The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Close your eyes, please.

Let me tell you what I’d like.

I’d like for both of us to be inside your house. I’d like for you to be completely naked, except for the wearing of high heels. I’d like for your chest to be heaving, your head to be hanging, your arms to be akimbo, your thighs and calves to be trembling and aching, your feet to be blistered and bleeding, your knees and your hips to be peppered with angry bruises, as though someone had danced with abandon, ignoring pain and any concern over the safety or physical limitations of her body, driving herself up to and past the point of exhaustion, falling ocassionally at first, then more and more frequently, stoutly climbing back to her feet each time, trying her best to keep going with unflagging vigor, seemingly indefinitely, or, at least up to the point when my interest waned. To provide a little more context, I’d like for a sturdy table to have been drawn in front of the most comfortable couch in your living room. I’d like for the clothes that you are presently wearing to have been ripped from your body and to have been casually strewn across the floor. I’d like for the top of the table closest to the couch to hold the half-eaten remnants of a lovingly prepared meal, and I’d like for the top of the table furthest from the couch to contain numerous scuff marks, indentations, and perhaps a few drops of smeared blood, as though produced by a pair of feet, uninterruptedly dancing in high-heeled shoes that were too tight, not broken in, and that the feet were unaccustomed to wearing. I’d also like for the CD player in your living room to have been turned on when the room was first entered, and I’d like for it to have been set to endlessly cycle through repetitions of your favorite dance tune.

I’d also like for multiple water pitchers and soup pots from your kitchen to have been removed from their shelves, to have been filled with ice cubes and cold water, and to have been stacked end-to-end along your kitchen’s counter. I’d like for your hair, your body, especially your breasts and nipples, your shoes, and the make-up that you suddenly experienced a frantic need to apply to be dripping, soaking wet, lipstick smeared, mascara streaked, as though someone had used the pitchers and pots to deliberately, repeatedly, and systematically drench herself, over and over, leaving the aforementioned pitchers and pots piled haphazardly, empty and abandoned, except for slivers of melting ice and condensation droplets, the majority of their prior contents to be found covering your kitchen floor and slowly seeping down through your woodwork.

Additionally, I’d like for my cock to have been placed inside your pussy, to be fucking your pussy, and for your pussy to be fucking my cock back, alternating in a slow, deliberate rhythm between cradling it delicately and gripping it firmly, but, in general, responding to it more completely and lovingly, than it has responded before to the sexual organ of another, or to your own ministrations. I’d like for your eyes to be staring into mine, filled with lust and worshipful adoration. Is there any other kind? I’d like for your pretty mouth to be doing one of two things, spending equal time on each. First, I’d like for your mouth to be promising me your love, slavish devotion, the perpetual availability, at a moment’s notice, of your body, labors, reputation, or possessions to use or squander however and whenever I see fit, and your new-found dedication to providing me with access to the most comely and beloved of your female friends, relatives, and co-workers, along with the making of many humorous suggestions as to how they may creatively and humiliatingly be made to disport themselves, each other, you, their own loved ones, or random others for the purpose of entertaining me. Second, I’d like for your mouth to be kissing me most passionately on the lips and mouth, along with occasional, playful side jaunts to kiss and lick my nipples.

While all this is to be going on, I’d also like for your long, sensitive fingers to be twisting, pinching, and flicking your nipples harder and more painfully than you can bear, at least without crying or whimpering. Simultaneously, I’d like for you to keep trying your best not to cry or whimper. Sorry if this hurts, but, you know, it’s kind of a turn-on for me. Also, as though of its own accord, I’d like for your right hand to come crashing down on your ass, sometimes once, sometimes as many as ten to twenty times in a row, each time generating an explosive smack and leaving behind a red hand-print with trailing finger marks. I’d like for these self-imposed spankings of yours to be occurring on a random, though not infrequent, basis, to be surprising and discomfiting to both of us, though to you, of course, much more than to me.

As is traditional in these situations, during all the time that I’m to be with you, I’d like for you to be aroused, your nipples, lips, and earlobes to be blood-engorged and sensitive, your pussy to be dripping, hungry, and aching to feel me come inside it, your clit also to be blood-engorged, straining to rub against me, these sexual sensations to be stronger by far than any you have ever felt before or could ever experience otherwise. Of course, I’d like for you not to come until I do. After I’ve come and once I’m safely clear, I’d like for you to know that you have my full permission to come, permission changing to need, need changing to inevitability. For the hell of it, I’d like for you to keep coming, every 15 seconds, or so, your orgasms to be growing in intensity each time, your body to be wracked head to toe by muscle-wrenching spasms of exquisite bliss, until I decide to leave or you pass out, whichever happens first.

Soon, I’m going to ask for you to open your eyes. Immediately after I do so, I’d like for you to believe whatever would be necessary, without further instruction or clarification from me, for you to bring about everything I’ve been describing or suggesting on your own initiative. That is, I’d like for your conscious mind to come up with some patchwork theory of the effects that your mind and body would experience if you were suddenly overcome by all-consuming love at first sight, a mischievous muse of the dance, demonic possession, post-hypnotic suggestion, microwaves beamed from black helicopters, miraculously well-healed electrodes secretly implanted in your skull, a psychotic break, or whatever else you would find plausible in helping explain how you could suddenly find yourself compelled to perform actions that struck you as abhorrent or meaningless. As you realize now, but will soon forget, this series of actions composes my specification for our upcoming party, which I’m taking pains to impart to you in detail, so that everything will run smoothly. In planning these little get-togthers, I’ve found that it pays to take care of the major organizational work up front, folding in just enough ambiguity to allow amusing, but not unpleasant, surprises to occur, so that I can otherwise sit back and enjoy the show, essentially allowing my playmates to guide themselves, once they have been properly programmed. But, that’s neither here nor there. I do run on so.

Anyway, back to the task at hand. As soon as you manage to twist your mind to come up with some, at least marginally convincing hodgepodge of conspiracy theories and childhood nightmares that could account for your finding yourself acting in seemingly random, inexplicable, and humiliating, although to me carefully orchestrated and erotic, ways, I’d like for you to further twist your mind to believe that this particular explanatory hodgepodge is suddenly, horribly, coming true, with every bit of it directed at undermining your autonomy and free will. I’d like for you to believe this wholeheartedly. Once your belief has crystalized that the harsh, implausible world in which you could actually suffer the misadventures I’ve been suggesting has somehow, unbelievably, supplanted the ordinary world in which you live, you’ll unquestionably accept that have no choice but to carry out the agenda that I’ve so carefully laid out for you. At that point I’d like for you to begin to carry out each of my requests expeditiously, and with scrupulous attention to detail, applying all your mental and physical resources to fleshing out every nuance, either stated or implied, no matter how bizarre, repellant, or perverse you would otherwise find such to be.

I’d like for you to not consciously remember my having given you any of these instructions or explanations, even as I expect you to be diligently carrying them out in all their humiliating glory. While we’re on the subject, I’d also like for you to not be able to remember this little chat at any time for the rest of your life. As you find yourself unexpectedly and unwillingly following the motivations that I will be imposing on you for the duration of our fleeting time together, I expect you to experience a gamut of unpleasant and disquieting emotions, confusion, shame, fear, anger, and so on. These negative feelings would ordinarily shock you, perhaps into a state of gibbering immobility or comatose trance. However, while under the coercion of your self-imposed mind set, I’d like for you to experience an ongoing need to carry out my orders that is simply overwhelming, so much so that your true reactions will be totally subdued, mashed down quietly, if painfully, into the lower recesses of your mind, only to be unearthed later. Until after I have gone, I’d like and expect for you to be unable to spend more than a fleeing instant attending to them, or indeed, any of the other trivial necessities of your usual existence.

As soon as I close your door on the way out, I’d like for any artifically-imposed understandings that I’ve suggested, that you’ve been clinging to contextualize and ameliorate your anguished recollections of having briefly become a self-defacing, self-torturing puppet to fade from your conscious mind, along with any mental snapshots you may have been trying to maintain of my appearance, leaving behind only the indelible memories themselves, memories of watching, as though from outside, as your body propelled itself from one physically or psychologically damaging act to another. From the moment of door-closing on, you and I will have no further dealings, unless I decide that it would be amusing for me to call on you again. In any case, once I have left, I expect the background tide of unedited, unblocked reactions that will have built up in you during our upcoming festivities to come rushing to the fore, swamping the roots of your sanity and self-respect. No matter how bad it gets, I’d like and prefer for you not to commit suicide. I’ve found them to be so messy, in more ways than one. Who says I can’t learn from my mistakes? Anyway, I’ve managed to run across, or sometimes ferret out, several of my previous playmates. Many, if not all, were reasonably intact, though they seemed to share the curious habit of feeding a not insubstantial portion of their incomes and spending a not insignificant amount of their time involved with some version of the recovery industry. Unfortunately, the flashbacks of what is about to transpire will reverberate continually through your head in waking and sleeping nightmare, for days, weeks, almost certainly months, and probably years, leaving no answers, only hollow questions. However if you take plenty of antidepressants and tranquilizers, you should eventually start to feel better. Oh, and one last thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if you started to feel a poignant longing for and obsession with extreme pleasures of the flesh, pleasures that you may feel driven to ceaselessly search for, but that you will never be able to satisfy. Whether you can succeed in resisting the temptation of trying to do so is up to you.

Well, I’m psyched. I feel guilty; I’ve been totally monopolizing our conversation. You certainly need to be given your fair chance to say something. I don’t know about you, but I am so looking forward to our being able to spend some time together. Now, please, open your eyes.