The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Knox

I was numb as my coworkers rummaged through my apartment, tearing apart my life, invading every safe thing I left home before going into work. I was just thankful Whitaker wasn’t here. He stopped by yesterday as a friend, but thankfully a captain would never come to a minor crime scene like this.

“Fuck,” I sighed. I couldn’t believe I just referred to Lex as a minor crime.

All around me, my house was being dusted for prints, things were put into bags, DNA samples were being collected, and strangers—I swear, even though I worked with them, my body felt like they were strangers—were combing through my life. I had never considered how it felt for the families of victims I helped find. Sure, you knew this was theoretically going to help the police find your person, but to have your life taken apart and examined seemed to kill all the nuance of what made a life or home special. It was like how an autopsy totally disrespected and dehumanized the very person it was trying to help.

“Fucking fuck,” I said again, wishing I could pour myself a glass of whiskey. I had the presence of mind to finally take all the empty liquor bottles from around the apartment to the dumpster before the police arrived.

“Speaking of fuck,” Merriweather said, holding up a pink dildo attached to a harness. He held it like it was a snake that would bite him, but around him, my co-workers laughed.

“I know it’s bigger than yours,” I said even though my cheeks turned red, “but that’s about the size of a real man’s cock.”

More laughter erupted around me, and Merriweather slowly placed the strap-on into a plastic bag. I didn’t make a fuss about why he needed to take my strap-on into evidence, and he didn’t mention the nipple clamps, riding crop, flogger, shibari rope, and handcuffs I kept in my nightstand. It was a silent truce between two assholes.

Of course, no amount of embarrassment could compete with the total abject horror I felt when I had to hand over my phone. I could delete the videos Lex had sent me, but our tech CSIs would find it. They would dig up any old or deleted texts between Lex and I anyways. It was mostly a shot in the dark, but when someone who no one expected to disappear (i.e. not a potential prostitute, homeless person, or runaway) was missing, we had to start scraping the bottom of the barrel. That plus Lex being a cop’s wife meant my case was getting an unusual amount of attention and thoroughness.

“So tell me,” Merriweather said, still holding the plastic bag with Lex’s favorite dildo in it. “The DNA on this, it will belong to you and Lex alone, right?”

“We clean them,” I said. “There shouldn’t be any DNA on—”

“DNA on the sheets. On the couch. Just you two, right?”

“Who else would it belong to?”

“Well,” Merriweather scratched the back of his balding head. “I don’t usually watch my wife fuck other people, but one could assume that her lovers have left some DNA around.”

There was no laughter this time.

Merriweather was the only one with a severe enough lack of decency to bring this up whenever he wanted. Apparently, he had googled the term “cuckquean,” and he excitedly explained to any officer that listened that there was an official term for what I did. I didn’t have the energy to explain that it was more a display of dominance on my end than any cucking—closer to hotwifing—and no one else at the station seemed to have any nuance for kink. Either that, or no one was going to talk about their sexual knowledge in front of their coworkers.

Only Merriweather was so shameless.

“We don’t bring them here,” I muttered.

“Sorry, what was that?” Merriweather said. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“We don’t bring the other women here,” I said louder but still trying to make sure the whole room couldn’t hear us.”

“Oh,” said Merriweather. “I wouldn’t know. I tend not to let other people get their DNA all over my wife.”

“Which wife is that?” Cooper said from the other side of the room. “The second or the sixth?”

“Bah,” Merriweather said, throwing up a middle finger at Cooper. The CSI was newer to the team, and a bit of a nerd in the best way. He didn’t dress like a nerd, more like an All-American boy that just stepped out of an American Eagle or Ralph Lauren ad: side-swept thick blonde hair with some unknown but considerate amount of product, polos tight against his chest and broad shoulders, tight but straight leg khakis, and a generic tribal tattoo on his forearm. I’m sure he made his fraternity and wealthy daddy proud.

Merriweather went back to work. I told him there wasn’t going to be much in the apartment that would help them—that I, of all people, would know what was useful and where to find it—but Whitaker wanted to do everything by the book. He didn’t want my emotions to cause me to overlook something, but I could be objective. As a woman working with people reeking of misogyny, I had to learn when to put my emotions aside and be professional. I was a pro at it.

“Sorry about him,” Cooper said after sidling up next to me.

“For what?” I asked. “It’s typical of him.”

“Yeah, but it feels like he’s trying to use every detail of your life as fuel for his harassment.”

“Like I said, typical Merriweather.”

Cooper chuckled. His voice was surprisingly light for his rugby player frame. I think that was what gave me the overwhelming nerd vibe from him: he didn’t carry himself like a jock who was one short skirt away from slipping a roofie into my drink.

“Still,” Cooper said, “it feels like he’s going a little far with the jokes.”

“Far was general homophobia, I’m pretty sure we passed a little far several years ago.”

“Sure, it’s full blown sexual harassment.”

“I’m sure Merriweather is on the top of IA’s to do list.” The conversation was auto-pilot. I could do mindless work banter in my sleep. Meanwhile, my mind was focusing on the threes things it should: Lex, the case Merriweather and I should be working on, and how badly I wanted a fucking drink. It had been almost two days since I’d seen my wife, and at some point, she was going to be put on the backburner of the department’s to-do list if Whitaker was really under so much pressure to find these wealthy white bitches. Besides, everyone around me was playing catch up. They were learning things I already knew. None of them were as qualified as me to find her.

“Sorry about your wife,” Cooper said.

“You say that like she’s dead,” I teased back, but he looked upset, like he was worried he’d offended me. “Thanks,” I said. No one—other than Lex’s sister, Grace—had really said that to me. I wasn’t about to cry on Cooper’s shoulder and tell him how I hated waking up alone more than just about anything in the universe, but it felt good for someone to recognize that this was pretty much an absolute fucking nightmare rather than an inconvenience I was blowing out of proportion.

“If you ever need someone to—”

“No,” I said. “Sorry, but no.”

I walked out of my bedroom and took out my phone to make my ritualistic phone call to Lex every fifteen minutes. It went straight to voicemail, and I left another message urging her to call me back or give me some sign that she was alive. I only had one message from her sister, Grace, but I swiped it aside. Grace was still in college, and though I thought of her as my own little sister, there were times it felt like she had a crush on me. Over the past twenty-four hours she had sent me texts like “let me know if you want to talk.” Honestly, I think she wanted the comfort more than wanted to give it, and I wasn’t interested in babysitting right now.

After an hour or so, the team left my apartment. I was getting a hotel room to preserve the crime scene: not technically necessary but I always wished other families would do it. Besides, I didn’t know how to keep looking at Lex’s stuff. Her cameras and the rest of her equipment were still in the apartment, which meant she more than likely wasn’t working on a manic masterpiece. But it wasn’t that stuff that was driving me crazy. It was her favorite sweatshirt that she wore basically everywhere, her notebook filled with sketches for how to set up the gallery and little notes or doodles she would create for me while we watched shitty reality TV shows, or her insulin for her diabetes. Any of them would be things she’d definitely take with her. Each of them mocked me, telling me that she wasn’t okay and somewhere else in the world. She wasn’t just missing.

She was taken.

But no ransom? No demands? No contact from the kidnapper? As bad as it would be for her to be kidnapped, it’s a worse sign that no demands had been made. That meant that they had no intention of giving her back. That meant that—

Fuck. No. I’m not going there. I’m not looking at my wife’s stuff. I’m not panicking. I’m going to go to my hotel, get several bottles of whiskey, and focus my energy on the Gibbler case. Merriweather wasn’t the lead detective on Lex’s case, and Whitaker wouldn’t let her fall between the cracks. I had a job to do, and either the worst case scenario had happened—in which case the feds were my only hope—or it wasn’t a big deal and Lex would show up as most missing persons do. Probably at the Gallery in some stunning dress with an incredible story. Either way, I had done all I could do.

Or at least that was what I kept telling myself.

Six hours and far too much whiskey later, I was bleary-eyed while the sun was still up and staring at several headshots of stupidly wealthy stupid white bitches. Other than being worth twenty times my college debt and being from Chicago, none of them had anything in common.

Other than being attractive.

Jesus, the whiskey was making me stupid and horny simultaneously.

I tossed the picture of Stephanie Gibbler across my hotel room. She was a classic blonde prom queen gone beauty pageant pro gone Miss Illinois gone trophy wife. She had plump pink lips that were probably pumped with collagen even though they were probably soft and delicate and if you were kissing her she wouldn’t be filling the air with her stupid commentary about how bad she feels for the poor kids in the Middle East. Her voice was probably breathy and high and delicate with the vocal fry of a perfect bimbo.

It probably sounded hot when she moaned.

“Jesus,” I said as I rolled onto the bed. It was too early to sleep, but I probably needed it. I should just rub one out and pass the fuck out.

Yeah. That was it.

I kicked off my shoes and peeled off my tank top before collapsing into the comfy bed, bra and jeans still on. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and—

I sat upright.

I had a notification from Lex.

A motherfucking text from Lex.

It was a video with the message, “Wish you were here! I love you more than almost anything in the whole world.”

The same message she had sent me with the last video. I looked at the video, my hand shaking. From the thumbnail, I could see pale and naked bodies. Not just Lex. Two other women.

“Two?” I whispered. “Jesus, Lex.”

Was that what this was? Had she gone out to find another girl and ended up in a threesome? Was she out having orgies while I thought she was kidnapped or fucking dead?

But I couldn’t focus on our relationship affairs. All I could think was that she was alive. Actually alive. I’d have to send this to the lab to figure out when this video was recorded, but Lex was alive after she sent me the video of her and the Arab woman. Maybe this was recorded just after, but it didn’t matter to my body. All it could feel was the sweet relief of seeing her alive, of knowing the last time I saw her wasn’t the last breath she took.

I pressed play on the video, and it started with a sigh from Lex and one of her “oh fuck” moans that always drove me crazy. She was sliding down the blonde woman’s body, kissing her tight and sweaty abs as she approached the smooth and bare pussy. I’d never seen her moan from the simple act of kissing someone, and though it should have stabbed me with jealousy, it was…

It was kind of fucking hot.

I watched with fascination as my wife’s lips finally reached the blonde woman’s pussy. She kissed it gently several times before sliding her tongue inside it gently—my body thrummed at the sight of her little ritual. That was how she had eaten me out the first time, and how she started making love to me on our wedding night. It was a kind of worship I had never seen her use on any of the girls she fucked for my pleasure. Again, I know insecure assholes would have had their stomachs turn at such a sight, but that wasn’t me. I was stronger than them.

“That’s my girl,” I said. It was probably the whiskey that drove me to unbutton my pants, to slide back on the hotel bed and get ready to complete my own ritual — one I had done dozens of times as my plaything fucked strangers for me.

That’s what any toxic masculinity infected fucker like Merriweather could never understand. Lex wasn’t abandoning me because she wanted some other woman more than me. Lex was fucking them for me. These women were living dildos in my wife’s hands, and she fucked herself while I watched. That was it. These women were nothing. They weren’t threats at all. They were—

My lust induced haze was ruined when a stream of comments flooded past the screen, obstructing the right side of the video.

“What the fuck?” I sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, immediately leaving irresistible wife mode and entering detective mode.

This wasn’t recorded on Lex’s phone. This was some kind of livestream or cam site. “Holy shit,” I said as I started reading the comments. The chatters were giving commands to Lex and the blonde woman.

“Run your hands through that cunt’s hair,” one chatter demanded.

“Fucking pull on her hair,” another said.

“Oh fuck, Asian bitches?”

“Two girls? Candy gets more pussy than me, kek.”

“Hellll yeah, get that sweet Eastern pussy.”

“I love me some Asian girls.”

“Yellow feveeeeeeeeerrrrrr.”

“So hot.”

“Uuuunh.”

“Candy, when are you going to get piercings like her?”

“Jesus, Candy is so lucking.”

“Lucky.”

“Licking, kekw.”

“Whore gets simp money and hot sex? So fucking unfair.”

“Fuck off, man. You’re simping here too.”

“Thrust against her face.”

“Fuck her face.”

“Hump her face.”

“Hump her face.”

“Hump her face.”

“Hump her face.”

“Hump her face.”

“Hump her face.”

“HUMP HER FACE.”

“HUMP HER FACE.”

“HUMP HER FACE.”

“HUMP HER FACE.”

“HUMP HER FACE.”

My thumbs moved towards the screen of my phone, trying to type in the phrase, “HUMP HER FACE.” But there was no keyboard. I wasn’t in the chat. And luckily for me, the blonde woman obeyed the command and wrapped her hand behind Lex’s head and started humping my wife’s face. She started slowly, but then the woman behind her—a dark brown skinned woman whose face was out of the shot of the camera—thrusted into the back of the blonde woman, controlling the pacing.

“Like that,” the woman behind the blonde said. “That’s how you should serve.”

“That’s right,” the chat said.

“Fuck a bitch like that.”

“HUMP HER FACE.”

“She is, dipshit.”

“Uhhn,” Lex said with her mouthful of pussy. I didn’t know if she could breathe with her face so deep in pussy, but she wasn’t losing enthusiasm. Her head bobbed as she worked her tongue further and further into the blonde, moaning and making pleasant slurping sounds as she worked.

I tried to pull my eyes away, to focus on the room behind them and look for clues, to stay in my detective mindset. It looked like a dorm room—though the bed was bigger than any dorm room I’d seen—and pale pink neon lights lined the back walls like a dozen cheap streamers I’d seen. Based on the chat and the content, this was obviously some camgirl, which meant she was probably on some cam site. I could have the lab trace this back and we could find this blonde girl easily. There was another step in the chain, and I knew the next step in the investigation.

“Pull her hair,” my thumbs wanted to type into a phantom keyboard.

“Pull her hair,” the chat said.

“Pull her hair.”

“Pull her hair.”

“Pull her hair.”

“Pull her hair.”

“Pull her hair.”

It didn’t take the blonde woman long to obey this time. She wrapped Lex’s short teal hair around her hand and yanked tight. She lifted one leg up and put it on Lex’s shoulder, driving her wet lips harder and harder against my wife’s face. I couldn’t imagine how deep Lex’s tongue was at that point, but her mouth was wide and her head tilted back as she became less and less of a person. She was a toy, a doll, expensive fucking furniture. It was like the blonde woman was grinding against her pillow to get off, and my wife’s humanity was an afterthought.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said as the details of the room went fuzzy. It must have been the whiskey, but it was impossible to be a detective right now. I didn’t know I could get this turned on watching my wife fuck other women. Lex never bottomed for the women she picked up at clubs and bars. It wasn’t a hard rule for us, but we were always playing out the fantasy that she was a straight girl fucking a woman for the first time. It meant I didn’t have to see the stranger’s face when it was buried between my wife’s legs. It meant we could all buy into the fantasy that Lex wasn’t cheating on me. The stranger thought she was seducing a hot Asian straight woman, and my wife got to pretend it was her first time and she was a good Christian girl, and I got to watch my hot wife fuck for my pleasure.

But this was different.

Watching my wife degraded and used for the pleasure of these two women—and the pleasure of the chat—did something new to me. It wasn’t the thrill of my pleasure selfishly being served—though that was certainly part of it. In this scenario, Lex wasn’t the inexperienced virgin being corrupted by the older and more experienced lesbian. She was the practiced and well-trained slut offering her services for the amusement and pleasure of these women and the chat.

She was my well-trained slut.

One I was renting out to them for their arousal and orgasms. I was a benevolent goddess or mistress that had lent them my pathetic Lex for them to fuck. “No really, she’s well trained in eating pussy, ass, and being fucked in all sorts of ways.” “She’s a docile as furniture if you want her to be or as enthusiastic as the most depraved nympho.” “Let your chat decide what you do to her.”

I thought of an art exhibit that happened at the Museum of Contemporary Art downtown. A woman sat naked on a white tarp with a table of instruments nearby. People could do whatever they wanted to, and she wouldn’t resist. At first, people did sentimental and loving things like run a rose over her body or write “beautiful” in Sharpie on her skin. But the exhibit really began when human nature was released. They wrote “slut” and “whore” on her. They wrote “pig” and “worthless” on her skin in permanent marker. They spat at her. They cut her with thin lines. And she took it all without moving or flinching. She wasn’t human anymore; she was art.

Lex was art now.

Maybe I was drunk and ranting. Maybe this made no sense at all. But the art she always wanted to capture and put on display in galleries, the perfect shots that captured mortal moments and made them eternal. She had become it, no longer trying to capture it. She was captured.

In my museum.

For my eyes.

“Now,” the dark skinned woman said with a slight accent I found captivating but couldn’t place with my whiskey and lust corrupted brain, “show me what you learned.”

The blonde woman didn’t pout that she was deprived of an orgasm. Instead, she sank to her knees next to Lex, and the darker skinned woman stepped closer to the camera. Her rich brown skin was beautiful but not glistening with sweat and juices like Lex and the blonde. Her pussy was crowned with thick black hair and a beautiful bush that Lex and the blonde kneeled in front of, ready to serve a new Mistress. Her breasts were impressive, and they seemed to defy gravity with their glorious size but perky bounce. And they were—

“Holy fucking shit,” I said, sitting up in the dark and practically tossing the phone like it was a snake.

The woman had pierced nipples, but the piercings were a bright red metal. Like hot red or candy red. I’d never seen piercings like that except for—

The Arab woman.

Lex was still with her. Whoever she had picked up at the bar was still with her, still fucking her. She must have something to do with Lex’s disappearance. If I found her or the blonde, I would probably find Lex shortly after that. This was it. This was the best clue we had to finding my wife.

I watched with a detective’s mind for the rest of the video. The blonde woman and Lex licked the Arab woman’s pussy in unison, serving her enthusiastically. The Arab woman had the height of some super model or WNBA player because her face never appeared in the frame of the camera shot. But I could remember what she looked like with her dark lips—impossibly dark, like they were stained with ink—and her ridiculous fucking sunglasses. I wondered if she was wearing them now as she spread her legs wider to make room for two tongues to serve her at once.

The chat erupted with enthusiasm as they watched my wife and her new friend serve their dark skinned mistress. They sent commands, and my wife obeyed them, fingering the blonde when all of them suggested it in unison or kissing each other once the Arab woman had cum and their faces were covered in her juices. Their makeup was ruined, but they licked each other’s faces clean, desperate to savor any lingering taste of their mistress.

But then Lex turned to the camera and looked dead into it. She waved at all the chatters and smiled wide before saying, “Miss you, Miri.”

Miri.

The pet name only she used.

The only one who knew it.

Then the video went dark, and I was left alone in my black hotel room. My body was cold with shock, but it was ragged from too much booze. I needed to sleep. I needed to send this off to the lab. They could trace it. They could find the dorm room, the cam site, the blonde, all of it. They could tell me for sure when my wife was last seen and where. It was a step in the right direction, even if it was humiliating, even if it meant more comments from Merriweather.

And worse, without the cloudy reasoning of lust, I didn’t know what to do with the end of the video. Lex missed me? Then why didn’t she come home? Does that message mean Lex is cheating on me? Or is it her way of saying that this isn’t cheating? This is our little game and not a painful affair? I thought of her message that accompanied the video: “Wish you were here! I love you more than almost anything in the whole world.”

Did she really wish I was there? Did she want me to find her? Then why didn’t she just tell me where she was? Or was the video her way of doing that? She knew we could trace it. She knew I could find her. Maybe this was her way of leaving breadcrumbs for me. Did that mean she didn’t want to be where she was? But she didn’t look reluctant in the video. It was hard to believe she was there against her will.

These thoughts swirled in my head as I took off my jeans and bra and snuggled under the covers. It was still early, but I needed rest. In the morning, I would send the video to the team. Even an idiot like Merriweather could use it to find out where she’d been and pick up the trail. For now I needed to sleep. Badly. I couldn’t believe how little sleep I’d gotten in the past two days or how much had happened.

But there was a nagging in the back of my head. Not quite a thought. Maybe an urge, but it felt more primal. It felt compelling, like my fingers trying to type out commands on a phantom keyboard.

I took my phone back out and watched the video again.

And again.

And again.

I watched for hours, going late into the night without food or sleep.

This time my fingers moved on their own again, sliding down between my legs as I watched the blonde woman grind her pussy against my wife’s face, riding Lex’s open and eager mouth. Lex’s long and well-trained tongue slithered deep into the blonde, and my wife looked so happy. The blonde looked so happy.

“All for me,” I said as my fingers worked faster.

I had brought them together. I trained my slut, and I was woman enough to lend her out. The video was for me. That was it. That was why Lex ended it that way. That was why she sent it.

“All mine,” I said.

And I meant Lex.

But I meant the blonde.

And the beautiful Arab woman in the background pulling the strings for some deep and hungry part of me.