The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The parasite was hungry, and so was I.

I walked alongside the highway’s ditch, an uncultivated field to my right. It had rained earlier that night, and my shoes squeaked as they flattened weeds in their path. It was better than going barefoot, though. Even the best hunter has to allow for setbacks, and I was past my prime.

A gas station drew near, but on the other side of the road. I slowed my pace, honing in on it while I waited for a chance to cross. Cars shot past me in the darkness, the prey inside not worth my effort. I only target the weak.

At the station, a young brunette was filling her magenta, economy-sized car with gasoline. She was staring at the pump with a look of dismay. Her behavior did not present a clear threat, though, and I saw no one else in the car. The only other vehicle was a truck, which I assumed belonged to the clerk.

The woman’s figure was more than satisfactory, and my cock stiffened in anticipation. The hunger can be distracting, but a good hunter knows the importance of patience. I maintained my composure and crossed the highway in slow, even steps, pretending not to watch her.

Closer inspection only whetted my appetite. She was just shy of beautiful, although I would have settled for plain and without disfigurement. Her skin was soft and unblemished, her long hair neatly combed. Large breasts tantalized me under her long-sleeved, pink shirt, and she wore tight designer jeans that complemented her body. I had not seen, let alone touched, an ass like hers in months.

My body cried out for her, and the parasite grew restless, but she remained unaware of my presence. It seemed that her emotional state had dulled her senses, leaving her easy prey. Without slowing my advance, I studied the surroundings for any signs of danger. I saw the cracked taillight on her car. I saw the clerk reading a comic book inside the gas station.

The woman finished pumping just before I reached her. She turned to face me, but her expression showed no signs of fear. Smiling generically, I grabbed her hand.

The chemical transfer is the worst part of the hunt, the price of admission. I could feel it pass from my hand into hers, like something jerking underneath my skin. Her eyes closed, and her eyelids began to spasm, but she remained standing. They never fall down.

The sickness hit me like a stroke of lightning, leaving me nauseous and physically drained. Red streaks passed before my eyes, and then my sight faded to black-and-white. All sound had grown muffled and grainy.

Letting go of her, I bent over and coughed into my hand. When I was younger, it had been a lot easier. My body can no longer properly handle the transfer, not that this ever stops me. Nothing keeps me from satisfying my hunger. Nothing.

The sickness passed, and I rose to face my prize. She smiled at me, her expression docile and trusting. “Are you okay? I’m not sure what happened.”

The hunger was screaming inside of me, and I longed to have my way with her. I had no intention of getting thrown in jail, even for a short while, but I needed to placate my desire. “Are you alone?”

She nodded and hugged herself. “Uh huh. I’m Ann. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her name meant nothing to me. “Turn around.” The woman nodded and obeyed my command, relaxed as ever. I grabbed her ass, and my cock reacted instantly. While she stared into the distance, my fingers slipped between her legs.

“I like that...” she cooed, but then she fell silent. I continued to fondle her, my other hand roughly massaging my crotch. The clerk never looked up, not that he would have likely interfered. Finally, I closed my eyes and shot into my pants.

The woman had not moved, and I was still hungry. I stepped closer and placed my hand over her crotch, pulling her to me. My other hand played with her breasts. “Go inside and pay for the gas. Then you’re taking me for a drive.”

She turned her head to the side, her face full of lust. “Okay. That sounds fun.” She made her way toward the station, and I stared helplessly at her ass.

After the woman left my sight, my thoughts cleared a little. The car was unlocked, so I got in on the passenger side. I did not have to wait long, but the time proved agonizing.

When she finally slipped inside and slammed the driver-side door, I pointed at the highway. “There’s a motel that way. Drive.”

The woman nodded yet again, her eyes bright and curious. “Are you gonna fuck me? I’ve never fucked an old guy before. Is it fun? I can’t wait.”

She was making the hunger worse, and I forced myself to look away. “Shut up and drive.”

I am a sexual predator, but of an unusual breed. I’ve been preying on women for many years, and yet I could not tell you how old I am. Such details no longer concern me.

When my symbiosis with the parasite began, I saw it as an opportunity to attain the unattainable. I could have any job I wanted, any woman that I wanted. I knew that it was wrong, but I figured that an occasional transgression wouldn’t mean the end of the world. As long as I really wanted something, it was only human to bend the rules.

Over time, control became a way of life, and my sense of morality relaxed. I found many uses for my ability, and I explored all of them. If someone angered me, I could get revenge. If I was bored, I could entertain myself. Life became easy, and satisfaction was all but guaranteed.

Without real struggle, I grew complacent. I devoted more and more time to endless sexual conquests, handing off less pleasurable tasks to others. Eventually, I became not only selfish, but also shallow and dull. It did not matter to me whether I was interesting or likeable, because I cast no reflection in other people. I was not judged or questioned by much of anyone.

Perhaps someone could have set me on the right path, if there were someone who could actually intervene. The women did what I wanted, and then they went away. Friends who saw what I was doing to myself did not stand in my way for long. Viewing them as jealous, I used and discarded them, and then I found another woman to satisfy my lust.

I eventually grew old, and what had come to me so easily grew difficult. By that point, though, I already relied too much on the control and the sex to even consider quitting. It was all that I knew, all that defined me. It was my addiction and my obsession, my reason for living. So I hunted. I evolved.

My life has become the model of efficiency. I eat and sleep only when necessary, and I provide for these essentials with my ability. Real work is beyond me now. I can not stay focused on anything but the hunt for that long.

I shave, and I comb my hair, but this is only to avoid suspicion. In the wild, predators often disguise their true nature, and so I seem close enough to an ordinary person to pass brief inspection. That’s all I need in order to get close to my prey and strike.

These days, I never hunt the same woman twice, because they never remember what happened. They smile politely at me, unaware that I was deep inside them only days earlier. Because of this, the second time feels like the first all over again.

Without a constant stream of new women, I lose sense of time passing. Then I forget to eat or sleep, because the hunger overrides any other physical pangs. If I am not careful, I could starve to death.

I followed the woman into my motel room, and then I closed and locked the door. The lights were off, as usual, and my few possessions were in my suitcase. I never stay in one place for very long. I have to keep moving, or else I might start running into the same women.

The woman set her purse on the television and stared into my eyes, hooking her thumbs into her back jean pockets. She seemed eager for what was coming, not that I cared. “Undress and get on the bed,” I said, my pants already at my ankles.

She obeyed, of course. The chemicals that were flooding her brain give new meaning to suggestibility. However, she took her time, slipping seductively out of each item of clothing. She knew what she was doing, but the hunger was not interested in foreplay. The hunger demanded satisfaction.

The woman’s bra and panties were lacy and transparent, hugging her body tightly. She grinned at me and unhooked her bra, and I grabbed her. She jumped into my arms and wrapped her legs around my naked body, her bra slipping off. As I kissed her exposed nipples, my hands dug into her ass, and then the hunger really made itself known.

I threw her on the bed, tore her panties away and proceeded to fuck her like crazy. I was delirious, practically out of my mind, but there was no fear in her beautiful blue eyes. We were both slaves to passion, and passion would not die hard.

I’m lying naked on the bed now, half-lidded eyes on the ceiling, my breathing slow and deep. The same woman is curled up below me, her mouth fixed on my cock. She’s been sucking at me for hours. I can feel the scratches on my back where she clawed me, and I do not care. In the end, you always have to make sacrifices.

It seems that our time together is drawing to a close. My cock is barely stirring at this point, but she is persistent. When I finally do come, I will empty her purse of valuables and release her. She will forget. She will return to her former life, and I will find another woman to prey upon. This is the cycle of my existence.

I used to believe that the parasite fed upon the women, as I did. We were partners in crime, joined together for our mutual benefit. Now I know that it feeds upon me, contributing to my aging process in small increments. Every time I hunt and feed, I move one step closer to death. At moments like this, when my hunger has been sated, I feel like it won’t come soon enough.

My desire blinded me, as the parasite intended. I have grown addicted to the symptom of my disease, and I am paying with my humanity. I was never in control. In the end, I am just another victim of my own moral degradation.

In the end, I am just another parasite.