The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There was an old coin from Croatia. That sounds like the beginning to the world’s worst limerick, doesn’t it? So it’s a good thing I’m not a poet. Anyway, I should probably introduce myself a little before babbling on about ancient coins and magic, or miracles, or whatever this is. When I was born, my parents named me Linda, but since I’ve always considered that to be an old lady’s name, everyone usually calls me by my middle name: Raven. But my boss... he’s a stickler for the rules. And “company policy clearly states that employee name tags must convey your full and legal first and last name.” So most newcomers tend to read my name tag out loud and go, “Hi! You’re Linda!” Okay, they don’t say it quite like that or I’d think they’re challenged, too, but you get the point. My regulars, though, know better.

Unfortunately for me, on this particular day, when the door chimed and I looked up, I saw a complete stranger walking in; I had the usual impulse to cover my name tag, but I didn’t. If I may judge a book by its cover (and of course I may, this is my story after all), he looked like a biker had a science baby with a homeless European. I know, harsh and maybe a little racist, but I swear this guy had food in his beard before he even sat down to eat! Not that you could see anything, even a mouth, under that bush.

Anyway, I know I’m coming off judgmental, and I swear I’m not usually. It’s just... this guy had a vibe about him, and it gave me the skeeves. I couldn’t quite place it, but it was there and it was apparent. And of course, I was the only waitress who wasn’t busy at the time, so it was my job to seat him—with a smile, of course, because that’s customer service for you.

“Table for one?” I asked sweetly, pulling a menu out of a podium cubby.

“For now, yes,” he said, in a thick accent that I couldn’t place. His English was perfect and I understood every word, but the accent was unfamiliar. “If you can, I’d prefer a quiet table.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “Follow me to the quietest table in the house!” I’d learned early in the job that acting like a ditz actually earned me better tips. Customers don’t care how smart you are, or what your aspirations are. They just want someone to smile, giggle, nod, agree with them, and bring their food quickly. The more of those boxes you can check, the more money they’ll leave behind. Some customers can take the clearly fake pep as an invitation to get handsy, but I draw the line there. Some of my co-workers, though... I guess they need the money more desperately than I do, because I’ve seen wandering hands that traveled way too deep under uniform skirts without so much as a “please stop”. Sure, they’ll complain about “the creeps” in the break room, but they don’t do anything to stop it. I’m not about that.

Anyway, to his credit, this bearded man (whose credit card said his name was Nikola) never once tried anything unbecoming, unless you counted his personal hygiene. He was a perfect gentleman, and so I kept up the perky blonde routine, being ever the most gracious host with ever the most annoyingly constant grin. After he left, I went to “clear the table”, which is code for “check for tips” (seriously, we have busboys for the real thing), and instead of even a single dollar bill, all I found was a rusted old coin of some currency I didn’t recognize. I picked it up and scoffed, but as I went to clear his dishes, I noticed he’d scrawled a note on his napkin. “Thank you for your kind service to this old man, Linda. Use it wisely.”

“Use it wisely”? What was that supposed to mean? Did he think I could spend this piece of rusted metal here in the States? I mean, I guess I could, if I brought it to a currency exchange... but I had a hunch it was pretty worthless. Still, I dropped it into my pocket, picked up his plate, and returned to the kitchen and to my work for the day. When I finished and got home that night, I was too exhausted to change into my PJs, so I just unbuttoned my uniform, unzipped my skirt, and dropped them both on the floor somewhere in the middle of the hallway before flopping into bed unconscious. I wouldn’t come to understand the coin until the next morning.

I woke up and panicked; it was 3PM and my Friday shift starts at 2! It took a mild heart attack to give me enough adrenaline to realize that actually, it was Saturday. Because of course it was. I groaned and dropped my head back onto my pillow, ready to fall back asleep. That was when I noticed my uniform shirt lying on my floor, remembered the coin, and was suddenly curious enough to get out of bed and fish it out of the pocket. I wonder where this is from, anyway? I thought. Through the rust, I could just barely make out the words “Republika Hrvatska, 5 Kuna”. Pretty sure there were way too many consonants in some of that, but I sat at my computer and Googled it nonetheless. I learned it was Croatian, and amounted to... 83 cents. Yep, worthless, just like I thought. But apparently the other face was supposed to have a bear on it, and that was kind of cool. I scratched off some of the rust to try and see it, and as I did so, the light from my bedroom window caught it at just the right angle, and I was temporarily blinded by the reflection. So shiny was the coin that I had to get up and close my blinds before scratching off the rest of the rust.

To my disappointment, the coin didn’t have a bear on it after all, just some old dude with a weird hat, and the inscription “Dazbog”. What did that mean, “king of Croatia, replacement of bears”? I rolled my eyes at my own internal joke, knowing how stupid it was, but I was still curious, so I returned to Google. Dazbog, it turns out, was the Slavic god of life and good fortunes. It suddenly dawned on me that for all my efforts at appearing perky, my only reward was an old dude’s lucky coin. Ugh. I closed the browser tab with Google in it and decided to focus on something much more worthy of a Saturday afternoon: social media.

My Facebook feed was unusually filled with posts to my wall saying things like, “Congrats!” and “Isn’t this great?” and “We all knew it would happen.” I was clearly left out of the loop, so I opened the messenger and clicked on my friend Sami’s name. “What’s everyone so happy about?” I asked, and was met with “Your friend is typing...” Thanks, Facebook, like I didn’t know that already.

“What, you aren’t happy about Danny?”

“Um... what are you talking about?” Danny was my ex, and after the shit he’d put me through, I never wanted to hear his name again. And yet, three years later, I’m hearing it. Why?

“He got fired last night, his wife served him with divorce papers, and now he’s applying for a job at your restaurant—as a busboy!”

I wasn’t completely awake yet, so maybe I didn’t think this through, but I typed my first reaction as I had it. “WHAT? Danny is gonna be working at my store? WHY is that good, Sam?!”

“Uh, duh. Because you’ll be making more money than him, and you’ll get to see how broken he is every day. He’s desperate, you’re not, and you get to rub that in his face!”

I was still processing this when my phone rang. I answered it automatically without even checking who it was. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Raven, it’s Frank.” Oh, great, my boss. Was I about to lose my job, too?

“Hey, Frank. Is everything okay? Do you need me to come in tonight?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Did you work table seven last night?”

“Yes...” That was the table where the skeevy old Croatian sat. “Did someone complain?”

“No! Raven, it’s much better than that.” It finally registered that he’d been calling me Raven. Along with his name tag superiority complex, he’d always called me Linda, too, which I thought was just to annoy me. What was going on? “This morning, our location received a, um, VERY generous donation. Anonymous, but it came with a condition. The donor insisted that I promote ‘the lovely waitress who served me at table seven’.” Despite Frank’s terrible attempt at mimicking the accent, I knew immediately who it was.

“The Croatian guy paid you to promote me?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Yeah, technically, I guess. Now, normally I would never do it,” (because you’re a dick-hole, I thought to myself), “but the number of zeroes on this check... corporate would kill me if I didn’t go along with this. So how does ‘Assistant Manager Linda Ballard’ sound?”

“Were there enough zeroes for an ‘Assistant Manager Raven Ballard’? Because otherwise, the answer’s no.” It sounded like the finances had Frank by the balls, so if I was getting something out of this, I figured I’d take all I could.

He sighed. “Yes... yes, there were. Assistant Manager Raven Ballard it is. Are you saying you’ll accept the promotion?”

“I assume it comes with a raise?”

“Of course. You think managers get paid anything close to waitresses?” Well, that was offensive. What an asshole.

“In that case, yes, I accept.”

“Great! Come in at 8 on Monday and we’ll get all the paperwork done.”

“That sounds wonderful... partner.” I just wanted to hear him squirm, really.

“You’re the assistant manager, I’m still your boss. Goodbye, Lind—Raven.” Click.

I sat in stunned silence for a minute, and then as my eyes returned to Facebook, an even better realization dawned on me. “Sami!” I typed. “Yeah?” she replied. “Danny will literally be working for me. I just got promoted to asst manager!”

The “your friend is typing” message seemed to sit there for ages before I got the next message. “WHAT?! That’s amazing! CONGRATS, GIRL!”

“I’ve only been awake for like an hour, and this is already the best day ever.” A great day, in fact. Fortunate, really... I shook my head. Nah, the coin is just a coin. It was the old dude’s donation that got me the promotion, and Danny’s usual assholery that probably got him fired and single. And come Monday, I would have the power to tell Danny to fuck off and actually see to it that he does. It really was the best. Day. Ever.

Things seemed to continue on the upswing the rest of the day. The usual 10 or so notifications on my dating app exploded to over 30, and only two of them sent me dick pics. Which, for those who aren’t aware, is around a 90% improvement from the norm. Some of the guys who messaged me actually seemed like decent, sweet men, instead of horny little boys like I was used to. Feeling happy and confident for once, I took a walk around my neighborhood just for the hell of it, and about ten feet outside my door I found a $20 bill on the sidewalk. Buddy, the neighborhood terror of a dog, ran up and licked me instead of biting me; he even let me pet behind his ears, like we’d been best friends for years instead of mortal enemies. And just for a moment, I thought I saw rain clouds forming around me, but not once did I feel a drop of water on my skin, just the warm rays of a tempered sun.

I kept the Kuna coin in my pocket, just in case. If this luck thing was real, I wanted to make sure it would never end. I didn’t believe in it really, or at least I told myself I didn’t, but it was obvious that something had changed in my life. Something good. Something amazing.

After my short, circular trek had ended and I returned home, I kicked off my sandals and plopped onto the couch with a sigh. Things were looking up. I thought about the day’s events with an almost empty-headed bliss. Internally, I semi-seriously thanked Dazbog for his gifts. Dazbog, god of fortune...and life. Giver of luck, and giver of life itself: that seemed like a big job. Then again, life isn’t that hard to create. You just need two people willing to get it on.

I had just barely begun to think about this when I noticed my hand had been inside my waistband for a good five minutes. God, I was turning into a guy with my hand down my pants, lying on the couch like this. But it was so comfortable, and I was alone, so why not? In fact, with the window blinds closed from the shining light before, I was home alone and invisible to anyone, so... why not be as comfortable as I could? Why not shed the confines of my clothing and return to the natural beauty the gods intended for me? Huh, that was a strange way to think about it... but it did make sense, and I did want to be comfortable, so I wiggled out of my sweatpants and let them drop to the floor. I hadn’t worn underwear, because it seemed like a hassle for just a short walk; in fact, I didn’t even have a shirt on underneath my pink hoodie. I soon removed that, too, and lay naked on my couch, and holy crap did it feel good.

I wasn’t used to being this exposed, even at home, and I marveled at the feeling of my smooth thigh under my fingertips. I only really shaved my legs for the same reason I giggled at work—it increased my tips—but I finally understood why guys insisted upon it so much. As I slid my hand up and down my legs, my fingers just glided over them, like glass. Like water. When my hand moved up far enough, my thumb gently touched my lower lips, and I gasped. Partly from an arousal of completely unknown origin, but partly because I felt just how wet I was. I hadn’t even realized I was turned on until now, but if I could have opened my eyes, I was sure there was a real risk of staining my couch. But I couldn’t open my eyes, because that took too much effort; all I wanted was to stay in the moment. I shivered as my hand froze, but my thumb gently grazed my sex. I’d been masturbating since I turned 12, but somehow this was the first time I ever truly noticed my shape. The shape of my thighs and how soft they were... the shape of my labia and how it curved to fit my crotch... the shape of my opening as my thumb slowly worked its way inside... the opening that would welcome my fingers... that would welcome a cock... that would deliver a new life into the world when the time was right. I opened my eyes, confused. Since when did I want a baby? But I couldn’t care about that right now, not when I was so horny. I shut my eyes again and worked my index finger inside me, bent it up at the perfect angle, and moaned. I pulled my finger out, then pushed it inside me again. Before long, my hips were bucking of their own accord, up when I pushed in, down when I pulled out, reinforcing the motions and amplifying the sensations.

From a very distracted part of my mind, I heard a knock on the door, and without thinking (as if I could think now!), I moaned loudly, “COME IN!” It wasn’t until I heard the doorknob turn that I came to my senses, realized what was about to happen, and jumped onto the floor to try and get dressed while simultaneously covering myself where I could. There was a rattle as the doorknob seemed to get stuck, buying me just enough time to slip back into my sweatpants and hoodie before the door opened—how fortunate!

“Hey, girl!” I heard the very slight Southern drawl even before the figure revealed herself from behind the door and then closed it behind her.

“Sami!” I yelled, out of breath but trying to regain it. “What... what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to congratulate you on your promotion in person, and take you out to... celebrate... did I interrupt something?” she asked, apparently seeing my face. “Is someone here? I can come back later...”

“No, Sam, no one’s here, you’re good.”

“You sure? ’Cause you look like you just had the greatest ride of your life.” She giggled.

I glared at her. “I’m sure. I’m the only one here.”

“Then you need to tell me what vibrator you use, because clearly it’s superior to mine.”

“Okay, can we not talk about this, please?!” I snapped. I didn’t mean to yell, and honestly, sex had never been off-limits for our discussions. I was just uncomfortable knowing that I had gotten so aroused so quickly, without any reason... and ashamed of some of the strange thoughts I’d had while in the act.

“Oh, okay,” Sami said timidly. “Just sayin’...” Before I could apologize, she changed the subject. “Anyway, pick a bar, any bar, and the tab’s on me tonight.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to,” she said, her smile returning. “Besides, with your manager’s paycheck, all future tabs will be on you anyway.”

“Assistant manager,” I corrected.

“Same thing. Still more money than you make now. Maybe you could lend me some... so I could, you know, buy myself a better vibe.” She looked at me as if testing the waters to see if I’d scream again, and when I gave her a weak smile, she took that as an apology. We headed to the bar (after I inconspicuously put clothes on under my sweats under the pretense of peeing... I think Sami believed I was putting away a vibrator...) and the rest of the night was spent with drinking and laughing and general gal-pal camaraderie. Yet I couldn’t get the idea of having a baby out of my head—I mean, the memory of thinking about it, that is. Why did I think that? Did I actually want a baby, or was it a weird heat-of-the-moment thought that meant nothing? And why, whenever I thought about it, did I feel myself getting hot?