Undue Influence

Cuddled together on the outrageously puffy and flamboyantly multi-colored cushions of her sumptuous divan, Jessica Sherwood and I were enjoying some excellent after-dinner wine. We were also enjoying each other. As always when our husbands are out of town, we had lost no time in grabbing the opportunity to be alone together. In the cozy den at the back of her huge house, and with a cheery fire blazing away in the hearth, it was almost overpoweringly warm. Warm enough for Jessica to have proposed, and for me to have ratified unanimously, a motion that we remove all our clothes immediately. We had eagerly complied with that democratic decision, our customary practice on these precious occasions, before curling up amiably together. Staring somnolently into the flames, I was in the mood to talk.

“All right, Jessica. I really need to know how you do it. You've kept me in suspense long enough.”

“How I do what?” she replied lazily, softly tracing slow circles around my navel with a languid forefinger that she had first dipped in her wine glass. It was most disconcerting.

“You know exactly what I mean. How you do that mind control trick so you get men to do whatever you want sexually.”

“Oh, that.” She was smiling, her eyes dreamily closed, her finger still tantalizingly busy. It slowly headed downward until she was gently twirling it in the hairy part of my lower abdomen. “Well, Steph, if you would rather talk . . .”

“Tease! No, you don’t have to stop what you’re doing. You can talk at the same time.”

“I suppose so,” she drawled, reluctantly. She slid her finger a little lower, lightly touching the periphery of the more sensitive parts of my anatomy down there.

Jessica. Professionally, she’s a psychologist and executive director of the women's shelter where I serve as business manager. We’re both happily married, but that doesn’t stop us from enjoying our little interludes on the side (or is that the wild side?). Jessica and her husband are notorious among their closest friends for their interest in kinky sex, though poor old Ralph seems so out of it these days that most of us have assumed he has some nasty chemical dependency problem going way out of control.

But I know better. Jessica has magical powers. She has an uncanny art of divining what people really want; up to a point, she can even control people’s actions without their awareness. She confessed this to me recently when describing her relationship with one of her internship supervisors a few years ago. The only explanation she gave was that during her childhood in the Celtic areas of west Britain she had learned some mystical stuff from Druids and whatnot, performing arcane rituals around stone circles and ancient burial mounds. She sometimes uses this mind control on her husband to get him to cooperate with her most self-indulgent fantasies, but she’s never divulged the details of how she does it. It was high time I confronted her on the need to reveal all!

“Well, Steph,” she continued, “I could try to explain it, but you’d find it awfully tedious and boring.”

“Try me. And don't stop what you're doing -- yes, a little lower.”

She gave one of her trademark coy smiles.

“All right. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Men love that, you know.”

“Love what?”

“Thick, soft, springy hair like that, down there.”

“Fine. Well, ‘men’ don’t get to see it. Even Michael doesn’t, most of the time.”

“Poor guy. Lucky me.”

I sipped my wine as I smiled at her.

“I know what men like even more than that, since we’re in the mood for compliments. They like that wide space between your thighs, at the top there. The wider it is, the more they like it. Especially with that -- as we’re being poetic -- luxuriant rug of furry auburn hair you have between your legs.”

“My, my. We have become a mutual admiration society, haven’t we? Turn over a minute.”

Trying not to bounce us both off the well-sprung divan, I complied, nearly suffocating myself as I buried my face in the ample pillows. Jessica started gently massaging my shoulders and back. She reached my waist, then my rear end, caressing my buttocks with both hands.

“So, you want to know all my secrets? OK. In graduate school I was researching biofeedback with a professor named Martin Fotheringay. I think he may have had a crush on me . . .”

I exploded in laughter. “Get real, Sherwood. Every heterosexual male over the age of ten has a ‘crush’ on you at first sight. The occasional woman, too, come to think of it.”

“If that’s another compliment, thank you. But there’s no need to be huffy. Where was I? Yes, Fotheringay was measuring people’s brain activity, recording tiny electrical currents and displaying these wavy lines on a computer screen. When you let people see their own brain waves, they can try to alter them so as to relax, get rid of headaches, that kind of thing, and quite a few people get pretty good at it.”

“Is that the EEG?”

“Yes, the electroencephalogram. In fact, I got pretty good at it myself. One time I was working late in the lab with Fotheringay. We were both monitoring our own tracings, each with our own computer set-up. I happened to glance over at his screen, and just for fun I tried to make my wave pattern match his. It only took a few minutes, and as soon as the two sets of squiggly lines started looking really similar, I had a sudden flash of -- well, I was going to say memory, but it wasn’t. Not one of my own memories, anyway.”

“Well? What was it?”

“Oh, nothing at all dramatic or exciting. Quite mundane, in fact. It was a vivid impression of an attractive middle-aged woman smiling up at me. Long fair hair, colorful clothes; straight from the sixties. She was telling me not to forget to pick up skim milk and multi grain bread on the way home.”

I gasped.

“Jessica, I know already I’m not going to believe a word of this. I can see where you’re headed, and no -- no, it can’t possibly be true!”

“Stephanie, you asked me to explain how I -- do certain things.” She was in stern, lecturing mode. She had withdrawn her hands from my derrière. If she had been wearing glasses, she would have been peering over the top of them. “So, I’m explaining. If you don’t want to accept what I’m telling you, fine. We’ll talk about something else. Why don’t we get dressed and go downstairs and make some coffee?”

Sitting up, she slapped my bottom briskly and looked away, petulantly. I got up on one elbow.

“Jessica, you can be utterly exasperating at times. I withdraw my comment. Go on! Go on! Tell me what happened!”

She made a show of reluctance, then relaxed and went on. She took my hand and placed it unashamedly between her thighs.

“Well, I had to check out the validity of this ‘memory’ or whatever it was. As confidently as I could, I said to Martin: “By the way, don’t forget to pick up the milk and bread on the way home.” He said: “Oh, right, thanks for reminding me, I nearly --” and he gave me the strangest look. Then he smiled and said: “So Sharon called to remind me, did she?” I didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth, so I said yes, she had.”

“Wow! It’s incredible!”

“Yes, I thought so, too. But it gets better. I was still looking at his EEG waves, and I matched mine to his again. He had been thinking about getting home to his wife, of course. Well, this time I got a powerful image of Professor Fotheringay in his bedroom, enthusiastically pulling his wife’s nightie off her as she sat on the bed, practically hyperventilating in anticipation!”

All of this took a little while to take in.

“Jess, it’s the most fantastic thing I ever heard!” Quickly, I added, “But I do believe it, of course I do! And -- the implications! Can anyone learn to do this? Can I, for instance?”

Jessica assumed the expression of one bearing bad tidings.

“Probably not, Steph, I’m afraid. I’ve tried to teach others several times, each time without success. In fact, until the other day, I was convinced I was the only one. In any case, I’ve found I don’t need the EEG equipment any more. Now, I can pick up all I need from the other person’s voice inflections, precise phrasing, facial expression, body language -- and, at this point, I don’t even know how I do it myself.”

I sighed, disappointed. “OK, I at least kind of get it, the part about how you read minds, anyway. But how do you control people?”

“I didn’t realize it at first, but it’s the same thing. That first time, when I saw and heard Martin Fotheringay’s wife reminding him to get groceries, I could have influenced his behavior simply by directing intensely concentrated thoughts at him. It didn’t take long to perfect it. Well, not perfect it exactly.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not precise. I can only get people to do something approximating what I have in mind. And it only works if the person’s kind of sympathetic to start with. For instance, Ralph would freak out if I ever asked him straight out to tie me up and spank me. But if I’m in the mood for a little bondage and discipline, I somehow project the idea into his mind, and he goes into a sort of dissociative state for a couple of hours and does more or less what I want for a while.”

I was stunned.

“That’s wild. What happens afterwards? When Ralph comes out of his trance or whatever it is?”

“He usually assumes he’s been asleep. But the whole thing isn’t foolproof by any means. Even with Ralph.”

Looking pensive, she went on. “I tried it on Peter Hobson the other day, entirely without success.”

I groaned. Peter Hobson’s a lawyer, actually a colleague of my husband’s, but unlike Michael, Hobson’s on the wrong side. He always seems to end up representing the abusive husbands of our clients at the shelter. He certainly fits the part; the most obnoxious guy I ever met, and that’s saying something. Hobson is short, overweight, and overbearing, with an ego that’s too large to fit inside most courtrooms. The state bar disciplined him for sexual harassment of female office staff at his law firm. No surprise there; he even tried the same stuff on me once. Last year, Michael and I threw a holiday party at our house for several friends and colleagues. Hobson cornered me alone in the kitchen and literally got his hands up my skirt before I knew what was happening. He didn’t get far, of course, but ever since then he’s always given me this creepy smile on our fortunately rare meetings, a smile that says: “Just you wait. I have all the patience in the world. I’ll bide my time, baby, and when the time comes, you’re in for quite an experience.”

I said to Jessica, “Did I tell you what he tried on me that time?”

“Yes, Steph, you did. And now I guess I’m going to have to watch out for him myself. Turns out Ralph has started consulting at Hobson’s law firm. The other day Ralph asked if we could have him over for dinner some time.”

“Wonderful. Yes, do watch out. The guy’s an animal, completely unsocialized.”

We were both quietly thoughtful for a moment.

“So, Jess, what happened with Hobson?”

“I was in court with Mandy from the shelter --”

“Oh, I forgot to ask how that went?”

“Tell you later. Anyway, I was there to hold Mandy’s hand, she was getting the protection order, and Hobson was there representing her ex-husband. I didn’t have to be psychic to know Hobson was mentally stripping me. When I got into his mind, I nearly retched. He was conjuring up this detailed fantasy of ripping my clothes off, tying me up, and hatching up some humiliating punishment for me. Now, I have to admit I found all this quite exciting, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. I concentrated at full intensity on a powerful image of him needing to rush to the rest room with a sudden attack of diarrhea, but it backfired. It didn’t make the slightest impression on him, but I only just made it to the women’s room in time. I think it’s pretty obvious the bastard has some powers himself, and they may even be stronger than mine.”

We continued to talk for a while, and then for some reason we got bored with talking and took more of a physical interest in each other for an hour or so. Jessica’s so tall, lean, and shapely, her hair so long and smooth, her lips so full, her waist so trim, I almost wished I were a man that night. Key word, almost. I wouldn’t want to give up being penetrated energetically by Michael two or three times a week. How about Jessica, me, and Michael? That was a thought. But I wouldn’t want to share either one of them with the other, if you see what I mean. That’s why I have made a point of not introducing them. The time will inevitably come one of these days, but to date Jessica and Michael haven’t even met.

Or have they? A sudden pang of emotion hit me as realization dawned.

“Jessica!”

“Yes?”

“Your mind-reading abilities.”

“Yes?”

“So you are able to -- you mean you can --” The implications stunned me. “You can enter anyone’s mind and be immediately aware of their memories? Like with that professor, his wife telling him to bring stuff home from the store?”

“That’s about the shape of it, yes, dear.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Beginning to sink in, is it, Steph?”

“And you can enter anyone’s mind and actually experience what they are experiencing that moment? Like Hobson having that fantasy about you?”

“You’ve got it.”

“So you can be in my mind and feel what I’m feeling any time?”

Jessica looked distinctly sheepish.

“Well, I cannot tell a lie, Steph . . .”

“Wow.” It was sinking in, all right. “And have you? Have you been in my mind?”

“Once in a while, yes, dear, yes I have.” She sighed. “I really couldn’t resist, feeling about you the way I do. And I had to know how your husband treats you.”

“You’re kidding!” I was wide-eyed with shock. “You’ve been in my mind when . . .”

“Yes, I have. Last night, for instance. And I’m so glad he’s such a wonderful lover for you, dear. I couldn’t bear it if he made you unhappy.”

Michael had been more than usually passionate the previous night. Probably because he was going away for a few days. He didn’t even wait for me to get into bed. He bent me over the mattress and had my panties off in no time, entering me from the rear with great enthusiasm and considerable energy. It was wonderful while it lasted, which unfortunately was not very long.

“Is he always quite that quick, Steph?” Jessica was asking.

“Jessica! You'll have to forgive me -- ” (I was putting all the irony I possibly could into my voice) “ -- but I am finding all this just a little difficult to take in right now. Can’t imagine why.” It was my turn to be petulant.

“Now, now, don’t pretend to be upset with me. You’re a very intelligent woman. When you fully understand all the implications, such as the fact that I can tell you exactly what your husband likes and dislikes in bed in very accurate detail . . .”

Words literally failed me. So she got into Michael’s head as well! She has actually made love to me, vicariously, from the literal vantage point of a man! My husband! That was certainly all I could take for one night. The thought that there was much more of this that hadn’t even dawned on me yet was something I decided to push from my mind as rapidly and vigorously as possible.

At the office the following week Jessica and I were leaving a committee meeting together when she took me aside.

“There have been some interesting developments,” she whispered, with an alluring smile. “A significant event occurred last weekend. Concerning my -- proclivities, shall we say. I don’t know if you’d like to hear about it . . .”

“Jessica, of course I want to hear about it! Just name the time and place, and I’ll be there!”

“Can you come over to my place tonight?”

“Sure. Michael’s home, but I’ll tell him I have a meeting with you tonight at your place. As an excuse, it has the decided advantage of being true.”

That evening, Jessica got me comfortable on the divan and admonished me not to interrupt her. She talked, almost uninterruptedly, for a considerable time . . .

Stephanie, I’ve mentioned my cellar now and then. Well, after what just happened a couple of days ago it’s high time I told you about it in some detail. I’ll try to get all this out accurately before memory fades.

I have the cellar fixed up just the way I want it. I can show you later, if you want. It’s a large, open area down there, with no partitions. In the center there’s a raised platform, the size of a large dinner table, but only about six inches high. In fact it is a large dinner table. The top of one, anyway; a solid, heavy chunk of mahogany formerly owned by one of Ralph’s great-aunts. The legs disappeared years ago. The table-top’s covered with thick, burgundy-colored carpeting, with two extremely long leather belts drawn tightly around the whole thing so they cross the surface of the table, parallel to each other, two or three feet apart. The belts have iron rings attached to them at the center.

There’s a huge oak beam, crossing the ceiling in the middle, directly over the platform. I can just touch the beam with my fingertips if I stand on the plinth on tiptoe. There are two iron rings set into the beam, two feet apart, right above the matching pair underneath. Over on the far wall a set of intense floodlights can be aimed at the platform, right in the center of the room. That, of course, is where all the action takes place. In a corner of the cellar there’s a little cubicle I use as a changing room.

Ralph never goes down there except when I’m controlling him, but if he ever did I’d love to see his face when he saw that setup for the first time in his normal state of consciousness.

It was Saturday afternoon, and I was feeling restless, dammit. I wanted some action, and I sure wasn’t getting it from Ralph. He was doing his usual wimpy thing of hanging around the house, trying to figure out whether I had any plans for the afternoon. Yes, I had plans. I wanted pain, and I wanted sex. In that order. And now.

“Like to go for walk, honey?” he asked me, tentative as can be.

“No, Ralph, I would not. I would like to do something, but what I have in mind is a lot more exciting than going for a walk.”

He looked hurt.

“Well, what would you like to do?” I’ll swear he almost added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

It was time to stop fooling around. I looked him straight in the eyes and beamed this powerful image at him. Yes, why not, I thought. I selected part of the image Hobson had had the day I saw him in court.

We were in our bedroom. Ralph ordered me to strip, in tones that permitted no argument. I did so. He grabbed my wrists and tied them together behind my back with thick ropes. He made me bend over while he whipped me with a slender willow cane. Throwing me on the bed, he jumped on me and entered me savagely.

It worked. A determined expression altered Ralph’s features. He slowly relaxed. He started a slow smile.

“Change of plan, Jessica. Get down to the cellar. Sex. In restraints. Chastisement first. Clothes off, boots on. I’ll be there in a minute or two.”

A thrilling jolt of sexual arousal weakened my knees, fluttered my heart, and released a small surge of wetness between my legs.

“Yes, Ralph. Yes, of course.”

You have to understand, Steph, it isn’t just pain. It’s the humiliation. I like being mastered, dominated, controlled. I like being made to do degrading things. Who knows why? I should, I guess; I’m the psychologist. The traditional theory is, unconsciously the person feels guilty about enjoying sex, so if it’s associated with punishment and humiliation, it’s OK, it expiates the moral anxiety. Heaven knows I’m no Freudian, but I can’t come up with a better explanation.

Downstairs, the cedar paneling of my cubicle smelt wonderfully sweet and tangy. I got out of my clothes and strutted around for a little while, enjoying my nudity. The smooth concrete floor was cold to my feet. A cool breeze from upstairs wafted around the delicate parts of my anatomy. Then Ralph’s footsteps overhead interrupted my reverie. It was time to get the boots on . . .