The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Gather round, readers and writers of erotic literature. Gather round your greenly luminescent monitors and read the chilling tale of horror and woe. Like all stories told by campfires on lonely nights, this tale is a lesson, a guide for right and wrong action and the doom that comes to those who choose the latter.

Our story begins on a dark and stormy morning. A lone male voice is heard:

“Sweetheart? Where’re my black socks at?”

There’s no response. The speaker, having called from the bedroom at the far end of the dark and shadowy hall on the second floor, moves to the door of his bedroom and calls again.

“Marge, where’re my black socks?”

Still no response. The man rolls his eyes and pads, sockless, down the decrepit hall to the top of the stairs and tries one last time to summon this Sweetheart of his.

“Marge?”

“What?”

“Marge, where’re my black socks at?”

“Dunno. Did you look in your sock drawer?”

“Yeah. They weren’t there. Didn’t you do laundry yesterday?”

“No. Ran out of time.”

They yell back and forth for a bit, the man still at the top of the stairs and the woman, his wife, sitting at her desk, bathed in the light of her computer screen. Let’s go there now and take a look at what she’s doing.

Ah, she’s reading porn, a mind-control-theme snippet of erotica. This might explain her half-attention to the conversation. One arm rests on the chair arm, index finger hovering over the down-arrow button of her keyboard. One hand loosely cups the center seam of her jeans and the flesh contained therein. Her hair, dark, lank, unbrushed, falls down her back from a loosely-done rubber band. Her face, unwashed and oily, looks slack and blank. Her unshod feet wrestle with each other, using friction to warm themselves up and let off a bit of the tension in her body, which is voluptuous yet somehow repellent. Her large breasts heave with every breath she takes as her brown eyes race across the screen and flick back again. Her hips wriggle almost imperceptibly. She is horny. We can tell. We know exactly how she feels. She has our sympathy.

“Honey? Where’re my black shoes at?”

Her reading-time is being interrupted once again by her love and soul-mate, Harry. Once again he is standing at the head of the stairs, realizing now that he won’t get an answer from her if he calls from the bedroom. The dark hall behind him looms mysteriously, but that’s another tale. He waits patiently, wearing naught but his dirty black socks, which he retrieved from the clothes hamper, and a pair of dark slacks of indeterminate hue. He likes to go commando, even to work at his office. He has excellent control of his penis and never gets an unwanted woody.

Harry is tall, lithe, lean, languid, and utterly inept in the morning. It is the combination of his ineptness and her desire to read erotica online before the sun rises that supplies us with our story of pain and woe.

Now even the stairs are a bad place from which to elicit a response from Marge. Harry creeps down to the bottom of the stairs and walks toward his wife’s office.

“Marge?” He says, rather annoyed with his ineptness and her unresponsiveness. The light from her office is a blurry green, almost an ichor-like substance the washes the walls and the ugly white carpet on the ground-floor hall, which is not nearly as scary and unrelentingly distracting as the second-floor hall. Harry pokes his head into the doorway.

“Marge?”

Marge doesn’t even turn her head.

“Harry, can’t you see I’m reading?”

“Why can’t you read after I leave? You know I need help in the morning. Maybe it’s the evil hallway upstairs. Something up there hides things from me. I can’t find my black shoes.”

“Did you look in the kitchen by the back door?”

“No.”

“Try there, Harry.”

Harry, relatively miffed at being dismissed so unceremoniously, pads back down the hallway, through the kitchen at the other end, and to the rear door. There, on a mud mat, lie his black shoes. He’s still annoyed but can’t, at the moment, think of another thing he needs help finding. He winds his way back upstairs, speeding up his walk as he goes down the inexplicably eerie second-floor hall, and finishes dressing for the day.

Finally Marge finishes reading her story. And, literally, it was her story. She writes erotica and posts them at whatever website fits best: “16 and Lonely Archive,” “My Boyfriend the Horse Archive,” “Mommy Made Me Do It Archive,” so many others and, of course, our favorite, “Mind Control Stories.” When she doesn’t write she keeps house for her husband and herself and does a few freelance articles here and there – commercially-acceptable erotica for Maxim and Penthouse and Playboy and a dozen, far less mainstream publications. She thinks about sex a lot.

She sighs. She’s angry with herself for not catching a few typing and grammatical errors before e-mailing the story to Simon bar Sinister. Not that that matters much to anyone else. But she’s a perfectionist. At least with the things she cares about. She does not care about laundry.

“Honey, come have some breakfast.”

Marge rolls her office chair back and rises. Her darling husband has made her breakfast and she can smell the bacon starting to burn. She loves him more than anything but hasn’t yet accepted that Harry’s almost compulsive ineptness will never change. She momentarily wonders if she could hypnotize him to make him more graceful and capable in the early hours.

“Oh Harry, this looks delicious,” she says, gently lifting the pan of bacon off the oven. The kitchen table is stocked with coffee (weak), milk (skim), orange juice (with droplets scattered over the linen), butter (mercifully unmolested), bagels (charred), scrambled eggs (runny), and jam (with tiny toast crumbs from previous use). Marge sweeps the bacon (mysteriously overdone yet not at all crispy) onto a plate and sets it on the table with the rest of the feast.

They sit and eat and eye each other over the table.

“I wish you wouldn’t read those stories when I’m here. I mean, I know it’s your job and hobby but I don’t like how it takes time away from us being together.”

“Well darling, that’s why I read in the morning. It’s not as though you and I are just hanging out. You’re getting ready for work and so am I.”

“It would be nice if you at least gave me some attention when I talk to you.”

“Calling to me from the head of the stairs to ask about your socks is not the sort of ‘talking to me’ that I need to give all my attention to, is it? Besides, you don’t really need me in the morning.”

Harry raises a shod foot to Marge’s jean-clad crotch and rubs gently. Mmmm, readers, wouldn’t that be a nice sensation in the morning?

“You’ll never fully understand how much I need you. And in what ways,” he smiles disarmingly and she melts, as she always does, at his touch. He glances at the clock.

“We’ve got time. You should put that bagel down and come sit on my lap.”

Marge smiles back at him and, despite her unwashedness and general need for a shower, looks quite fetching as she slowly saunters ‘round the table to sit sideways on her husband’s lap.

“You mean sit right here?” she asks coyly as she settles her comfortably-sized buttocks onto his thighs.

“Yes, just like that.” Harry puts his arms around her and hugs her close, then moves a hand up her left breast, the one farthest from him. She coos as he rolls and pinches her nipple through her thin cotton pajama top. He runs his hand down her belly to her crotch and she obligingly spreads her thighs apart. He taps his fingers along her jeans and she makes the sort of noises all women make when they’re encouraging their lovers. She squirms slightly, hoping to feel his penis hot and rigid against her thigh. But, as we know, he has quite a bit of control and hasn’t let himself get hard yet.

Marge sighs and clasps her hands round the back of Harry’s neck.

“Darling, maybe we should… go upstairs and into a more comfortable position,” she suggests, licking his earlobe for encouragement.

He shakes his head and pushes at her gently.

“You should stand up, Marge, and I’ll show you what my plans are.”

At this point the sleepiness and general lethargy of the morning are starting to wear off of Harry and we can see him for the decisive business-man he is. His straw-blond hair, a little mussed, and his bright blue eyes, twinkling with mischief, make Marge feel more like a woman and less like a writer. Her pussy starts to ache for him as she stands. Harry puts his hands on her hips to turn her ‘til she’s facing away from him, then pulls at her and makes her step back between his parted legs.

He reaches around and undoes the buttons of her jeans. She’s always preferred button-fly to zippers and even Harry is forbidden to buy the latter type. He reaches a hand inside her jeans and finds that, she, too, has gone commando today. Though, really, she hasn’t gotten ready for the day yet. Sometimes he comes home to find her unchanged from the morning, sometimes to find her dressed to kill in her leather and lace, and sometimes, when she’s been gardening, he sees the fresh, outdoorsy side of her that he loved when they went hiking more often.

Harry shakes these unbidden thoughts from his head as he pulls her jeans down to her knees.

“Bend over,” he whispers huskily, and she does as he asks with a small thrill of excitement, placing her hands on the table. But her “record” button is on. All of this will end up in a story. Probably, the way it’s going so far, it will be a piece for Hustler.

Marge feels his warm hands slide up the inside of her thighs toward her crotch. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine what she must look like to him. But we know. We can see the full moon of her ass, creased in the center. It’s a creamy, milky white, without blemish, smooth and warm and somehow fascinating to Harry. He can smell her unwashed pussy and it really turns him on. His fingers caress her outer lips and play, briefly but repeatedly, with her clit as he rests his face against her bottom. He turns his head, smashing his nose against her, and nibbles at the small of her back. Finally he stands up and lets himself get hard. With one hand on her back, gently holding her down, and one hand freeing his cock from his trousers (which are allowed to be zippered because they aren’t jeans) he whispers these tender words, “I’m going to fuck you.”

Her pussy, already bothered by the stories she’s read this morning, and now even hotter due to her husband’s fondling, starts to get wet in earnest anticipation. She feels the head of his cock bumping against her delicate skin, rubbing their wetness together and all over her pussy. Harry pushes his member gently against her clit two, three, four times before pulling back slightly to enter her. He reaches his fingers around her waist and down to fondle her, to feel his cock as it slides in and out, to cover more and more of her crotch with their lubricant.

Marge holds on tightly to the kitchen table and opens her eyes briefly to see the condiments and liquids slosh gently in time with Harry’s rhythm. It feels good, as we know it should, and the thought that a few months from now someone will read the airbrushed version sends her over the edge and into that timeless nanosecond of orgasm. She thinks there must be more than three dimensions in the universe because she swears that the orgasm rolled over her in waves for hours while in the more scientifically acceptable world it was a mere moment or two, not even a blip in human history. She has these aeon-long non-blips twice more before Harry comes, his hot seed flowing into her as he groans aloud.

What a nice way to start the day, Harry thinks. And we nod and agree and smile saying, “Yes, isn’t it nice. But where’s the horror, pain, and woe we were promised?”

Well, dear readers, life goes on more or less like this for our two protagonists. Harry just as inept in the morning, Marge just as unsympathetic. But there is a change in their relationship and it starts with Harry deciding, just this once, to read some of Marge’s home-grown erotica available to the of-age public at the MC Stories website.

He’s stunned to see dozens upon dozens of entries under her pseudonym. He takes a deep breath and starts with the one at the top of the list: “A Honey for Taste.” Four hours later he’s only halfway through Marge’s story list and more than ready to stop. He sees her in each story and, more importantly, he sees himself. Only not himself. The proper name would be Harry the Hypnotized Love Slave. Even though Marge has been kind enough to use a different name for the poor, hapless victim in each story, Harry is sure they’re him. Or he’s them. Or something equally as confusing and disturbing.

Lo these many years of their courtship and marriage Marge has treated him as an equal in all things. Lo these many years of sex they have tried so many positions, so many scenarios. Lo these many years of monogamous dedication to each other’s pleasure they have groaned, giggled, screamed in their passion and now he sees his past only through the filter of a profound sense of betrayal! Could it be that Marge sees him as little more than a faceless clown upon who’s visage she is free to draw a different character every week? How could she debase their relationship into a few quick grunts and liter upon liter of cum?

Harry, needless to say, is mad. And we sympathize. Poor man, human that he is, is gripped with insecurities and cannot vocalize them to his mate. He fears being betrayed yet again if he should try to speak with Marge, this time with a dismissive roll of the eyes and a command (a command!) to “get a grip, they’re only stories.”

Had he brought it up in conversation things may have ended better and so, dear readers, we come to the third thing that helps the couple down their road to ruin. Or not, depending on which protagonist you’re rooting for. But, rather than simply discussing things with his wife, Harry starts to plot and scheme and rack his brain to think of a fitting revenge. It takes mere moments to decide and then months to act out. Months which we can safely compress into a few sentences, like so:

Harry searches high and low for any literature regarding hypnosis and related subjects and reads it all voraciously. Harry takes a series of magician classes that end with a few rounds of practicing hypnosis. Harry starts to take one evening a week, the Wednesday evenings that his magic classes used to require, to visit bars and practice hypnosis on random, buxom women. Harry gets very, very good at it. Harry’s tempted by some particularly buxom ladies to abandon his quest altogether and just start a new life in Antigua with his own harem but his love for his wife and his single-minded determination to show her who’s boss keeps him on the straight and narrow.

Finally, once nearly a year has passed, Harry is ready and Marge won’t know what hit her. We see their morning routine begin much as it did when we first started reading about them:

“Sweetheart, where’re my green socks at?”

The silence of the house at 5 AM is nearly oppressive. Harry wanders down the creepy hallway (which has only become creepier as the year’s gone by) on the second floor and stops at the head of the stairs. His penis is hard. He’s too excited by what he’s about to do to be able to control the flow of blood.

“Honey?”

“What?”

“Do you know where my green socks are at?”

“Did you look in your sock drawer?”

“Yeah, and they’re not there.”

“Did you look in the clothes hamper?”

“Yeah, and they’re not there, either.”

“Did you look in the laundry room?”

“No.”

He treads carefully down the stairs, pretending to be bleary-eyes and half-asleep but his mind is fully awake. He knows damn well where his green socks are. Without bothering to look in the laundry room he saunters—yes, saunters, the confident husband—down the first-floor hall to where his wife, once again, is reading erotic stories over the internet. She is so intent on the story and the feel of a lazy finger circling her clitoris that she doesn’t even notice his entrance nor the shadow of his hand and arm as they lift something towards her. It’s a rag with a few drops of chloroform He wraps it around her nose, hugging the back of her head against his belly as she struggles. Her eyes widen and she sees their reflection in her monitor. She knows it’s her husband and maybe the rag isn’t a rag after all. It’s a green sock. She thinks, “Hey, he found his socks,” before passing out. Had she stayed awake a bit longer she might have noticed how nicely they matched the MC Story wallpaper.

Harry doesn’t notice, either, since he’s busy tying up his wife with ropes. He had left her in her chair since he wanted her in a sitting position when she woke up. He simply ties each wrist and elbow crook to its corresponding bit of chair and her crossed ankles to the stem, just about where the splayed, rollered feet gather in. Once he has her secured he turns off the computer and phones his office to let them know he won’t be in today. Nor tomorrow. In fact, his flu looks like it’s worse than the 24-hour kind and he’ll have to call in again in a few days to give them an update.

Upon replacing the receiver he turns and leans against the desk, arms crossed, observing his beautiful, unkempt wife. He reviews his plans for her while waiting for her to awaken, but we won’t review them with him since we shall see for ourselves just how far he’ll take things.

Marge begins to stir, nostrils flaring, eyelids fluttering, fingers trembling as she tries to move her hands. The realization that she can’t is what brings her into full awareness and her head snaps up, her eyes open wide, to reveal her husband, smirk and hard-on and all.

“Harry –“ she begins, but her mouth is slow, the word slurred, and Harry interrupts her.

“Shhh, darling, just be quiet a moment. Let the chloroform wear off. Meanwhile, why don’t you look at this pretty bauble I bought for you.” He holds up a golden, gleaming amulet and she can’t quite make out its form. It is pretty, though, the way it glimmers and sparkles in the soft ambient light. She thinks that this is an odd way to give a gift but, since he rarely buys her any jewelry, she’ll play along. She feels her mind hit the “record” button, sure that this will lead to something she can turn into a story. Chloroform, bondage, gold amulets, all the little things that make up a good hypnosis story. She’s too muzzy for that thought to trip any alarms in her head, but we know, gentle readers, what kind of story this is.

“Marge, sweetheart, just let your eyes rest on the charm. I know you’re tired and it’s okay to just listen to my voice and watch the charm. There you go. Watch the pretty bauble as it swings gently, back and forth, back and forth. Your eyes look so sleepy, darling, but you must keep them open, show me how much you admire your present. Keep your eyes on the present, Marge, and listen to my voice. You’re being lulled to sleep, my darling, a sweet sleep in which you are still awake, able to listen to me and watch the charm. Just listen… listen… listen to your husband who loves you very much…”

Harry speaks softly, his vocal inflections soothing, smoothing out her wrinkled brow and lulling his befuddled wife into deeper and deeper hypnosis. Even as the chloroform wears off she is unable to shake herself awake. A small thrill of excitement runs from her belly button to her crotch as she realizes what’s happening but the voice, her husband’s voice, keeps her under control.

“Marge, you are so relaxed that it’s hard to talk, but you can talk every time I ask you a question. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she mumbles.

“Are you comfortable?”

“No… ankles hurt.” It sounds like it’s difficult for Marge to get the words out. She uses her breath to push them into the air. Harry is elated. She’s under, responding to him, and soon she would be the perfect wife. He unties her ankles and her feet thump to the floor.

“Does that feel better, Marge?”

“Yes.”

“What do you say when someone helps you?”

“Thank you.”

“Good girl, Marge. You will always thank me when I help you. And you will always thank me when you help me, okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles. It makes perfect sense to her and, if we were under, it would have made perfect sense to us, as well.

“Marge, did you use me as the base for your enslaved male characters in your stories?”

“Sometimes.”

This is enough justification for him and he resolves to continue with his plan.

“Do you want to hypnotize me and turn me into your love slave?”

“Sometimes.”

Harry is aghast. His sense of betrayal is aroused anew and he nearly hits her. But he’s not that kind of man.

“Right now will you accept everything I say as the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Will you continue to think it’s the truth even after I bring you out of hypnosis?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, sweetheart, here is the truth from your husband’s mouth: you no longer write erotic stories. In fact, the idea of writing erotic stories completely turns you off. Yet you continue to fantasize, in your head, and all these fantasies are of serving and pleasing me. When I come home in the evening you are washed, dressed and ready to serve me a drink, a dinner, and a fantastic time in bed. You especially love to follow me like a puppy dog in the morning, helping me dress, finding anything I need, attending to my every whim until I leave for work. Isn’t that the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Repeat it back to me.”

“I don’t write erotic stories anymore but I fantasize about serving and pleasing you. I act out those fantasies when you come home from work. I follow you like a puppy in the morning and help you get ready for work.”

“Very succinct, my darling, delectable wife.”

He pauses to untie her arms and then steps away from the computer so that the dark, blank monitor is in her view.

“you are in a deep, deep trance, one in which my words are not only truth but my commands are obeyed instantly, without hesitation. Every time you obey me you feel happy and a thrill goes down your spine. Turn on your computer.”

Marge turns on her computer. Obeying her husband sends a thrill down her spine and she’s happy as she depresses the button. She sits back in her chair, unsure of what to do now. They wait while the computer boots up and soon there’s the gray expanse of her wallpaper.

“Log on and go to the MC website.”

Her whole body tingles as she logs on and goes to the website. The familiar green background welcomes her like an old friend.

“Look carefully at this, because it’s the last time you’ll ever see it. You hate this website and all the other ones you used to post your stories at. you can’t stand to look at it.”

Instantly Marge is filled with revulsion. She closes her eyes and feels a little better, but the green glow seeps past her eyelids and she squeals and runs from the room in a desperate attempt to escape the light. And here, dear readers, is the terror and woe, the horror, the horror. For in that brief moment, which was even less of a blip than the time span of an orgasm, the world lost one of its best erotic writers. There was a disturbance in the force. Several young men, wanking off to her exquisitely crafted sentences of wanton debauchery, went soft and cried like babies. Poor Marge, poor us! Lucky bastard, Harry.

He takes the time to turn the computer off again. In her terror Marge has partially come out of hypnosis but her eyes soften when she turns to face her husband in the ugly yet not at all creepy hall on the first floor.

“Harry?” She asks in a half-whisper, “What have you done to me?”

“Shhhh, sweetheart, just listen to my voice and relax. You are still under hypnosis and you are listening to my words like they are the words of God. I am your god now, your Master, your husband. I am at the center of your being. You live for me, you die for me, my every whim is a command. Kneel.”

Marge kneels without hesitation on the white, stained, synthetic carpet, her eyes still gazing into Harry’s, head upturned and arms limps at her sides. She feels happy to have obeyed but still vaguely disquieted. She wants to speak but, having sunk back into her trance, finds she won’t be able to until her husband asks her a question. So instead she just looks up, mouth slightly agape, waiting for her Master to induce her to action.

“When I say ‘now’ you will repeat after me. When you say the words they will be buried into you so deep no amount of self-help or hypnosis will get them out of you. Now: I am Marge, Harry’s wife.”

“I am Marge, Harry’s wife.”

“I serve Harry day and night.”

“I serve Harry day and night.”

“I love Harry and only Harry and when we are alone together I call him Master.”

No need, dear reader, to review everything he tells her, everything she repeats back and everything that is carved into her soul. For we can imagine.

Let us look, instead, to a time, a few weeks later, when both Master and slave have adjusted, for the most part, to the new domestic arrangement. It is, as it has been, early morning. Dark, languid, with a gentle rain outside and nothing sinister within save that horrid hall on the second floor. Marge wakes up, without an alarm clock, and heads to the bathroom. She showers, scrubs, cleans, exfoliates, shaves, trims. She towels off, smoothes her skin with lotion, styles her hair, trims her nails, puts on the barest amount of makeup, then heads back to the bedroom. There she picks out Harry’s outfit for the day, locates the right color socks and shoes, humming happily to herself as she always does when doing something for her husband.

She is completely naked and we can see that she’s different somehow. Still fleshy in a sexy way, but no longer with that extra something that would turn us off. She is pink from her shower, trembling with energy, and we realize that she is infinitely more fuckable than in previous descriptions. We want to throw her to the bed and rip into her like a Christmas present, which is often what Harry does.

Finally it’s time for Harry to get up. She gently pulls back the covers from her beloved Master and straddles his hips with her thighs. Harry lazily opens his eyes. His morning torpor still controls him but now he is more relaxed about it. He has turned over the morning to his slave who is infinitely more capable at that time of day.

“Good morning, Marge,” he says, breaking into a big yawn.

“Good morning, Master! Thank you for letting me serve you today!” she chirps merrily. She still can’t speak until spoken to but somehow this fact escapes her attention.

Harry smiles up at her, happier than he’s ever been, because not only has the hypnosis been a complete success but he is also now the beneficiary of her over-active imagination. All the stories she would have written now end up being virtuoso performances for her Master. One, which would have been titled “A Brine for Swallow,” turned into a one-woman act which began after dinner the night before. Harry had retired to the living room for some television but promptly turned it off when Marge entered wearing naught but a pair of dark blue heels.

“What have you thought up this evening?” he asked.

“A new fantasy for you, Master. Would you like to see it?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, and settled back into the couch to watch.

It was a dance. First she was a bird, fluttering. Then she was an ocean, heaving. Then she was a woman, with a bird and an ocean inside her. She fell to her knees, thighs open wide, exposing herself to her husband. Her fingers fluttered like birds to her cunt, which leaked the primal ocean to the floor of their living room. Her cries when she came were pure birdsong and he swore he could see the crashing of waves in her pumping hips. He was hard and unable to control it. Before her performance was over he set upon her, driving his cock in and out of her so fast that you might have thought it was a special effect straight out of a movie. When he came they both saw stars.

This morning Harry sees the marks he left on her collar bone, where he dug his teeth into her flesh. The sight arouses him again. He has lost control of his penis since he hypnotized her and it seems a small but important sacrifice to him Marge coos wordlessly at him as she starts to circle her hips, pushing her crotch against his, focused entirely on his pleasure. Harry puts his hands to her hips and lifts her up slightly, freeing his cock to angle up towards her. He slowly lowers her hips again and it feels so damn good when he’s in her.

He lets go of her hips and lets her gyrate again. Her eyes are closed and she is focused on him, on him inside her, on him inside her mind. There is no part of her that mourns her past life. But we mourn even as we fondle ourselves in time to her gyrating rhythm. No more erotica from Marge. One more woman posting her husband but not her stories.

This is my tale of woe, gentle readers, and of course I should end with a note of caution. But the tale fills me with such horror, such fright and trembling that I dare not even whisper the name of my fear, much less type it out with my own fingers. There is that nameless pit within all of us and in that pit of hell lies the serpent we wish would ever slumber and never wake. But it does. It woke in Harry by the very silence we employ to keep it asleep. Had Marge ever helped her husband find his socks in the morning we may still have had our author in our ranks. Had Harry ever voiced his concerns we may still be able to read her high-brow erotica for free unless we felt the urge to make a donation. But it is the way of this evil serpent to crush us, to strangle us, and render us so disoriented that very air we gasp for seems a poison.

Walk carefully, dear readers, tread lightly, dear writers, and let us remain free from that unnamed evil that would keep us from our labors of love and lust.