The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter 1

“Oh god, is that a sperm?”

I blushed a little, glancing around to see who might be listening. “What the hell are you looking at over there?” I asked as I walked over to where Megan was standing, in front of a rack of cheap jewelry. Most of it was the typical semi-precious stones and hand-carved beads that are sold anywhere in Mexico that you can find tourists. Megan, though, in digging through yet another dusty assortment of them in the back corner of a sleepy shop in this coastal Mexican town, had found a suspiciously-shaped pendant necklace, which decidedly did not belong among the others.

She pulled its delicate silver chain off the rack, and held it up. It was, in fact, quite clearly a rendering of an enlarged male reproductive cell in brilliant silver, or perhaps even platinum. The artistry of it was actually rather remarkable, and I could almost imagine the thing springing to life at any moment. Capturing such graceful lines in metal had to be very difficult.

“Maybe it’s a tadpole,” suggested Megan.

“No,” I said, “definitely a sperm.”

Megan looked up at me and grinned. I knew she had one of her crazy ideas. “No way,” I said.

Megan just smiled and took the thing up the front counter. There was a little old lady there, watching television. “Que mas?” Asked Megan.

The old woman peered at the thing and shrugged. “Five dollars,” she said. She obviously didn’t think the thing was made of anything valuable. Megan retrieved a bill from her purse and handed it to the proprietor, who took it without even looking away from the courtroom show on the television again. Outside in the bright southern sun, Megan held the thing up one more time before she tucked it into her purse and I shook my head one more time.

We quickly forgot about the thing. We spent some more time browsing the cheap local wares and counterfeit purses and sunglasses imported from China. They didn’t tell you it was fake, of course: they would vehemently swear that it was the real deal, and it was only so cheap because of the lax Mexican import laws. Neither of us was that gullible, at least, but lots of the stuff was being sold to the sunburned, tired-looking American college students who peppered the streets. There’s plenty of market for sunglasses at spring break.

Of course, nobody came down here for the shopping. They came for the beach and the night-life, mainly. Even if the night-life started at noon. We passed by a corner of the beach where a stage was erected. A master of ceremonies stood on the stage, one hand holding a microphone, the other laden with long strands of mardi-gras beads. A half-dozen girls were standing right below the stage, eagerly flashing their breasts to the crowd for a twenty-five-cent plastic necklace. I shriveled my nose at the ridiculousness of it.

“I know, right?” Said Megan, “I don’t show my tits for anything less than a t-shirt.”

Not until your fourth shot of tequila, I reflected bitterly. I’d had no idea what kind of party girl my new best friend would turn out to be. I’d gone down there for the beaches, and the sun, and the snorkeling. That first night, though, Megan had gotten so hammered that I spent the entire night keeping her from getting dragged off to some frat-boy’s bedroom. I’d asked for something a little more low-key the second night, but that was not to be, as Megan went off alone with four guys on a boat, and I was left to fend for myself while she did Lord-knows-what out on the ocean. All I knew for sure was that she’d come home shortly before dawn and gone straight to the shower.

I was seriously considering staying in that night. But first, we had a day on the beach to enjoy. Now, I personally would rather find a nice quiet spot, but Megan would rather be positioned close to both a vendor of alcoholic drinks and a steady parade of boys. I didn’t have the fight in me to resist her choice of location. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I like to know that some cute guy is checking me out. The problem is the creepy ones, and there were plenty of greasy college boys and lecherous old men on the beach that day.

My striped halter-top and low-rise brief bottoms practically looked like a burkah next to Megan’s ridiculous string bikini. We were sure to put on sunscreen right away, and while I was rubbing it into Megan’s back some rubber-necking boy walked straight into the side of the little building that the bar was in. Megan cracked up laughing as the guy scrambled to his feet.

I laid back and tried to enjoy the sun. The sun was so warm, so soothing. After a while I rolled over on my stomach, and soon after I felt myself slipping into oblivion.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I was kind of thirsty, and I almost accepted, but then I realized the boy was talking to Megan. Of course.

“Sure,” Megan said casually, “those purple things look good.”

I lifted up on my elbow and looked. The purple drink in question was a monstrous blended thing which was being sold for fifteen dollars. The young man paled a little, considering whether his chances of any payoff with Megan warranted that kind of expenditure.

“Yeah, be right back,” he said after a moment, striding across the sand towards the bar.

“Good morning sleepy,” said Megan, “you were out like a light. You should probably roll over.”

My back was, in fact, feeling fairly warm. I sat up, putting my front towards the sun. “What time is it?”

Megan shrugged. “Late enough to get blitzed.”

The young man returned with the tall beverage, and a beer for himself. “Oh, your friend is awake,” he said, “would you like something too?” He asked me.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” I said, squinting up at me. He looked at me curiously for a moment, practically staring at my chest. I felt somewhat self-conscious, but I also felt kind of a thrill. “I’m going to go freshen up,” I said, feeling hot in the face.

“Okay,” said Megan with a grin as the boy sat down next to her in the dry sand.

I walked down towards the restrooms. I felt like a hundred men had to be watching me, and somehow the thought filled me with a kind of excitement. Nervously, I reached down and smoothed the bottom of my swim suit down, ensuring that it fully covered my ass.

I stepped into the concrete restroom, which was cool and a little moist from a mist machine over the entry. Inside was a bathroom attendant, a young lady who was selling a variety of hygiene and health products, including, I noticed with distaste, packs of condoms. I stepped to the sink and washed my hands. There were no paper towels, except the ones that the girl was selling—she tried to hand me one—but I hadn’t brought any money. I looked at myself in the mirror, and that’s when I noticed the sperm pendant around my neck.

“That bitch,” I muttered angrily. I reached back and tried to un-clasp it, but the thing wouldn’t come.

The Mexican girl said something, and stepped up behind me, and tried to pinch the clasp open. She tried for several long minutes. “Lo siento,” she concluded.

“It’s okay,” I said, “I’ll work it out. Gracias.”

She nodded and returned to her little wooden chair. “Gracias,” I said again, pointedly patting my hands against my hips where my pockets would have been.

I walked out into the bright sun again. This time I felt the eyes on me again, but I was suddenly sure that they were all staring straight at the pendant. What kind of girl wears something like that? I wondered angrily. A girl like Megan, that’s who. I marched across the sand but soon I could see that Megan was gone. I couldn’t see her anywhere on the beach.

I dug into my bag and took out my t-shirt, and put it on over my swim suit. Then I took my stuff, leaving all of Megan’s there. She would figure out why I’d left. I was certainly angry enough with her. I walked swiftly off the beach and crossed back to the place where our hotel shuttle was. Nobody else was waiting for the return trip.

I felt like the thing was burning into my chest. No, burning wasn’t right, it felt distinctly cold on my sun-kissed skin. I needed to get it off. I ran off the bus past a surprised line of students eager to get down to the beach. I made my way directly to the room, walked to the big, well-lit mirror, and tried to get the thing off again. The clasp would open, but every time I tried to get the loop out, my fingers would slip. I tried for a very long time, before I decided I should just cut the thing off, but I didn’t have anything suitable in the room. I called the hotel front desk.

“Front desk,” said the accented female voice on the other end of the phone.

“Hi, I was wondering if you have some kind of pliers or wire cutters or something you could loan me. I have kind of a problem here and something I need to cut.”

“Let me see what I can do,” she said.

I tried again for another frustrating couple of minutes, but then there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and a young Mexican man carrying a large, paint-splattered metal toolbox was standing there.

“Yes? What is broken, Miss?” He asked.

“This necklace,” I said, holding the clasp out from my neck as far as it would go. The pendant was behind my neck where he couldn’t see it. “Would you just cut it off?”

“Oh,” he said, peering closely, “yes, Miss.”

He set the toolbox on the little round table and opened the top. The door swung shut automatically behind him. He dug around noisily for long moments and produced a large pair of some kind of metal snips.

I pulled it out again and he move the tool close. It was such a large tool, it made me kind of nervous having it so close to my neck. “All okay, Miss,” said the young man, taking the delicate chain between his thick fingers. “No hurt.”

He focused intently. His coarse fingers touched me, one against the softness of my neck, the other against my collar bone through my t-shirt, stabilizing his hand. I could feel his breath on my neck. A shiver ran up and down my body.

“No move, Miss,” he ordered me. I became acutely aware that my body was trembling. It wasn’t the thought of the sharp instrument that was putting me on edge, though. It was the scent of him, seeping into my nostrils. The situation felt distinctly too intimate. I wished the door was open.

“Miss, no move,” he repeated, shifting his grip on the tool, pressing his hand against me more firmly. I sighed longingly. Longingly? Yes, it was quite longingly. His eyes rose and looked into mine. He looked as shocked as I felt at the inappropriateness of the sound of my sigh. I couldn’t look away. I could see the shock turn to confusion. I could see him turning the possibilities over in his head. I wanted to pull back, to make clear that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. I don’t care about the pendant, I just want... want... something... I want.. him to... put... his... hand...

Without further thought, I moved his hand from my neck down to my breast.

That was the last pretense either of us showed. The next moment we were kissing. His rough chin was prickling my chin. My hands were on his chest, then grasping for the hem of his shirt.

The cutting tool fell to the tile floor with a clatter.

His hands were on me, then, hungrily roaming over my body, feeling the line of my curves through the t-shirt, grasping my ass through the swimsuit. His desire was no longer contained, and it was so overwhelming that I realized how difficult it must have been to keep it dammed for so long. It was compelling, inevitable. How could I deny something so intense, so real?

More clothing flew to the floor. I pushed him back onto the bed. I straddled his waist. He was hard, ready, huge. I teased my body against him. I’d never been like this, my sexual experiences had always been so nervous, tentative. Now I was grinding against his pelvis with my sex and driving him wild. Then he could take no more. He grabbed me by the hips, flipped me on my back, and pushed his aching member inside me.

I’d never imagined that sex could be like that. He was strong, forceful, confident. I’d never have suspected that I would like such a thing, but my body was rewarding me with all kinds of unfamiliar sensations. I was so wet, for starters. But I also felt a deep ache, a tantalizing itch that I wanted him to scratch so badly. He was working me with an intensity that put me in awe, his bronzed skin glistening with beads of sweat. I found myself thrusting my hips up to meet him. He was up on his knees, holding my thighs firmly in his coarse hands, staring intently at my breasts as they swayed in time with our screwing.

I felt that ache growing. I knew what I needed then. It was something I’d never believed in, something that I thought was invented as another falsehood in the game of sex. It was my first orgasm, and I screamed wordlessly for him to give it to me. I knew, then, that it was inside of him, and he could put it in me, he could make me into a real woman. He grasped my hips, and pushed deep inside me, and the ache exploded, and I saw stars, and the unlikely sounds coming from my mouth were unmistakable.

I was vaguely aware of him pulling out of me as I squirmed. Then I felt something hot on my belly. I opened his eyes, and he was pulling on his throbbing penis with an intensity in his eyes that sent my stomach aflutter. His sperm was spraying out over my tummy, gobs and gobs of it. My skin sizzled under it. He fell back on his ankles, and my hands came up, spreading the hotness over my skin. It was deliciously slippery, and I spread it over my skin, and up over the mounds of my breasts, but there wasn’t enough of it to reach even to my nipples. I felt this feeling of longing, then, to be covered in the stuff. The raunchiness of it gave me another thrill.

The young man—I didn’t even know his name—was watching me, and masturbating himself. “Mas?” he croaked longingly.

“Por favor” I said. He leaned down between my legs, then, and his tongue probed against my overheated sex.