The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Marcia came down the stairs in her green robe and slippers, gently rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She yawned as she realized how hard she’d slept. The contest for log-hood was in serious contention.

She staggered into the kitchen and went to the fridge. Pulling the door open she reached in and pulled out a ginger ale. Swiping her long, ash blond hair back from her face, she popped it and took a long drink.

Then, for the third morning in as many days, she want to the telephone and dialed the number for work. “Hello, Jeannie?” she croaked. “I won’t be coming in again today. I don’t know if it’s the flu or food poisoning, but I can’t make it in.

“No, the doctor’s office said I couldn’t come in until this afternoon. Guess they’ve been hit hard this winter. Not as hard as me I don’t think.” She coughed lightly, but not too hard, for effect. “Yes, I’ll let you know. I’m hoping that after the weekend, I’ll be feeling good enough to make it in.

“Thank you. I’m sorry.... bye.”

After no absences in over six years, no one at worked questioned the reality of her illness.

Marcia smiled.

She dropped the robe from her shoulders, and kicked off her slippers. Walking to the living room, she whispered softly, “Marcia calls her work each day and says that she feels shitty... until she goes to bed at night she rubs her sexy clitty...”

She fell back on the couch, moaning softly as her hands found her wet, randy snatch. Her fingers stretched her lips open as she found her nubbin and pinched it, starting the circular motion that had become her only chore. The initial pain of its rawness only made her hotter as she circled it in time with her words...

“Marcia calls her work eeeeach day and says that she feels... ohhhh... shitty... Until she goes to bed at night... mmmmm... she rubs her sexy-y-y clitty...”

She gasped and mewled in delight as the pleasure of her first climax of the day swept through her, her head thrashing side to side for long minutes and then, finally, coming to rest as she continued to breathe heavily and sigh. Each time it was stronger than the last, and though she knew she shouldn’t be so perverted, every time she tried to stop, that damned rhyme ran through her head and seduced her into doing it again.

The rhyme. It had gone for days before it had begun to affect her. It started with a phone call at work, a rather silly one, which she had dismissed at the time as a prank. But the rhyming words of the caller kept rolling over and over in her mind for the rest of the day, and even as she went to sleep that first night.

The next morning, it hadn’t gone away, and seemed to get stronger as the morning wore on. She even caught herself typing it into some proposed ad copy. She had gone to the restroom and splashed cold water in her face... the next thing she knew, she was locked in a stall, furiously rubbing her itching, begging clit. Chanting. Believing.

It had been torture to tear herself away and back to her desk.

On Wednesday, slightly dazed from the strength of the rhyme... as if it were shouting in her ear, she called in sick.

Thinking back as well as she could, she wondered if she was going crazy, but before she could form more than that thought, she heard it again, and felt her lips move, “Marcia calls her work each day and...”

The phone was ringing. Without stopping her obsessed finger twirling, she looked at the caller ID and saw that it was a private call. She quickly stopped and picked up the phone. It might be Jeannie, her boss, checking up on her.

The young, female voice started as soon as she put the phone to her ear.

“Marcia’s mind cannot refuse, it’s trapped inside a lasso... Now she adds another treat, her finger in her asshole.”

The phone clicked as the call ended, and Marcia hung up.

(Jeez, at home, too? This is getting annoying!), she thought briefly before bouncing forcefully back down onto the couch.

Her hungry fingers again found her clit and she moaned loudly as the middle finger of her left hand plunged into her virgin asshole.

Marcia giggled, her eyes glassy, and came again. It was, as had become her habit, stronger still.

This time, she didn’t even try to think before starting again.

The phone didn’t ring again for a very long time.

Cindy hung up the phone and looked over to her friend Susan, who had a look of wide-eyed disbelief on her face. “That should be interesting,” Cindy crooned, giggling. “She should never have fired me. Bitch.”

“Well, you could call what you’re doing over-reaction.”

“Why? I’m just convincing her of my marketing skills. All my ideas about repetitive conditioning have just been more than proven,” retorted Cindy.

“Because you influenced some sicko you worked for? Give me a break,” argued Susan, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you’re not that kind of genius. You’re just a student psych major on winter break.”

“She wasn’t a sicko five days ago,” Cindy said, frowning slightly. “She was a fabulously successful advertising account manager.

“I won’t be merciless. By the time I’m done, she’ll love her new life. I don’t think she’ll agree with your medical diagnosis of ‘sicko’, girlfriend,” Cindy added, smiling infectiously. “And you’re right. I’m one of the one thousandth of one percent who got incredibly lucky and stumbled onto this. I’m not the one who came up with the fancy formulas. I’m the one who added two and two. And brazen enough to steal them and do my own experiments.”

“She was just a convenient candidate, then?” asked Susan.

“Absolutely. I didn’t want to engage in my ‘ethically questionable research’ too close to home, at least at first,” lilted Cindy, in a mockery of social grace. “I’m not really pissed as I sound, but she happened to come to mind before anyone else.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.

“The hardest part was getting her a dose of the neuron stimulant. But I managed. Anyway, between that single dose and my calls, she’s proving that I’ve found something really incredible. When I called her, I thought it would just be horribly annoying. I had no idea she would actually start acting on the words,” Cindy explained, “but when I called to mess with her a little more, I found out that she had called in sick. I could imagine the rest.

“It works the same way as Deja vu,” she continued, “or those songs that get stuck in your head. Only stronger. It’s profoundly convincing, from what Marcia has shown.”

“But if it’s true, and please forgive my trite turn of phrase, what if it falls into the wrong hands?” asked Susan.

“It won’t,” Cindy said, flatly. “My hands are just fine.”

(Good thing you won’t be around for my next call,) she thought.

There was so much to do. Marcia needed to vacuum. She needed to shower. Wash dishes. She needed to do something with her hands other than endlessly bring her traitorous clitoris and asshole to greater and greater heights of indecent pleasure.

She just couldn’t bring herself to stop. The endless, insane stream of her mantra kept rolling over and over in her head, drowning her more reasonable thoughts like helpless kittens.

Her breath smelled bad. The odor rising from her underarms and mixing with the pervasive odor of sexual arousal nauseated her. And it made her hotter. More lost. The good and the bad of it, they all added to her drive to continue.

She was sure she was going to die cumming. Her clit was so raw she was surprised she hadn’t drawn blood.

Then, without warning, she didn’t care again. It just felt so fucking good.

The phone was ringing. She managed to stop herself long enough to hit the speakerphone button.

“Marcia?” came the voice that was her torturer. Her captor.

Marcia meant to say yes, but all that came out was a hoarse grunt.

“This is Cindy Middleton, the woman you fired six months ago. I’ve called to save you.”

(Save me yes, god save me ohhhh cum have to play and cummmmm,) thought Marcia, with what little thought she could muster.

“But you have to promise to obey. Even if you can’t say it, you have to think it. Thinking is believing. Believing is obeying. Think and believe and obey. Can’t do one without the other two.”

Marcia grunted as her brain listened, hanging on by a thread.

“Marcia is a slutty girl, a lesbian to boot... And when she thinks her lustful thoughts, she thinks that Cindy’s cute... She stops her play, she cleans her house, she lets her body rest... but while she does these things she finds with Cindy she’s obsessed.”

The phone clicked into silence.

Slowly Marcia’s hands stopped their movement, and she fell back on the couch. Silence. Her mind, finally free. She cried and laughed at the same time. She’d won. The new rhymes weren’t kicking in. It was finally over.

But surely that wasn’t really Cindy Middleton that called. It sounded like her, but she didn’t seem capable of this, whatever “this” was. She had just been summer help, a college temp hire, and she was lazy to boot.

(Cute, though. Even sexy.)

Marcia froze. Her eyes widened in horror as she recognized the invasive thought. No, the belief. She stifled a cry as her pussy spasmed in lustful yearning. Obedient pussy. Obedient Marcia. She stood on shaky legs, and picked up the phone, forcing her fingers to dial a number, any number for help. (Marcia is a slutty girl, a lesbian to boot...), she began, her lips moving silently as she thought the words.

She stood, lips drooling slightly as they worked the words of the insane rhyme over and over, as Cindy’s words buffeted her mind. The contest of will and words continued for several minutes, as Marcia shook and babbled, and held her finger a half inch above the keypad of the phone.

Then, with a final spasm that shook her entire body, she stood straight and quieted. Her slightly parted lips twitched gently as the words moved to the inner recesses of her conscious mind.

She calmly placed the phone back in the cradle. It was useless. She needed to obey the words. The thoughts. Her thoughts. Her beliefs.

Tears began to streak down her face as she turned away to go clean the house.

Perfectly.

From the journal of Cynthia Middleton:

The main effect seems to be inward, obsessive repetition of verbal stimuli and acceptance of same by the subject, followed by acting on that acceptance. Initially, the neuron stimulation creates both the repetition and the feeling that this has happened many, many times before, almost like it was pre-ordained. Eventually, this gives the subject the illusion that the cycle has always existed. Their reality becomes the stimulus and vice versa, and may be unstoppable, even with the proper stimulus from whatever or whoever created the cycle in the first place.

The drug only lasts for a short time, perhaps two hours. But it is incredibly strong, and apparently “burns in” the neural paths so that they respond to similar stimuli in a similar fashion each time. From there, the brain itself takes over the process, deepening the inward-leading pathways accessible to whoever stimulated the original action.

The rate of processing also increases, until the repetitions are so fast that the conscious mind cannot possibly comprehend them. The end result is a self-reinforcing form of suggestibility that is, for all intents and purposes, mind control.

Cindy thought that perhaps the rhymes were a bit much. It was fun, but it was getting harder to think them up. Soon, she would have to step in more seriously and make sure Marcia knew where she stood, and what she was.

And where she would stand from now on.

Cindy broke out of her reverie and looked over at Susan, who was deeply involved in a romance novel, laying sideways in the easy chair, her long, nearly black hair falling backwards in casual elegance opposite her lithe, beautifully shaped legs. Unfortunately, Susan would probably never know how much Cindy lusted for her. She was completely turned off by the idea of women who were attracted to women.

Cindy recalled the look on her face the night Susan had told her the story of a particular encounter, an event that had apparently colored her thinking up to the present.

Cindy had been planning on telling Susan about her orientation, tired of the secret life and desire she had to keep hidden from her best friend. As she was driving Susan home from a party, one where several women had been necking openly, she broke the ice by asking, “So what do you really think about gay women?”

Susan, who’d had enough wine to be reasonably loose-tongued, said, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think they’re a bunch of perverts with no regard for common decency.

“I know it’s a strong thing to say, but you never had a next-door neighbor come on to you one afternoon on the way home from school. Everyone knew Karen was a lesbo but me, I guess. I found out when she kissed me in my driveway, in front of God and everyone else. I’ve never spoken to her since.”

Susan’s face was dark by the time she finished her cryptic tale, and she didn’t say anything else until she thanked Cindy for the ride home.

After that response, with the wind knocked out of her courage-sails, neither did Cindy.

But now, looking at Susan’s turned up nose and natural, Hispanic beauty, Cindy was wondering if she should take the ethically questionable step of “persuading” her friend to change her attitude.

Nothing as intense as what she’d done to Marcia... just a little... education.

Cindy walked into her bathroom, barely aware that she had already turned a corner.

Susan looked up in irritation as Cindy sprayed the air with a plastic bottle. “What are you doing? You’re getting my book wet!”

“Air freshener. Sorry, I just thought it was getting musty in here... I’ll go get a paper towel.”

“Whatever.”

Susan went back to her book. She was just getting to the risque parts, and was a little embarrassed, actually, at having gotten so lost in the story. Regardless, it didn’t take long to let go and let herself get absorbed again.

She jumped at Cindy’s voice. “Hot stuff, huh?”

“Well, now that you mention it, yes,” said Susan, looking back at the pages. She didn’t want to have to tell Cindy to get lost. Sometimes friends were a real pain in the ass. Besides, it was Cindy’s place, and it wasn’t like she didn’t have the right to intrude.

“Nah. It would only be hot if it were two women,” said Cindy, smiling. “Now that would very cool. Wow... hot and cold running lust!”

“What?!?”

Cindy laughed and held up her hands in a gesture of no contest, turned and left the room.

Susan went back to her love scenes. She was halfway through a page when she realized that she just wasn’t getting into it. (Dammit!) she thought. (Nothing like... like... ) Susan put down the book, her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out why she suddenly wasn’t interested in Veronica Davenport being held in the strong arms of Clint Macon.

Deciding it didn’t matter, she sat up and turned on the TV.

Cindy sat in her bedroom, thinking about what she had just done. She felt guilty. Excited. Torn. Aroused.

“I shouldn’t feel guilty,” she whispered to herself. “I should thank my lucky stars that I can make Susan hot for me. If I were a little less worried about the consequences, I’d be making her my slave.” She considered for a moment and giggled at the kinky thought. On the other hand, it was kind of exciting... and slightly mocking herself playfully, she softly added, “Now that would be very cool. Susan, the obedient little cuntlicker! Very cool!” She smiled as she pictured her friend kneeling, bound, dressed in sexy leather.

“Very cool. It would be... very cool.” She noticed that her voice had a sort of hollow ring to it, like something was in her ears. Like buzzing cotton.

She paid no attention. She had too much to think about. Like how cool it would be to make Susan her slave. It gave her an idea. A very cool idea. She picked up the bottle of stimulator reagent and poured it, undiluted, into the spray bottle. She gave it a few pumps to make sure it was working.

“Very cool!” she gibbered enthusiastically. The sweet aroma of the pure reagent hit her nose. She stopped, motionless, realizing what had happened. The “air freshener” had been strong enough to affect her, too, even though she had quickly left the room. She put the bottle down and stepped away. In a panic, she began to do multiplication tables in her head.

She realized after only a moment that it was useless, as the thought of how fucking cool it would be to have Susan as her slave smashed through “two times three” and rammed into her mind like a runaway freight train.

And it felt so fucking good. (No wonder Marcia caved), was the last real thought she had.

Picking up the bottle, she walked back out to the living room, and looked at Susan. Hot. Sexy. Cool. So cool.

Susan was busy feeling her breasts through her shirt, pinching her nipples and watching a videotape. It was an old 40’s movie, but a commercial was on... a shampoo commercial, full of lesbian overtones. As it came to the end, Susan hit the rewind button and took it back to the beginning. Moaning openly, she pressed play. It was just too hot for her to ignore.

“Very, very cool,” said Cindy.

“Huh?” said Susan, turning her head but keeping her eyes glued to the screen.

Cindy held out the spray bottle and gave ten squeezes into the confined air of the small living room.

“Susan, I have something very cool to tell you. You’re going to just love this.

“In fact, you already do.”

Cindy moaned as cuntslut began licking her pussy again. She knew that it was her slave’s self-interest that made her return. The slut loved to cum and couldn’t until she brought her Mistress to that same glorious moment of animalistic release. It didn’t matter. It was the best reinforcement of the slut’s complete surrender that could be. It was very, very cool. Glorious. Very cool. A slut making her Mistress cum was the best, coolest feeling in the world.

She had already taken a shower by making her degraded slave, the girl who used to be Susan, take water into her mouth and dribble it slowly down her body. That was followed by washing with a soap bar held in her slut’s willing mouth, and then another water rinse. It took nearly two hours. So, so very cool.

Brought back to the present by the tireless tongue on her clit, a wave of intense pleasure wracked Cindy’s tired muscles. Before she could object, it was washing over her, obliterating any possibility other than letting it happen. So cool. So cool to own her slut. Her own moans made her girltoy’s tongue work even faster, finding just the right spot and right pressure and rhythm to make Cindy’s legs jerk in involuntary pleasure. Toes curled. Tongue waved, licking the air in abandon. Mistress. Pleasure. Slut. So cool.

Cindy came. And then came harder as she felt her slut respond and climax ferociously with her, her tongue itself lost in spasms of relentless pleasure at the recognition of her Mistress’s climax. Cindy’s body convulsed even more strongly in response as the two lost women sent themselves into a cycle of higher and higher pinnacles of orgasmic pleasure, until they were nothing more than a molten heap of lust-fire, their clits the white-hot coals that re-ignited their flaming passion every time it began to lessen.

Silence came only as they fell into the black wool of unconsciousness.

Cindy slowly opened her eyes. (So cool!) was her very first thought.

The pleasure of the neuron stimulation chemical had been Cindy’s big surprise. It was like having an orgasm directly in her brain.

She felt motion as her pet moaned and slowly awakened. Cindy reached for the bottle of pure reagent and gave a few squeezes into the face of her adoring pussy slave. “cuntslut lives for Mistress Cynthia. cuntslut has no identity. cuntslut is only cuntslut. Property. Owned. Pet. Toy. Slave. Cunt. cuntslut is a dirty little dyke whore pussyslave and lives to please Mistress. Mistress’s pleasure gives cuntslut greater pleasure than anything else in the world. It’s the most fucking cool thing there is, or could be, or ever will be. cuntslut is all Mistress’s toy ever has been. A cool, dirty, mindfucked cuntslut, living to please Mistress Cynthia. There is no past. There is only Mistress’s will and cuntslut’s absolute devotion. So goddamned fucking cool. Repeat that back, slut.”

Then, eyes glistening in anticipation of the enhanced pleasure the chemical would bring, pussy twitching in raw arousal, Cindy sprayed herself in the face and waited for the words of her cuntslut that would seal them together more deeply, and more deeply, and more deeply...

Marcia stood behind the bar, looking for someone that would meet her needs. She leaned over and crossed her legs, feeling her body jerk slightly at the twinge of pleasure that coursed through her.

Finally, she saw her candidate approach and sit down at the bar.

“You need a drink?” she asked, smiling.

“Black Russian,” answered the young woman. “Please.”

“I have a suggestion, if you like Black Russians. It’s called a ‘Slavemaker.’ It’s the same but has a special liqueur added that gives it a little zing. If you don’t like it, I won’t charge you. It’s very cool.”

“Sure, I’ll try it,” agreed the young woman. Marcia smiled as she mixed the drink, and smiled more as she reached behind the counter and added a helping of the Convincer, as Mistress had named it.

She handed the girl the drink, watching as she took a sip, and then kicked back the shot glass.

“What’s your name, honey?” asked Marcia, smiling.

“Janice,” answered the girl.

“Marcia. Well, Janice, did you like it?”

“Very tasty. Yes.”

“How about another on me?”

“Sure.”

Marcia watched as she threw the drink back again in one gulp. “Smooth, huh?”

“Yep. Smooth.”

Marcia walked away, taking the time to do some cleaning behind the bar. When she turned back a few minutes later, Janice was staring into her glass, eyes dilated.

Marcia could barely contain herself as she walked back over to Janice, speaking.

“Feels good. So good. It really does. It feels sexy.”

Janice looked into distant space, confusion briefly crossing her petite features. “Feels... good,” she responded, as a smile teased at the corners of her mouth. “So good. Sexy.”

“So good to be a little cuntwhore. Janice is a little cuntwhore.”

“Janice is a little cuntwhore.” For a brief moment, Janice looked up into Marcia’s eyes, her brow furrowing before her face relaxed into pleasure-induced acceptance.

“It’s fucking cool. And Janice can’t wait until she meets Cynthia. It will make Janice cum. Janice is Mistress Cynthia’s slave. It is so cool,” whispered Marcia, her own voice trembling with the thrill of what she was doing. Doing for Mistress. So cool.

Marcia walked away again, randy and wet, nearly cumming as she watched Janice, pretty little cuntwhore Janice, begin to repeat the words over and over to herself, her destiny altered forever.

Walking to the edge of the bar, she made a light nod to a booth in the back corner.

Mistress Cynthia approached the bar, and said, “Nice work, pet. She will make the perfect addition to our little... merry band. Now. Cum. Cum for Mistress. Hard. Now.”

Marcia felt her soul rip open in surrendering orgasm as Cynthia approached Janice and tapped her on the shoulder.

Through the haze of her pleasure and obedience, she saw Janice turn and listen, and watched as the cuntwhore shuddered, eyes quickly filling with awe, devotion and love.

It was so fucking cool.