The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Knox

“Knox, you awake?” Merriweather asked.

“What?” I blinked a few times, bringing back the ridiculously opulent home of Elizabeth Mayer to my attention. I knew people lived in this kind of obscene wealth, but it was the kind of thing you only saw on television or in movies. These homes should have been reserved for LA or private islands, but overlooking Lake Michigan there were apparently palaces: marble everywhere, huge windows looking at the majestic blue lake, way too much space between overpriced pieces of furniture finished with ridiculous fabrics like velvet or leather. So much fucking leather. Two personal libraries filled with books Ms. Mayer had never read in her life. Three floors and a basement floor for servant’s quarters. Honest-to-god servant quarters.

“You keep staring off at the fucking lake like you’ve never seen water before,” Merriweather said. “It’s not even the fucking ocean.”

“Might as well be,” I said. You could barely see the other side of Lake Michigan on clear days if you were lucky, but standing by it always made me feel the same as standing by the Atlantic Ocean.

“Well, you can go to the beach later,” Merriweather said. “I want to show you the bedroom.”

“You haven’t even bought me dinner,” I said.

“Fuck off, dy—”

But he didn’t finish the slur, and I smiled. I had a running tally of how many homophobic comments Merriweather made while I worked with him and sent them to Whitaker. It probably wouldn’t go anywhere while Whitaker needed all the woman power available on the Gibbler case, but afterwards Merriweather was perfectly qualified to work exclusively with missing children and get the accompanying trauma that came from that shit show.

Merriweather was taking me through all the crime scenes of the wealthy women — five in total so far. There was no sign that they were planning to disappear, no indication that they were unhappy with their lives. They weren’t researching travel plans, and none of their family or friends expected their sudden disappearance. That shouts kidnapping. But none of them were taken outside of their homes, and none of their homes showed any signs of a break-in, a struggle, or an abduction.

It was like one day these women randomly decided to walk out the door of their modern day palaces and leave their lives and identities behind. I wasn’t a pro at investigating a crime scene—mostly to find my kind of missing persons I had to talk to people, read them, and predict —but I was almost certainly more competent than Merriweather. I should be able to figure out where a few rich bimbos ran off to.

If I could just forget Lex’s videos.

Five now, and the last one was seared into my mind like it was my goddamn sexual awakening. Lex had been gone for a week, and I was still doing my best to keep away from the case. But after a few days of climbing up the walls and blowing up my captain’s phone, Whitaker agreed to let me work the Gibbler case so I could stay sane. And I tried to stay out of the precinct so I could avoid the rumors. Gossip about my sex life was out of control, but the politics of the situation was unbearable. Some people thought the case should be closed. The case was a pain: we had no luck in tracing her cell phone or picking her up on any of the city’s traffic cameras. After all, Lex was alive and well. She sent me a video almost everyday of her and the Arab woman fucking a different person. This was clearly a case of a breakup—even if it was an unconventional one.

But that didn’t explain why all of Lex’s hookups also went missing. It was the same as Lex. Each woman she fucked disappeared from her life without a trace. Sure, some of them appeared in future videos—Lex and the Arab woman were running out of room to fit all their lovers in a single video—but most of them abandoned all their projects, interests, and family in the meantime. That could mean a serial kidnapper, but there was no luck in identifying the Arab woman. The only other explanation was some kind of psycho cult, but that didn’t sound like Lex. Other than her sister or myself, she was the smartest person I knew.

“Jesus, Knox,” Merriweather said, snapping me out of another long stare across Lake Michigan. “If you’re going to zone out so much, go home. I thought this shit was meant to distract you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said.

Merriweather stared at me, blinking in confusion when I didn’t snap back at him with something biting or witty.

“It’s just that…” I tucked a stray red hair behind my ear. My ponytails and buns always got looser throughout the day because I wasn’t committed to a migraine for the sake of beauty. “Don’t you feel there’s a lot of similarity between the Gibbler case and Alexa?”

Merriweather lowered an eyebrow skeptically at me. “Is your wife secretly a billionaire? Jesus, Knox, you could have bought me breakfast this morning. There’s this breakfast burrito at—”

“Mass disappearances that are apparently non-violent or traumatic. It’s like mass runaways, but they didn’t pack shit. Not these women and not Alexa.”

“What, you think there’s some mass hysteria of women walking out of their lives?”

I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to lecture Merriweather on the misogynist origins of the term ‘hysterics.’ “Maybe we were so obsessed with the money angle that we overlooked a potential common factor.”

“What’s that?” Merriweather scoffed. “These women didn’t even like the same movies.”

“But they were all women,” I said. “That’s something. We haven’t seen any spike in missing men.” I bit on my bottom lip. “Actually, why haven’t we seen a kind of mass panic about missing women?”

“What do you mean?”

“Alexa’s case has kind of snowballed. She went missing, but every woman she…” I looked away from him, out towards the massive window framing Lake Michigan. “Every woman she encountered went missing too. If that’s the case for women like Gibbler and Mayer, then maybe there are dozens of women missing.”

“Like a pyramid scheme?”

“Or a cult.”

“Bah,” Merriweather said. I looked back, and he was rubbing his balding head. “I mean, it would make sense for a cult to target the rich women for funding, but we aren’t seeing huge amounts of money leave their accounts.”

“But they keep spending,” I said, moving closer. “All over the world.”

“So now it’s a global organization?”

“I don’t know.” I paced away. There was something missing. None of this linked Alexa and the Gibbler case perfectly, but there was too much in common to be ignored. But that’s because cops were trained to ignore a huge web. That was the job of socialists and the FBI. They could figure out the role of one movie or one housing project on a burst of similar crimes. Our job was to handle one job at a time, and cases were almost never connected. Occam’s razor, right? The simplest solution is most often the right one. Chances are the Gibbler women were taken, and we knew for certain that Lex wasn’t kidnapped.

Or if she was, she was clearly enjoying herself.

I thought of the most recent video that I hadn’t sent off to the officers working the case. Maybe if they saw that, they wouldn’t think a cult was such a preposterous theory. Sex was a common tool and recruiting method for cults. I couldn’t imagine Lex doing that, but I also couldn’t think of what she had done in that video.

That wasn’t my Lex at all.

“Maybe they’re buying random shit with the money and selling it,” I said, trying to push away the sight of Lex and her—

“Back on our case then?” Merriweather said.

“Sure.”

“So you think they’re laundering the money the slow and hard way?”

I shrugged. “Just trying to find a pattern in all this nonsense.”

“Who would want to buy custom contacts?”

“What?”

Merriweather was walking away from me, going back to Elizabeth Mayer’s bedroom. He had a cooked theory that she must have a diary hidden somewhere that would crack this case wide open. What he couldn’t understand was that if she had a diary she cared enough about to hide, she probably took it with her. Her husband hadn’t seen her journaling, and her sisters didn’t say she was the type to keep a diary.

“The contacts,” Merriweather said as we walked through the long and bright hallways. Marble. More marble. Overpriced paintings. More marble.

“Like for eyes?”

“No for phone calls because we live in 1985.”

“Fuck you,” I said. “What contacts?”

“It’s the one weird thing we’ve found in common. Each of the missing women have been buying random shit all over the planet.”

“Or someone with their cards,” I said.

“Well, some of this shit needs a signature,” Merriweather said as we stepped into Elizabeth Mayer’s bedroom. It looked more sterile than a hotel room, and it shook me as it reminded me of the latest video Lex had sent. She was moving her way up in the world. She started with college girls and then moved onto young lawyers, one doctor, and the latest was… the latest was…

“But the weird thing,” Merriweather said while digging underneath Elizabeth Mayer’s mattress for probably the hundredth time, “was these costume contacts.”

“Custom contacts, you mean?”

Merriweather paused in his search. His face scrunched as a thought struggled to pass through his mind for the first time in a decade. “Costume,” he said slowly. Then he shrugged. “Though I guess they are custom costume contacts.”

“Like colored ones?”

“Yup.” Merriweather grunted as he lifted up the mattress. “Like when those weird anime kids want red eyes or whatever. Contacts that change the color.”

“And all the wealthy women are buying them up?”

“Yup.”

“Well that doesn’t make any damn sense.”

“Nope.” Merriweather sighed with disappointment and let the mattress collapse back into place. “And I can’t fathom they’re reselling them to launder money.”

I shrugged. “Maybe they have a fence? A dealer? A—”

Merriweather gave me the look, and I knew I was reaching.

“Fuck,” I sighed.

“Yeah. Fuck.” Merriweather walked past me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on. Two more houses to go.”

The rest of the day was entirely uneventful. The houses changed but the lack of clues remained the same. I had dozens of financial transcripts to go over to try and follow this money laundering angle, but for now I just wanted something to drink. Well not some thing.

All the things.

I started to pour myself a glass of whiskey but after staring at the bottle and the glass, I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and took the bottle back to the hotel’s bed. I sat on my laptop looking over all the things that had been ordered on these women’s cards in their name. Expensive handmade furniture, building supplies, shovels, dresses, a couple hundred goddamn chickens, crates of chalk, about three different herb gardens, some bizarre foods from abroad like cockroaches or lizard eyes, and custom eye contacts.

Custom fucking eye contacts.

Merriweather had contacted the companies making the eye contacts. Apparently these were originally invented for actors who needed to have black out eyes for demons and shit in movies. But they had been innovating into things like contacts that hid pink-eye or red eyes so an actor could be sick or stoned out of their mind and still look fine for a scene. These were contacts that could cover the whites of an eye, not just the pupil and iris. Merriweather was right, that would be a shit way to launder money. I couldn’t imagine there was a huge market for custom contacts, especially ones that went around the distributor and manufacturer themselves. I mean, who needs to hide the whites of their eyes?

Unless…

I took out my phone and pulled up the text thread between Lex and myself. At this point, it was just five videos with the same message each time: “Wish you were here! I love you more than almost anything in the whole world.” I don’t know which sentence fucked me up more. Saying she wished I was there meant she wasn’t cheating, breaking up with me, or running away. She wanted me to follow. She wanted me with her. Then why wouldn’t she let me find her? Why was she hiding so well? And the second sentence was the one that haunted my dreams. Almost anything in the world? That didn’t sound like my wife. I mean, sure, in some cold logical space she could say she loved her art more than me. I could accept that. But I doubted she would ever say that to my face. She certainly wouldn’t rub it in my face.

I went to the last video and hesitated before pressing play. Lex having sex with a bunch of women was one thing, but this…

On the thumbnail was Lex, the Arab woman, a pale skinned Brunette, and an older blonde woman. The older blonde woman—who the other people would call Milf as though it was her name—was the center of attention. Lex faced away from the camera almost the entire time, and the Arab woman was once again too tall to see clearly. She stood behind the older blonde, her hands on the woman’s shoulders.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I had to double check. I had to make sure. I took a long swig of whiskey and moved back on the bed before pressing play.

The video started with my wife and the brunette trailing kisses all over the blonde woman’s body. She was kneeling in the center of what looked like a totally normal living room. You could see pictures of her family on the mantle and some kid’s toy under the couch. She was a mother—a Milf—and my wife and her perverted friends had somehow gotten into her house to fuck her and record it.

And send it to me.

That alone—the setting and context—set off alarm bells for me. Sure, my wife didn’t deserve to be abducted or whatever, but she had been the huntress. She picked up the Arab woman with the intention to fuck her. Maybe a bit for the first blonde woman as well. She was a cam girl, and she was having sex on camera for strangers to watch. Did the Arab woman and Alexa break in and hijack her scene? Absolutely. Did she deserve it? Hell no. But it felt like the original women—the brunette was a madame at an underground brothel that serviced as many powerful clients for free as she could to blackmail them later—were all steeped in sexual escapades. For them to get lured into the Arab woman’s twisted game or some kinky sex cult felt less appalling than knowing that when these kids came home from school, their mother would be gone. And what about later, as they grew up? As these videos inevitably somehow get leaked onto the internet? Would they know their mother abandoned them to participate in wild lesbian orgies?

“Fuck, Lex,” I said as I watched her trailing kisses over and around the Milf’s breasts. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer, of course. She was too busy kissing. The brunette mirrored her, running her tongue along the underside of the Milf’s heavy breasts. They avoided the nipples, driving the Milf insane as they got closer and closer but never touched. They teased and they tasted, but they never gave her the complete satisfaction she was craving. The anticipation was clearly driving the Milf wild as she moaned and grinded against the floor. She would try to move from time to time, but each woman held one of her arms. And the Arab woman loomed in the background, commanding the scene. She kept her hands on the Milf’s shoulder, holding her in place, making sure she stayed and served at her pleasure.

“Fuck,” the Milf moaned. “Holy fucking shit.”

The women giggled as the pleasure made the Milf lose control.

“Fucking do it,” the Milf said. Her voice was building into a growl. “Fucking suck on my tits.” Her arms flexed as she tried to grab the woman kissing her and force them onto her tits, but she couldn’t move them. She was their plaything, and they weren’t done yet.

“You are not a woman accustomed to begging,” the Arab woman said. “But I ache to hear it from your lips.”

“Please,” the Milf said without hesitation. “Please suck on my tits.”

Lex and the brunette both stopped their kissing and looked up at the Arab woman, waiting for her approval. She must have silently nodded because then they went to work, sucking on her round and heavy breasts. She arched her back and tilted her head up, looking at the Arab woman as she pressed into her body. Her hips tried to gyrate, tried to find anything to press her aching pussy up against. She was a creature of pure pleasure, and she was driven to a kind of madness. Not the madness we think of, a kind of deranged bliss. She was in heaven, totally giving in to her desires.

But hell was coming for her.

The Arab woman bent down, leaning in to give the Milf a kiss. It was an upside down kiss—what Lex and I referred to a Spider-Man kiss. There was a moment—just half of a flash— where the angle was almost good enough to see the Arab woman’s face as she bent over. Her sunglasses were off, and her lips were just as dark as the day she took Lex, but her face was still obscured.

“Come on,” I whispered, “show me your eyes.”

They were dark, and it looked—though it had to be some trick of the light—as though smoke or steam rose from them. But it was hard to tell. Her long silky hair cascaded around her face, and the movement was so quick. She bent over from the hips, never looking directly at the camera.

I went to press pause to rewind it—but I hesitated. I watched the Arab woman and the Milf kiss. A long and heavy kiss. Not like lovers. Not even like pornstars. I don’t know what to call it. The Milf’s body spasmed as the Arab woman held her face in place. There were awful sounds like choking and moaning all at once. The first time I watched the video, this part took me out of the erotic trance these videos normally cast on me. There was something so viscerally wrong about this.

But this time…

This time I watched the Arab woman, not the Milf. Something was different about the Arab woman’s body posture when she kissed the Milf. Before, her body was rigid and commanding. But now she was something closer to liquid. Her movements were smooth and her skin almost shimmered in the light like the sun catching an oil slick. But as the kiss went on, her body posture relaxed further. It was like a burden was being taken off of her, as though she was pouring it onto the Milf, feeding it to her, or…

Choking her with it.

The Arab woman broke the kiss slowly, once again she didn’t look at the camera. She didn’t give me a good angle. In each video, she’d been so careful to hide her face. Those stupid sunglasses, and now these intentional movements kept them hidden. It must have meant something.

But I didn’t have time to think about it. As soon as the Arab woman was above the Milf, she spat on her face. The Milf gasped in surprise, and the other two women pulled away from her breasts. The brunette turned her face enough to show a predatory and eager grin. Lex didn’t show what she was thinking, but she stood along with the brunette until all three women loomed over the Milf.

“This is what you like, yes?” the Arab woman asked in her silky accent. The words sent shivers over my body. I had been so obsessed with watching Lex and the Milf, why hadn’t I watched the Arab woman before? She was incredible.

I wondered what I would do if she came after me. I wondered what role or fantasy she would fulfill. For each woman she took, she played their game. For Lex, she accepted the virginal straight girl game. For the blonde camgirl, she played to the chat and audience. For the brunette, she was powerful and domineering like some kinky and perverted Senator. And for the Milf she became the degrading dominatrix.

But what would she be for me?

“Fuck,” the Milf said. She didn’t wipe the spit from her face. “Yes.”

“Then beg, you cunt,” the Arab woman said. She spoke so simply, so matter of fact. It drove the heat from my body to my breasts, crotch, and cheeks. I found myself playing with the buttons of my shirt, toying with the idea of loosening them.

“Please,” the Milf said, not hesitating to give into the demand.

“Please what?” the Arab woman said.

“Please put me in my place.”

The brunette and Alexa giggled. The first time, I was horrified that she was both so compliant and so girlish. It was like she was getting dumber the more time she spent with her captor. The second time, I was horrified for the Milf. Her place? She’s in her home, surrounded by reminders of her family. How could this possibly be any more humiliating and degrading?

But this time, all I could see was the scene from the Arab woman’s eyes. Everything was under her control. Her pets would ask for everything they wanted, and they only wanted the thoughts she put into their minds. She was a goddess, making everyone think her will was their own idea. She custom-made the scene, and of course, it worked out. It played like it should. She was in charge, a queen among her subjects.

Fuck, it was hot.

I fumbled with my jeans while the degradation began. Spitting. The women took turns spitting on the blonde while she moaned in heat. She put her hands behind her, leaning all the way back and arching her body so they could spit on her tits, her vulva, every inch of her. She thrust her hips as they called her a Milf, a whore, a slut, and a nothing. It only drove her wilder. In the end, she begged to touch herself, but the Arab woman wouldn’t consent. She said only real women got to cum.

Then she sent the brunette and Alexa to the couch to fuck each other. It was further away and out of focus, but I could see hints of Lex’s face. She wore the same dark lipstick that the Arab woman favored, and it was permanently twisted into an easy and genuine smile as the brunette ate her out. She fingered the brunette, driving her scene mate wild. Meanwhile, the Arab woman loomed over the Milf, teasing her about how badly she wanted to cum and how she didn’t deserve it. The Arab woman kept her face out of the fame, but the Milf hid nothing. Her body and face were on display. I was able to identify her without going to the precinct, but I couldn’t report this. She may be missing, but then her husband or kids would see this video, and I couldn’t let that happen.

Not at first.

But as the scene went on—as Alexa drew closer and closer to orgasm from the brunette’s eager tongue and the Arab woman’s names for the Milf grew harsher and harsher—I cared less and less for the Milf. I don’t know why. Maybe it was seeing the scene through the Arab woman’s eyes. The Milf had created her own world. She wanted this—no, needed this. The Arab woman was in the business of granting fantasies. Want to make art, Lex? Come with her and make art no one will ever forget. Want to get viewers, camgirl? Her page was getting crazy traffic with each video they added. Want to be with power, brunette? Who was more powerful than the Arab woman? Want to be nothing, Milf? You don’t even have a name anymore, and you’ll beg strangers to spit on you while all you want to do is finger yourself.

I couldn’t understand the brunette or the Milf. Hell, I didn’t understand why Lex was doing this either. But I did understand the Arab woman. The part of me that wanted to control an investigation, that knew I could do better on my own than with a partner, that hated being held back and underestimated. I could see it in the Arab woman and in myself.

And it made me want to cum more than anything.

It should have made me feel ashamed, but as the Arab women hurled insults and spit at the Milf, it only drove me wild. I was surprised by how soaked I already was, and my fingers moved quickly to catch up with the scene. I wanted to be on the brink like the Milf and my wife. I wanted to cum when they did. I wanted to—

As soon as the blonde was allowed to touch herself, Lex moaned and I lost control. The orgasm ripped through me, almost tearing me apart with pleasure. It was so close to pain because it was so wrong. But it was good because well…

Because I wanted it.

I laid back on the hotel bed, letting the video play as aftershocks of the orgasm rippled through me. My chest heaved, but I felt good. Better than I’d felt in years, honestly. Better than any drink had ever made me feel. Better even than watching my wife seduce other women for my pleasure.

I sat there in the dark as the video played again. I listened to it, and my body stirred, wanting to watch again, wanting to cum again. I was tired—so fucking tired—but I couldn’t ignore the aching of my body.

I grabbed the phone and looked at the screen. It was at the part again where Lex was about to cum. She tilted her head back, looking as close to directly into the camera as she did during the entire video. She moaned, and then…

Then I saw it.

Her eyes.

Lex always had amber eyes, a rich yellow that flirted with brown. But these were darker. Not black, but a darker brown that was edging into black. It could have been a trick of the light, but as I watched, it reminded me of…

Her eyes looked like the Arab woman’s eyes.

I went to rewind the video and watch it again, to try and see what was going on. Was this it? Sure, Lex could wear matching lipstick with her lover, but her eyes changing had to be something … I don’t know. How was it possible? She could do it with contacts. With custom contacts that—

There was a knock at the hotel door.

It jolted me out of my focus. The haze of lust was gone in an instant, and I was scrambling out of bed to get my pants on and get to the door. The knocking continued. “Coming!” I shouted, as I stumbled around the dark hotel room. The knocking didn’t stop as I searched for a lightswitch. “Jesus, I’m fucking coming,” I shouted.

But the knocking got louder.

I ripped open the door. “What the fuck do you—”

Standing before me in an oversized cardigan and flannel top with long light brown hair in waves was a beautiful Asian woman I would recognize anywhere. Some things were wrong. Her eyes were back to the bright amber, and her lips weren’t dark. The hair was wrong, but she looked like she did on our wedding day.

“Lex?”