The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“It’s the smell of the green leather covering his desk I remember the most” I said. “He held my face down against it as he bent me over the desk, trousers round my ankles, fucking me up the ass. “Take your punishment boy” Justice Collins spat at me as he unloaded inside me. No protection of course.”

“And that, in one illustrative example, answers your question. Why he got away with it all those years. Why nothing came out until after his death. A spider at the centre of his web. Protected by the network of influential sexual predictors, like Judge Collins, that he weaved around him.”

The journalist sighed and reached across the hotel room table to switch off her recorder. “That’s enough for today I think” she said. She had long since learned the futility of repeatedly saying how sorry she was as I told her my story.

“How’s the therapy going” she asked, trying instead to stay positive. I liked her, for a tabloid journalist, Jenny Wilson. A petite blonde with a nice rack. Exactly the type he would have loved corrupting and breaking to bring out her natural inner slut.

“I think it is helping” I replied neutrally. For a moment, I wondered about mentioning the weirdly familiar feel my last session had suddenly taken, but I was sure she would just dismiss it as my understandable paranoia.

And after all, I couldn’t really tell her how I felt about anything. How this current mask was just the latest in a long line of masks, from confident teenager, to regular husband, and now abuse victim. Just another role to be played out in public.

No, the unspeakable truth was that even now, I knew he was the only person who ever really saw the real me. The only one who could bring out the naturally submissive sissy slut that had lurked unknown inside me all along.

I was a cool 19 year old in flared jeans, rock t-shirt and long hair, when he pulled up alongside me in his gold Rolls Royce to offer me a lift in the pouring rain.

Woodville was the dullest of dull places to grow-up as a teenager. A large market town, some 45 minutes south-east of Brunchester City, today it was just a dormitory community for commuters. Anything remotely interesting happened in the metropolis.

Woodville had become the posh aspirational suburbs out of the city for the well to do. Which was of course why he had moved there. Bill Henry, the famous TV presenter, buys a property in Woodville. The biggest, and indeed only, local news of the last decade.

Of course, back then, as an impressionable 11 year old, it was big news. He was a part of my staple TV viewing. Bill Henry was the main host of Headline Hits, the show where all young teens across the nation got their weekly dose of the latest pop idols smoking their way up the Billboard 100.

The TV show was one of Brunchcester Broadcasting Company’s first big hits, quickly being syndicated coast to coast, in their competition with the likes of CBS and NBC, making a national star of the host. All those popstars who so excited me at that young age came to Brunchester to film it, and Bill Henry the host who knew them all, lived right here in Woodville! Back then, I was disappointed not to have witnessed any of the legendary local sightings of Bill Henry and his famous gold Rolls Royce around Woodville for myself.

Within just a couple of years, Bill Henry’s stardom went off the scale. Brunchcester Broadcasting Company had another smash hit on its hands. ‘Henry Makes it Happen’ was must see, coast to coast, prime time Saturday evening viewing for all young teenagers. The show where Bill Henry made kid’s dreams come true.

Like all my friends, I watched it religiously, even writing to the show myself once, around 15 or 16, wanting to meet one of my new favourite rock bands, who coincidentally had just made a rare appearance on Headline Hits.

With hindsight though, that was marking my changing tastes to more grown-up things. Away from teen pop to serious rock music and the kind of bands who relied on album sales, rather than singles on Headline Hits. My 19 year old self would have laughed at the immature things I liked back then, that wet afternoon when Bill Henry pulled up to offer me a ride.

“Now then, now then” he said deploying his catchphrase as he wound down the car window. “Can I offer a fellow young Woodvilleian a rescuing lift from this biblical deluge?”

The inside of the Rolls Royce stank of sweet sickly smoke from his trade mark pipe that always seemed to be in his hand on TV, although fortunately not while he was driving I was glad to see. The smell quickly started to make me feel sleepy and lightheaded, but it was only a short drive to my home, barely enough time to exchange some adult sounding pleasantries, rather than the star struck babbling that would have happened if this had occurred eight years earlier.

“Pleasure to meet you young man” he said as he dropped me off, the rain still falling hard. “If you like, I can have someone drop round a guest pass to a recording of Headline Hits in a few weeks’ time, if you’d like that?”

I hesitated for a moment, almost reverting to that star struck 11 year old. The show was still popular, even if most of the pop acts these days struck me as deeply lame. But it would be interesting to see it being filmed, and there was always a slim chance someone cool might actually be making a rare appearance.

“Sure. And thanks for the lift” I said, hurrying inside.

True to his word, an envelope with a guest pass came through the letterbox about a week later.

I can’t lie, it felt a bit special bypassing the long queue of kids with general admission tickets, and going straight through the VIP entrance at Brunchester Television Centre with my laminate pass, along with the older, more glamourous looking crowd of invited guests. Although naturally I was in my standard jeans and rock t-shirt. It might be Headline Hits, but I still had standards of real music to maintain.

It was interesting to see the Show being recorded, even if it turned out to be much duller and much longer than it appeared on TV.

The 45 minute show took over two hours to film. Bill Henry would appear in one part of the studio, surrounded by a gaggle of excited kids, introducing the next pop act who had shuffled onto a stage behind him. Said act would then be filmed miming along to their track, followed by various lengths of pauses while the Producers of the Show requested additional shots and retakes.

Eventually satisfied, there would be more general shuffling about before the whole rigmarole repeated again with the next pop act in another part of the studio. All the while, several floor managers doing their best to keep the excitable young teen kid audience whipped up in a frenzy of, well, excitement.

Sadly though, there were no surprise appearances by any real rock bands on this edition of the Show to pique my own interest.

Eventually, all done, the over excited kids were ushered back out of the studio, while the special guests, like myself, were escorted to the labyrinthine like maze of dressing rooms below the studio for the after party.

A large, unused dressing room had been set up with a buffet and free bar, which being a 19 year-old, I naturally took full advantage of, not quite believing my luck. The ensuing party spilled out into the jungle of corridors, and in and out of some of the pop act’s dressing rooms too, becoming more and more raucous as the bar was raided.

At several points, I saw some of the younger guests, about my age, emerging laughing from dressing rooms in a state that could only really be described as dishevelled undress.

But to be honest, I had no real interest in meeting any of these lame pop acts, and I didn’t know anyone else here. So despite the free beer, after just an hour or so, I started wandering the confusing corridors looking for the way out to head home.

Another dressing room door burst open right next to me as I wandered, two sexy giggling girls emerging to brush past me, closely followed by the elusive Bill Henry himself calling “Now then, don’t be too naught girls” after them.

“Ah. Dr Rock Kid. My fellow Woodvilleian!” he exclaimed, stopping in the doorway on seeing me. “Glad you could come. I trust you are making the most of the libations. Come in, come in. Come into my lair, as they say” he said, shoeing me into his dressing room.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but his dressing room was actually nothing special, except for the overpowering smell of that pipe of course. “Now tell me young man. As a music fan of more discerning tastes. Who do you think were the best act tonight?” he asked, taking a long drag on the famous pipe and blowing the sweet smoke all around my head, where it seemed to stick in a dizzying cloud.

Not really interested, I made up a random answer to satisfy him, and explained that I was actually looking for the exit to head home. “Of course, Dr Rock” he said jovially, “It’s a much longer day than people realise from just watching on the box. Let me show you the way out.”

Then he paused, looking at me thoughtfully, before continuing, “You know, I bet a young fellow of your vintage was probably a big fan of Henry Makes it Happen when we first started that show back in the day. Am I right?” I nodded numbly in the smoke. “Marvellous. Then we can’t miss the opportunity to show you that important childhood studio too while you’re here, can we? And it just so happens that it’s right on our way out anyway.”

We headed off together through the maze of corridors, me following in his cloud of thick dizzying pipe smoke. Eventually we emerged into a darkened studio where Henry Makes it Happen was still made. Bill Henry flicked a few switches and there, illuminated centre stage, was the famous armchair he sat in surrounded by kids, ready to make their dreams come true.

We wondered onto the stage. He sat in the big chair, and I sat as his feet just like in the Show, the air around us quickly filling with pipe smoke as he waxed lyrically about the programme.

He flicked another switch, this time on the side of his chair, and the Show’s ridiculously catchy theme tune started to play quietly through unseen speakers. Every kid my age could sing all the words, especially the earworm of the chorus, “Henry makes it happen for you. La, La, La! La, La, La!! La, La, La!!!” The stupid tune drilled through my head, making it hard to think of anything else.

Another flick of a chair switch, and the famous letter holder emerged from the arm. He plucked a piece of paper from it and started to read. “Now then, now then. I have a letter here from a young Dr Rock. It says, ‘Dear Bill, I am a boi who likes to dress as a gurl. Please can you make it happen for me to dress up like a pretty slut?’

No, wait, that wasn’t the letter I wrote, was it? I tried to think, even as he exhaled another cloud of that pungent dizzying pipe smoke around my head, and he reached down showing me the letter in my own handwriting.

Before I could get a grip on my obvious confusion, another switch was flicked, and just beyond where we sat, a new spotlight illuminated a table in the surrounding darkness. On a hanger by the table, I could see a frilly red lacy bra and panty set, alongside a flimsy, pale pink, see through chemise nightie with Daddy’s Slut printed on it.

As I looked, confused and dumbfounded, the ‘La, La La!’ of the theme tune came back around again, but suddenly increasing sharply in volume, as if drowning out all other thoughts from my head, save for the immediate facts at hand. I obviously had written to Bill Henry asking to be a sexy gurl. That was all I could think, as I walked over to the table as if in a dream, and obediently changed. After all, the Show had to go on.

The lingerie felt amazing against my skin. The soft panties lovingly cupping my little sissy dicklet. The chemise making me feel small and vulnerable. Feeling so much happier as a gurl, just as I had told Bill Henry it would, when I wrote that letter.

I minced back over to the big chair, this time sitting in Bill’s lap, as he patted his leg indicating that I should. I bit my lower lip coyly, feeling his hard erection pressing up into my soft little gurly butt, deeply inhaling his comforting scent of sweet pipe smoke, wanting to hug in closer.

He started reading from another letter in my handwriting. ‘Dear Daddy Bill. Please can you make it happen for me to kiss a real man’s cock like all the other sissy sluts do?’

I bit my lower lip again anxiously. It seemed like a lot to ask, but I could still feel his hard need pressing into me. ‘La, La La!’ the theme tune came back around again suddenly at even greater volume, as I obediently sunk to my knees between his legs and opened my mouth. It was simply my nature as a sissy slut after all. Something I had asked for. Something I needed.

His cock felt warm and so natural filling my mouth, as my lips and tongue worked around the head, and up and down his meaty shaft. He put his strong hands on my head, forcing it further down my throat, telling me what a natural dirty slut I was.

He pulled me off his cock as I tasted the first salty pre-cum. Bill Henry was looking down at me with a warm smile of approval, a third letter in his hand. ‘Daddy, please make it happen for your sissy slut to be fucked by real men’s dicks, which cum inside me, and make me a real gurl’.

The ‘La, La La!’ of that hypnotic theme tune had barely started again, and I was already on all fours, head down, ass up, eagerly waiting for Bill Henry to start fucking me.

I moaned as he took my virgin sissy ass on that studio floor, and although it was my first time, it immediately felt like the most natural thing in the world for a submissive beta fucktoy like me, giving myself willingly to superior alpha men.

Only Bill Henry had been able to see the true sissy slut waiting inside me, and as his hot cum exploded deep inside me, I knew he had made it happen for me. I had become a real gurl.