The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a weird fucking night. I’ve been dating Blythe for about six weeks. I met her at a party and something inside me went DING in a big way (no, not that something...well, not only that something).

Halloween night. Blythe and her roommates were having a party. There was to be some singing, some videos playing, food, and libation.

Before I tell you about the party, let me tell you a little about Blythe and me. Blythe is rough around the edges (in other words, she can be really bitchy). She can also be amazingly cute. She’s small (not much above five feet), rather well endowed, and young, in her early 20’s. She’s very well educated and politically a pain in the ass (er, politically involved). She’s got a great face, full, soft lips, and a nice body, not plump, but not skin and bones either. Definitely nice.

When we’re alone together, she’s somewhat affectionate, but we’ve never been even close to intimate. She claims she’s getting over her previous guy. I have no real idea. But when we’re alone together, she’s charming. I haven’t pushed her, because frankly, I still wasn’t sure she was safe. So I’d pretty well kept arms-length (literally as well as emotionally. Even so, I did really like her.

Her party was the first time I got a chance to encounter her in a group.

Blythe is a conservative, slightly off-beat dresser. No makeup. We never discussed it, but I’d always suspected that makeup was another political statement, and I didn’t want to learn about what.

When I arrived at her apartment, the party was just getting into swing. I opened the door to a find a french maid, and her boyfriend, who had skin falling off his face. Charming.

I was dressed in a simple costume (of no real consequence, so don’t worry about the details). Blythe was not immediately in evidence.

I mingled, got introduced to the other guests, shook some hands (and returned one to it’s owner after hit had come off). Eventually, I saw Blythe and made my way over to her conversational circle.

Here’s where the weirdness began. She looked at me, then looked away to continue her conversation. Not a nod, not a smile, not a single acknowledgement of my existence. Here’s a woman I’ve seen three or four nights a week for six weeks who acts like I don’t exist.

But I do notice her! She’s hot. She’s got glossy lipstick (OK, question one, how she’d look in lipstick’s answered...hot). Long, long red nails. And she’s in this sleek black gown, with a dark red cape. I’m not really sure what she’s supposed to be, but it works for me.

Yet, I’m confused. Her behavior towards me is out of character. After she finishes chatting up the guy in the army uniform, she walks away, and away from me. I call her name and chase after her, but I’m still ignored.

Before I have a chance to confront her, I’m kidnapped by some woman in a little girl’s outfit with a huge lollipop. I’m not into infantilism at all. Too weird.

Finally, I free myself up and as I started to look for Blythe again, she comes up to me, places a taloned hand on my shoulder and very softly whispers “Hello. Glad you could make it. Care for a drink?”

And she’s holding out a long, fluted glass with a golden liquid. Could be beer or champaign. There’s not much of it in the glass, though. The thing is, she knows I don’t do alcohol. And neither does she. Yet this looks very much alcoholic.

“Blythe, I don’t drink, you know that.”

“It’s ok sweety. I made this myself. Just for you. Try it.” Her voice is so soft, so sexy. Not like what I’ve seen in her before. “Just take one sip. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

What could I do? I took a sip. It was nasty tasting and good, all at the same time. There was all of one swallow in the glass, so I downed the whole thing.

“There, there. That’s a good boy. It was good, wasn’t it?”

I was feeling strange. Like a headache or something. I was having difficulty focusing. The room felt like it swung one way, and then back. Then things stabilized. Must be the lack of sleep.

“What? I didn’t hear you.” She had whispered something in my ear, and I guess I wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t look annoyed, but she didn’t repeat whatever she’d said.

Damn if she didn’t look good. She was wearing one of those gowns where you can see the shoulders and all I wanted to do (I swear, absolutely ALL I wanted to do) was kiss her shoulder. But I knew she’d be upset, especially in public, so I kept myself in check. But I was getting torn up inside with how much I wanted to kiss her.

I thought about finding the dripping skin guy to get my mind off her, but her presence seemed to be more intense. I was fighting myself inside, trying not to cause a scene.

I think she sensed something, because an annoyed expression came across her face and she made what I took to be a snide comment. But for the life of me, I couldn’t recall what she said. I mustn’t have been paying attention.

Fortunately, my obsession with her bare shoulder seemed to have gone away. I’d found something else to occupy my interest. I was on my knees, licking her boot clean. I knew this would make her happy and keep me from getting in trouble thinking about her shoulder. At the time, it never seemed strange that I was suddenly on my knees.

I heard her say something to me again. I had to pay more attention, because I never could seem to recall what she said. I NEEDED to pay attention to the woman of my dreams, the goddess who I’d always dreamed of worshipping, the woman who’d I’d been raised to serve.

My god, how I worshipped her! And I was so unworthy. I was still clothed, and I knew it was a sign of disrespect to be anything but naked. I quickly got out of my clothes.

While I’d been stripping, she’d moved a few steps away. I crawled to her, because that’s how I was supposed to move in her presence. I just loved pleasing her, but I never seemed to get it right. I knew I hadn’t crawled fast enough and to apologize, I sucked on her fingers for all I was worth.

I was so unworthy. All I wanted was to kiss her glorious ass, but I knew I wasn’t as worthy as the dirt on the soles of her shoes, which I licked with the intense concentration of one who’s doing his life’s work, who’s living out his reason for being.

And I was so embarrassed. I was hard. I was so hard, it seemed like I would explode. But I didn’t even have the Goddess Blythe’s permission to get hard. I was bad. I needed to be punished.

After she said something (I was so worthless, I still couldn’t pay attention to her, even in my shame), I begged to be strapped to the coffee table. My wrists were strapped to one set of table legs, my ankles to another.

All the women gathered around the table, and they each took turns beating me with my own belt (which was only fair, since I had no right to have the hubris to arrived clothed).

I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, I was at home and writing this account. I remembered the Goddess Blythe instructing me to write about my experiences without any enhancement or fabrication.

I’m done now, and I know I’m still not worthy of her attention.

Fuck me. I have a goddamned headache. Shit, I feel like my tongue’s been through a road race. And my ass hurts. Shit.

What the fuck is this? It’s my handwriting. It’s about the party. Must of been one humdinger if I feel this crappy.

What the fuck did she do to me? Goddamnit! That bitch had n...

“Yes, Goddess Blythe. I’m sitting on my bed. I was a bad boy. I used the word ‘bitch’. Yes, I know I was told if I even thought that word that I’d be punished. Yes, Goddess, I’ll be right there. Thank you Goddess. I love and worship you, Goddess.”