The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

‘Clitnibbler’? I stared in shock at the strange word. Even with all my years in the publishing industry, I’d never seen a typo quite like it. I checked the author’s name again and told myself I must have misread the word. Yet there it was again when I flipped back to the page I’d been skimming, jumping out at me with its perversity and glaring wrongness.

What on earth had Cordelia sent me?

In the business, you end up reading so many bad stories that you end up nicknames for the common varieties. So, a story that seems to have to be written well enough, but just doesn’t grab you, is a ‘cowardly lion’. Stories that never seem to get anywhere, ones that are just rambling bundles of feelings and internal thoughts, are ‘tin men’. Worst of all are the un-stories, the ones that plod along with no apparent purpose or virtue other than the wasting of paper—we call those zombies. I’d read so many bad stories that sometimes I wanted to gouge my own eyes out, just to save myself from further pain.

On the other hand, when I received a package or an e-mail containing a manuscript from one of my regular professionals it seldom failed to be a good day for me. Working with my stable of established authors was a joy compared to finding and polishing some new diamond in the rough. Even my best authors stumbled from time to time, but it was rare that one of them sent me something beyond salvation.

Which is why I was so surprised when I began to read the story I’d just received from Cordelia Jacobs. I had discovered her five years before, and she was on her way to stardom with my help. She had a tendency to think that every word she wrote was perfect, but that’s not a trait that’s uncommon to the species. Every project we’d worked on together had been better than the one before it.

I’d absolutely loved her last book, to the point that I sometimes felt like her biggest fan. That’s what made our ongoing arguments over the deal I’d negotiated for her so difficult for me. She had been happy with the five book deal she had signed, but now that she was more popular she griped about being locked into it.

All of which made it that much more surprising when I received the e-mail that morning. The attached story was horrible. No, that’s not fair to horrible stories. This story was abysmal. It wasn’t just poorly written, it was nasty too. It described how one woman discovered a way to use certain patterns of words to write a story that could make any woman who read it become fixated on her. The farther I read the more clear it became that the female victim in the story was being transformed into some kind of sex slave!

I scanned over it in shock, my eyes snagging on ever more hideous crimes against the English language as I went. To start with, it was filled with dirty words. Bitch, fuck, pussy, and even the word cunt appeared throughout the text. Worse still were the weird amalgamations of words, like ‘fuckpiggy’, “girltoy’ and, my favorite, ‘clitnibbler’.

The plot, style, and sound were all bad as well. In one place she’d actually written the phrase ‘supreme Sapphic seductress’—talk about tragic alliteration. Some parts featured prose so purple that it pushed into the ultraviolet spectrum. It was so bad that it wouldn’t even qualify for one of the usual nicknames. The story was outright trash.

It was so bad that it was like watching a car crash—as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t put it aside. Cordelia must have mixed up her files, accidentally sending me this trash in place of her next manuscript. The thought that she must have some sort of perverse sexual fetish made me smirk. Authors have a tendency to look down on everyone else, editors included, and it amused me to think about how much embarrassment this would to cause her.

The phone was in my hand before I knew it. I paused, thinking about how to use what I’d found to the most effect. Something in the filthy story called to me, though. It was just so bad that I couldn’t resist first reading it one more time in full before I dropped the bomb on her.

To my surprise, it read smoothly enough. Even with all its flaws. Something about the way it was worded caused strange echoes in my head. It had some undercurrent I just couldn’t quite hear, like I listening to a orchestra with one section playing too quietly to make out.

The strangest thing happened while I read the story—I felt my heartbeat accelerate, and my body felt warm all over. I couldn’t stop reading it. The more I read, the more I felt disoriented and confused. It got too hard to think, but still I couldn’t stop myself. The filthy words flew by until my mind just went blank.

I woke up with my head lolling back against my chair to find my hand in my panties! I-I was wet! I felt tired, and well . . . sated. Had I really have masturbated to that trash? I hurried to straighten myself up before anyone caught me like that, and then I tried to go about my day. I’d send Cordelia a note about her story later.

That evening, at home, I found myself drawn to read her story again. It bothered me that I couldn’t remember the last part of it at all. Though I’d apparently enjoyed it quite a bit, I couldn’t seem to capture the memory of how it had turned out. I set out to read it again.

The words tumbled into my head as I read it, and again I felt that subtle undercurrent to them, like a voice just out of hearing range. It was telling me something important, but I couldn’t make it out. Those kinky words seemed to bounce around inside me, setting off a naughty jolt of arousal with each ricochet.

Before I realized I had done it, my had slipped down to my sex and I was rubbing myself! The need I felt was embarrassing, but I didn’t stop—I couldn’t stop. It felt so good. I fingered myself harder and faster. How could this awful story make me so hot? My eyes closed as I climaxed.

I woke an hour later to find I had two fingers still pressed to my slit. What was wrong with me?

Two days later, I had become completely obsessed with the story. I couldn’t stop reading it. Reading it and masturbating!

The story, however filthy, seemed to have some of the same core writing magic that Cordelia put into her books. Despite its many faults, it kept drawing me back. At home, at work, everywhere—I just kept looking at it over and over again. Each reading led to the same result, with me waking up to find myself dazed and tired, my juices still dribbling down my thighs.

As if my obsession with the story wasn’t bad enough, by the end of the week I began to think in the story’s terms! Strange words would just jump into my head unbidden. I’d find myself thinking that I was the cuntjuiciest pussybitch. It wasn’t my wet pussy I’d wake up to find myself touching, but rather my slaveslit.

I was horny all the time, too. Just thinking the words ‘cuntlapping girltoy’ would make my slaveslit drool. The story had some kind of evil hold on my thoughts. It scared me, but it also made me so hot that I couldn’t resist reading it again and again..

One week from the day Cordelia had sent me the story, I called in sick to work. I had to meet Cordelia in person. I felt drawn to her, much the way the moth hurtling towards the flame must feel. I was driven by the feeling. I didn’t think about just calling her, or e-mailing her or anything. I had to see her in person. In a daze, I bought a plane ticket to the city she lived in and before I knew it, I was on the flight.

When she answered her door, Cordelia didn’t look surprised to see me at all. In fact, she just smiled at my arrival. “Come inside, Joanne.”

I followed her into her house. She led me to her living room, where she sat back in an easy chair. Cordelia didn’t gesture for me to sit, nor did I take it upon myself to take a seat at the couch. I just stood there in front of her, trying not to stare at the point her skirt ended and her creamy thighs began.

She smirked at me. “So, what’s brought you here today?”

Standing there I found myself too confused to answer. She was so beautiful I found it hard to concentrate. I looked at her thighs and found myself thinking about her pussy. No, not her pussy, I thought about her queenquim and it made me shiver with need. With great difficulty I managed to pull eyes up to face her.

“You-your last . . . uh . . . your last story . . . that, that . . . you sent me.” Was that me blathering like that? It felt so embarrassing to be reduced to babbling. My eyes fell back down to her legs. I felt warmth spread through me as I looked at her. Some parts of me grew hotter than others—my pussy was wet!

“Oh yes, the story. Did you like it?”

Cordelia uncrossed her legs and began to toy with the front of her skirt. I stared at her in horror. I was so aroused, and there was something else—I had an urge to get down on my knees.

“No . . . yes . . . there’s something about it . . .” I muttered.

The filthy words were bouncing around inside my mind furiously. My slaveslit burned. I longed to be her cuntlapper. Her lesbolicious girltoy. Her cuntjuiciest clitnibbler. I became more turned on with every second that passed.

“Let me ask you a question, Joanne. Did it by chance make you feel like a slutty little lesbian fuckpiggy?” Cordelia smirked again as she said the naughty words.

“Yes, oh yes.”

Cordelia lifted the front of her skirt, slowly dragging it back so that her panty-covered mound was exposed just a bit at a time. I gasped aloud at the sight.

“Good. I wrote it just for you, to turn you into my slave. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be my slave? Does my little fuckpiggy want to sniff my queenquim and become my pussybitch?”

Her words filled me with need-the need to be hers. I sank between her legs. My head nodded on its own as I lowered my face to her crotch. She smirked down at me as I nestled my nose into her mound. At the first breath of her queenquim’s lesbolicious scent my brain just shut off. My clit throbbed and my slaveslit drooled with need for her. I was her pussybitch—I just knew it.

“Breathe in that pussy smell, Joanne. Let the aroma of my queenquim soak into your brain. Can you feel yourself turning into my helpless little girltoy?” she asked

“Oh, yes, mistress.”

I took another deep sniff of her glorious scent. I gave myself to the smell, to the deliriously sexy sense of submission it instilled in me. The feeling made my slaveslit drool with need for her. I was so hungry to taste her pussy, hungry to be hers. I knew I was being changed; being molded into her adoring, asslicking cuntpuppet with every breath I drew. I didn’t care though—it felt so damned good.

Cordelia reached down and pushed me away from her crotch. With one hand still holding my head, she used the other to pull aside her panties. My eyes locked on her sex. It looked so beautiful that it made my slaveslit throb with need. If her hand weren’t still holding my head my tongue would have been buried inside her already. Cordelia gave my head a little shake to get my attention. I looked up and she stared down into her eyes.

“Now listen to me, my little fuckpiggy. You’re going to eat my pussy and tasting my flavor is going to turn you into my own little cuntlapping girltoy. By the time you drink my queencum you’re going to forget you were ever anything but my clitnibbling little pussybitch. Do you understand?” She asked me.

The need I felt was so overpowering that it threatened to consume me. I wanted to taste her so badly that I strained against her hand.

“Yes mistress.”

“Good girl. Now get to work.”

She laughed when she dropped her hand from my forehead and I lunged forward. My tongue burrowed into her slit and the taste of her was everything I’d dreamed of. Sexy, powerful and feminine, the flavor flooded my brain with sweet, slutty submission.

“That’s it. Be a good little slave. Show me that you’re my cuntjuiciest clitnibbler,” she urged me.

I’d do anything to live up to her words. Licking, sucking and teasing at her clit, I brought her over the edge.

“Oh fuck, there . . . there . . . don’t stop . . . ohhh!” She squealed, pounding her closed fist against her thigh as she came.

Her thighs clenched around my head, locking my face against her queenquim as she shook and twitched against me. For a moment I was smothering in her wet heat and I loved it. I knew we were both oozing out our juices then. I really was her girltoy. I was hers and I loved it.

An hour later we were both naked in her bed. We were sweaty and exhausted. I was enslaved and in love. A happy sigh escaped me—I felt so lucky to be her pussybitch.

“Mmmmm, you are one lesbolicious little clitnibbler, aren’t you?”

“Yes mistress.”

“I could use a girltoy like you around the house. Sometimes writing gets me so tense that I need something to help me relax—something like your cute little mouth. But before you can quit that nasty job of yours to come here to serve me, there’s something you have to do for me. You will help me find a way out of that contract, won’t you dear?”

“Yes mistress!”

“Excellent. I’ve always wanted an editor that knew her rightful place. Maybe I should chain you up under my desk, so you can keep the proper perspective while you’re editing my words. Speaking of my work, you still haven’t told me—what did you think of my story?”

I didn’t have to think for even a moment. I was so proud of my mistress’s writing ability. Everything she wrote was wonderful, but that story had made all the years of suffering through terrible writing worthwhile. It had freed my mind and shown me my true path in life: absolute, worshipful submission to my mistress. I couldn’t help gushing like a schoolgirl, “It’s my favorite story ever!”

“I’m glad.” she said, and she patted me on the head. “When you’re not between my legs or doing your chores, I think I’ll let you read it over and over again. Would you like that?”

Would I like it? Reading the story that would fry my silly brain and make me her helpless clitnibbler forever more? What could be better than that?

“Oh, yes mistress!”