This exquisitely enticing and excitingly erotic story is a collaboration.  The story was conceived and produced by Goddess Marquesa, and it was put to paper by pawnofMarquesa.  Of the story, Goddess Marquesa says, “This is a story that I feel no matter what one’s hypnotic erotic fantasies of domination are… All will enjoy it.”  “I liked this story so much I applauded!!! :)”    We think you will too!

              Steve looked at his Rolex. It read 8:05. She was five minutes late. He caught himself tapping his foot and stopped, took a sip of the scotch he had ordered. Looking at the muted conversation going on throughout the restaurant around him, he told himself to calm down, this was not unusual. He had lost days of his life waiting for potential clients. It was all part of the job. But this time it felt different.

He looked at his translucent reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window that gave a view of nighttime LA in the valley below, checking that everything was well-groomed and in place. He was at his handsomest. At thirty-six he still had a full head of dark hair, bright blue eyes, and square-jawed features that had drawn too many flirtatious comparisons to one actor or another for him to begin to count. What nature had blessed him with, money enhanced. Three-hundred dollar hair cut. Bespoke silk suit from London. Tailor-made linen shirt. Cologne that sold at two-hundred dollars an ounce. A salesman was always selling himself first and foremost, and he always made sure the goods were packaged nicely.

None of what he had spent on himself had gone to waste. He had parlayed his fancy degrees from back east (law from Yale, finance from Wharton) and his movie-star good looks into a small empire. Southern California was full of wealthy widows and newly rich divorcees who wanted financial advice, and were more than happy to take it from someone with a handsome smile, a well-bred manner, and a gift for flattery.

The pyramid scheme he had set up could put Bernie Madoff to shame. Not that he was dealing with billions of dollars- Steve didn’t set his sights quite that high. But Madoff had been stupid. He built a house of cards that inevitably had to come crashing down, taking his whole family with him. Steve had structured his con so that it could go on forever without his ever being caught.

The secret was sex. Steve didn’t sleep with every client. But he “made love” to them all. He didn’t begin to cultivate a new mark unless he felt the glow of attraction coming from her, and he almost always did. Once he picked up the vibe Steve reflected her feelings back to her, creating the illusion that they were both held quivering in a spell of mutual temptation. Desire made women stupid. It made them mistake a business relationship for something much more intimate and suffused with trust. After a few exchanges of whispered endearments, a little hand-holding, perhaps a kiss, a new client was generally ready to open up her whole financial life to him. He could assess her worth down to the last savings bond, real-estate holding, or offshore account.

Making a detailed survey of the mark’s assets was key. Madoff had gotten caught because he had let his liabilities grow too large. Steve kept the flow manageable by classifying his marks into three tiers.

The first were pigeons. This was a client who was a good for a one-time score, someone with net assets of less than ten million. Steve would begin by putting her money into legitimate investments. Municipal bonds. Small-cap funds. After he had established trust he would offer her a “unique investment opportunity.” Shares in an exclusive real-estate venture. Stock from a “members only” IPO. He would be careful to calculate a figure that she could afford to lose. One to three hundred thousand, depending on the size of the mark’s estate. For a few weeks he would string her along, giving her word over dinner or late-night cocktails on the ups and downs of their capital venture. When the deal “went bust” and the money was lost she almost always apologized to him. A few pigeons even forked over some more dough to help him “recover” from their mutual loss, a kind of “parting gift”.

Next up from pigeons were chickens. A chicken was worth between ten and fifty million, and thus could lay many “eggs” over months and years of being scammed. If Steve parked 75% of what she entrusted to him in legitimate tax shelters, that still generally left him with two or three million dollars that he could cycle between a series of phony speculations and phantom instruments until he had siphoned it into his own coffers. Very often the mark never noticed it was missing, and if she did his “tragic young man” act almost always won immediate forgiveness.

The highest tier were geese. These biddies were worth over fifty million. Steve cultivated a goose very intently. With enough charm he was generally able to get power of attorney over her assets, and at that point he had the run of the table. A goose’s estate could pay dividends in perpetuity, and could be tapped to assuage the suspicions of the occasional pigeon or chicken who squawked about lost dough. A couple of geese had been obliging enough to die on Steve, naming him executor. That was how he had scored his house in Cabo and his cabin in Vale.

He had been building his pyramid since he had moved to LA eight years ago, and by now he had his technique down to a science. At least, he did until now. This time he was off his game.

He was meeting his new prospect for the fifth time tonight. By now he would have expected her to let him into her books, begin toting up her net worth. But if he was anywhere near that point with this woman he had no way of knowing. She definitely gave him the vibe. Every moment with her vibrated with sexual tension, she made bedroom eyes at him constantly. But however much she ate up his charm, all of his practiced verbal maneuvers aimed at ferreting out her finances had failed. He was not sure exactly how or why this kept happening. He would begin his foolproof patter and for a few minutes all would be well, but then he would find that the conversation had turned somehow without his noticing, and he was engrossed in a topic far removed from his original goal.

Here he was on their fifth date, and Steve was not sure in which tier she belonged. She had been referred to him by one of his geese, Mrs. Hartwell, a randy octogenarian worth upwards of 200 million who had groped Steve through countless, insufferable late-afternoon trysts in her solarium. But the fact that this prospective client knew Hartwell didn’t necessarily mean anything. Many rich women liked to surround themselves with poorer sycophants.

Even so, Steve intuited that this new mark was not a pigeon. She had live-in servants, for one thing. At least two, a man and a woman, and the way they jumped at her every word she must be paying them well. And everywhere they went, people seemed to come out of the woodwork to do things for her. At one upscale restaurant Steve had taken her to in an attempt to impress her, three different fatcats had come to the table to fawn over her. He could have sworn that one was a Congressman.

His instincts told him this mark was a chicken at least, maybe a goose. But there was too much he didn’t know. Like her real name. She went by the handle “Goddess Marquesa,” a stage name like that worn by so many denizens of the entertainment industry here in La-La land. She was an “erotic hypnotist.” Steve wasn’t sure what that was, but it had obviously been lucrative.

Well, he knew one thing about her….she came by the “erotic” moniker honestly. Goddess Marquesa was sexy. She was sex personified. Steve had become very jaded in the years since moving to LA, he had been awash in every kind of woman imaginable. Models. Actresses. Even some of his clients had been diverting lovers. One well-preserved redhead, Mrs. Levinsky, had taught him a few tricks to put the Kama Sutra to shame. But the way Goddess Marquesa made him feel…it was something new. From the first moment he met her he had become voraciously horny in her presence, and the mood had begun to linger longer and longer each time he saw her.

Steve couldn’t quite account for the effect Goddess Marquesa had on him. She had a gorgeous body, it was true. The curves of her legs were so exquisite that they might be carved out of marble, and her breasts were mouth-wateringly round and full. Her face was classically stunning, with piercing eyes the color of bright jade. But LA was full of beautiful women younger and more eager than Marquesa, many of whom Steve had slept with.

There was something in Godess Marquesa’s manner, in her attitude, that made her irresistibly alluring. The air around her seemed to shimmer with temptation. When he was sitting with her over dinner chatting about politics or movies he would find himself becoming inexplicably and painfully aroused, his erection straining against his trousers as if to break the seam. Half of his mind would listen to what she was saying, half of it would become lost in a contemplation of her body. His eyes would move involuntarily over her breasts, her throat, her hands. His mouth would water as he ogled the portion of her leg peaking out into his line of vision from underneath the table between them, and he imagined running his fingers up the smooth stocking clinging to her calf, searching for her thigh. His gaze would be drawn to focus tightly on her mouth as she talked or even as she chewed her food, and he would become lost in a reverie about what it would be like to taste her lips or probe her mouth with his tongue. One time he became so absorbed this way that she had to summon him back by snapping her fingers in front of his face. The whiff of her perfume that this sent into his lungs made his cock twitch as it stiffened more intensely.

Her effect on him was becoming more and more persistent with each encounter. In the last two weeks he had found himself fantasizing about her almost constantly. While he was fucking a twenty-two year old underwear model last Thursday night he was only able to keep himself erect by thinking of Goddess Marquesa. Three nights ago he had turned a hot young actress away from his door who had dropped by for a booty call; he just couldn’t summon the interest. That night thoughts of Marquesa kept him tossing and turning until he finally surrendered to the impulse to jack off to her, after which he slept like a baby.

Steve looked at his watch again. 8:10. Where was she? The scotch was working on him fast. He knew he should eat some of the fancy bread the waiter had placed on the table, so that the alcohol wouldn’t shoot straight into his bloodstream through an empty stomach, but he had no appetite for food. Only for her. The anticipation of seeing her, of being in the same space as her, maybe getting a chance to touch her, to taste her, crowded out every other sensual impulse.

The last time he could remember feeling this way was back when he was twelve, and his family had spent some time in a bungalow near a honky-tonk shore town. There had been an ice cream vendor there who sold fresh waffle cones that he doused with sticky caramel syrup. Steve’s first taste of that treat had sent a jolt of pure sensual gratification through his whole system. The rest of that summer, whenever he had some extra cash, he would rush back to that vendor’s kiosk on the boardwalk. The third time he came, the man had leered at him as he handed him the cone, as if he had sensed the viscerally intense pleasure his confection had aroused. “You’re hooked, kid,” he had cackled, sending waves of liquor-scented breath Steve’s way. Even that creepiness had not kept Steve from going back repeatedly and giving the leering troll most of his summer’s allowance. As his foot began tapping again involuntarily, Steve knew that Goddess Marquesa had awakened a similar compulsion in him.

His cell phone rang. He touched the screen. It was her.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Hello, pet,” she breathed into the other end of the connection, sending a thrill down his spine and into his cock.

“Where are you?” he asked. “I’ve gotten us a table by the picture window.”

“That’s sweet, pet,” she replied, “but I think I’m in the mood to skip dinner tonight.”

“Does this mean you’re not coming?” He couldn’t keep a note of disappointment out of his voice.

“Aww, baby. Do you miss me?” she teased. “I’m here, out front in my limousine. Make your apologies to the waiter and come join me.”

“What about my car?”

“I’ll send my sl- that is, my servants, back for it later.”

Steve hurried toward the entrance of the restaurant, every nerve on fire. The back seat of her limo. He had never been in such close quarters with her before. He had picked her up in his Porsche once (he made a point of breaking out the Porsche early, trite but true, it was a chick magnet) and thrilled to the way her figure filled the bucket seats, but a sports car didn’t allow for the kind of contact he craved.

Coming out onto the pavement under the restaurant’s front awning Steve saw the shiny black limo pulled up along the curb. A red-uniformed valet stood at the rear of the passenger side, holding open the door. As Steve approached he was treated to the tantalizing sight of a pair of magnificent legs, sheathed in shimmery translucent grey silk and black stiletto heels, stretched out leisurely along the rear of the limo from where their owner reclined on the driver’s side.

“Come keep me warm, lover,” Goddess Marquesa purred as Steve leaned down and waved in greeting. She was breathtaking, golden curls framing her exquisite face, creamy bare shoulders and luscious cleavage spilling from a plush mink stole. Steve’s erection made it difficult to maneuver himself into the limo, but eagerness lent him agile speed nonetheless. As soon as he was seated and the door closed, Goddess Marquesa ordered, “Home, Rick,” to her driver, and the limo pulled away from the restaurant.

“What’s the plan?” Steve asked, his heart racing.

Hard to say,” Goddess Marquesa replied archly, her eyes glancing at the enormous bulge in Steve’s pants.

The proximity was too much for Steve to take. He couldn’t think about assets, ledgers, or pyramids. Nothing was coming through on his receiver but his need for Goddess Marquesa’s mouth and body. He closed the distance between them and nearly swooned as she yielded to his embrace, groping at his face and back with her hands as he enfolded her in his arms and pressed his mouth over hers.

The experience was beyond anything Steve had imagined as he lay alone at night, feverishly pulling at his cock while he summoned the image of Goddess Marquesa’s face, her lips, her legs, her ass, her piercing green eyes. The taste of her raced through his body like lightening, driving the sense-impression of his childhood summertime enticement into hazy mists at the far corner of memory. It was exquisite like no sensation he had ever felt, a pleasure so intense it was almost indistinguishable from pain. His cock twitched with irrepressibly explosive hunger, hovering on the precipice of an apocalyptic catharsis. He needed to fuck Goddess Marquesa like he had needed nothing else in life.

“We’re here,” Goddess Marquesa announced, pushing away from Steve as her driver opened the door behind her. Steve hovered in mid-air, his lips still puckering greedily, his eyes dilated and unfocused, hands clutching at empty space where he had just been cradling her hip and fondling her breast. Coming out of the fog of arousal, he looked down at his watch. 9:30. Somehow more than an hour had passed since he had first locked lips with Goddess Marquesa back at the restaurant.

“Where are we?” Steve asked, raising his voice to be heard by Marquesa, who was already out of the car.

“Home. Come, pet,” she called, the sound of her heels receding as she walked, her stride business-like, toward a door at the other end of the garage in which the car had parked without Steve noticing.

Steve shook himself back to full consciousness and exited the limo, following Goddess Marquesa. The door from the garage led into a tastefully furnished but otherwise modest Southern California home. A statuesque brunette wearing French maid’s livery was waiting in the vestibule, hands raised to receive her mistress’s mink stole.

“Go make my guest a drink, Michelle,” Goddess Marquesa commanded, her back turned to the maid as she surrendered her wrap, “Scotch neat, over ice.”

“I live to worship Goddess Marquesa,” the maid replied, then retreated, stole in hand, presumably to carry out her mistress’s orders. Some part of Steve’s mind registered how odd the maid’s utterance had been, but this impression was overridden by the impulse to get close to Marquesa again. Steve lunged forward, hoping to resume the embrace that had been interrupted in the garage.

“Patience, pet,” Goddess Marquesa cooed, restraining Steve with a coy index finger against his chest. “I have something special planned for you tonight. Come with me.” She led him down a short corridor, past floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a well-kept gated community. Stopping at a door, she opened it and gestured for him to enter.

“This is the changing room for my home spa. Get naked and come meet me at the hot tub. You’ll see where to leave your things,” she directed.

Steve tugged at her hand, “Why don’t you help me undress?” he asked, grinning wolfishly.

“I will do lots of creative things to you once you’re naked, I promise,” Marquesa purred. “Be a good boy and strip. Once you are in your birthday suit go down the hall and through the first door on the right. I’ll be waiting. I’m going to ‘slip into something more comfortable’ as they say in the movies. I know you are going to like it,” she added with a wicked grin and a wink.

Steve needed no more persuading. He went into the room. It was set up with a bench, a vanity table, and a small sink sized for hand-washing. Along one wall were small cubbies for clothes and a rack for hanging jackets and coats. As Steve loosened his tie a knock came at the door. It was the maid with his scotch. Steve bolted it down in one shot and peeled off his clothes like he was being clocked. His wallet and Rolex he had no compunction about leaving in the cubbies- losing either of them would be worth getting naked with Marquesa in the hot tub. He hesitated leaving his phone, but decided that its password protection and encryption made it, too, disposable.

Once he was naked he went straight out into the corridor, too eager to worry about being shy in front of the strangely quasi-mute maid. The hallway was dark, but he found his way to the first door on the right. Opening it, he saw inky blackness on the other side. “Marquesa?” he whispered, expecting that this was some sort of teasing game.

“Come in,” her voice beckoned silkily.

Steve walked through the door and began groping along the wall for a light switch. While he did, the door slammed shut behind him, shrouding him in total darkness. “Where are you, you sexy thing?” Steve whispered nervously, a bit thrown by the pitch dark but too aroused to refuse any game Marquesa wanted to play.

Bright lights fired to life, burning Steve’s eyes. When his vision adjusted he found himself in a small 10 X 15 cell. The floor was gray-carpeted, the walls starkly white. Along one wall was an army cot.  Against another was a small chair. On the ceiling, which was 12 feet high, was a fluorescent light fixture. Aside from the cot, chair, and overhead lamp, the room was completely bare except for one adornment. On the wall to the right of the entrance was hung a large photographic poster of Goddess Marquesa.  In it she was wearing a purple blouse of silk open over a shimmering black body-stocking, and was seated in an orange plastic stool propped on a single aluminum post, her legs crossed so that every curve and shadow was picked up by the camera. Her shoes were black patent-leather stilettos, and on her right leg glittered a gold anklet. A broad smile lit her face.  “Marquesa?” Steve asked again, his voice taking on more of an edge of alarm. “What’s going on?”

“Relax, Steve,” Marquesa’s voice soothed. Looking up, Steve saw the source- perforations in the wall marking the location of an intercom speaker next to Marquesa’s portrait. “I promised I would do creative things with you once you were naked, and the fun is just getting started.”

“What do you mean? Where is the hot tub?” Steve’s voice was cracking.

“Sorry, pet. I lied about the hot tub. Make yourself comfortable. This room is going to be your home for a little while.”

“What?!” Steve cried, trying the handle on the door. It was locked. Sealed. Steve threw his weight against the door and bounced back like a feather. The door was heavy. Probably made of steel. At its bottom was a small sliding panel, also locked from the outside, large enough for the passing of food or water. This room was a prison.

“Marquesa?!” Steve yelled. “Answer me! Is this some kind of joke? Answer me!”  Steve waited. The intercom was silent.

“Marquesa!” Steve began again. “This isn’t funny!…..Marquesa!……Let me out of here!….God dammit, do you hear me?….I’ll have you arrested! I’ll sue you to the poorhouse!”

Steve went on in this vein for some while, pounding on the door. Shouting. Kicking the frame of the cot. Shouting some more. After an hour or so he became tired and hoarse, and sat on the cot. The light in the room never dimmed. Steve decided to give up protesting. “Fine, have your joke ,” he muttered scratchily. Perhaps if he played it cool Marquesa would get bored and end this farce. He lied down and tried to sleep. Sleep didn’t come. Hours crept by, how many Steve couldn’t tell. He cycled through bouts of pleading, pounding on the door, shouting in anger, and lying in a daze.

After what seemed like an eternity he heard a noise from the corridor. The door opened, and Marquesa appeared. Steve sprang to his feet and lunged at her in a rage. With lithe grace she sidestepped his attack and brought her knee up into his balls, catching him in strong hands as he crumpled, and laying him on the carpet to sputter in pain. As he lay gasping Marquesa closed the cell door and seated herself placidly in the room’s one chair, facing her prisoner.

“Now, pet. Aren’t you glad to see me? I told you I would slip into something more comfortable.

Despite being in agony Steve couldn’t help notice Marquesa’s attire. She wore a silver satin negligee over a white see-through nightie.  Her bra and panties were white lace, and her legs were bare except for white pump slippers adorned with tufted feathers that drew attention to her perfect toes. Her fetchingly tousled blond locks framed her face and shoulders elegantly. Seated over his prone form she was at her most gorgeous.

Steve coughed, choking spittle onto the carpet as he struggle for breath. “Why?” he croaked.

“Oh, I think you know why,” she answered. “I know what you are, Steve. I know what you’ve done.”

Steve grunted in surprise at this. Even through the pain in his balls this was enough to arouse his alarm; he had had no inkling that anyone was on to him. “So what do you want? My money?”

“Some of it, yes. But it’s a bit more involved than that.”

“Good luck trying to get it. No matter what you think you know, you can’t prove I’ve done anything illegal.”

Goddess Marquesa chuckled. “I don’t plan to prove anything,” she replied. Gesturing at the room in which they sat, she continued, “What I plan is just as you see.”

“You’re going to keep me locked in here?” Steve cried. “You’re crazy, you can’t do this.”

“Oh but I can,” Goddess Marquesa purred. “I am.”

“People will notice I’m missing. The police will come looking for me.”

Goddess Marquesa laughed musically. “I think you and I both know that won’t happen for a while, sweetling. Your ‘secretary’ is basically a bimbo that you maintain for window-dressing. Even if you kept a regular schedule, and you don’t, it is anyone’s guess when she would notice that you had gone missing, or care if she did. Jean-Pierre, the maitre-d’ of the restaurant we were to dine at last night is a…well, let’s call him a personal friend. I didn’t even have to send Rick and Michelle for your car, Jean-Pierre drove it here personally with the assistance of one of his valets. Your phone is password protected, but I bet if we looked at your call log it would show that you haven’t spoken to your family in weeks, if not months. Isn’t that so?”

Steve’s only reply to this was silence. He glared at Goddess Marquesa in mute frustration. After an uncomfortable pause, he finally blurted, “You can’t keep me here for ever!”

Goddess Marquesa laughed again. “I won’t have to. By the time anyone would raise a fuss over you, pet, you won’t want rescuing. Judging from the size of that erection, you only half-want to be rescued right now.”

Steve looked down, abashed. It was true, despite his pain, fear, and anger, he couldn’t help being turned on by the sight of her body and the sound of her voice. “What do you mean, I don’t want to be rescued?” he muttered, struggling to retrieve some semblance of dignity. “Have you hypnotized me?”

“No, not yet,” Goddess Marquesa answered matter-of-factly, “I’ve just thoroughly seduced you. That produces many similar effects as hypnosis, but isn’t quite the same. I’ve had lots of opportunities to hypnotize you, but I haven’t done so. Yet.”

“Because you’re a phony,” Steve barked. “Hypnosis is a scam. I should know. You’re trying to scare me. Blackmail me, maybe. Forget it. I’m not some patsy who was born yesterday.”

Goddess Marquesa did not dignify this outburst with a laugh. She just shook her head and observed ruefully, “Oh, pet. You have some hard lessons ahead of you. Before you leave this room you will know firsthand exactly how real hypnosis can be.”

“You’re bluffing,” Steve rejoined. “If you want my money all you need is information. Passcodes. Bank account numbers. If you were the hot-shit hypnotist you claim to be you would have that info already. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

This time Goddess Marquesa did laugh appreciatively. “Very good, sweetling,” she noted wryly. “That Ivy-League education was not wasted on you. When you are not being controlled by your cock you can put two and two together. It’s true, I haven’t taken the easy route to your money. I hope to get it, some of it anyway, by a more roundabout path.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, a note of confusion mixed with worry in his voice.

“That, to use an old cliché,” Marquesa replied, “is for me to know and you to find out. Let’s just say that I have something a bit more complicated in mind. As the supervillains in the movies say, ‘I have ways of making you talk.’ But I’ll only use them if absolutely necessary. There are limits to what can be done to someone who is hypnotized against his will. What I would like to do to you requires that you give me some deeper access to your consciousness. I want you to submit to being hypnotized.”

Steve snorted derisively. “Now I know you’re crazy. Why would I do that?”

Goddess Marquesa smiled. “I think you could be enticed,” she declared.

“Not a chance,” Steve spat.

Goddess Marquesa turned from Steve toward the portrait of her hanging on the wall. She held up her hand, and for the first time Steve noticed that she was carrying a small remote-control device. “Let me show you something, Steve,” she said, pressing a button on the remote.

A mechanical hum filled the room as the portrait slid upward, revealing a flat screen beneath. Marquesa pressed a second button and images began playing on the screen. It was a view of the cell from the perspective of the portrait. Steve could be seen lying on the cot. A time-stamp in the lower left corner of the screen read 1:03 AM. Though stretched out for sleep, Steve’s eyes were open, a look of consternation on his face. The reason why he couldn’t sleep was easily inferred: his cock was stiffly erect.

As the recording played, the on-screen Steve heaved an exasperated sigh and sat up on the cot, turning toward the camera. Looking up at the portrait of Goddess Marquesa (making him appear to look into the viewers eyes from the angle of the camera), screen Steve reached down and began to pump his cock. The stimulation caused his back to arch and his teeth to clench, but he never took his eyes off of the portrait of Goddess Marquesa. After two minutes or so of exertion he twitched convulsively and let loose a cry of pleasure as a thick stream of cum jetted from his cock.

The recording cut abruptly to a new scene. The time-stamp at the bottom left read 2:34 AM. Steve was shown sitting on the floor. Legs splayed, with his left shoulder to the door, banging on it with his right fist. He had obviously been at this for some time, because his blows had become half-hearted and weak.

“Marquesa, please!” on-screen Steve begged hoarsely. With this he seemed to have exhausted some last reserve of energy. He collapsed so that his back was fully to the door, and looked up at the portrait of Marquesa. His cock was fully rigid again despite his earlier draining.

“Oh, Marquesa,” screen-Steve moaned, reaching down to stroke his cock once more, his eyes fixated on the portrait. This time he took slightly longer to bring himself to orgasm, but after three minutes of pumping his eyes rolled back in his head and he shouted, “Marquesa….Oh God, Marquesa,” as his cock erupted again like a fire hose.

The scene cut again, now the time-stamp showed 4:16 AM. Steve was pacing in the middle of the room, clutching at his hair, muttering to himself inaudibly. In mid pace he stopped, turned to gaze at the portrait so that he was facing the camera. His cock was again pointing skyward, his face was set in a look of dazed disbelief. Falling to his knees facing the portrait, he seized his cock and pumped desperately, intoning, “Marquesa….oh Marquesa…Marquesa….Marquesa….” as he stroked. After three minutes his eyes narrowed and his left arm reached up, extending his hand, as if he were trying to touch the Goddess whose name he kept repeating. One minute later his cock erupted again, spraying copiously.

The scene cut one more time, to a view of the cell at 5:27 AM. Steve was lying corpse-like on his left side on the cot, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide. This time he could not summon the energy to change position. He merely craned his neck so that he could look at Marquesa’s portrait and reached down between his legs. After five minutes of pumping and grunting he shot another stream of cum onto the carpet and fell still, his eyes still open.

Goddess Marquesa pressed another button on her remote. The screen went black and the portrait slid back down into its original position. “Four times in one night,” she observed, her tone slightly mocking, “I am willing to bet that hasn’t happened to you for twenty years or more, if it ever did.  My hooks are in you very deep, pet.”

“So I want you,” whined Steve unconvincingly, “so what?’

“Want me?” rejoined Goddess Marquesa. “Ha! That is the understatement of the century. Your desire for me is tearing you apart. Even now your cock is growing for me like a plant seeking sunlight. Look at me and tell me you can resist me.”

Steve looked at her. His eyes followed the curves of her legs up to her luscious breasts, then to her lips and fiery emerald eyes. His cock twitched with need. For a moment his face assumed a plaintive look, as if he might admit that Marquesa was right, that he was ready to submit. Then he shook himself and spat defiantly onto the carpet. “Go fuck yourself,” he growled. “Better yet, lie down on the cot and let me fuck you, sugartits. I can’t deny that you are a hot piece of ass, but if you think I am going to let you hypnotize me you are on drugs.”

Goddess Marquesa showed no response to this outburst. She stood calmly and looked down on his prone form. “Brave words from a man who just had his ass kicked by someone whom he outweighs by fifty pounds,” she jeered. “Enjoy your solitude pet.” With this she turned her back on Steve and knocked on the cell door. It opened and she departed, leaving Steve still rubbing the ache out of his bruised balls.



Steve was on his knees again. He had found himself in this position many times since being locked in this cell. He didn’t know how long ago that had been. A few days, maybe a week. It was difficult to mark the passage of time. The lights in the cell never dimmed, the temperature never varied from a steady 70 degrees. The panel in the cell door opened occasionally to pass in a bowl of food, usually a thin gruel. Sometimes a cup with some lemon-water would accompany it. He probably could figure the number of days he had been here from the times that a bucket was passed through for his waste, but he had lost count.

He remembered reading a newspaper article about the effects of solitary confinement, how in a remarkably short time prisoners began to suffer panic attacks, or hallucinate, or experienced full psychotic breaks. He had laughed on reading this, saying, “What a bunch of pussies.” He regretted those words now.

Steve could feel himself going mad. The sheer, colorless monotony of his existence in this cell was worse torment than he had ever experienced. When he was a boy he had once gone exploring into an old abandoned house near his home wearing flip-flops instead of sneakers. One of the floorboards had given way under his weight, tearing off his right sandal and sending splinters of rotten wood deep into his foot. The doctors at the hospital had had to go fishing inside his foot for the shards using forceps without anesthetic. It was the most excruciating pain he had ever felt. This was worse.

His body ached all over, and he was exhausted. This was in part because he wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t be sure, but he felt as if he hadn’t gotten more than half an hour of sleep in at a time, and that only four or five times since he had been locked in here. He was eating almost as little as he was sleeping. He had only needed his waste bucket to catch anything but pee once.

The only relief from the boredom was his own voice, and he had nearly exhausted it from overuse. His soliloquies careened from one extreme to another. One moment he was shouting threats and abuse, the next he was on his knees like he was right now, pleading for Marquesa to come back, to talk to him. Just to let him hear her voice.

Perhaps the worst thing was the desire. Marquesa’s portrait smiled down on him constantly, taunting him with her gorgeous breasts, luscious legs, and piercing green eyes. He knew he should hate her. He did hate her. But oh, God, how he wanted her. He didn’t think he could experience any desire more intense than what she had awakened from him while they were clutching each other in the limousine, but he wanted her even more now.

The greatest humiliation was that he couldn’t stop masturbating to her, even though he knew that his every moment was being observed and recorded. He had tried several times to turn his back on her portrait and think about someone else, one of the models or actresses that had transited through his bed, just to preserve his dignity while he relieved the pressure in his balls. But he couldn’t get it up for anyone but Marquesa. Eventually he would give up trying to stroke himself hard and turn around. As soon as he saw her picture again he would become stiff and be compelled to jerk off, weeping in frustration and shame as he did so.

So here he was on his knees again. “Please, Marquesa,” he began, tears streaming from his eyes, his face pointed toward the spot where he knew the camera was watching, “have mercy. I’m going crazy here like this. You have to let me out. I’ll give you anything you want. I can have a cashier’s check for up to five million dollars drawn up in under an hour on any banking day. Just let me go.”

He had already made this plea several times to no effect. It thus shocked him when the cell door opened behind him and Goddess Marquesa appeared. Steve turned to face her. She was dressed in the same lingerie that she had worn during their first encounter in the cell, and the sight of her made a lump form in Steve’s throat.

“Sit down,” she directed, pointing to the cot.

Steve did as she ordered while she closed the door and sat in the chair across from him. When they were both seated, Goddess Marquesa sat silently observing him. Steve tried to compose himself, wiping the tears from his cheeks and combing his tangled hair with his fingers.

After a full minute, Goddess Marquesa finally spoke. “I don’t want your cashier’s check.”

Steve bit his lip at this, bottling in a yelp of grief. Part of him wanted to shout and curse at her, but the rest of him was terrified that she would get up and leave him alone again. After a few seconds, he was calm enough to form a reply, “What do you want?”

“You know the answer to that already,” she replied.

“I can’t let you hypnotize me,” Steve gasped, his tone pleading.

Goddess Marquesa stood. “This doesn’t have to be entirely unpleasant for you, Steven,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Reaching under her nightie, she pulled down her panties, slowly lowering them until they were around her ankles. “I can make this very gratifying for you if you give me the chance.” Stepping out of the panties, she leaned forward and held them under Steve’s nose. The scent of her pussy made him groan involuntarily.

“We could use these panties to help you focus in our first hypnosis session,” Goddess Marquesa continued, her tone gentle and soothing. “I could make them a gift. They might help you sleep. All you have to do is show me that you will submit.”

“How would I do that?” Steve asked huskily, his eyes focused on the panties held in front of his face.

Goddess Marquesa sat back in the chair and extended her gorgeous right leg. “Crawl over to me like a good pet and kiss my foot,” she instructed.

Steve gaped, a look of combined terror and yearning contorting his face. His breath began to come in ragged gasps.

Goddess Marquesa tapped her right foot and dangled the panties in her left hand. “Come, boy,” she teased, “you know you want to.”

Steve fell silent. His mouth went dry. The chance to kiss that foot, to hold those panties to his face and breath in deep, was more than he could resist. He began to tremble. Goddess Marquesa laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” Steve asked.

“That tremor is a sure sign that you are about to obey,” Goddess Marquesa purred.

Steven pitched forward onto his hands and knees and crawled across the floor. When he reached the chair he bent down and pressed his lips to Goddess Marquesa’s foot, savoring the feeling and taste of her once more.

“That’s a good boy,” Goddess Marquesa declared, handing Steve the panties. “Now go lie down on the cot and we can begin.”

Steve’s trembling had increased, but he managed to get himself back onto the cot.

“That’s it,” Goddess Marquesa encouraged, “don’t be afraid. Go ahead and use my gift.”

Steve held the panties to his face. “That’s right, darling,” the Goddess cooed, pulling the chair closer so that she was seated right next to the cot. “Breathe. Breathe and listen to my voice. You feel yourself becoming very relaxed….”

“….Three!” Goddess Marquesa said, and snapped her fingers. Steve became fully conscious again. He didn’t recall having gone under, or how long he had been there. He knew he had been hypnotized, though. The hazy sluggishness and lack of sleep that had afflicted him were gone. He felt refreshed and alert.

“That first session went very well, pet. How do you feel?” Goddess Marquesa asked.

“Good,” Steve replied, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. He sat up on the cot, still clutching the lacy panties in his hand.

“Excellent,” Marquesa said. “Can you sense something different? Do you have any impulses that you would like to show me?”

Steve looked at her questioningly, initially confused. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but before the words came out an urge seized him. He looked down at the panties. The hand that held them was quivering. Without thinking, Steve stood and stepped into the leg holes of the panties, pulling them up to his waist. They were very tight, but the lacy material felt good against his cock.

“Well done, pet,” the Goddess noted approvingly. “Now sit back down. We have to talk about your finances.”

Steve was disoriented by his urge to wear the panties, but sat as he had been told. “I thought you would have extracted anything you wanted to know while I was under,” he said.

“No, silly boy,” Goddess Marquesa replied, “I told you that I was doing something more complicated with our hypnosis sessions. Now you tell me, what is the password for your phone?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Steve demurred, “it could ruin me.”

Goddess Marquesa reached out and took Steve’s hand from his lap, placing it on her left breast. Leaning in, she stroked his face with her free hand and spoke barely audibly, close enough so that her breath caressed his throat with each word, “Can’t you tell me, darling? Think some more about that.”

Steve began to tremble…



The music from the intercom woke Steve as usual. He got up from his cot and crossed to his vanity table. His cell was no longer as Spartan as it had been when he first entered it. Over the days and weeks (how long exactly he wasn’t sure) he had been given a wardrobe, a dresser, and a vanity. The Goddess had even allowed him to have a remote control with which he could operate the TV mounted in the wall behind her portrait, and some books and magazines to pass the time while he waited for Her.

Steve started with his wig. His hair was growing out, but it would take a while before he could look right without one. Today he chose a blonde wig, so that he could look like his Goddess. After the wig was in place he began on his makeup.

While he was applying the finishing touches to his lipstick the door to his cell opened unexpectedly and the Goddess entered, carrying a shopping bag. Steve dropped what he was doing and fell to his knees. He was careful to wipe the lipstick from the Goddess’s shoe after he had kissed her foot.

“Good morning, pet,” the Goddess said cheerily. “I have something new for you today. Sit down and I’ll show you.”

Steve sat on the cot, yielding the room’s one chair to the Goddess.

“What is it?” he asked.

The Goddess sat and produced a shoe-box sized container from the shopping bag she carried. This she held in front of Steve, opening its lid so that he could view its contents. Within there was a medical syringe and a series of small vials marked “Estrogen.”

“This is the next phase of your transformation, sweetling,” the Goddess declared.

Steve coughed. “But….but….”

“But, what?” Goddess Marquesa asked in irritation.

“I’m a man. This will make my breasts grow, and my skin….” Steve complained.

“Are you Goddess’s good girl or not?” Goddess Marquesa demanded.

“I want to be,” Steve protested, “I’m trying to be your good girl. But this is too much. I’m frightened…”

“Don’t think about the way it will change you. Think about how it will please Me. Pleasing Me makes you happy, yes?”

Steve began to tremble. “You will have to teach me how to use the syringe…”

“Good pet,” the Goddess purred. “From today we will have to give you a new name….”




The day they had been working for finally came. The prisoner emerged from the cell, and joined Goddess Marquesa in Her limo once again. There was no passionate necking this time, but the ride was heavenly just the same. Any chance to be that close to Her was bliss.

It was nighttime as the limo wound its way through the Hollywood hills. After about an hour, they arrived at a large ultra-modern mansion overlooking Laurel Canyon. The driveway was capacious but nonetheless crowded with expensive cars as they pulled up. “You’ll come in with us, Rick,” the Goddess said to her chauffeur as he held open the passenger-side rear door for Her, “I may require your assistance.”

“Yes, Goddess,” Rick replied.

Goddess Marquesa led her servant and prisoner up to the main door of the house, where a butler greeted them and escorted them down winding corridors into a large parlor at the rear of the mansion, with windows overlooking the broad expanse of Laurel Canyon. This had been set with dozens of chairs, most of which were filled by women that the prisoner recognized as present and former clients. These guests applauded as Goddess Marquesa led the prisoner by the hand into the center of the room.

“Ladies,” Goddess Marquesa addressed the assembled women, motioning for the applause to stop, “thank you for coming here tonight at my invitation.” Gesturing to the prisoner, she continued, “As I explained in my letter, this is Stephanie, whom you all once knew as Steven. Curtsey to the ladies, Stephanie.” Stephanie did as she was directed. She was dressed very primly in a gingham dress, white stockings, and red high-heel shoes. Her wig was of hazel locks tonight, and tied back from her face with a red silk ribbon that matched her shoes. The room laughed and clapped as Stephanie curtseyed to them.

“In the process of transforming her into the girl you see before you,” Goddess Marquesa announced, “I was able to extract the information that allowed me to retrieve and return most of the money that she had stolen from you.” Here the Goddess was interrupted again by loud applause. “I took no ‘finder’s fee’ for myself, I could not in good conscience profit from your victimization. But I did go to considerable trouble and expense, so I appreciate your being willing to entertain my plan for compensation.”

“How can we know that you are able to deliver on the promise described in your letter?” asked an older woman toward the rear of the room.

Goddess Marquesa made a sweeping gesture with her hand, inviting her audience to examine Stephanie from head to toe. “Isn’t my control over the subject obvious?” she asked.

“Turning him into a transvestite and forcing him to cough up some money is impressive,” said a different woman, seated in the front row of seats, “but what you described in your letter is a whole order of magnitude more difficult.”

“If you like I can give you a demonstration,” the Goddess replied. Turning to her chauffeur, she commanded, “Rick, strip naked.”

Titillated chatter erupted around the parlor as Rick undressed to reveal a chiseled torso and well-endowed physique. When he stood naked, Goddess Marquesa turned to Stephanie and said, “On your knees, pet. Suck Rick’s cock.”

Stephanie’s face whitened. “But, Goddess,” she protested, “I’m not gay. I belong to you…I never desired….”

“Look into my eyes, Stephanie,” Goddess Marquesa interrupted, capturing Stephanie’s gaze in Her own, “you can feel yourself going under. Just like when we were in your cell….listen and breathe….relax…You are now in trance. Say, ‘yes, Goddess.’”

“Yes, Goddess,” Stephanie replied in a dreamy, drone-like monotone.

“Good,” continued Goddess Marquesa. “You find yourself craving cock. You can’t go another instant without putting Rick’s cock in your mouth. Show me how much you want it.”

Stephanie fell to her knees and took Rick’s cock into her mouth greedily, sucking with abandon. “That’s right,” Goddess Marquesa directed, “work the shaft with your lips and tongue. Take him down your throat. Get his cock nice and slick.”

Wet slurping sounds filled the parlor as Stephanie carried out the Goddess’s orders, drool dripping from her chin to the oriental silk rug below. The watching ladies giggled appreciatively. After a few minutes, Goddess Marquesa intervened, “That’s a good girl, Stephanie. Now you realize that you don’t only want Rick in your mouth, you want him to fuck you up the ass. You want to feel his cock inside you desperately. Show us all how much you want it.”

Stephanie broke off the blow job and turned 180 degrees, still on her knees. Hiking up the skirt of her dress and pulling down her frilly panties, she pitched forward on her hands and forehead to the carpet to offer Rick her bare ass. “Take me Rick,” she pleaded, her voice tearful with desire. “Please….fuck me hard….I need your shaft….”

Rick looked to Goddess Marquesa for direction. Seeing her nod, he knelt down, jammed his dripping cock into Stephanie’s ass, and began to pump.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” asked Goddess Marquesa.

“Oh, Goddess, yes! Oh it feels soooo gooood…” Stephanie’s voice was slurred, as if she was drunk with pleasure.

“The ecstasy is too intense…” Goddess Marquesa declared, raising her hand in a dramatic gesture for her audience, “you can feel yourself beginning to cum…NOW!”

On the last word Goddess Marquesa brought her hand down sharply, pointing to the spot on the rug that received the thick stream of cum that spurt from Stephanie’s cock on command. Stephanie let out an animal like grunt as she came, her eyes closed and her face a mask of transported bliss. The whole display was initially met with stunned silence, punctuated by errant gasps. But as Rick withdrew and stepped back from the prostrate form of Stephanie, the crowd again erupted into spontaneous applause.

Goddess Marquesa snapped her fingers in front of Stephanie’s face to draw her out of trance. Turning to the audience, she said, “I hope that was enough to demonstrate that I am as good as my word, ladies. My power over Stephanie is total, I can make her crave anyone or anything. If there are no more questions, may I propose that we begin our business without further adieu?”

“I bid $100,000,” spoke a voice at one end of the parlor.

“Five-hundred thousand!” countered a woman from across the room.

“$750,000!” came an offer from an attractive red-headed woman seated in the center of the gathered chairs. A hushed pause descended on the assembly.

“The bidding stands at $750,000 from Mrs. Levinsky,” Goddess Marquesa announced. “Do I hear any further bids?”

“Two million dollars!” This call was high-pitched and reedy, but clearly audible throughout the parlor. The speaker looked to be about eighty-five years old. She had stood to make her bid, and was leaning a bit shakily on her mahogany cane, slightly winded from the exertion of being heard. The room fell silent.

“I think that is our last bid,” Goddess Marquesa declared after a moment’s pause. “Very well, Mrs. Hartwell, I will transform Stephanie into your ideal sexual slave. If you would please come forward and instruct me, I will program Stephanie however you prefer.”

“Wait!” Stephanie cried, crawling over so that she was kneeling directly in front of the Goddess. Clasping her hands in front of her blossoming breasts, she begged, “Please, no! I belong to You, Goddess! You know how much I need You!”

Goddess Marquesa laughed, “I told you that I was bound to get some money from you, pet. How did you think that was going to happen? Now be a good girl and hush.”

“No!” Stephanie shouted. She sprang to her feet and ran over to a window at the rear of the parlor. Flinging the window open with all her strength, Stephanie turned to confront the Goddess, “If I can’t be with You I don’t want to live! Say that You’ll keep me or I’ll throw myself into the canyon!”

Goddess Marquesa walked toward her captive slowly, her face projecting calm. “You’re not going to do that, pet,” she declared.

“Why not?” asked Stephanie through tears.

“Because then I won’t get my money, and that won’t make me happy. You want me to be happy, don’t you?” The Goddess’s tone was gentle but firm, her emerald eyes gazing steadily into Stephanie’s. Stephanie began to tremble, her will crumbling before that of Goddess Marquesa. She collapsed to her knees, nodding her assent but unable to speak for crying.

“Very good, pet,” Goddess Marquesa soothed. “Breathe. Focus on my voice. You can feel yourself becoming very relaxed….”




The End