The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Is there something I can do for you Colin?” Mrs Bowen was a picture of calm. The madam was sitting on one of her lounges, legs tucked underneath her. Carol thought she looked elegant, hair styled and expensive dress flowing about her.

It was more than she could say for herself, on her hands and knees on the floor. In nothing more than underwear and heels.

It was clear who the whore in the room was.

“You’re fucking right there’s something you can do for me,” Patrick growled from behind Carol. She could feel the mobster’s eyes on her. She didn’t dare look at him. She didn’t want to be hit again.

Why didn’t I stop him?

When Patrick had hit her Carol hadn’t tried to defend herself. Hadn’t even protested. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind.

She wondered if she should try crawling away. But she had no idea where she would go. To Mrs Bowen? She doubted that the madam could protect her from Patrick. Despite the calm the older woman radiated. Carol wondered if it was an act. Mrs Bowen had to be worried about the mobster. He was bigger, stronger. Her bouncers would be no match for his bodyguards. She wouldn’t be safe with Mrs Bowen.

She didn’t even bother thinking of trying to leave. It was clear Patrick wanted her here.

“And just what is it you want?” Mrs Bowen asked. “And, please, you know the house rules are not to damage the girls.”

“How much for her?” Patrick asked.

“You know what the rates are. Hourly or whole night.” Mrs Bowen’s statement was delivered with a studied nonchalance. But Carol had to wonder about the question. Patrick obviously knew how much Carol’s time cost. He’d used her often enough. She hoped it would get to that soon. Being fucked, for money, that she understood. More than understood. Wanted it. Needed it. She was a whore. Patrick was one of her clients. Maybe, if Carol was honest with herself, her best client. She’d made more money from Patrick than any other client. He fucked her better than any other client fucked her. No-one else knew just how to make her cum like he did. Sure, she came with every John. Why wouldn’t she? Carol loved whoring herself. But Patrick was special. He’d made her show him just how to fuck her so bliss rocketed up and down her spine until her world exploded and her mind melted and the orgasm went on and on and on.

Carol was wet just thinking about it.

He’s a mobster. The thought chilled Carol, chilled her to the bone. Though not enough to still her raging arousal. She was, had been, a policewoman. And this mobster was the best fuck she’d ever had. She needed his cock in her.

I’m a whore. She wasn’t a policewoman anymore. She’d made that choice. There was a tear in her eye, just one, at the thought. It didn’t stop her knowing what she needed. She needed to be fucked. She’d love any cock in her, as long as she was being paid. But Patrick’s cock was the best.

I’m so fucked up. Carol could feel the empty void in her centre, the need to be filled. The need to whore. She knew how wrong it was. That she wanted this man, of all men, to fill that void. She knew that it was partly her own fault. She hadn’t had to agree when he’d demanded to know what she’d wanted. What turned her on. What left her begging for more. She could have lied. Pretended. Carol was good at that. She was so good at pretending what a customer wanted was her greatest turn on. It didn’t hurt that she’d cum whatever they did. She could have done the same with Patrick. But she’d given him the keys to her body.

“I don’t mean for the night,” Patrick declared.

“I’m sorry Colin,” the madam replied lightly. “But I’m not quite following.”

Carol wasn’t either. She risked glancing up in the madam’s direction. There was no confusion in the madam’s eyes, no matter what her tone was. It only made Carol less certain of what was happening.

“Not for the night.” Patrick’s voice was deep. It was echoing in Carol, setting off tremors. It felt like it would only take a breath on her clit and she’d cum. “I mean for good.”

Carol froze, her chest tight. She’d stopped breathing. Patrick couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. But she couldn’t think what else he might mean.

He wants to buy me. I. I.

“I see.” Mrs Bowen was speaking slowly. Obviously choosing her words with care. “That’s rather, …, unusual.”

“Name your price.” Patrick’s tone was offhand. He might have been talking to a salesman about a new lounge. Or arranging a drug deal. Carol couldn’t focus, her world narrowing down to the piece of floor she was staring at. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the leg of a table. It was delicately carved, fitting for the atmosphere the madam tried to convey.

“I don’t,” the madam attempted.

“Name your price,” Patrick repeated.

Carol’s hand shot out, gripped the leg of the table. She needed to hold on to something. She needed to say something. This was her they were discussing. Her future. Her life. But she couldn’t manage a single word.

I’m just a whore. She used to be so much more. But now she wasn’t. The strength she’d had as a policewoman was gone, replaced by a need to be used. Even Stephanie’s certainty had deserted her.

“She is one of my best girls.”

At least there was that. It was something to cling to. Like she was hanging on to the table.

“I know,” Patrick agreed, his tone carrying a not so subtle rebuke. “Name your price.”

“If we are discussing her future,” Mrs Bowen suggested. “Perhaps we should let her get off the floor?”

“No,” Patrick declared flatly. “Name your fucking price.”

They were putting a price on her. As if she was nothing more than the table. Decorative. Functional as well. The table served its purpose. Carol did too. She got fucked, for money. Used like a commodity, like an object. She was so good at it. Mrs Bowen had called her one of her best girls. Pride swelled, just a little, in the whore’s chest. And Mr Patrick wanted her. The pride swelled a little more.

It was nowhere near the size of her arousal. The thought of Patrick fucking her rode through Carol’s mind, a hot, swirling tempest.

Patrick was trying to buy her. She’d just be his.

Carol’s eyes shot wide.

If this happened she’d be his. Patrick would want her for himself. She wouldn’t be coming to the brothel any more. Wouldn’t be whoring herself anymore.

I won’t be a whore anymore.

Carol didn’t want that. She couldn’t face that. She’d thrown her old life away, faked her own death, just so she could whore. She’d stripped and sold herself and let the madam use her body so she could do what she so desperately needed to.

I want to be a whore.

Carol tried to rise off the floor. She had to stop this. Even if her whole life was just a series of roles, even if being a whore was just the role she wanted, then it was her choice. No-one else’s. But something inside Carol stopped her.

She stayed where she was, quiet, on her hands and knees.

“And how do I know you’ll take care of her?” the madam asked. “I am quite fond of her.”

Carol knew just how fond the madam was. The memory of the madam’s lips locked around her nipples, of the madam’s tongue inside her pussy, was proof of that.

“I take care of what’s mine.” Patrick’s voice was flat, but Carol could sense an edge of anger to it.

If this happened she’d be his.

“Well,” the madam pondered. “As I said she is one of my better earners. I would be using losing quite a lot if she left.”

What about me? Carol wailed silently, part of her crushed by how casually the madam was disposing of her. I want to whore. What about our lessons? About me being a madam. What about… That last thought died as she pictured herself and the madam. What they did. Carol couldn’t honestly say she wouldn’t miss it.

Not with her arousal spiking higher at the memories.

I want to be a whore. She knew that.

If Patrick bought her Carol was sure he wouldn’t let anyone else near her. She wouldn’t be paid. Wouldn’t feel the joy of a man who’d paid her sliding his cock into her. Wouldn’t have her body sing like that.

Yes you will. It was Stephanie’s voice.

Huh?

She could see Stephanie, the image of the girl smirking in her mind.

“Hurry up,” Patrick growled. “I don’t have all fucking night.”

Carol couldn’t understand what Stephanie meant. She’d just be Patrick’s. His alone. He’d have paid for her and…

Oh.

Finally got there, huh?

He’d have paid for her. He’d keep her. He’d fuck her.

Just like a whore.

She’d be his private whore.

More than that. He’d have bought her. Just like the girls Copeland kidnapped. Just like Copeland had intended for her. Copeland had been brainwashing Carol to sell. And here she was, being sold.

This is what Copeland was going to do to me.

Sold for someone to have sex with.

If Copeland had finished with her then it would have been like this. Carol saying nothing while Copeland and a buyer haggled over the price for her. This was where she’d always been destined. Maybe where a little part of her had always wanted to go.

Carol came. She came so hard she didn’t hear the price she was sold for.

Carol was in the back of Patrick’s limousine before she could think again. She was dressed. A light, flowery, sun dress. She didn’t remember getting dressed. It meant she must have gone back to her room at the brothel. Except it wasn’t her room anymore. She’d never be there again. Carol suppressed a giggle. She knew hysteria when she felt it. She could dimly remember Patrick’s bodyguards throwing her clothes into suitcases. Some of her clothes anyway. Patrick made all the choices, he didn’t even ask her once. The suitcases weren’t hers. They were ones Patrick and his men had brought.

Patrick obviously hadn’t had any doubts that Mrs Bowen would agree.

Carol was his now.

That probably explained why Patrick’s hand was between her legs as he kissed her.

Not that Carol was complaining. Or, if she was, it was only because it wasn’t Patrick’s cock that was inside her.

She was kissing him back.

I shouldn’t want this, Carol thought, as her lips quivered, her hips straining forward. I used to be a policewoman.

So what? the thought came back, Stephanie’s casual nonchalance. Whores used to be a lot of things before they were whores. Secretary, waitress, weather girl, student. Once they’re whores, who cares what they were?

I wanted to be…

What?

I don’t know.

Right then Carol didn’t know anything, anything other than how Patrick’s fingers were playing over her opening. Her panties had been thrust aside. Her breath was coming in gasps. He was teasing her, playing her. Like only he knew how. Just the slightest penetration. Every time she thrust her hips forward, trying to get those fingers deeper inside her, Patrick knew, withdrawing. Then back, just enough contact to keep her on edge. She could feel her climax, taste it, just as clear as the taste of his lips on hers.

Maybe someday I’ll remember what I wanted to be. Carol knew she’d lost something. Right then it didn’t seem important.

Carol whimpered as Patrick withdrew his fingers again. She didn’t know how long he’d kept her on edge.

“Not yet baby doll,” Patrick whispered, his finger trailing the outside of her labia, Carol mewling in response.

“We’re here,” he announced as the car pulled to a stop.

Carol looked around, her brow creased in confusion. She’d expected to be at Patrick’s mansion. She hadn’t heard the crunch of tires over the gravel. That didn’t surprise her. The way she felt she hadn’t expected to hear anything but her own need. But they weren’t at Patrick’s mansion. It was nowhere like that. No rolling grass or grand building. It was a cheap part of town. They were at the building that housed the apartment she shared with Janice.

“Let’s get what you need here,” Patrick said, getting out of the car. “And fix your underwear.”

Carol blushed, realising she’d been getting out of the car with her panties still bunched to one side. She was surprised that she could still blush. She twisted on the seat, trying to stop the bodyguard who’d opened her door from seeing what she was doing. She wondered why she bothered. The man had to know. What she was. What Patrick had been doing to her. But somehow it mattered.

Carol followed Patrick up her own stairs.

I should say something. She didn’t know what. Protest what Patrick had done? She was still a whore. That was what she wanted. She hadn’t said anything at the brothel. Maybe it was just that she should say she wanted to go first, that Janice would be scared by Patrick’s bodyguards

She didn’t say a word. It was like some part of her was missing.

This is what Copeland wanted for me.

Carol remembered what Karen and Laura had been like on the rooftop, meekly obeying Conti. What Janice had been like when Carol had rescued the redhead. Was that what she was like now?

Help me. she pleaded.

Why? Stephanie replied. Isn’t this what you wanted? You’ll be a whore. You’ve been paid for. Hell, you’ll even get to live in a better place than Mrs Bowen’s apartment. You thought you’d never get anything like that. What more do you want? Maybe he’ll give you money. You’ll need it for clothes. He’ll fuck you and give you money. Sex for money. That’s what you want.

Carol had to admit that was true.

The policewoman was a distant memory.

Patrick would fuck her. On that grand bed they’d used at his party. Who knew where else? Maybe on that dining table, where she’d placed a bug and later destroyed it. On the floor. Up against the wall. Anywhere he wanted. However he wanted. She’d cum, screaming, her thoughts dissolving in bliss. Imagining it was almost enough to have Carol cumming again.

But somehow it wasn’t enough. However much she wanted it. Craved it. Needed it. However much Carol knew that she’d do it, it wasn’t enough.

She didn’t know what she was missing.

That didn’t stop her silently following Patrick up the stairs.

Maybe he’ll give you enough money that someday you can buy Mrs Bowen out.

Carol wasn’t sure about that. But it was something to dream about. Maybe that would be enough.

“Good evening Miss Thornton,” Patrick declared politely after his men had forced the door open. The best mobsters always knew how to be polite. They were often at their most polite just before they killed you. Janice probably knew that.

The redhead was backed up against their table, looking wildly from Carol to the mobster and back again. Patrick smiled at her, like a jovial uncle. “Stephanie’s just getting some things. We won’t take long.”

“What, uh, Steph?” Janice managed.

Carol had to admire her friend. Even confronted with this Janice didn’t fail, didn’t accidentally use her real name.

She’s a better friend than I deserve.

“Baby doll, why don’t you go explain things to your friend while we get your stuff.” Patrick’s suggestion was mild, almost friendly. If it wasn’t for the two hulking bodyguards Carol could almost have believed it was just someone visiting her. Maybe a boyfriend.

Whores don’t have boyfriends. Stephanie declared.

Yes they do, Carol insisted. She didn’t understand it, but she knew they did. Some of the girls who worked for Mrs Bowen did.

Not whores like you, the image in her mind smirked.

That was true.

She ushered her friend into the redhead’s bedroom.

“What the hell is going on, Steph?” Janice hissed after the door was closed.

“I’m his now.” Carol didn’t see any point in making up some story. Janice would find out soon enough from Mrs Bowen if Carol didn’t tell her.

“What do mean ‘his’?”

Briefly Carol told her friend what had happened. She left a lot out. How Patrick had hit her. How she’d been half-naked, on her hands and knees, while Patrick and Mrs Bowen had bargained over her. How she’d cum when she was sold. Janice didn’t need to know all that.

It still didn’t mean Janice accepted what was happening.

“What do you think you’re doing Carol?” Janice demanded. “You know what he is.”

“It’s okay Janice. It’s okay.” Carol didn’t know if she was trying to persuade her friend or herself. Probably both, she decided.

“No it’s not,” the redhead insisted. “Someone like him, he’ll control you.”

“It can’t be worse than Mrs Bowen.” Carol knew she didn’t sound convincing. But it didn’t matter. Couldn’t Janice see that she wanted this? Carol had to want his. If she didn’t want this she’d have objected, back in Mrs Bowen’s room. She hadn’t. So she must want this.

At least that’s what Carol tried to tell herself.

“Yes it is,” her friend retorted. “You’ll be in the same house. He’ll control everything.”

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered expect that she’d be being fucked. For money. Like a whore. She’d be owned.

Her arousal was rising again.

Patrick had told her to explain it to Janice. Her friend needed to see. Carol knew how to do that. Even if she knew it was wrong. It didn’t matter, she had to do it.

“I want to be a prostitute,” Carol declared, hating herself.

“N-no, Carol. Don’t,” Janice pleaded, taking a step back.

“Say it Janice. I want to be a prostitute.”

Janice’s eyes glazed over. Just a little. Carol knew what was going on in her friend’s head. It wasn’t hard to know. Because Janice was saying the words.

“I want to be a prostitute.”

Those words were all that would be in Janice’s mind.

Carol watched, a distant look growing in her friend’s eyes as Carol had Janice repeat the words. The words Copeland had given to Janice. The words he’d given to Carol.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

“I love it when men use me.”

“I want to be used sexually.”

Carol hated herself. Hated what she was doing to her friend. But Patrick had told her to explain it to Janice and this was the only way she knew how.

“I’m going to give you some new words Janice. You love it when I give you new words. Carol is going to be okay. Say that for me Janice. Carol is going to be okay.”

“Carol is going to be okay.” Janice was just standing there, swaying gently from side to side.

“I’m happy for Carol.”

“I’m happy for Carol,” Janice repeated.

“They’re your new words Janice. You’ll say those words along with all your others. You won’t remember me telling them to you.”

Carol wasn’t sure how it worked. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think about how she was doing something to her friend that she didn’t understand. Something wrong. But she had to. Patrick had told her to make Janice understand. Or something like that. It didn’t matter. She had to do this.

Why?

Carol didn’t have an answer to that. Didn’t understand why she’d let Mrs Bowen sell her. That wasn’t who she was. Not even when she was a whore. Not when she helped Mrs Bowen had her help with the girls. She was strong then. She hadn’t been strong tonight. She’d just done what she was told.

Like when she’d stripped.

Like when she’d let Mrs Bowen convince her to stay a whore.

Like when she let the madam use her body.

A sob escaped Carol.

It didn’t stop Janice repeating the words Carol had given her. The words Copeland had given her.

“I want to be a prostitute,” the redhead declared.

“I’m happy for Carol.”

Carol stared at her friend, Janice’s eyes blank, not seeing her.

“I love it when men use me.”

She’d done exactly what the madam had said. Because that was the price to be a whore. She’d do anything to be a whore.

“Carol is going to be okay.”

Carol wasn’t sure that was true. But she didn’t stop her friend.

“I want to be used sexually.”

Images poured through Carol’s mind. All the men who had fucked her. All the times Patrick had fucked her. All the times he’d fuck her in the future.

She wanted it.

She’d do anything for it.

She’d do what she was told. She knew that she could run away from Patrick. Just because he’d bought her away from Mrs Bowen didn’t mean a thing. Sure, he’d look for her. But Carol knew how to hide.

She also knew that she wouldn’t do it. Because that wasn’t the role Patrick wanted her to play.

She’d only been strong with the other girls because that was what Mrs Bowen wanted. It was a role, another role, pulled on and then thrown away. Policewoman, stripper, madam’s offsider. They were all roles. And underneath them all the whore.

The needy little whore who did what she was told.

It was just another role. But one she couldn’t escape. Copeland had seen to that. And her own blind stupidity in giving in to it.

And now she had a new role. Mobster’s mistress. Which was so close to a whore it made no difference.

She wasn’t strong, not anymore. She could be, if someone had her play a role. But without that she wasn’t. Whatever strength she’d ever had was gone. Patrick would never have her play a role where she was strong. He’d want her weak and compliant and…

And Carol was dripping at the thought

“I want to be a prostitute,” Janice declared, starting another round of the words.

I’m just a whore, Carol thought.

“I’m happy for Carol.”

Carol wasn’t sure that her friend should be. But she wasn’t sure that Janice shouldn’t be either. Carol would be a whore. It was what she wanted. She’d live in luxury. It was a whore’s dream come true.

I love being a whore.

“I love it when men use me,” Janice declared.

One man would certainly use Carol.

“Carol’s going to be okay.”

Carol wasn’t sure about that. Maybe Patrick would tell that she’d be okay. Maybe that would be part of her role. He’d want her happy. Maybe that would be enough for her to be happy.

“I want to be used sexually.”

That was definitely true. Carol wanted to be used.

But she couldn’t leave Janice like this. Carol wasn’t strong. Maybe she had been once. Maybe she’d never been. Maybe her life as a policewoman had all been an act. Just another role. Maybe all she’d ever been was a whore in waiting. Carol wanted to think that wasn’t true but she had no way of knowing the truth. It was too late for that.

It wasn’t too late for Janice.

“One more set of words Janice. I’ll stop whoring when I graduate. Say that Janice.” Carol had to hope it was enough.

“I’ll stop whoring when I graduate.” Janice’s eyes were just as blank as when she’d said all the other words.

It was what her friend always said she wanted.

“That’s right Janice. Those are your most important words. I’ll stop whoring when I graduate. Never forget them.”

It was all Carol could give her friend.

“Baby doll. Time to go.” It was Patrick’s voice. Carol knew better than to disobey. She didn’t want to disobey. Her role was to do what Patrick said.

“You can stop now Janice. But don’t forget any of those words.” Please, don’t forget them.

She didn’t know when she’d see her friend again. Maybe she’d never see her again.

“Huh?” Janice looked around, confused.

“I have to go now.” Carol peered at her friend, hoping she hadn’t made things worse for Janice.

The redhead beamed back at her. “You take care of yourself Steph. And when you’re in that big mansion, don’t forget about me.”

“I won’t.” I never could.

With hardly another word Carol was whisked away.

“This is your room,” Patrick announced after they arrived at the mansion. After Carol had followed him up those wide, curving, stairs.

This is mine now, she thought, awed by the luxury, the expensive furniture, the decorations. This is where I live.

She’d never imagined it was possible.

Some whores get lucky.

The huge bed, spread with cushions.

That’s where I’ll get fucked.

Like a whore.

Patrick didn’t fuck her. Not right away. He did, of course, later that night. But after she’d been told to put her clothes away in the huge wardrobe one of the bodyguards came back, led her to a room in the mansion she’d never seen before. It was almost cosy, with a fireplace and comfortable stuffed red leather armchairs. There was even a rug in front of the fireplace.

Maybe he’ll fuck me on that.

He would, but not that night.

Patrick was sitting on one of the lounges, whiskey glass in hand. He beckoned her over. Carol knew what she had to do. She was good at reading her clients.

Without a word Carol sank to her knees beside Patrick’s chair, leaned her head on his thigh. She sighed in contentment as he stroked her hair. She knew what the deal was. He was a man. He’d be paying her to be his. Forever. She was to be the doting mistress.

She could play that role. Carol was always good at playing her roles.

And it was everything a whore could want.

She was a whore.