The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“But look here,” Mr. Weerawagan said, “If what you’re saying is correct, then why is it not the case that we are most of us enslaved by people with this mind-control power?”

He had this formal way of talking; I’ll try my best to reproduced it. I don’t talk that way, especially after a few drinks, which is the situation we were in.

“For various reasons. The kickback I mentioned is the main one. That could be probably be overcome if the people with the power were better at cooperating with each other. But we tend to be a suspicious lot, who keep to ourselves. Except for a few devoted followers, of course. It’s hard not to be self-absorbed when you have this kind of power.

“But if you ever see a politician who seems oddly powerful in spite of having no charisma at all, say, Dick Cheney, or that guy Johnson back around the Vietnam War, it’s sometimes because they can tweak the people in their vicinity just a leetle bit. Not that I’m saying those two in particular were Controllers. But if they were, at least they used the power to try to accomplish some good for society, as they saw it, rather than getting their rocks off with some random person. They only ran out of gas because they couldn’t control a hundred million people at the same time.”

“Explain the kickback phenomenon one more time,” said Mr. Weerawagan.

We were stuck in an airport bar with all planes grounded on account of fog. I had loosened up to the point where I felt like it would do no harm to talk about my secret. Few people really believe me anyway, and I try to make sure I don’t run into the ones that do more than once.

“The mind-control ability exploits some kind of field that interacts with the cortex of the brain. I didn’t get far enough in school to understand how it works, but some Controllers have become Ph.D.’s in physics and have looked into it. There is a mind-control ‘grapevine’ and all of us Controllers hear about stuff like this eventually. If a bunch of people are Controlled for a certain amount of time, they accumulate an excess number of tackyons or something. The tackyons do drain into the field, but at a fairly slow rate. So too much Control and they build up. Eventually they flow back into the brain of the Controllers in the vicinity, usually the schmuck or schmucks who has been tampering with people. The signal that’s sent back is basically a big noisy blaaaaat, but it usually carries a strong emotional charge. It can knock you down, make you suicidal, even kill you. So you’ve got to use the power in moderation.”

I paused and ordered another Scotch.

“Stop me if this gets tedious,” I said to Mr. Weerawagan, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t.

“Oh no, I’ve got nowhere to go.”

“All right. The Control skill usually develops during puberty, perhaps not the greatest time, but much better than when it happens at younger ages. If you can’t get a grip on the power, the backlash will get you. Most kids who discover it think they’re the only ones in history to be so lucky. If they’re teenagers, they are thinking about some attractive person of the opposite sex a lot, and suddenly that person seems to be reading their mind and doing what they want them to do. For about a day or so, and then suddenly a wave of hate sweeps back over the newbie Controller. Their brain interprets it as ‘I hate myself.’Plus, the person they love is suddenly free of control and tells you in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of their heads and let them alone. A day or so later you can control them again, but the kickback next time is worse and they may try to kill you, if you don’t kill yourself. A certain percentage of baffling suicides by teenagers are due to this backlash. You have to figure out what’s going on and learn to turn the power off, which is about as hard—at first— as making an erection go away.”

Mr. Weerawagan giggled and blushed.

“Sorry to embarrass you. But if you want to hear more about mind control, sex is an inevitable part of the story.”

“Yes, by all means. Sorry for the interruption,” he said.

“So anyway, all that is bad enough, but if you’re five years old when the power develops, every tantrum results in the grownups doing exactly what you want for an hour, followed by them absolutely freaking out. Sooner or later the kickback just knocks the kid dead. The cause of death is usually ruled epilepsy. After a while the people who experienced the episode forget the details that don’t fit the official story, or they decide a poltergeist or some other supernatural demon was the culprit—their poor little darling was possessed.”

“As Arthur C. Clarke so famously said, any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

“Oh? What’s technology got to do with it?”

“Now that you mention it, nothing. Although if we could harness this power, ...”

“What? The government could enslave everyone more effectively than they do now?”

“No, no. I imagined it could be used for some good purpose.”

“Sorry, I have no such illusions. It’s better left in the hands of a few lucky freelancers, like me.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “Mr. Shaugnessy, you tell an amusing tale, well suited to an airport becalmed by fog. But how do I know it’s anything more than a tale?”

“That’s pretty easy. Here,” I said, passing him the ashtray, which was fairly full of my butts by this time. “Eat this.”

“All right,” he said, and started to do it. Then I released him.

“Oh, my.” he shouted, or tried to shout, with a mouth full of cigarette butts and ash. He spluttered, stood up, and backed away. He was quite pissed off. “Is this the kickback?” he asked, “Because if you wanted to make me angry, you have succeeded.”

“Naw, I only poked you a little. I barely felt a thing when I let you go. You got pissed off the old-fashioned way. Let me buy you another drink to wash that out of your mouth.”

I signaled to the bartender and he brought Mr. Weerawagan another club soda, but agreed to take a little brandy mixed with it. But he remained standing and didn’t seem to want to come any closer.

“Now suppose you didn’t know who had done that to you, or indeed that anyone had done it. Suppose you were sitting in a bar and a person across the room Controlled you. You wouldn’t know who to be mad at except yourself.”

“I am convinced,” he said.

“Come on back,” I said, “I’m not going to fuck with you any more. But I’ll tell you what. Do you see that woman reading that women’s magazine over in the corner? Watch this.” The woman stood up, leaving the magazine in her chair. She unbuttoned her blouse, reached in, and pulled her tits out. She turned so we could get a good view, then sat down and picked up the magazine again. Every man in the place was staring at her.

Then suddenly she jumped up, and ran for the ladies room, trying to button her blouse and cover up her titties as fast as she could. Mr. Weerawagan burst out laughing, and sat back down on the barstool he had been using. “Very impressive.”

“Yeah, see, she thinks the idea came from her own psyche. All she feels is embarrassment.”

“Is it safe to use the mind-control power long enough for a woman to have sex with you against her will?”

“Yes, pretty much. But of course she knows you’re doing it, so you have to plan carefully how you’re going to stop Controlling her and make your getaway.”

At this point Weerawagan was hooked. He might have done anything I asked even without the little pushes I giving him.

Before I could decide what was next on the agenda, there was an announcement. “Would everyone waiting for the departure of Flight ____ please come to the desk at Gate 23?....”

We both groaned. We were both traveling on business, not for the first time, and we knew what was coming. All flights were canceled, would we like some help in finding the nearest Red Roof Inn, no expenses paid? There was already a long line of frustrated passengers waiting for some advice on where to stay in this city that they would have preferred never to visit in their entire lives.

Fortunately, there was a pretty good Sheraton in this airport, and several other planeloads of passengers, some of them pretty girls, looking for accommodation. “Come on,” I said to Mr. Weerawagan, “Let’s not get involved with this tour of Greater ______, I’ve got a better idea.” He looked dubious, but followed me without comment back past the clogged gates of the airport, past Security, and out into the main concourse. By the time we got there, a very attractive girl, no older than 19, had joined our group. “Hi,” Mr. Weerawagan said, “Tell us your name.” “I’m Cheryl.” Cheryl was of Asian descent, but sounded American as apple pie.

“I’m Patwanathan Weerawagan,” said Mr. Weerawagan. I think that was his first name. I didn’t bother introducing myself, and besides, my name isn’t really Shaugnessy. We turned a corner a found ourselves in the lobby of a Sheraton hotel, with big comfy leather-upholstered seats. I sat in one while Cheryl and Mr. Weerawagan strode up to the counter. “We would like a room for tonight,” he said to the man behind it. The man would have liked to say, “Impossible, we’re completely booked,” but instead found himself saying, “Of course, I think we have a suite you’ll like a lot,” and booking them into the penthouse suite normally reserved for VIPs, even on a night like this. You never know whose flight has been canceled.

Fortunately, Mr. Weerawagan had a credit card with enough juice to pay the hefty price they were charging for that suite. He signed for it, and he and Cheryl headed for the elevator, after the man behind the counter said, “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. and Mrs. Weerawagan.” I followed them into the elevator. They both looked rather uncomfortable, and I tried not to look like the cat that had swallowed the canary. All three of us got into the suite and the rather sumptuous living room. I sat down to enjoy some fun.

I hadn’t told Mr. W. about my sexual tastes, which ran to voyeurism of a particular kind. I liked to see women being humiliated, forced to do things that repelled them. I had cast Weerawagan as the perpetrator. “Sit down,” he told me, and I sat meekly in a chair in the middle of the room. “You are going to be our audience tonight. I do like an audience. Don’t you, Cheryl?”

She was sitting on the end of the sofa. She now stood up on the cushions, pulled up her skirt, and sat down on the sofa back, with her back against the wall. She had nice legs (I insist on that) and wore pantyhose and pumps. She looked adorable. It was almost a pity that she had to take them off, but this she proceeded to do, tossing them to the floor and then pulling her skirt up again to make sure that we could get a clear look at her pussy. Her labia minora were clearly visible through her sparse hair. She put her elbows on her knees, folded her hands under her chin, and gave us a nice smile, just in time for Mr. Weerawagan to take a picture of her with his cell phone.

“Your pretty face and your pretty pussy go so well together, don’t you think?” he said.

I released Control over her vocal chords. She sputtered, “What are you doing to me?”

“Why, nothing. We’re having a festivity. Shall I call room service?”

“I’ll scream.”

“I don’t think you will,” but he didn’t call room service. He strolled casually over to the minibar as if he owned the world.

Cheryl looked at me. By this time I had taken my pants off, and her eyes made my penis even harder than it already was.

“You bastards,” she said. Her pose was getting uncomfortable, and I let her relax her arms and raise her head back up to a more natural position. But we were still exposing ourselves to each other.

“Don’t include me,” I begged, “I’m as trapped as you are. Something dreadful is going on. I’ve never been so ... ashamed,” and I made as if to try to cover myself, but in vain. My cock was sticking straight up and she couldn’t keep her eyes off it.

Mr. Weerwagan came strolling back wth some little bottles of expensive-looking brandy.

“Here,” he said, “This may help you relax,” and he poured her some. She didn’t want it, but she drank it down. “I see you two have got acquainted,” he chuckled. He took some more pictures, and then fiddled with his camera and one of the cables the desk was equipped with. “There, I’ve e-mailed them to a friend in Chicago, and with any luck you’re both on the road to overnight fame.”

“But you’ve gotten started without me.” He came over and stroked my penis a few times. “My, we are hard tonight. Let me get a piece of this action,” and he took off his clothes deliberately, folding them carefully and laying them on the well-appointed desk, with its no-extra-charge Internet connection. I took the opportunity to take the rest of my clothes off, too. He was finally wearing only socks and underpants, which didn’t conceal very well what was going to pop out, and did, when he took off them off. He had a large but well proportioned penis, light brown like the rest of his body, uncircumcised but with the head fully protruding from the erect shaft. You might not think you could will a man to have an erection, but it usually doesn’t take much Control. Show a heterosexual man a pussy and nature will take over from there.

What I wanted now, as usual, was for Cheryl to entertain us, especially Mr. Weerawagan. He turned to her, and she climbed down from the sofa, stood on the floor, and began to remove her blouse. I like to prolong this part, and my subjects are usually not in a hurry to expose more of their bodies. There’s something about a woman taking something off, even if it’s just a raincoat, that’s instantantly arousing. In this case what Cheryl revealed was a lacy bra over a delightful pair of breasts, on the small side, something else I insist on. She pulled her arms out of the sleeves slowly, pausing with her arms behind her back as if the blouse were a rope tying them together. Then she pulled her hands out and tossed the blouse on the floor. She reached back and undid the bra clasp, then brought them around to hold the cups over her tits. She leaned down so we could get a glimpse of her nipples. “Oh my God” she whimpered. Then she lowered the bra and tossed it on the floor too.

Then she stood and submitted to Mr. W’s close inspection. He stroked her nipples gently and got them to stand erect. (Fortunately, this did not take much doing; she was actually a pretty sensual girl, our Cheryl, I’m pretty sure.) He kissed her and his penis brushed against her navel. She stroked it a few times, then squatted just enough to let the head of his penis brush her nipples. “Oh, what sensual moves you have, Cheryl,” said Mr. Weerawagan. I believe he was starting to enjoy this, even if it wasn’t his idea.

She wasn’t enjoying it that much. “You bastard,” she whispered. I didn’t want her screaming or anything, but I let her talk quietly. He stepped back and suggested she take off her skirt. This she did, turning around so we could see only her bottom at first, as she released a catch and let the skirt fall to the floor. She kneeled on the sofa, lowered her breasts to the cushions, and let us see how her pussy looked from that angle. It looked so good that Mr. Weerawagan was tempted to take advantage of her. He started brushing his cock against her ass, and then gently brushed the head against her pussy lips. But he backed away.

One thing I have never been able to do is force a woman to lubicrate if she doesn’t want to, and believe me, the horniest woman in the world does not want to be fucked by a total stranger who seems to have made a puppet of her. (Or at least I’ve never found such a woman.) And something I have never wanted to do is cause a woman physical pain. So I always pack some K-Y, and I had managed to set this out so Mr. Weerawagan could get to it.

“Don’t worry,” he now said, “I’m not going to have sexual relations with you without using some lubricating jelly. I don’t want to hurt you. But I wouldn’t mind embarrassing you a bit more. Turn around.”

Cheryl turned around. Her face was contorted with anger. But who was looking at her face? My eyes danced from her breasts, to her beautiful legs, to those sensual pussy lips, and, peekaboo, is that a clitoris I see at the top of that slit? And let’s not forget her hips and waist. So many young women today seem to want to look like boys, but a woman’s hips should be wider than her shoulders, and her waist should be narrow. And her breasts should not distract from her overall figure, but harmonize with it. Cheryl wasn’t perfect—I would have voted for slightly narrower shoulders—but under the circumstances I was not complaining.

She got back up on the back of the sofa and spread her knees so her pussy was clearly on display. She chose not to speak, but she was starting to cry.

By this time I was nearing the edge of what I could handle. It’s hard to Control two people so carefully for even a half hour, and my penis really wanted to come. Fluid was leaking down the tip. I got up and walked over to Cheryl, who edged closer so she could help me with the problem. “Oh Jesus stop!” I whispered to Mr. Weerawagan. I hoped I sounded sincere. She wiped a finger down the slit of my penis and I almost came right there. Then she let me wipe my dick on her cheek and lips, and tried to take it in her mouth, but I succeeded in pulling it away. I surely would have come in her mouth if she had gotten it in there.

“Now, now,” said Mr. Weerawagan, “Please don’t confiscate my prerogative. Your role in this drama is to watch, Mr. Shaugnessy.” I lay down on the floor, which baffled Cheryl until she found herself crawling towards me, head to head. Her tits didn’t have a lot of sway in them, but tits are udders after all. I’ve never understood why some women want to alter them so they look they’re sticking straight out even in an earthquake. A little sway is very sexy.

But before her breasts got to me, we were kissing, upside down. She opened her mouth just a little bit and we stroked each other’s tongues with our tongues, tip to tip, very delicate. I could almost pretend she liked me. She crawled a little further, and paused so I could grapple with her beautiful breasts using my mouth alone. I kept my arms pinned to the floor as if this were not my idea. I got her nipples all wet and stiff. Crawl, crawl, she was approaching my extremely erect penis. I could get a closeup view of that pussy! Those lips! That little clit! I could even smell it, and fantasize about what it must smell like when she was really aroused.

She didn’t want to suck my cock, and I let her whisper, “No, please...,” but Mr. Weerawagan was not to be denied, and she licked delicately at the glans. It was very hard to control myself, so I let her go and pushed Mr. Weerawagan into the picture. The first thing he did was pull a pole lamp down to the floor so it shone on Cheryl’s pussy. This was for my benefit, but I hoped Cheryl would think he just wanted to see his own cock better. He crawled up behind her, grasped her petite waist with his hands, and let his penis jut under her. It was my turn to say, “Oh, Christ, not...” and then make spluttering sounds as I took the head of his cock into my mouth. He gently stroked his penis in and out, but we had the usual problem with 69, that my tongue was on the wrong side. Besides, I hadn’t really come here for that. He withdrew his penis and began spreading K-Y jelly along her slit, and inside the labia majora. He also put some on his cockshaft, although it probably wasn’t necessary, because the little bastard was pretty horny and dripping clear fluid onto my face. (The hard part about all this was keeping K-Y jelly out of my eyes.) Then, oh glory, he slowly inserted his penis into Cheryl’s lovely cunt, and began to slide in and out. There was plenty of light because of the lamp on the floor; I had done this before and had pretty much perfected it. I could see every wrinkle on his ball sac, which was tight against the base of his shaft, like a grenade about to go off. But I could keep him from coming, and I did.

It was keeping myself from coming that was hard, and I was ready to let go. So without further ado I let Cheryl begin licking my glans in earnest, slurping up the precum that flowed like lava, until the whole thing was so exciting that I had her take the frenum into the front of her mouth—no teeth—and suck gently, gently, until I started cumming and cumming. Some went into her mouth, but most splattered over her throat, her breasts, and me.

I made it last as long as I could, then suddenly said, “Agh! I’m ... free ... I can move!” And I slid out from under Cheryl, and jumped up. The tableau was still intriguing, Mr. Weerawagan fucking her doggy-style, but my time was just about up. I wiped the mess off with a bunch of kleenex, still feeling pretty sticky, threw my clothes on, and said, as apologetically as I could, “I’m sorry, Miss, ....Cheryl, but I’m getting out while I can. I hope this control thing is weakening, for your sake, but maybe it isn’t, and this is freaking me out.” I opened the door, and headed for the stairs. The rest is my exit strategy, which I really don’t want to divulge too much about. Suffice it to say that I released Cheryl and Mr. Weerawagan from Control just a few minutes after leaving the room. (Beyond a certain distance it fades out anyway. The kickback, no; it has a long range.) A few minutes after that I got hit with the kickback, which would have made me stagger, but I was in a vehicle (not an airplane, I can reveal!) by that point. All the rage and loathing my victims had experienced came flooding into me, and I almost groaned. It was like having a massive hangover, a big price for partying hearty. Too big? It never seemed that way beforehand.

My consolation was imagining the scene in that penthouse suite: Cheryl hopping mad, Mr. Weerawagan in an agony of arousal, tempted perhaps to try to hold onto her for 10 seconds while he got his rocks off? It would be hard for anyone to resist. Whether he did or not, he would have a hard time convincing her that he was not responsible for their little pageant, that it was all the fault of that loathesome bastard Shaugnessy. If they called the police, no one would believe either of their stories, especially because they contradicted each other. One part of me hoped he really hadn’t raped her; there was enough danger of pregnancy even without him coming. Another part of me realized that if he did come inside her he would have a hard time passing a lie-detector test about whether he forced Cheryl to do anything against her will.

I admit, it’s hard to feel really good about yourself after using people like this. It takes a long time, days really, to get horny enough that such second thoughts fade and you start thinking of clever new schemes to use the power God or the Devil or someone gave you, for some purpose, probably not this one, but what the hell.