The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I gave myself a pep talk the next morning in front of the mirror while applying eyeliner thickly Egyptian style. “Chelsea,” I told myself. “This is the new normal. Control what you can, and don’t worry about the rest.” I chose dark red lipstick and was satisfied with my face’s exotic, mask-like appearance—I didn’t look like myself.

There is a little coffee shop, the Grove, that had been a routine stop for me on my way to campus. But now it was in what I considered enemy territory, any public space. I steeled myself for a frontal assault and pushed through the swinging doors. A few of the people inside were male. I mentally counted the failed check attempts as each noticed me, “One, two, three.” The barista, one of the men who’d just tried to check me, handed me my latte with a friendly smile. I forced myself to smile back and hid from passers-by in an oversized couch at the back.

Earlier that morning, my phone had sat unanswered on my dresser, buzzing with texts like an angry rattlesnake. But now, fortified by the warmth and aroma of the coffee, I felt courageous enough to look.

“Girrrl! What did you do??” greeted Ally from the notifications banner on my phone. I knew exactly what I had done and unlocked the device to a shaky, low-resolution video attached to her text.

I recognized the prettily carved arches of the Classics building’s facade. Stone fauns chased naked nymphs along window frames. The video honed in on one and, through it, on a girl bare to the waist, her dress pulled down. She bent forward over a desk so that her breasts swung undignifyingly as a figure in the shadows railed her from behind. As much as I didn’t want to, I recognized her to be myself. The video was silent, but memory played back for me how I’d moaned and begged for more.

I had twenty or thirty more messages like that, and I gave myself another pep talk again, but this time silently in my head. “You knew this was coming, Chelsea. It’s not your fault, and it won’t be the last time.” But every text I read, some empathetic and some callous, felt like a little piece of broken glass in my stomach. I wondered if Tom had seen it. I wondered what he thought, and couldn’t help texting him.

“Good morning! Can’t wait for our date!!” I wrote, falsely cheerful. After I hit the send button, my double exclamation marks seemed desperate and needy.

Activity dots shimmered as he began to compose a reply, and my heart leapt and then sank as he took him longer and longer to send. Was he writing to say he didn’t want to see me, that he thought I was disgusting? Helplessness made me irrationally angry with him, ready to protect my vulnerable heart by peremptorily rejecting him. I held myself in check as the dots vanished and then resumed. Apparently, he had to think about what to say.

“Chelsea,” he texted. “I really want to see you, but I saw what happened to you. If you need anything, let me know.”

One of the broken pieces inside me knitted together again, and I began to tear up. “Absolutely not,” I told myself. Not with the amount of eyeliner I had on.

“I just want to see you,” I texted back. “What about tonight at your place?”

“You got it,” he texted back. “Spaghetti?”

I hearted his reply and floated to class. The fluttery feeling in my chest anesthetized me for a little while from the anxieties of my new normal.

In my morning lab for applied statistics, someone captured the TA, Mia, and made her so hot and bothered that she couldn’t help peppering her lecture with little gasps and whimpers. She had a pretty, triangular face with a splash of freckles, now hidden in a blush that was equal parts shame and arousal. I tried to feel for her as she struggled to complete sentences and tripped absent-mindedly over her own feet, but my heart was elsewhere. Whoever was in control drove her to climax as class ended. She leaned against the desk to steady her shaking legs and ground her pelvis in the air as it took her. She was still twitching and quivering as we filed out of the room close enough to touch her.

“I love your lectures,” I said on my way out. I was trying to be encouraging, but in retrospect, maybe I’d accidentally suggested that I’d enjoyed her humiliation.

“Thanks,” she replied breathlessly but couldn’t meet my gaze and dropped her eyes. “I don’t know if anyone leaned anything about math today, but stop by my office hours if I can help you with anything.”

It occurred to me that TAs spent more time outside of class with professors than anyone else. I shuddered, wondering how someone could love applied mathematics that much. The rest of the day, I felt a few failed check marks and caught out of the corner of my eye a male TA leading a crestfallen freshman girl by the hand into the men’s restroom. But otherwise, school was uneventful.

I stopped at my dorm after classes to make strategic wardrobe choices to see Tom. I washed my ridiculous makeup off, exposing my face again, and chose clothes I had relegated to the back of my closet when I was collared—a too-short khaki skirt, tank top, and tiny, lacy underwear. Accessible, revealing, comfortable, and sexy. I didn’t know if or how Sam would eventually try and take me, but if he did, I didn’t want to make it too difficult for him. For the trip there, I concealed myself with a pea coat—too warm for the season, but the heavy fabric would feel comfortably armor-like in public.

I made it to the corner of Fifth and Park, just outside of Tom’s apartment, where I felt the flash of a successful check attempt. Before my brain could catch up, my feet carried me onto the porch of a brownstone under a large, ostentatious archway.

“Hello,” said a silver-haired man opening the door. He was wearing the unmistakable cardigan of a professor and had the svelte build of a swimmer. His comfortable, commanding poise could almost be mistaken for an attitude of benevolent kindness, but his eyes were predatory. “Aren’t you a lovely young thing? Do come in.”

“Please, sir,” I said, feeling more like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff than standing on a doorstep, “I have an appointment somewhere else; can I come back later?” It was silly, I know, but politely begging was my only weapon.

“That’s alright,” replied the man, “just explain that you didn’t have a choice; I’m sure they’ll understand.”

And then I was inside with the latch bolt closing behind me with a deceptively light click. The entryway was homey, with a dark mahogany staircase, fresh flowers in a brass vase, and a full-length mirror behind them.

“Jacket, please,” said the man. “I didn’t catch your name.” he prompted without offering his own.

“Chelsea,” I said, feeling defeated, and peeled out of my pea coat armor. He hung it up on a coat hook. The cozy entryway and grandfatherly-looking professor were inconsistent with the anxious racing of my heart.

“And your top, dear. I want to get a closer look at you.” I don’t even think he was running a program on me at that point. I obeyed out of habit; my previous captures paralyzing my instinct to resist. I pulled the tank top over my head, feeling ridiculous in the little lacey bra I’d chosen for Tom. The man smiled when he saw, and hung my shirt with my jacket.

“Oh,” he said. “What pretty wrapping. I take it your appointment was with a very lucky boy. Don’t worry, I will return you to him only lightly used. Let me help you with that.”

He stepped in close to unclasp me, and his chest against my face smelled of patchouli and tobacco. I turned away from him only to see our reflection in the mirror—I, much shorter than him, looking scared and bare, and he, old enough to be my father, fondling me with one hand, my bra in his other. His attention focused to a point on my skin where his fingers traced my outline from the nape of my neck down over my bare chest. When he reached my nipples, he leaned in to smell and taste the middle crevice between my breasts. In the mirror, he was the archetypal lecherous old man stooping vulture-like over his prey. When he stepped back again to examine me, my wet skin was cold in the air. The bulge of an erection broke the neat vertical lines of his slim frame.

“Goodness me,” he said, “I think I’m getting ahead of myself. We don’t even know each other yet. Join me in the living room for a coffee.” I followed him—awkwardly topless—down the hall to the right, where a narrow, comfortable room with big, plush couches and a little, picturesque fireplace burning merrily. If I had been wearing all of my clothes, it would have been uncomfortably warm. I briefly considered running for it while the professor left to fetch coffee, but it seemed unwise to temp him like it would be to flee from a stray dog.

When he returned, he handed me a steaming mug and sat across from me, back to the fireplace, legs crossed in an armchair. “Now, Chelsea, tell me about yourself, for what are you studying? Sit up straight, dear. You have nothing of which to be ashamed.”

He smiled a little—I think appreciating my discomfort from presenting myself for him as much, if not more, than the effect he had on my posture. I had a bead on his style of sadism then. It was like Chinese water torture, a little at a time, so that every moment, I was acutely aware of his power over me and my helplessness. I guessed he would never let me hide behind an orgy of lost control. I gave myself the last pep talk of the day. “Chelsea,” I whispered in my mind, “It doesn’t matter. Tom will understand. This doesn’t change anything.”

I had had nightmares about being interviewed like this while nude. Holding my coffee mug in front like a protective buckler, I did my best to answer his questions.

“Well, sir, aptitude tests suggest I may make a decent cartographer for exotic geodesics.” He raised his eyebrows; it was rare for females to place in space navigation. I talked about my courses and junior thesis, and he nodded with interest, asking the occasional probing question. Words turned into my refuge, and I lost myself in the details of mundane life, almost forgetting I was topless with a man who intended to humiliate and then fuck me. Almost.

When finished the last of my coffee, he leaned forward and took the cup from me, setting it on a side table, and weighed in on my academic record, “Impressive, young lady. And surprising. You know, the Law of the Collar cuts both ways. It gives exceptionally intelligent men a breeding advantage and a,” he paused searching for the right words, “exceptionally intelligent young women an advantage at not being bred. It’s gratifying to know I’m in your league.”

I wasn’t sure if I could take that as a compliment, but then the implication of what he was saying sunk in. All my courses had described the goal of the collar to breed brilliant men. But, of course, the test didn’t select for that exactly so much as a difference in intelligence between the captor and the captured. The implication of what that meant for female cognition in the long term was horrifying, a huge secret hidden in plain sight. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The professor saw my emotional turbulence and exploited my weakness with another demand. “I’ll take your skirt and panties now, thank you. And do tell me about your collaring.” I had to stand to strip, which put my crotch at his eye level, close enough that his breath tickled my v when it was bare.

Even more uncomfortable than being completely naked was sitting my bare puss down against the sofa. The sensation of the fabric made me acutely aware of my nudity, and the possibility of leaving a wet patch behind haunted me. I had to pause just after I began talking again because the professor took that moment to hold my panties to his face and sniff them deeply without breaking eye contact. It was unnerving, and I pinched myself to make sure the surreal experience wasn’t a bad dream after all. My voice was shaky as I described what it had been like at the courthouse. The professor had a bottomless appetite for the mundane details of my life especially if they were sexual or embarrassing, and he motioned for me to keep talking about my experiences after I’d described the final hiss of the device closing around my neck.

I tried to lose myself in my details like I had before. But this time, instead of the professor disappearing into the background, his presence followed me into my day-to-day life, turning it into a peep show.

“Part your legs, dear,” he interrupted after I’d told him how I’d heard about Ally’s fraternity party. After listening to my adventure in the Classic’s building, he demanded, “Come sit on my lap. Not, not like that, sideways so I can stroke you.” And turning his questions to my family life, he began to probe my vulva gently. I was afraid he would ask me about Tom, so I sacrificed my dignity and distracted him with stories about Sam—my precocious brother who’d explored every crevice of me, then my mother, and then the two of us together on my opening vacation. The pressure of the professor’s erection against my thigh told me I was on the right track, and I couldn’t keep the quiver out of my voice as he slipped the tip of his index finger inside me. I wondered how long I could keep this going before crashing emotionally.

“Sam likes to find what he calls the limit, the least effect he has to have on me to make me do something awful.”

“Oh?” said the professor with a wolfish grin. “And how does he go about that?”

“Well, he’d start in the morning by probing for something we didn’t want to do, and then he would start to change some mental variable very slowly, usually arousal, little by little until . . .” I trailed off, shrugging.

“Usually?” asked the professor.

“Sometimes he would do something like increase our affection for him or our eagerness to please.” I shuddered, remembering the day he’d turned us into suggestible, giggling bimbos.

“And he made you?” he prompted, slipping his finger deeper into me, the other hand wandered over my stomach and chest.

“The first time he made us eat each other out,” it seemed so tame to me now. I continued. “Once, he made us send my dad, not biological dad, of course, a sex video.” The long, agonizing afternoons came back to me, of my arousal slowly creating up from a slight swell that cascaded until we were desperate, squirming messes by the evening, the whole time an impossible, humiliating task looming over us. “I think the hardest for me was pegging Mom with a strap-on in the butt.” Her initial agony transformed slowly into an equally horrifying desire for me to pound her harder. And I had, knowing that if I could make her come, Sam would give me release as well.

“Tell me about your mom,” he prompted, “she’s blond like you? Same small perky boobs?”

My heart sank with the suspicion that I’d oversold my hand, that this man would try to find us both or even tag team us with Sam. “We’re pretty similar, except her hair is auburn, and she’s in her forties.”

“I think I may have had the pleasure of meeting her. Did she attend college here? It must have been, what, about eighteen years ago?”

“I think so,” I said.

“I knew I recognized the curve of you,” said the professor, beckoning with his finger inside of me for emphasis. I met her in January. It was a little over eighteen years ago. Your birthday’s not in September by any chance, is it?”

I nodded no and was thankful this monster wasn’t my father. But Sam, my brother, was born September 22nd. For the first time, the Law of the Collar’s breeding scheme was more than an abstraction. This monster was going to breed me like he’d bred my mother eighteen years ago. The image of her obediently kneeling between Sam’s legs flashed in my mind’s eye. I saw myself in eighteen years similarly servicing this man’s son and felt queasy.

“Mmm,” said the professor. He was grinding his hips into me a little and, with gentle, insistent pressure, finger fucking me up to his palm. My body betrayed me, giving him lubrication to make his invasion easier. “And what did you girls fight the hardest not to do?”

I recognized the trap and lied instinctively, picking something believably awful but not nearly so terrifying as being impregnated by him. “My ass, sir.”

“Because …?” he prompted. I only had to dress up the lie a little, dreading that at any moment, he would look inside my mind and see the truth. “It’s too intense, I can’t take it.” And thinking what would really get this old pervert going, “It leaves me sore for days.” He didn’t think to check and smiled self-satisfiedly, confident I wouldn’t dare lie to him. “Dear, what will your boyfriend think if he can’t enjoy your little brown rose? Let me teach you how it’s done.” His voice was oily and sinister.

I continued to protest knowing that’s what he wanted, at the same time, fear knotted in my stomach at the possibility of success. Saying that anal was too much for me was hardly a lie. It wasn’t as bad as being bred, but it was still bad. “Please, sir. I can feel how hard you are for me. Let me ride you. I promise you’ll like it.” I squirmed in his lap a little, and his hips bucked against me. He paused. Momentarily, I wondered if I’d oversold my resistance. But I’d captivated the old sadist with the thought of giving me more than I could handle. He pulled his finger out of me, wiping my juices on my thighs.

“Be a good girl, and don’t make me discipline you. Up and over the back of the couch. I stood on unsteady legs, leaning against him for support. He stood, extending a hand to steady me, and walked me around behind the sofa.

“The trick,” he said, “ is for you to push as I enter you. It will initially hurt but don’t worry, and I’ll have you nice and widened before it’s over.” He winked at me and a shiver ran up and down my spine. “You don’t need to use the restroom, do you?” I nodded no, and he put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me to step forward against the back of the couch. I wondered if I should struggle a little for appearance’s sake; I was almost ready to try and bolt for real anyway. But with a little push from him, I fell forward on my stomach over the broad back, face among the cushions, just my tiptoes touching the floor behind me, and upturned ass helplessly exposed. Where my upper back and neck faced forward, the warmth of the fire toasted me. Except for my trepidation, helplessness, and nudity, I was surprisingly comfortable.

The professor rustled around searching for something in a cabinet and then returned. He put one hand heavily on the small of my back and with the other spread a wet, lotion like substance on my hole, which I guessed with relief must be lube. He applied a lot of it, paused, and then, before I had a chance to realize what was happening, he inserted the narrow tip of a squeeze tub in my anus, and emptied the rest of it into me. “Oh!” I said into the pillow in surprise as the liquid spurt into me. I had few moments of peace to absorb the new sensations while the professor situated himself behind me for the next stage of my ordeal.

“Breath,” he commanded, and I felt the tip of his finger pressing into me with the same gentle insistence with which he’d penetrated my pussy. “Breath, dear,” he commanded again as I began to hyperventilate. Fear pulled me back into submissiveness, and I obeyed forcing deep even mouthfuls of air into my lungs. The fire in the background crackled and spit as he opened my ass. Any feeling of victory over him evaporated as he violated me, and I whimpered into the couch cushions.

“How do you feel?” asked the professor as my breathing stabilized.

“Vulnerable,” I answered hoarsely and honestly, and he chuckled.

After a few minutes, I felt a second finger pressing at my entrance with the first, and I couldn’t help gasping a little. With his other hand, the professor stroked my back, susurrating, “Relax, relax.” If he weren’t raping me for his amusement, I could almost believe he cared about my comfort. And I wondered if, in his mind, the two impulses were not contradictory. The third finger was enough to begin really challenging my limits, and I couldn’t help begging a little and trying to get my balance to stand. “Please,” I said. “It hurts.” He held me down easily with his free hand on my lower back.

“I will make a deal with you, Chelsea. If you obey utterly and completely, I will take your ass like a gentleman. But if you struggle, I will whip you into submission and pound you like I was tenderizing a piece of meat.” The even calmness of his tone was terrifying, and I froze like a field mouse that’s locked eyes with the barn cat.

“Relax, breath, continued the professor, and after a few moments, I was able to unclench and untense my muscles. “Good girl,” he intoned as though I were a well-trained puppy. I heard him unzip his fly, and the hard tip of him pressed into me. I moaned, distraught because he felt huge. But I didn’t dare struggle again.

“Remember to push, dear. You are in the hands of an expert. Just do as you’re told.” He held me by the narrow part of my waist with both hands and leaned forward very slowly. All I could do was focus on breathing, relaxing, and trying to push. It was less painful than with Sam, but i still felt the sharp pain of a cock penetrating the wrong way into me. The hugeness of him sliding into me centimeter by centimeter was terrifying. “Oh god,” I started to say, except there was no “d,” just a string of o’s as bulge of him reached my belly.

“I’m all the way in you now, young lady. You’re very tight,” he said from behind me. “I don’t know how long I’m going to last.” His voice was strained. Just as slowly as he’d entered me, he began to pull out, leaving my insides loose and distended where his cock had been. The long “o” became a long “d” on my tongue. And then he began again pressing slowly and inexorably back into me, filling me up again. The sensation of intense fullness followed by emptiness wasn’t just discomfort anymore, but it filled my mind just as much as my body, leaving no room for thoughts or feelings. For as long as he fucked me, I was his mindless receptacle.

The only time he moved quickly was at the end, bucking his hips into me in a motion that pulled me out of my fugue, and I cried out at the shock of it. When he pulled out for the final time, I felt my asshole gape where he had widened me. For a split second that I squashed as soon as I noticed it, I felt disappointingly unfilled.

As soon as he had come in me, the professor was bored of me. “Good girl,” he congratulated me on my performance zipping himself back up, but it was empty of the sadistic enthusiasm from a few moments ago. He helped me up, handing me a towel to hold against myself so I didn’t dribble on the floor and led me to a hallway bathroom where I could wash up. I spent a long time in the hot water, scrubbing myself with soap, trying to wash the sensation of him off me. When I was out, I found my clothes on the counter except my panties and bra were missing, I guess taken as trophies. On my clothes was a little greeting card scrawled with spidery handwriting: “Thank you for the good time. Please show yourself out. PS Tell Kirsten, ‘xoxo’ PPS, don’t forget to show your new trick to your boyfriend.” I tore it up into little pieces and left them on the floor.

I noted the streets visible from his windows, vowing never to cross there again. Outside, I stood a few steps away from Tom’s apartment, debating whether to try salvaging my date with Tom or head back to my dorm and hide under the covers. In retrospect, I recognize the symptoms of shock in my judgement. I checked my phone; it felt like I’d spent forever with the professor, but I was only about an hour later than I said I’d be. There were six missed calls from Tom and one text,

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.” It was what I needed to hear. I made a B—line for his apartment and spammed the ringer.

Paradoxically, now that I was within steps of safety, the helplessness and frustration buried inside began to bubble up so that when Tom’s friendly, goofy voice came through the intercom, it was all I could do to keep from snapping at him.

“Oh my god,” said his disembodied voice. “I thought something had happened to you.”

“It did,” I replied tersely.

“Again?” he said, and I heard the compassion in his voice as he buzzed me up.

Tom had left the table set, but he must have put the spaghetti away in the fridge when I didn’t show. He hugged me and began to console me, but I cut him off, pushing him away.

“Tom,” I said urgently. “I like you, do you like me?”

He stuttered, “Of course, what... .”

“I know you can’t check me,” I said, “and I don’t want you to.” He looked hurt and ashamed, and that mollified a little of the humiliation and frustration in me. With Tom, at least, I was an equal. Maybe even a little more than an equal.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t,” I was going to say, “fuck,” but he looked confused and hurt so I softened my tone. “Be intimate,” I concluded. “Do you want that? Because I want that.”

“Of course, yes,” he said and I forced some of frustration and fury back down inside.

“Do you,” adrenaline had carried me this far, but what I was going to suggest next was still a leap—slutty, consensual sex on my terms. I was taking control back from the Law of the Collar. “Do you want to be intimate right now?”

His expression transformed again, realizing where this was going. “Yes,” he stuttered, grinning goofily. It was too early to know whether I loved him, but I knew if anyone was going to breed me, I wanted it to be him.

“You have to do what I tell you,” I said, the emotional humiliation of the past few days was transforming into a passion for sex on my terms. He nodded, and I led him by the hand, mine small and enveloped in his, to the bedroom. It was neatly made, I noted with satisfaction.

I tried to pull his shirt off, but I was at least two feet shorter than him, and he had to help me. His muscles made sharp angles with each other like the crenelations and towers of a fortress. He began to undress me, but I had had enough of being naked and groped for one day and pushed his hands away sharply. He stood passively, waiting for me, and I continued with his belt and jeans. They were heavier than I expected and stripping them off him was like unsaddling a horse. He stood shyly contrapposto in his boxers, bare muscles smooth and heavy like a marble statue’s. I stood close to him, feeling how safely passive he was, and slid my hand into the opening of his fly. He gave a satisfactory grunt, and I felt him harden in my hand.

I pushed him back, which he demurely allowed me to do, so he had to sit back on the bed, his erection now protruding from his pants, comically sideways like a salami. On some level, I knew I was doing to him what men had done to me, but on another, I was taking control of my sexuality, my womb. I pushed him back again, my hands tiny on his massive shoulders, and he laid back on the bed.

“Don’t move,” I whispered, “keep your hands on the bed.” And I saw him nod in agreement. I leaned forward and kissed his cock, which hardened under my lips. On the bed, Tom moaned and bucked a little. I guessed he wouldn’t last long, and I wanted him to come inside me. I climbed on top of him, the heavy width of his torso forcing my legs open and my skirt up around my waist. Obediently, he laid perfectly still, but his eyes followed me hungrily. Someday, I would let him take me, but today, I was taking him.

I lowered my bare pussy onto his cock, my ache for him overshadowing the soreness of my ass, and impaled myself.

“Chelsea,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “You have to slow down. I’m going to…” and I felt his hot spurts inside me as he came. I kept riding him until he was soft and asleep. While he dozed, I kissed his handsome face and traced the cords of muscle in his torso. “I’m going to fuck you every day, I whispered in his unconscious ear, “everyday until you breed me like the stud you are.”

We slept together like that, he in his boxers and I in my skirt and tank top. That morning we decided to be girlfriend and boyfriend. We hadn’t talked about the times I’d been captured, and I wasn’t ready to with him yet.