The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

More than a month passed. Myra’s job assignment at Cosmagico ended as she turned in the last of her personnel reports, and a week later her consulting firm appointed her to a six-week-long efficiency study at another business, a big telecommunications outfit in one of the gleaming new office parks that had sprung up north of the city. By that time, though, she had given up her own apartment and had moved in with Blake, so the change made no great difference in their relationship. Blake kept her libido under strict control in the simplest possible way: He merely ordered her to work with total concentration, doing the best job she could do, and to suppress her sex drive unless the two of them were together. That worked so well that the few men who hit on her at the new place, Commval, concluded the bitch must be frigid, despite the provocative way she dressed.

Because after a short initial period of doubt, Myra had totally surrendered to Blake’s little fetish for slut clothes. In fact, she had to admit to herself, she had given in without a fight. Now instead of plain, severe business clothes, she wore revealing short skirts that showed off her long shapely legs. She had that bimbo walk in her spiked heels, and low-cut blouses showed off her tits, the deep cleavage attracting men’s gazes the way honey attracted bees. She no longer concealed her beautiful green eyes behind fake spectacles, but relied only on her contact lenses. She was letting her rich brown hair grow longer and she now wore it in a looser, softer style because Blake liked it that way. She had submitted to a painful waxing because he didn’t care much for pubic hair, so beneath her wispy panties her snatch was smooth and bare, the better to welcome his tongue when he went down on her. She continued to change in other ways, too.

Every evening after work she hurried home to Blake, usually arriving half an hour or so before he returned from his lab, and as soon as she entered the house, her whole demeanor and attitude changed. The hard-driving expert consultant became a soft and melting woman deeply and permanently in helpless love. First, she always changed from her working clothes into her home clothes. That meant she wore only the skimpiest possible thong, its front sunk between the pouting lips of her pussy, or a pair of those insubstantial panties that made her seem even sexier than if she had been totally nude. Before Blake arrived home from work, she prepared his dinner, and when he came in, she stood in devoted silence beside his chair and served him, always allowing him to finish eating before she began herself. That had not been one of his orders, but to her it seemed unnatural, even sinful, to sit at the same table and eat while he ate. That failed to show the proper awed respect that was Blake’s unquestioned due. Even when they ate out, she sat with hands folded and eyes averted while Blake ate, and only when he had finished did she quickly, apologetically eat in his presence. That he allowed her to do so was only one more mark of his great generosity toward her, of his affection for his devoted slut.

As time passed, Myra’s whole being, all her mind, all her soul, and all her body, became subsumed in making Blake perfectly comfortable. She gave him long, loving massages, her palms spreading lotions over his skin, easing the tension from his muscles, and she always made sure the thermostat was set exactly where he liked it, a little on the cool side. To tell the truth, she sometimes found the temperature a little too low for her own comfort, but the chill made her nipples perky, and Blake loved that, so she learned to love the coolness as well. She even bathed him with a sponge and scented soaps, and then afterwards she dried him with big thick absorbent towels, softly, carefully rubbing every magnificent inch of him, kneeling like a pagan in thrall to an idol as with loving care she gently patted dry his balls and his cock, her whole body aching with need and adoration as under her attention his member hardened and became rigid.

She gradually grew unable to speak to him unless he spoke first to her. Again, Blake had not ordered her silence, but instinctively she felt that it was the Master’s right to permit her to speak, or at least to imply his willingness to hear her by first addressing her. He talked to her sometimes about his work—he thrilled her to tears a few weeks after her job had taken her from Cosmagico to Commval by saying one evening, “I got a nice surprise today at work, Myra.”

“What was that, Master?” she asked eagerly, wanting to share his happiness.

He showed her a check made out to him, in the amount of ten thousand dollars. “A bonus,” he said. “The one you recommended in your report. When I told you to recommend that, the compound hadn’t taken full effect, and I didn’t really expect anything would come of it. But the administrators said you spoke very highly of my work and advised them to express their appreciation. I didn’t know you had actually done that, but it was very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Myra.”

She smiled at him, tears coursing down her cheeks, childishly grateful to hear such warm praise from her master.

At other times he told her of how his research was progressing. The bees had slowly replenished his supply of the compound, and he was preparing to perform some genetic modifications to take away or at least tone down its power to subdue the will of its user, leaving only the cosmetic and healing properties. He had identified all of the components of the compound and had found a way to replicate them in the test tube. If he were successful in selecting only the materials that would improve the skin, then he would proceed to create a synthetic version, suitable for use in skin creams and ointments, but not capable of making a woman subservient. He had taken advantage of a loophole in his contract with Cosmagico to patent the compound’s synthetic form, so the company would owe him a royalty on every sale if he could successfully produce products using the material as the active ingredient, a move that Myra admired as very wise on Blake’s part, very shrewd.

And, of course, at times when they did not talk, they enjoyed sex, endlessly, athletically, in all its wanton positions and lewd variants. By that time she was used to being taken in the ass, and in fact had grown to love the feeling of Blake’s cock engaging in her tight, tight passage, the unusual friction of its movement as he fucked her. A short session of this could bring her to orgasm as fast as any conventional form of love-making. But then, that was true of everything they did. Blake could always make her come on his verbal command and had conditioned her so that she inevitably came when he came, no matter whether she were sucking him, fucking him, jacking him off, or merely watching him masturbate. And though dimly she realized and faintly she resented that she had become nothing more than a slave, at the same time she felt curiously liberated, free of the petty, ordinary constraints of society’s approval or of her own will, set free from the necessity for being accountable for her own decisions. Aside from her work, she made none now, after all, and in private she absolutely trusted Blake with her whole existence, even in matters of life and death. When Myra was with Blake, she was practically an extension of his will, not a person in her own right.

Only very occasionally did she feel some phantom stirring of dread or regret. Odd memories of her old life might rise unexpectedly in her mind and make her pause in a passing moment of nostalgia for a time when she decided how she would dress, with whom she would make love, how she would live her life. When some new change in her body or personality manifested, it occasionally gave her a few seconds of doubt or worry. One of these occurred some seven weeks after she had moved in with Blake, and at first it revolted and panicked her.

Blake was always very interested in, almost fascinated by, her tits. She could not call them breasts any longer, nor could she use clinical terms: “vagina” had to be “pussy,” “penis” had to be “cock” or “dick.” She couldn’t even think the more polite terms, and she certainly couldn’t form them on her tongue. Blake liked to hear dirty talk from her, and so the coarse words were the ones she always had to use, not from conscious volition, but just from the imperative of her conditioning. She had learned to be proud of Blake’s attraction to her tits, pleased when he admired them, lifted to ecstasy when he caressed them or nuzzled and kissed them. She sensed that he was watching and waiting for something to happen, though. Almost every night he would ask if her nipples still felt tender.

“Yes, but it isn’t that bad,” she always responded. She often wondered just what was happening to her. Her nipples and aureoles didn’t hurt exactly, but they had become very sensitive to touch, and they had become permanently swollen, always a little puffy. When she became really aroused (she was semi-aroused all the time), they jutted out much larger and stiffer than they had ever done before, a bawdy invitation to loving attention from Blake. The increase in sensitivity didn’t really bother her, but it did intensify almost daily. Blake seemed mesmerized by her nipples, and at least once a week he spent long minutes tweaking and pulling them, studying them intently. She loved the close attention, and it was always a prelude to hot, heavy fucking or sucking, and so she eagerly looked forward to those sessions. Sometimes Blake got so turned on that he went down on her, stroking her slit with his tongue, penetrating her and licking her clit until she had an especially good, a blinding orgasm, and those times were the best of all.

The change that had been growing over time became complete one Saturday. Blake and Myra had fucked all night, or so it seemed to a languorous, pleased Myra, and they had risen very late for breakfast. As usual, she prepared his meal, then stood almost naked beside his chair, wearing only a tiny red thong that split the pouting lips of her pussy and vanished completely in the crack of her ass. Myra stood silent, her head docilely bowed while Blake ate. He finished and said, “That was really good, Myra. You may eat now.”

“Thank you, Master.” She sat beside him at the table and ate the meal she had prepared, thick French toast topped with cherry sauce. She drank her cup of honey and chased the sticky, sweet liquid with hot coffee.

Honey. She had developed a craving for it a week or so after her first visit to Blake’s house, and now the desire had become some kind of weird addiction. Myra had to have honey every day, at least eight ounces of it. She had tried putting it on bread, but that didn’t satisfy her at all. She had to drink the stuff, shuddering at the intense sweetness, feeling it ooze down her throat with a curious sensation of spiciness and heat. At first Myra had been puzzled by this need, and she had been afraid that so many concentrated calories would pack the weight on her, but somehow it didn’t make a bit of difference. She never gained an ounce.

“You metabolize the honey in a unique manner,” Blake had explained to her. “Your body is using it in a different way.”

If she went without her daily fix, she began to yearn for honey, as if it were a drug and she were truly addicted to it. Still, drinking it didn’t make any difference in her health or her weight, and so rather than resist, it made more sense to give in to the sharp demanding urge to consume the stuff. Now every day she drank at least one full glass, 250 milliliters as Blake would say, of the golden liquid. Blake watched her that Saturday as she drained the last few ounces. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Your nipples are erect.”

Myra looked down. “Yes, they are, Master,” she said, a little surprised at the way her nipples protruded so far from her tits. They were tight, so big they had distended to smoothness, the wrinkles filled in by their extreme erection, and they were fully an inch long!

Blake licked his lips. “I like them that way. Stand up. Come to me.”

She rose and moved to kneel beside him. He lazily reached out and caressed her tits, feeling them, hefting them. The hadn’t really grown larger, but they had become fuller, rounder than they had been. Blake’s soft and loving touch worked its magic, and she closed her eyes, sighing in contentment. She felt his fingers tweaking her left nipple, and pleasure rippled through her. She nearly came just from that.

Then a new sensation, something she had never felt before, made her catch her breath. Her nipple felt as if something were coming out of it. She looked down and saw that Blake had squeezed a drop of a thick yellowish milk from her nipple. It dripped down over the back of his hand slowly, as if it were honey instead of milk. “Oh,” she said. “What—Master, am I pregnant?”

Blake sniffed the drop that gleamed on the back of his hand. It didn’t really look like milk, but more like very thick cream, tinged with lemon. “No,” he said patiently. “You can’t get pregnant. It’s finally begun. I expected this.”

“What’s happening to me?” Myra asked, her voice panicky.

“You’re a worker bee,” Blake said in a reassuring tone. “Your milk glands have adapted to produce this substance.” He got up from the table, went to what once had been a guest bedroom but now was a compact home laboratory, and came back with a wide-mouthed flask. “Stand up. Bend forward over the table,” he said.

She had to obey. She leaned over, supporting herself on her elbows, her tits swaying. She heard Blake set the flask down on the table, then felt him squeezing her nipple. She heard the sound of the fluid squirting out into the flask—

My God, he’s milking me, milking me like a cow!

It was disgusting, it revolted her, it felt. . . wonderful. She quivered as an orgasm swept through her, moaned in perverse pleasure. But she was weeping, too.

“Don’t be upset,” Blake said soothingly, switching to the other breast, the other teat. “We’ll make arrangements. But this will happen from now on, about once a week or so. You’ll like it.” He chuckled and added in an insinuating voice, “It’s very dirty, Myra. You’re a slut, and you’ll love it.”

“Ohh. . . yesss,” she breathed, but her heart ached at the thought of what she had become.

When Blake had finished, he let her sit down. “You can caress your breasts and nipples now,” he said. “It will help you get over this first milking, and anyway, I like to watch you do that.”

She cupped her tits and massaged them slowly, pleased that he liked to watch. She stared at the flask, about half full of the thick yellowish milk. “All that came out of me?”

“Four hundred and fifty-some milliliters,” he said. “About a cup and a half, all told. This is good, Myra. This is exactly what I needed.”

“Why?” she asked.

Blake came and stood behind her, and she knew he was looking down from above at her tits, at the thrusting pink nipples that her fingers were soothing, stimulating. “Bees produce very little of the substance I need,” he said. “This is the golden powder—remember the day you sniffed it?—in solution. Your body is using the honey you ingest, together with the proteins of my cum that you swallow when you blow me. Your glands process these and combine them, producing the compound I need for my work. When I run this through the centrifuge, I’ll recover about a quarter of it as the pure compound, more than I could harvest from my bees over the course of two years. You’re helping in my work, Myra, and you will continue to help me as you produce more of this. But we’ll arrange to buy a breast pump for you. Much as I enjoy milking you, I know it must feel a little humiliating.”

“No, Master,” she said. If he enjoyed it, that changed everything. “I’ll love to have you milk me.” As long as Blake was happy . . . .

Before the year was out, Blake had solved the biochemical problems the golden powder posed, had denatured it so that instead of enslaving women the synthetic version simply improved their skin tone, smoothed away their blemishes . . . and temporarily made them feel especially sexy. Even at an outrageously high mark-up, the corrective compounds vanished from the shelves as fast as retailers could stock them.

Myra had suggested brilliantly that Blake adapt the powder into a component of a vaginal lubricant. He patented this preparation separately from the cosmetic application, Cosmagico gave him a very advantageous contract, agreeing to manufacture and market it while paying him a handsome royalty on every sale, and within weeks of its introduction on the market, sales went through the roof. Cosmagico did not have to spend one cent on advertising, because the exploding sales were propelled by word of mouth among eager and happy women. It seemed that when one woman tried it, within days every single one of her acquaintances was buying a tube as well. Since the instructions told them to apply the lubricant liberally, they ran through tons of it. Women simply loved the stuff, felt insanely sexy and abandoned when they used it. And their stunned male partners became enthusiastic fans, too. Before long it was being marketed in different flavors, and in virtually every English-speaking country. Worldwide marketing loomed on the horizon. If Cosmagico had produced no other products but that one, it would still have made the stockholders happy and very, very wealthy.

About eighteen months from the time Myra had first given in to Blake, her life began to change again. On that day Blake sat in a leather armchair in his home, with a compliant Myra seated on him, languidly riding his cock. These days she loved to fuck him for an impossibly long time, for an hour or two hours of slow, sensuous stroking. He stayed hard and erect for as long as he cared to, now able to control completely his erections and his orgasms. “The powder does that for me,” he had explained with a rueful grin. “Since I’m the dominant partner, it doesn’t make me dependent, and it certainly doesn’t make me sterile—I’m producing cum in extraordinary amounts. But that’s the difference between the dominant partner and the worker.”

“Between the master and his slut,” she said impishly, not missing a stroke.

So she lazily fucked his cock, leaning back, enjoying the slow bounce of her tits, loving the way they were beginning to feel full again, nearly ready for their weekly milking. Sometimes she wondered why the idea of that had once so shocked her. Now it was a highlight of her week, the day that her ripe breasts would deliver their bounty. She loved kneeling on all fours when Blake decided to milk her himself, and with every squirting stream she came in a dreamy kind of climax, not urgent like the ones Blake gave her when she fucked him, but sweet and slow and warm.

“Come for me, baby,” Blake said now, and she did, shivering and gasping. He was so wonderful, it was so magical to be commanded to have an orgasm and for her body to obey instantly.

He chuckled. “You’re a really good slut, Myra. Would you like to fuck all day, every single day?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, Master!” she said, resuming her indolent pumping of his cock as she reached to play with her tits. “That would be marvelous.”

He moved his hips, thrusting deeper into her. She felt the change in his rhythm and adjusted to accommodate it, pressing down on his rod so that her clit rode the curving slope of his ridged shaft, feeling another and even better orgasm building. He was going to come inside her, and she loved that most of all, loved the hot jets of his copious cum filling her, squirting from her well-filled slit.

He rammed into her hard, and then she felt the jerk and release within her. She orgasmed wildly, twitching in a whole-body spasm that was better than anything else in the world. Then he pulled her down so she was embracing him, her legs still spread wide over the low arms of the chair, his softening member still inside her. She felt him stroking her back, and she arched it, purring like a kitten in complete satiation.

“I can afford to resign from Cosmagico,” he told her, nibbling on her earlobe between words. “And you can quit at the consultancy. My patents are bringing in more than ten times what we’ve been earning, anyway. Would you like that?”

Myra whispered, “I’d love it, Master. All day to serve you. That would be heaven.”

For a short while he was silent. Then he said, “My sweet, sweet slut. How would you like to have sisters?”

She didn’t know what he meant. She had been an only child. “Master?”

He chuckled. “I worked with that damn powder too much. It’s changed me, too, in mind and in body. You’re wonderful, Myra, but I feel the need for more sluts than just one. Like a queen bee, I’m growing to need the attention of many . . . workers.”

Myra felt a pang of sadness. She wasn’t enough for him any longer. There would be other girls, maybe younger ones, more beautiful ones. They would make him come just as she did, and perhaps he would eventually love them more than he loved her. But through the pain gripping her throat, she whispered, “Would that make you happy, Master?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone decisive. “To have a harem, to be the center of the universe for a bevy of adoring, lusty sluts. Yes, that would make me very happy.”

Her resistance dissolved, as it had to dissolve under the force of his will, and now she thought He deserves more than just me. He needs many young girls, beautiful girls. If Blake wanted it, she wanted it, too. Aloud she said quietly, “I think it’s a fine idea, Master.”

He turned her so that she was no longer joined to him, but sitting across his lap, and he fondled her tits as he spoke. “It’s strange. I was never like this before, never this crude and demanding. But I feel the changes in me, and I can’t resist them. Is it like that for you, Myra?”

“Yes, Master,” she said. She reached down to her cunt and scooped up some of the cum that was slowly dripping from it. Thoughtfully, she sucked it off her finger. “But the changes have all been good, Master. I’ve become what is best for me.”

“Then I will have to give in to them, too,” he said. “Thanks to you, I have plenty of the powder now, my sweet slut. I think . . . I think I would like to begin with two more worker bees. I want them to be girls you like, girls you will be . . . comfortable with. I will want you all to perform for my . . . amusement.”

Blake’s calm words made her feel hot and horny, all reluctance falling away. She had never even thought of other women in a sexual way. In fact, the whole idea of it had rather revolted her. Mouths and cocks were one thing, but mouths and pussies . . . but now the whole idea intrigued her, set her heart beating faster, and made her pussy wet. “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, that would be a good beginning. Three of us for you . . . and for each other.”

“The compound will bind them and change them,” he said thoughtfully. “It has my DNA imprint on it, so they will have to obey me, as you do. But I’ve learned to manipulate it a lot better than when you took it in its raw and most powerful form, so I think the new girls will receive a modified version. I think none of them need produce the milk. Only you. That will make you unique, my slut. You will be my special slave always, my first lover, and because your imprint is on the milk you produce, they will be bound not only to me, but to you. You will find they delight in what makes you happy. They will serve you in every conceivable way.”

“Thank you, Master,” Myra said, feeling more and more excited by the very idea of what he was proposing. Mm, to select an innocent victim, to corrupt her, to transform her into a shameless and eager slut, to turn her into a fucking, sucking slave. . . oh, yeah, that was so hot, that was so dirty. It was something that only a sex-mad creature could conceive, something that only a perverted and lustful deviant could perform.

She couldn’t wait to begin.