The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Familiar, comfortable smells, you hardly notice them, they’ve wafted to your nose so many times, as you close the door and slip on the chain, shrugging out of your coat. Chipped paint on the door. Wallpaper. Soft light. The same carpet under your shoes, faded, a little worn and ragged, white threads showing through it, as you cross your floor, your eyes tired, your shoulders tense from the work of the day, not enough chance to relax.

You collapse into a soft chair, lying back, letting the old padding gently shape itself around you, old, and familiar and comfortable. You tilt back your head, your eyes closing, and consciously relax the tension in your neck, feeling your body gently beginning to unwind, easing out the kinks and knots in your back, your arms, your legs, enjoying the laziness. Slumped, sprawled, your body lying like a rag doll tossed aside. It feels good.

A shadow across the dim redness of your closed eyelids, and your head tips up, and the eyes flick open, by instinct rather than design. And it takes a moment for your brain to catch up....

A man in the room. A strange man. Me.

But the door was locked, and no windows were broken, and yet there I am, standing there, reaching up to draw the curtains across the window, tall, clothed in black, dark hair growing in luxuriant curls.

You stand up, more angry than afraid. “Who the fuck are you? How did you get in?” Your fists clenched by your side, all tense anger, furious at your quiet, cosy little evening being broken into. I turn to face you. “Hello. I’m very pleased to meet you. But you could be a little more polite.”

The voice strikes you first, the accent is English rather than local, polished, sophisticated, but not soft or foppish. A deep voice, resonant, carefully controlled, very quiet, almost menacing despite the odd courtesy, a voice that links in your head with screen villains, Hannibal Lecter whispering about “air du temps....”

But then you see the eyes. A phrase whirls through your head, “the eyes are the gateway to the soul....” These are Lucifer’s eyes.

If you tried to describe them, you would find no words: they are simply greyish-blue, unusually long, curved lashes, but they glint with... something. I stare at you without blinking, perfectly still, and my stare skewers you, like lasers burning through your head, boring holes in your skull and staring straight into your soul. You are transfixed, a rabbit cowering in the glare of headlights, a truck hurtling down on it with horn blaring.

I blink, gently, delicately, even such the simple action of hooding my eyes controlled and careful, sensual. I look at you.

You are afraid, now. Reason beginning to creep back into your head. A stranger in your house, here to steal? or to.... Your mind won’t frame the word.

“What do you want?” you ask. As soon as you say it, you wonder why: you should be running for a phone, screaming for help, yelling for the police, snatching up a kitchen knife, something. Not asking me what I want.

I walk towards you. The way I move disconcerts you still more. I don’t walk like a man, but like a panther, lithe, controlled, gliding without a sound, but with the sense of... something. Danger? Power perhaps? Nothing visible, nothing tangible, but it’s shining from my eyes, crackling away from my body like streamers of electricity, hanging in the air like smoke. You sway backards, just as if I had pushed you, my presence is so powerful, but the chair is behind you, and you stumble, recovering your balance as I stop barely a yard from you. My clothes are as black as jet, and my eyes hold yours.

“What do I want?” I muse. “I want you, my darling. I want every part of you. And I’m going to take it, all of it. Body and mind. I’m not leaving this room until you look me in the eye and beg me to fuck you.”

At that you raise your hand to lash out at me, fury suddenly bubbling up through the fear. You start to swing, and then your arm freezes, as if it had struck a stone wall, the muscles completely locked, fighting each other, the whole limb like an iron bar. You stare at it, feeling nothing but shock.

I gently take your hand, my fingers warm, then bow my head, and kiss it softly, the picture of the oldfashioned gentleman saluting his lady. But my eyes are mocking. You try to pull away, but your arm might as well have turned to stone! Nerves are screaming in your shoulder, trying desperately, but the messages are blocked. Your arm is no longer yours to control.

The shock fades to more rational disbelief. This can’t be happening. Are you dreaming? Crazy?

Slowly, delicately, I kiss the tips of your fingers one by one. “No,” I say, easily, “you’re not dreaming” (kiss) “and you’re not mad.” (Kiss). “And that’s good.” (Kiss). “I wouldn’t want you to be anything but wide awake when you experience me.” (Kiss.) “But you had better get used to the idea now: you are mine. Your body is mine. I can make you do what I want, say what I want, even think what I want if I choose. But I also want you to know, that I am going to leave your mind intact. Anything you think and feel tonight comes from inside you. Understand?”

Your head nods all by itself, even though you fight to keep it still.

“Good girl.” I smile my mocking smile, and release your hand. Your mind is still reeling, trying desperately to make sense of it all. You almost fail to notice that I answered your original question without your even having to say the words out loud. I am listening to your thoughts. But a part of you stays practical. You know what I can do. For the moment you are helpless.

And with that realisation comes something very unexpected. A gentle wave of arousal.

I smile again. “Interesting, isn’t it?” I say, stepping back, my eyes studying you from head to foot. “You are completely helpless, my love. I can and will do anything I want to you. How does that make you feel?”

“What are you going to do to me?” Your voice sounds small, as if lost in the echoes of a vast, dark cave.

“What you want me to do. Oh, yes, my darling, there are things that you want. You’re trying so hard to hide them inside your little boxes of guilt, but they are still there.”

You find yourself blushing scarlet, without being able to say why. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“No?” And for the first time I raise my voice, the sound sharp and staccato, bouncing off the hard walls. “Then why is your pussy wet?”

The suddenness of the loud obscenity, spoken by that soft, quiet, intense voice, is a jolt. And you realise it’s true. The feeling is extraordinary, standing there in your own house, prisoner to a strange man in black, held in the grip of his mind as firmly as if you were in chains. And it’s exciting. Exhilarating. Your body seems to be melting under my eyes. You can feel wetness in your vagina. Your breasts are starting to swell. Your vagina begins to lengthen and widen, opening.

“Tell me to fuck you, you know you want it.”

“No! You’re doing this to me,” you say. “You’re making my body do it!”

“I could, of course...” I say. “But I’m not.”

I step towards you again with that cat-like grace, stalking you, and reach out with one hand, brushing ever so softly along the line of your jaw, then down the side of your neck. “Would you like me to kiss you?”

“No!”

But of course I do it, and your body holds you motionless as I lean towards you, and caress your lips with mine. It feels extraordinary, almost electric, as my mouth touches yours, seeming to cling for a moment, and then withdraw. In a sudden burst of energy you try to scream, but your throat contracts, trapping the sound. I kiss you again, so softly, tormenting you with gentleness, every movement emphasising the completeness of my control over you. There is no need for force, or violence. The domination is total.

And it’s making your nipples hard and your clitoris so erect it’s pressing on the inside of your jeans. Shifting even slightly makes the material rub over it.

I begin to kiss a little more hungrily, pressing soft lips into the side of your neck, caressing, sometimes licking gently, my tongue hot against you, sometimes nipping the skin between my teeth. You want to gasp, but you refuse to reveal to me that I am exciting you. You refuse to give in.

I step back. You realise you are trembling. I stare at you intently, caressing you with my eyes. “Undress,” I tell you.

You stand perfectly still, your chin held high. “No.”

“You know I can make you.”

“You’ll have to.”

I sigh, theatrically, my head on one side. Then your arms begin to move. You feel as though there should be something to show that I am invading you. Your motions should be jerky, wild, like some sort of badly-operated puppet. But no. My control is too complete for that. Your arms move gently, even with you fighting every gesture. Your hands unbutton your shirt, open it, slip it gently over your shoulders, shrug free of it, throw it away. Your feet kick off your shoes, and you bend down to take off your socks. I make you take your time over that, sliding them gently over your feet, almost sensually.

I slow you down for the next part. You unzip your jeans, your face twisting into a sexy pout, your fingers moving slowly, easing the cloth apart. The button is undone. Slowly you bend down, sliding the rough cloth down your legs, then step out of it, wearing only bra and panties. I make you stand like that, your hands on your hips, that irritating Kim Basinger pout still on your face.

“See that?”

“What?”

“Your nickers are wet. Soaked.”

You don’t reply, still trying to hang onto your pride, but it’s getting harder. You can feel a terrible insidious desire creeping up inside you: to give into me, to do what I want simply because I ask, to resign yourself to it, to give yourself up to me. It would be so easy. The thought makes you giddy, surrendering yourself, mind and body, to be used as I want.

“The bra.” Still you won’t cooperate, so I move your hands, slipping the straps over the shoulders, so slowly, then undoing the clasp, pulling forward, freeing your breasts.

“Your nipples are very hard, my darling. Why don’t you admit that you want this? You crave it?”

“No!” But your voice is starting to sound more strangled now, you’re hardly even convincing yourself anymore. You feel dizzy, my power is rushing through you like a river in flood, it seems so natural, so perfect, just to give in. You tell yourself desperately that I must be manipulating you, forcing your brain into alien patterns, thrusting thoughts into your head, sexual thoughts, the need to be dominated, violated, penetrated, to feel my weight on you, pressing you down, my arms pinning you to the bed, and my hard penis stabbing into your vagina.... Your juices are almost gushing out of you thinking about it.

And you know, deep down in your soul, that the thoughts are yours, not mine.

“Stroke your breasts for me.” Even now you remain motionless, clinging to the last shreds of your dignity while your pussy soaks through your panties. And so I move you, making your hands caress your soft breasts, teasing in circles with the fingertips, gently stroking and squeezing, cupping them in your hands, then leaning forward as if offering them to me as a gift. You are gasping as your hands slide over the sensitive flesh, sending little crackles of erotic pleasure sparking through you. The skill with which I direct you is extraordinary, varying from the lightest feather touch to pressure so firm it is almost painful, and back again, wandering to the nipples, stroking, then pinching, making you lick your fingers and wet the nipples, flicking them, rubbing, squeezing....

You are lost, drifting in whirls of sensual pleasure, my mind guiding your body along its path the way a musician calls music from a violin, with your hands for the bow, and your breasts as the strings, your whole body vibrating in resonance.

“Stop.” Still the same, calm, perfectly controlled voice, the ring of absolute authority. Your hands fall back to your sides. Your whole body is shaking with passion. Your nickers are clinging to you, your clitoris and and pussy are throbbing, your heart pounding in your chest, your breathing coming in ragged half- gasps.

My voice is even more intense now. “Tell me to fuck you.”

“No!” you whimper, so lost in sexual arousal you can barely find the strength to speak, your whole body liquid with desire, but the final last line of defence still holding, the last vestige of guilt, the knowledge that to give in to being raped, molested, posessed, used, dominated is WRONG, that you must somehow find the strength to resist me, to keep yourself intact. You must remain a good, virtuous girl who is being taken advantage of by some unearthly power. You MUST.

I step close to you, and drop to my knees. I take hold of the waistband of your panties, and gently pull them down over your legs, and I lift your feet clear of them. You are completely exposed, your pussy so wet it is dripping, the cool air against the lips a surprise, the juices starting to flow down your thighs. You have never felt so naked, not even being with a lover comes close, you are completely stripped of your clothes, your dignity, every last scrap of protection, and you are naked, your body and your mind and your soul laid bare. I watch your pussy intently, and I reach up my hands, as if about to caress you. Something inside you cries out, desperate for the gentle touch of strong hands to set the flesh on fire. Your vagina pulsates and throbs.

Instead I stand up again. “Masturbate,” I tell you.

Your hand moves. You can barely tell if it is your own will or my power that causes it to move. You start to stroke your clitoris, sending red-hot arrows of sharp pleasure stinging through your whole body. You rub harder, and faster, and bring up your other hand, pushing two fingers into your pussy almost brutally, jamming them through the wetness, and rubbing, rubbing at your hard clitoris.

And then suddenly you realise: I am not directing your movements anymore. You are standing there, a free woman, masturbating in front of a total stranger because he has told you to.

And with that, the last wall collapses, and you gasp as the final delicious wave of submission crashes over you. This IS what you want, what you crave, to be standing naked in front of a total stranger, rubbing your tits, masturbating, making his cock hard, just because he tells you to. Shudders of a delight beyond orgasm begin to ripple through you, you feel yourself giving up completely, hungry for me, the wickedness of what you are doing making you shake with pleasure. And you DON’T CARE. This is what you want, to become pure, physical, female sex.

“Stop.” I tell you.

You freeze, but the pleasure in obeying and in being conquered outweighs the loss of your fingers on your clitoris.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Louder.”

“Yes! I want you to fuck me.” Now that the dam has burst, the current is raging, tossing you on its crest like a twig. You are drowning in ecstatic submission and sinfulness. “I want you to fuck me.” Your voice decadent, oozing sexual desire and arousal. “I want you to jam your hard cock into my hot, wet cunt!” You can’t believe what you hear yourself say, but it is so good, so GOOD. “Please! Fuck me! Fuck me with your wonderful cock, shoot me full of your hot come! FUCK ME!”

With startling speed I leap clear of my clothes, and you see my skin, smooth and gleaming with sweat. And you see my penis, hard as oakwood, swollen and erect, the glans stretched so tight it gleams a smooth purple, and glistens with the juices that your body has made it ooze. You feel a dizzy rush of pride at how much you have aroused me.

I march towards you. “Turn round.” You turn with your back to me, your whole body and brain dedicated to nothing but the longing to feel yourself penetrated and filled with my penis. “Turn the chair around. Now bend over. Lean your arms on the back of the chair, and open your legs” You obey, even the thought of disobedience impossible, your body dissolving at the thought of being pierced by mine. I take hold of your hips, you push your vagina towards me, begging me.

And then finally I drive forward, impaling you on my penis.

You scream as I enter you, the ecstasy greater than you could have imagined possible, my penis seems to fill you, your vagina in convulsions around the hard flesh inside it. I start to move, quickly, savagely, stabbing you with it, pulling and pushing on your hips, using you, and you grunt and gasp and scream at the impossible joy of being violated, my firm, hot penis ramming in and out of you, my hands gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

And then suddenly the orgasm hits you, like an earthquake, a tsunami, as though the whole world has shattered into tiny, brilliant fragments, an explosion of pleasure strong enough to kill you. Your scream and convulse, your hair lashing around your head, your vagina milking my penis, gripping, squeezing, pulsing, ecstasy blazing through your whole body like fireworks. And at the very highest, incandescent pinnacle, you feel my penis jump inside your soaking wet flesh, and begin to spurt rich, white semen into your body, hot enough to scald....

We stand there for what seems like hours, our bodies still joined, my penis slowly beginning to soften inside you, still twitching, little shivers of orgasm still vibrating our bodies, the smell of clean sweat, and the musk of sex. Our breathing slows from ragged gasps to normal. Finally I pull myself out of you and stand up.

“You’re not going?” you ask, suddenly horrified, the idea of losing me more terrible than death. “Please! Don’t go!”

I take your head tenderly in my hands, and kiss your lips with more gentleness than you have ever known. “No, my darling, I’m not going. I’m going to be with you for a very, very long time.”