Master PC: A Firm Hand
Copyright© 2014 by hush
Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Harper McLain liberates a copy of the Master PC program from his depraved neighbor who had used it to turn his wife into a mindless sex toy. After returning her to the way she was and erasing all evidence of his neighbor's actions, can Harper make good on his promise to rid himself of the program forever?
Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Mind Control Lesbian Heterosexual Science Fiction FemaleDom Spanking Rough Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Interracial White Male White Female Oriental Female Oral Sex Anal Sex Masturbation Sex Toys Squirting Pregnancy Cream Pie Double Penetration Body Modification science fiction sex story, computer sci-fi sex story
The rain was bad. Great sheets of it were coming down from the early afternoon sky and clinging fiercely to the windshield of Harper McLain's silver Audi. The windshield wipers' frenzied efforts to fight the deluge were to no avail and visibility was as poor as Harper's mood.
The past week had been hell for the 33 year old. His unwashed sandy blond hair was limp and his normally deep hazel eyes looked downcast and haggard. Harper had attracted that unfortunate odor that seems to linger around airports; the scent of arrested motion and frustration. For almost a whole week he had been dicked around by a hospital board who had expressed great interest in a brand new, state of the art, MRI machine his company sold.
Remembering the particulars of his wasted trip, his thoughts grew black as the clouds hovering low in the sky. Six days spent in Austin, Texas, in the punishing summer heat, only to discover that the hospital had signed an agreement to buy the Magnetic Resonance Imager, the same damn model I was selling, from Phoenix fucking Medical Technologies and that prick Tim Stockman! That commission should have been mine!
Now, here he was coming home a day early, and the rain was coming down in a solid torrent with the barometric pressure so low his prematurely arthritic right knee was set to aching constantly.
At last, the turn to his neighborhood came up on the right. Harper let his anger start to bleed away. After all, he was coming home a day early to his wife Ashley. A whole day with no work and nothing else to occupy him. Things would be better after he could lean back in his recliner with a beer and just listen to her. Always sweet and soothing. Ever ready to listen to him or politely remind him that things weren't as bad as they appeared.
Thinking back, it was a little strange he hadn't heard from her. Usually she was a stickler for daily communication whenever he went on business trips. Harper guiltily realized he had been wholly absorbed in trying to hawk his medical tech and that calling his wife had been shoved rudely to the bottom of his priority list. Maybe he could make it up to her somehow. Take her out someplace nice to eat ... with money he hadn't made.
Big suburban houses rolled by in the rain, their gutters overflowing with water. Good, Harper thought to himself, she's home. Her black BMW was parked in the driveway and Harper parked next it, noting a light on upstairs. Holding a newspaper over his head to keep rain from getting in his eyes, he retrieved his suitcase and briefcase from the trunk and hustled to the front door. Faint music coming from upstairs greeted his ears as the front door swung open.
As he walked into the kitchen, the smell of something going bad directed his gaze to a multitude of dirty dishes in the sink. Something weird was definitely going on here.
His travel suitcase thunked to the floor while the brown leather briefcase he carried found a place on the kitchen table. "Hey, Ash?" he called as he loosened his tie and took off his coat, placing it on the back of a chair in the kitchen. "Ashley?"
No answer drifted from upstairs. Must not be able to hear me over the music, he mused. Harper draped his tie over his coat while his mouth twisted into a frown. The beer could wait. Better go see Ashley first.
Harper undid a couple buttons on his shirt as he thumped steadily up the stairs. His right knee sang out a litany of pain with each step. The music, now easily discernible as some horrible electronic clamor, grew louder as he ascended. Weird, he thought. Ashley hates that stuff. A slice of light spilled out onto the off-white carpet of the landing as he reached the top of the stairs.
Before he could call out his wife's name again, he noticed another sound. Rhythmic, but not musical. A slurping, sucking noise he couldn't place. Curious, he kept quiet and walked to the door. Nothing could be seen through the crack and Harper pushed the door open slowly.
A curious tableau presented itself. His bedroom was in complete disarray. Discarded clothing covered almost every inch of the floor except where pillows had landed. The unmade bed was a tangle of sheets. Harper numbly noticed his beautiful wife in the center of all this mayhem on her knees with a hugely muscular man pounding away at her mouth. The man, though facing toward Harper, had his head thrown back in rapture and hadn't noticed his arrival.
Harper stood stock still as his mind whirred to catch up to reality. The man leaned his head forward to gaze down at Ashley, catching sight of Harper standing dumbly in the doorway. Their eyes met. Some detached part of Harper's mind thought the man looked familiar in some way. Then things seemed to happen all at once. The man threw a hand up towards Harper and started speaking rapidly while backing away. That small, withdrawn part of Harper that wasn't shocked into immobility recognized words that were meant to be soothing.
White hot rage suffused his consciousness. That burning filament grew to become his entire universe, eclipsing everything else. Sixteen years fell away and, in his mind, Harper was right back on the football field at West High. The same football field where, sixteen years ago, he'd hit a kid so hard he'd given him his third and final concussion. The one that had ended his football career forever. Protesting knee forgotten, Harper coiled into the perfectly balanced stance beaten into him by a brutal and unforgiving defensive line coach. Muscles long unused screeched in protest as he rushed at the man, taking him full in the stomach and driving him into a bedside table and sending a lamp to the carpeted floor.
The two grappled and the Arnold look-a-like, though outweighing Harper by at least fifty pounds of pure muscle, simply couldn't withstand the onslaught of Harper's rage fueled attack. He bore the intruder to the clothes strewn floor and began to hammer away at his face with closed fists until his knuckles began to split and bleed. The sickening refrain of knuckle meeting flesh filled the room accompanied by the cries of Harper's victim and the steady susurration of the rain outside.
Harper finally stopped. He heaved himself off the unconscious and bleeding man on the floor to lay on his back panting. Ever so slowly his brain started working again. Started sorting through what had happened as a wash of pain from his hands, knees, and half a dozen other parts of his body made it belated appearance in his brain. A little shakily, he stood and limped over to his wife where she knelt.
"Ash. Ash, sweetheart. Snap out of it!" he demanded of her inert form. She didn't resist when he shook her, but it accomplished nothing. Ashley hadn't so much as twitched a single muscles during his earlier struggle with the man now taking a non-consensual nap behind him. Her glazed brown eyes stared at the wall in front of her empty of any spark or sign of life and her mouth formed a perfect, unmoving O.
"Ashley!" he cried, panic and anguish dueling for supremacy in his voice. Her only response was a line of drool that dripped from her bottom lip onto one of her pert breasts.
"What have you done to her?" he yelled at the unconscious man where he lay. "What the fuck have you done to her?" The bleeding man offered no reply aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest.
A multitude of thoughts sizzled all at once through Harper's brain as he searched his wife's eyes for a sign of life. Could it be drugs? Should he called the police? Does Ash need to go to the hospital? What if she's been poisoned?
The fear for his wife slowly ebbed and subsided under hate for the comatose man behind him. No police, he thought. And no hospital. Not yet. First I'm going to find out exactly what happened here.