I am now? Don’t you want to use my body for your pleasure?”.
He turned bright red and sat staring up my skirt for a few seconds, taking in the sight of my slick pussy lips, then stood slowly. I could see that his cock was tenting in his trousers and he quietly said, “Mrs Morteaux, I’m afraid that if you don’t leave the premises at once, I shall have to call the police. I strongly suggest that you seek psychiatric help.”
And so I left. My head was spinning, and I went straight to the nearest bar. As I entered, you saw me, and you said “Hey, can I get you a drink? What’ll you have?” and, after a second’s hesitation, I replied “Baby, for $100 I’ll have whatever you’re giving”.
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I’m Robin Goodfellow, I like words and I like filth. My hobby is writing stories for people. If this titillated or troubled, appalled, amused, or aroused you then drop me a line. Orange envelopes are to me as manna from heaven.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7krv01/suggestion_mfpublicprosthypno