The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter 7

The urgency of our first time together had left little room for foreplay. Neither of us had even been fully undressed. Installing me in his big, soft bed, Richard more than made up for that lack. He explored every inch of my body, drawing pleasure out of every kiss and touch, until I was practically begging him for God’s sake to go on and take me again, before I lost my mind completely. By the time he gave in to my pleas, we were both more than ready. He took his time, drawing out each motion, kissing me, whispering my name; until the final shuddering climax took me and left me mindless, a hollow vessel for the pleasure that he poured into me. If this was what sex had been like with his former girlfriend, I had no idea how she had managed to leave him; I wasn’t sure I would make it back out of his bed.

Hunger, however, eventually did the trick. Richard lent me a bathrobe and put on a pair of shorts and jeans, and we ordered a very large quantity of Chinese delivery food. I was starving; I felt I could eat an entire pig’s worth of mu shu pork myself; and Richard’s appetite matched the rest of him in size.

After dinner, feeling full and rather sleepy, we returned to the bed and curled up together, skin to skin, not talking. I soaked up his warmth, feeling happier than I had in longer than I could remember; so happy that I wasn’t even worrying (yet) about whether he had liked it as much as I had, and what kind of relationship he wanted. I knew what I wanted.

Richard nuzzled the back of my neck. I sighed sleepily, and snuggled closer. My voice sounded distant in my own ears as I murmured: “I love you, Master.”

Oh my God. What had I just said?

I jerked around to look Richard in the face. His expression was not shocked; not even surprised. It was like being plunged in ice water; the cobwebs cleared from my brain. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

“My God,” I whispered. “What is this?”

Richard went still, then sighed. “The intersection of our fantasies.”

Fantasies. I remembered the dreams. The disembodied voice. His voice.

Richard leaned forward, touching my cheek. “I think it’s time to remember, Susie.”

His words opened the floodgates of my memory. The very first day, drifting into a light trance in his chair. Subsequent sessions, deepening the trance, starting to probe into my longings and desires. I remembered sitting there, calmly revealing my most intimate secrets to this man, things I had never confessed to anyone. Fantasies. Lusts. Needs.

I recoiled from him so violently that I fell from the bed. Richard sat up with a look of concern, and I scrambled to my feet, backing away from him, arms folded tightly across my chest.

“You did this to me!” I gasped. “You made me into your...you made me want to be your...” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. I felt tears in my eyes, and longed to be folded into strong arms and comforted; his arms, his comfort.

“I didn’t make you want me,” Richard said. “I couldn’t have, if I’d wanted to. I didn’t create your fantasies. I just let them out.”

“You just let them out?” I said. “Sweet Jesus, they’re fantasies; they’re not, not real...”

“They are now,” Richard said quietly.

I shook my head violently, the tears spilling over and falling down my cheeks. “I trusted you.” My throat caught on the words.

“And you can trust me,” Richard leaned forward, urgently, and I once again felt the powerful pull of attraction for him, even through the burning throb of my hurt. “With your life.”

“My life,” I said bitterly. “Not my freedom.”

“Is that what you want?” Richard asked me. I wanted to go and throw myself into his arms. I wanted to run away and never stop. “I didn’t mean to do it, at first,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t trying to hypnotize you, that first time. But you slipped under, so easily; you trusted me so readily. I wanted you. I wanted to know how you felt about me. And then, I found out more, and more, and I couldn’t stop. You were so perfect; and you wanted it as much as I did...”

“No...no...” I wasn’t sure I’d even said that aloud, but Richard answered.

“Yes!” he said. “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I’ve seen inside you, Susie.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Susan. Susie. They’re both you.”

“No!” I wiped my eyes. “I hate you,” I told him, willing it to be true. “I hate what you’ve done to me. I never want to see you again.”

Richard winced at my words. “If you do, I don’t blame you,” he said quietly. “You can leave right now, and never come back. But Susan,” he added as I started to move, “I want you to stay.”

It took all the willpower I possessed to leave that room. My clothes were scattered over the floor. I quickly dressed and grabbed my bag, all the time feeling the lure of him, out of sight in the next room but just as potent as if he’d been standing next to me. I slammed the door behind me as I left. I would never go back. Never. Maybe I should leave the university, transfer somewhere else, far away from him. I wasn’t sure how I would explain it to my parents, but I would think of something.

It was late. The sky was overcast, hiding the moon. I walked sightlessly, replaying the events of the evening over and over in my mind. I remembered our lovemaking with a despairing surge of heat; the sudden release of my memories with an icy shock. He was in me like a fever. I had never wanted any man the way I had wanted Richard, the way I still wanted him, my flesh calling out for him with a physical ache; and not just physical. I loved him. Richard was right, I couldn’t lie to myself. I still loved him. I loved him, and he had taken advantage of me.

The way you wanted him to, my mind whispered.

He had betrayed my trust. Then why do you still trust him?

An elastic band was tightening in my chest, trying to draw me back. It grew more taut with every step. I leaned into the pressure like a a strong wind, fighting its attempts to yank me back to him. My steps came slower and slower as I forced myself to keep moving. With a sudden shock of recognition, I realized that I had arrived at the entrance to my dorm. I stood their, balanced between the forces that were trying to tear me apart. A little knot of students came out, laughing loudly, probably celebrating the end of finals. There must be parties all over campus tonight. One of the students waved to me; I recognized her as a girl from the suite next to mine. She looked flushed and happy. They all seemed so happy; so unbelievably normal, taking joy in simple things.

One more step, and the band would snap. I could be like them, again.

One more step.

I turned around. After the first block I was running. One of Richard’s neighbors was leaving the building just as I arrived; he looked at me oddly, but didn’t say anything as I caught the door before it could close and slipped inside. I pelted up the stairs, my heart beating even faster than it had on my first visit here. My fears then had been irrational. Now they were real.

It took a long time for Richard to respond to my knock. I waited, trembling. Eventually, I heard his footsteps on the other side of the door. He opened it, and looked thunderstruck to see me.

“Can I come in?” I asked in a small voice.

Without a word he stepped aside, and after a moment’s hesitation I entered. Richard shut the door behind me. It must have been my imagination, but it had a very final sound.

We stood for a while without speaking. Finally, I broke the silence.

“I don’t know if you did this, or I did,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. I am...what I am. I’m yours. I want to stay. I need to stay.” A long pause. “Please.”

Richard drew himself together with a start. “Of course you can stay. That’s what I want, too.”

I nodded, sharply. Before I could lose my nerve, I set down my bag and went to sit in the chair. After a moment, Richard followed and sat next to me.

“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

I turned and looked at him, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. “No. Yes.” Then I added, in a sudden rush. “Only, please...tell me that you love me!”

Richard smiled reassuringly. He held out his hand, and I seized it, convulsively.

“I love you, Susan,” he said.

I nodded, drew in a deep breath, and let it out. Without releasing his hand, I looked up at the Van Gogh print, willing myself to relax.

“All right, then. Look up there...relax...breathe deeply, now...good...now, let your muscles loosen. Let yourself go...”

The darkness was lapping about me, nibbling at the corners of my consciousness. I looked up at the cypresses, twisting green flames, and opened my mind, letting myself sink beneath the surface...down...down...

...and up again, into the light. Richard was still holding my hand. The turmoil inside me was gone, as if a switch had been flipped in my mind. I felt almost giddy with the lack of it, like the silence after a siren ends. I drew a shuddering sigh of relief.

“Welcome home, Susie,” Richard said.

I looked at him—big and strong and tender—and smiled.

“Thank you,” I said. “Master.”

Chapter 8

The big adjustments were easy. It was the little things that took getting used to.

I had arranged a summer job on campus, working as a “research assistant” (i.e., gofer) for one of my English Lit professors. Arlene was also working on campus that summer, and the two of us had planned to share an apartment. I wasn’t sure how she’d react when I tried to back out of it. It was late in the year to find another roommate.

As it happened, I needn’t have worried. When I went back to the dorm the next day, Arlene didn’t ask me where I’d spent the night. Nor did she turn a hair when I told her that Richard and I were now an item, except to comment “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “The thing is, Richard wants me to move in with him...”

“So you don’t want to move in with me,” Arlene finished. “I thought that might happen. Not a problem. Jack’s been wanting to move in with me for a while; I’ll tell him he can go ahead.”

I had been so prepared for argument and recrimination that this ready acceptance took me by surprise. Arlene could tell; her eyes were twinkling. I shook my head and laughed ruefully.

“Do you always know what I’m going to do before I do?” I asked her.

“Pretty much, sweetie,” Arlene said cheerfully. “But then, I know you really well.”

Not as well as you think, I thought, and felt a sudden urge to tell her everything. But I was too afraid that she might withdraw from me in disgust. She was my best friend. I didn’t want to lose her.

I handled my parents by the simple tactic of not telling them anything. As far as I could tell, my mother was under the impression that I was still a virgin, even though I’d had two boyfriends before leaving high school. I could just imagine the conversation: “Hi, mom. Just wanted to let you know, I’m moving in with some guy you’ve never met. Oh, and by the way, I’m actually his sex slave. Yeah. Go figure.” No way. Without actually lying to them, I left them with the impression that I was still rooming with Arlene. I knew she and Jack wouldn’t give me away. As long as I checked in every few weeks, I doubted they’d ever notice the difference.

Among Jack’s many virtues as Arlene’s boyfriend was the fact that he owned a car, a very old station wagon which he kept in perfect condition. He and Richard and Arlene helped me pack and load my stuff, and he drove it over to Richard’s apartment, where we all unloaded it. It only took three trips to move everything. Richard had made room in his closet and drawers, and cleared off two shelves of his bookcase. It took me a couple of hours to put everything away, except for my excess books, which ended up in a neat, three-foot stack by the door in the bedroom. Richard took down a couple of his prints, and I replaced them with two Maxfield Parrish posters. One day, and I might have lived there forever.

As far as anyone outside knew, Richard was my boyfriend and I had moved in with him, just like any number of college couples. When we were in public, or when anyone was around, I called him ‘Richard’ and he called me ‘Susan.’ When we were alone, he called me ‘Susie’ and I called him ‘Master.’ I might have expected it to feel strange, but it didn’t. It came to my lips completely naturally, even more than his name did. After all, I was his. He was my master. It was a fact.

Rather, it was ordinary life that often seemed strange. I started my job; I continued to see Arlene and Jack and my other friends, just as before. No one seemed to find anything different in my behavior, or if they did it was attributed to my having a new boyfriend. When I was apart from Richard, my life was almost exactly the same as it had been before. And in the middle of work, or chatting with friends, the realization would come to me with the force of a thunderclap: I am Richard’s slave. Against the rock of that certainty, ‘normal life’ seemed to break and flow, becoming unreal, and I felt like an impostor, impersonating myself. The feeling only lasted a moment, but it was powerful. Arlene teased me occasionally about being distracted, and I laughed; but it really wasn’t funny.

If I wasn’t quite used to being a slave, Richard wasn’t used to having one. At first he treated me pretty much like a girlfriend, except a little more considerately than average. (A lot more considerately, compared to my average ex.) For the first week, I drove him crazy, coming to him every ten minutes and asking for something to do. I knew he didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop myself. Eventually he got the idea: when we were apart I could manage on my own, but when we were together I wanted him to take charge of me. Bowing to the inevitable, he set me to work cleaning and straightening the apartment, organizing our CD collection and books, doing the laundry, and anything else he could think of. It bothered him a bit, I could tell; he felt like he was exploiting me, which given the nature of our relationship struck me as more than mildly amusing. It didn’t bother me. I like order, and straightening things up can be very satisfying. Every time he told me to do something I felt a strange, sensual thrill, even though I could never get him to stop saying “please.” And the apartment really gleamed.

One project, unfortunately, didn’t turn out quite so well. The night after I moved in, I offered to cook dinner for us. I spent three hours working on it, after spending an hour leafing through cookbooks and making a special trip to the grocery store. After tasting the meal I had prepared, Richard’s expression changed and he gasped.

“Is it...not all right, Master?” I asked him anxiously.

“Did you taste this?” he asked me, reaching for his water glass.

“No. Should I have?”

“Yes. How much salt did you put in, Susie?”

“Um...a tablespoon?”

“A tablespoon?”

Obviously this was very, very wrong. “That’s what the recipe said, Master,” I mumbled defensively.

“The recipe called for a tablespoon of salt?”

“It said one t-s-p. That’s a tablespoon, right?”

Richard winced, and so did I, reflexively. “Was it a capital ‘T’ or a lowercase ‘t’?”

Maybe, if I was lucky, the floor would open up and swallow me. “I think... lowercase...Master.”

“Right. That would be a teaspoon.” He gestured at my plate. “Try it.”

I took a small taste, then reached for my own water glass. It was inedible.

“I’m sorry, Master,” I said, near tears.

Richard sighed and got up. “No problem, Susie. But I think I’ll do the cooking from now on. Come on, babe; I’ll take you out to dinner. Get your jacket.”

I slunk off to get my jacket, while Richard disposed of the meal I’d worked so hard on. Usually, I like going out to eat, but not that night. Richard saw how upset I was, and soothed me by promising to teach me how to cook. That cheered me up a bit; but disappointing him still rattled me. That was the part that I hadn’t expected. I was absolutely open to him in every way, vulnerable to any unguarded comment he might make. I was his, and pleasing him was what I was for. Displeasing him...was too painful to think about, even though he almost never got angry.

I don’t mean to give the impression, though, that I spent a lot of time being upset or unhappy. The fact was, I was very happy; almost deliriously happy. The same openness that made me vulnerable was the source of a great and deeply satisfying joy. When I was close to him my skin tingled. If I heard his voice unexpectedly my heart leapt. I loved him in a way that made me realize how weak my feelings had been for Brad or any of the others.

And then, of course, there was the sex.

It wouldn’t be quite accurate to say that Richard and I had sex day and night. We had sex day, night, morning and mid-afternoon. While I’ve always liked sex as much as the next girl, or maybe more, I’d never experienced anything like the emotions I felt with Richard. I was on, all the time. My libido rarely dropped below a steady simmer, and it didn’t take much to bring me to a rolling boil. Our first couple of weeks passed like a long, sweaty exercise in combinatorics: we tried out every location (bed, couch, chair, rug, bath, shower, up against the wall), position (him on top, me on top, side by side, back to front, sitting, standing, and two or three et ceteras) and variation we could think of, which turned out to be quite a few. I’d never realized what a kinky imagination I had until I started giving my fantasies free reign. Not that Richard was complaining. Or, at least, not seriously.

“You know,” he said at one point, trying to squeeze the last drops out of a little plastic bear, “I never even used to like honey...”

“Well, I could put it on you, Master,” I said, wriggling a little—honey is damned sticky stuff—“but I’m trying to watch my figure...oooo...”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Richard said, pausing in between licks. “And I’m sure all these sweets are bad for my teeth. Next time let’s use steak sauce.”

Don’t try that, by the way...steak sauce stings.

I’d heard, of course, the old story about how men think about sex every five minutes, or two minutes, or thirty seconds, or whatever. The behavior of my previous boyfriends had certainly supported the statistics. Sometimes I had wondered how men ever managed to get anything done, if they had to pause to think about sex so often. Now, with my almost constant semi-arousal, the shoe was on the other foot. After a few days with Richard, the mystery was solved: I discovered that I was quite capable of thinking about sex while doing something else at the same time. Multitasking is a marvelous thing.

True, at work from time to time I would wander off into a daydream; like the one where Richard came home from his office to find that I’d done something naughty—not too bad, of course, since displeasing him was no fun even in daydreams—and decided to punish me in some extremely erotic fashion. Which got more and more elaborate until some outside distraction brought me back to the conscious world with a jolt. I sometimes wondered if Richard had planted these daydreams in my subconscious, but when I asked him he denied it.

“I have enough trouble keeping up with the ideas you generate on your own,” Richard told me when he got home, his words a bit muffled by my climbing all over him. “If I added extra fantasies to the mix I’d probably have a stroke...what is it that I’m supposed to be punishing you for, anyway?”

“I’ve been bad, Master,” I said, nibbling his earlobe (which I’d noticed sent his inhibitions crashing through the floor). “I’ve been very, very bad...”

“Oh, you’ve been bad, huh?” Richard said, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me off my feet. “Well, then, maybe I should send you to bed with no supper...and go with you to make sure you stay there...”

About two weeks after I’d moved in, Richard and I were invited to a party being thrown by one of Richard’s fellow psychology grad students. The party was in an apartment building near by, and it was loud enough that we could hear it almost as soon as we left the front door. We arrived to find his door open and the room beyond it packed; loud rock music was blaring, and half a dozen people in various stages of inebriation were sitting in the hall outside, trying to talk or perhaps just to save their hearing. Richard and I drew deep breaths and plunged inside. All the furniture had been pushed back in the living room, and a couple of dozen people were dancing in a space roughly the size of a dining room table. A couple of dozen more were crammed in around the periphery, standing or draped over the couches and chair, and another crowd led off towards what was probably the kitchen, though from the looks of things they’d never make it. Hardly anyone even looked up at our entrance, but across the room someone saw us and waved, then began making his way through the mob to reach us. Richard took my elbow and started moving us the same way.

“Richard!” said the man when we finally reached each other. “My man! You made it!” He gave Richard a hug, and I estimated that he’d had more than a few before we’d arrived.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Kwan,” Richard said, or rather roared, no other form of communication being possible. “Thanks for the invitation. This is Susan—the girl I’ve been talking about ad nauseum.”

Kwan detached himself from Richard and turned towards me, extending a hand. He was tall, though not as tall as Richard; Asian, with wire-framed glasses that covered a pair of eyes that were surprisingly clear for someone who’d been drinking. I took his hand, trying not to feel like I had the word ‘Slave’ branded on my forehead.

“Pleased to meet you, Kwan,” I said.

“The pleasure is entirely, entirely mine, lovely lady,” Kwan said, bowing over my hand. “A very lovely lady—but you would have to be, to lure Richard here into thinking about something besides work.”

I was completely flustered. Richard laughed and said “You’re drunk, Kwan. And I love her only for her mind.”

“Drunk, yes,” Kwan said, releasing my hand and turning back to Richard with an air of wounded dignity, “but not drunk enough to believe that. Enjoy the party. Beer in the kitchen. I trust this child is of age?”

“Close enough,” Richard said.

“Well, I leave it to your conscience. When the police come—and believe me, they will—I’ll claim I’ve never seen her before in my life. Have fun!”

With that he began making his way back towards the door, to greet some more late arrivals. I leaned towards Richard so that I could yell a little more quietly into his ear.

“Is your friend entirely...normal?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” Richard said. “He’s a psychology student. Drink?”

I thought about it. “Dance,” I said instead, and dragged him towards the middle of the floor.

We danced for five songs straight, at which point I was willing enough to take a break. We joined the throng slowly diffusing towards the kitchen. It took us about fifteen minutes to make it there. Richard snagged a couple of bottles of beer, and we started oozing back towards the living room. Someone had put on a different dance tape, with slower songs; I pulled Richard back onto the floor, and we swayed together in each other’s arms for a while, his embrace making me feel safe, as it always did.

During a quiet period (or at least, a period of modified uproar) Richard introduced me to a few more psychology students and their associated girl-and boyfriends. With each person I met, I felt that my secret must be immediately obvious, but everyone treated me normally. It was strange, more intoxicating than the beer; I felt like the Caliph in the Arabian Nights, moving through the crowds in disguise; only, he was a king, and I was a slave, enjoying the illusion of freedom.

A break came after we’d been at the party nearly two hours, when the police came to tell Kwan that the neighbors had complained. I slipped off to the bathroom—an involved process, requiring me to step around or over various drunks and wait for someone else to drag themselves out in response to my repeated knocks.

When I finally made it back to the living room it was much quieter. The music was off, and a good fraction of the guests seemed to have departed. Richard was talking quietly with Kwan in the corner. I came up behind him and put my arms around him, rising up on my toes to whisper in his ear.

“Master.“ I breathed.

Richard went still in my arms.

“You...are...my...master,” I whispered, so quietly that only he could hear.

He turned and pulled me to him almost roughly, looking down into my face.

“Damned right I am,” he growled, and kissed me.

“What did she say?” Kwan asked curiously. “Whatever it was, it must have been pretty good.”

“It was a philosophical point,” Richard said without looking around. “I think we should go home and discuss it.”

“At length,” I agreed.

“Thanks for the invitation, Kwan,” Richard said, steering me towards the door. “Great party.”

“I’ve got the feeling that yours is going to be even better!” Kwan called after us.

I don’t remember the walk home at all; just bursting through our door and not making it any further than the living room rug before we started tearing each other’s clothes off. There was no need of foreplay; I’d done that back at Kwan’s when I’d whispered in Richard’s ear. My body was quivering in anticipation.

“Master...?” I said, breathless with delight as Richard threw my blouse and bra aside and took a nipple between his lips. God, it felt good.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Do you really only love me for my mind?”

Richard paused for a moment. “It’s such a warped mind, how can I help but love it? But I must confess...I’m pretty fond of your body, too...”

“But, Master?” Around this point, my panties parted company from my body and I found myself on my back on the oriental carpet with Richard looming over me. I put my hands against his chest to hold him off for a moment. “Seriously, which one do you like more...”

“No more talking,” Richard said, pinning my wrists to the ground and pushing into me. I groaned acquiescence as his hardness filled me. “If you feel like it,” he added, beginning to move inside me, “You can say ‘Yes, Master!’ ”

“Yes, Master,” I moaned. “Oh, yes, Master! Yes! Yes!”