The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I did,” she told them. “It ended badly.”

Alexa sipped her drink. The wonderful warmth of it was irresistible.

It ended badly because it always would. There was something that always called Alexa to the forbidden fruit, the clandestine thrill of the hotel room encounter, the ‘working late’ phone call; the wild surmise of the wrong scenario that always ended in the hottest sex imaginable, always replaying the same scenes, the same drama with a different cast, and always, inevitably, the same ending.

She told the Malatestas about Nick, and her cheeks burned with shame as she spoke. That last affair had ended so badly. Nick and Alexa had been caught, in flagrante; on her back, in their bedroom, she could only watch as the door swung agonisingly open, and his wife walked in. Alexa’d never even asked Nick her name. Their eyes met; hers horrified, Alexa’s humiliated, and who knew which was worse?

“It’s always the men, isn’t it?” she said, and Francesca shrugged, her expression neutral.

The mantra. She believed it with a fierce conviction: it was always the men. Surely Francesca must see that? Why did they never see that, the other women? Could they not see that Alexandra Korrigan herself was adrift, a free and impulsive spirit, seeking but never finding?

His wife had screamed, shouted, hit her; did everything expected, until Alexa finally slipped away. She knew she’d never see him again, and she never did. She’d cried herself to sleep.

“Oh, how sad,” said Francesca. “And how difficult for you. So heartbreaking, true love, when the one is promised to another.” She glanced at Paulo. “Was it worth it? Did you truly love him?”

“Yes,” Alexa replied, brutally honest. “I always love them. I know it’s wrong,” she admitted. “But love is love, and sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

“A leaf in the wind,” said Francesca, sadly, “light and helpless. Blown this way and that by desire.”

Why was she telling them this? Alexa sipped her drink; the glass was empty. Paulo saw, and instantly refilled it. Their eyes met for a second. Alexa felt slightly drunk, pleasantly fuzzy. She felt her inhibitions leaving her.

“At least I’m true to myself,” she concluded. “True to my desires. And who knows? Maybe I’ll someday find the one.” She laughed, a sudden access of muddled joy and regret and longing. “We live in hope, don’t we?”

Francesca looked at Alexa, and then at Paulo, her lips pursed, and raised one eyebrow. Then she smiled. “Well then. If that’s the way it is, who are we to judge?”

There was an odd look in Paulo’s eyes, something hungry, almost feral.

Alexa swayed in her seat, suddenly dizzy; her vision was blurring. One drink too many, perhaps. Francesca and Paulo watched her with dark eyes, still as statues.

Francesca stood then, and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Her breasts were full, the nipples dark. She slipped out of her skirt. Her underwear was black and sheer. Paolo stood too; he undressed with quick precision. Alexa saw he was already aroused. Butterflies churned in her stomach, and then the hot breeze of anticipation, the sudden hurricane of arousal. Her breath caught at the thought of it.

As if in a dream, Alexa stood, stripping off her t-shirt and jeans, naked now. Francesca came to her first, kissing her; gently at first, and then with a fierce passion. Then Paolo was behind her, his strong hands on Alexa’s breasts. She gasped at the touch, and then gasped harder as Francesca reached down, stroking her, the woman’s hand slick against her heat. She turned to Paolo, bending to him in supplication as Francesca continued to stroke her in an escalating rhythm.

“You don’t have to worry about saying ‘no’, here,” said Francesca, her fingers working on Alexa in an insistent magical rhythm.

Alexa didn’t answer, because Paolo was in her mouth now, questing and urgent.

Francesca lay down on the floor, watching, legs apart. “Don’t make me wait too long,” she murmured.

Paolo urged Alexa down, then, onto her hands and knees, her face between Francesca’s legs, and Alexa began to lick. Francesca clutched her head in delight, urging her on. And then Paolo was inside her, thrusting into her with a smooth authority that made Alexa gasp, and then moan, and then scream as she came, quivering in the sudden rush of joy.

She stayed down on her hands and knees for a long time, panting in the afterglow. Time seemed strange. She couldn’t seem to get up; her limbs felt wobbly, and she felt woozy and dissociated. It was the drink she thought, and the pills, and the tiredness, and the excitement, and the strangely erotic, unexpected sex. She shivered at the memory of Francesca’s wildcat climax, and the muscle memory of her own, clenching and spasming uncontrollably around Paolo.

He stood, patting her on the bottom like a pet.

“We should go to the tesseract, now,” he said. Francesca nodded.

On all fours, she thought she said ‘now’s not the time for a tour’, but it came out as more of a slur. Alexa sighed and shook her head. No, show me your extension, your tesseract, whatever that is, another time; I’m going downstairs now, I’ve had too much to drink, too much sex, too much of everything, I’m not feeling myself.

But they were gently insistent; Paulo grabbed one hand, Francesca the other, and together they pulled her from the floor as if she weighed nothing. Upright again, she swayed slightly. There was a strange roaring sound in her ears. She wanted to object, she wanted to sleep, now, but the Malatestas tugged at her hands, irresistible, and through the hallway they went. Alexa stumbled in their wake, her feet barely touching the floor, and then they were moving through the apartment as if in a dream.

Yes, a dream. She must be asleep still. The distant realisation comforted her. Of course. It all made sense, now. She must still be in her bed, sleeping, lucid-dreaming about noise, and nightmares, and non-existent neighbours; lost lovers, mysterious drinks, surreal and illogical sex; the incomprehensible geometries of impossible apartments.

And in the logic of dreams, she couldn’t seem to argue or say no. They led her through one door, and another door, and then another. Then down a long, long corridor, as if negotiating a telescope from the wrong end; and after an interminable walk that took only seconds, another final red door, incongruously large and ornate. The door opened into the largest room she’d yet seen, huge and dimly red-lit from some invisible light source, the far end wall invisible in the distance.

How big was this place? She couldn’t seem to navigate it in her head any more. And somehow Francesca and Paolo were fully dressed again, while she herself was still naked. Truly, obviously, a dream. She willed herself to wake up.

In the dream, she looked around woozily as her eyes adjusted. She could hear noises here; inarticulate moans, murmurs, a wordless indeterminate chorus of low sound, relentless, like a warm strong approaching wind. There was a sound of air rushing through trees.

Alexa’s tongue felt thick in her mouth, and her head was starting to swim. The huge room felt incongruously hot. She swayed, staggered in the dream-wind, buffeted, although no air moved. “Mwaah ih ah?”

“What did you say, Alexandra Korrigan?” said Francesca. She could barely hear above the sound of rushing wind. She saw Francesca was smiling at her, differently now. “Were you trying to say something? Something important, maybe? Something meaningful, with words?”

In the dream, Alexa instinctively turned, bolting in panic for the door they’d come in through, but the wall was suddenly far off in the hazy distance, miles away, and there was no door to be seen. She stopped, bewildered. She screamed at herself in her head: wake up, Alexa!

The wind blew away her words. The sound of wind, she realised, was in her head, a constant roaring noise, rising and falling. She opened her mouth to say something else, but nothing came out, just an inarticulate windswept moan that blended with the ambient murmuring.

“Words don’t mean anything, here, Alexa. Words blow away in the wind.” Francesca wagged a finger, schoolmarmishly. “You don’t need words, here.”

In the dream, Alexa mewled something in response, something lost in the wind. She felt distractedly frightened, lost, but all with the dislocating certainty that none of this felt real, none of it could possibly be real, and therefore what was there to be afraid of, really?

Through the gloom, Alexa saw that every wall of the huge room was lined with cages, and as her vision snapped into focus she saw that in the cages there were shadowy forms, moving indistinctly.

She was suddenly terrified.