The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You may be dumb,” I said to her as I was parking the car outside my house, “but you are not stupid. You know exactly what you need to be doing right now. Don’t always wait for me to give you instructions.”

I got out of the car, slamming the door behind me and walked up the gravel path at the front of my house. Looking back over my shoulder I saw her getting out of the door on the passenger side of the car. In her left, un-bandaged hand she was carrying her underpants and her shoes. She walked, not at all gingerly over the sharp slivers of white granite and black obsidian gravel I’d had laid only weeks before, as she came up the pathway towards me. I knew she must be hurting excessively because there she was, finally standing in front of me, in shredded pantyhose, with trickles of blood escaping from beneath her instep, leaking onto my doormat. I handed her the door-key and walked past her as she unlocked it and held the door open for me to enter ahead of her.

“Wait here for me.” I snapped at her. She remained on the doorstep holding my bunch of keys and looking down at her feet while I went hunting for another first aid kit. “Woman’s a war zone.” I growled to myself as I came to the door with the paraphernalia and a chair. I had her sit in a chair immediately inside the front door and started cleaning the cuts on the soles of her feet.

“Your feet are a mess,” I said irritably. “It pleases me not at all when you act stupidly. While you will continue to feel the pain and soreness of these wounds until further notice, you will heal them as fast as you can, which is as fast as I have empowered you to. You were perfectly capable of experiencing all that pain without allowing your feet to be lacerated by the sharp stones. In fact, if I’m any judge, you deliberately made them tender and vulnerable to damage, didn’t you?”

I looked straight up into her face from my vantage down at the feet that I was now bathing in iodine solution. She didn’t even wince as I put the stuff on her raw wounds, but she did nod.

Her feet were beautiful, astonishingly classic. Like a marble veined sculpture, I was rather taken aback, I hadn’t expected anything at all like this perfection, every toe separated, squared and rounded, her toenails were clean and polished. It took an effort not to be distracted.

“In future, you will take every care of your physical health and avoid injury. I don’t care what you feel or how much it hurts or what it costs you, but you will use your newly acquired powers to protect your body from damage. And I will not tolerate dumb insolence or passive rebellion. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

Tears leaked down her cheeks, as she nodded her head yet again.

“If I have to bandage you yet again, STAND UP WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!” I shouted. She shot up out of the chair as though I’d stuck her with a hat-pin. “I will bandage your entire body and you will remain so mummified for as long as it takes you to learn your lessons adequately.”

Her sudden unnatural stillness—as I mentioned mummification—alerted me to other strata in this extraordinary woman. If you asked me, I would have to admit to being seriously sexually stimulated at this point, but there was a part of me so stunned by the rapidity and extent to which this woman had hypnotized herself, my curiosity was genuinely piqued.

“Now clean up this mess and come and see me when you’ve finished.”

I heard her banging away in the kitchen utility closet as she went looking for a mop to clean the front hallway. I poured myself a drink and got comfortable in the library while I waited for her to finish what she was doing. Within ten minutes she was there, looking at her feet, standing next to my chair. I put down my whiskey and took a good look at her. A bit silly really, with her right hand swathed in white gauze and both her feet bandaged to the ankles. Otherwise she was wearing a simple business suit, white blouse and navy skirt, tailored jacket. Not quite Haute Couture, but not Kmart either. I took her pocketbook out of my briefcase and started riffling through her personal effects, drivers license, credit cards, social security card, library cards, parking passes, pictures, husband—children, parents.

I handed her a pad of paper and a pencil. “Since when have you been so fascinated by hypnotism?” I asked her.

She picked up the pad and wrote her answer.

“Since I went through a course of hypnotherapy when I was trying to quit smoking five years ago, Sir.”

I took the pad from her hand and read her answer.

“You have altogether too many intellectual faculties. They will not be useful to you in my service. From now on your writing will consist of childish, unsophisticated, block-capital letters. You will restrict your vocabulary to match your new intellectual capacities and you will forget how to use all the big words. Do you understand me?”

If she could have made a sound she would have been bawling. But she was mute, and her tears had to do all her talking. I walked over to my computer and switched it on. While waiting for it to boot up I told her to write down her Email domain-address with all its passwords. It was curious to note how available all that information was to me through her. It was at her fingertips, yet she herself had no access to it at all. To quote her own words, she could ‘recall nothing of her life previous to my programming her brain’.

I logged on to my ISP and set up a guest account for her to use. Getting up from my chair, I gestured for her to sit at the keyboard. I told her, “Write to your husband, his name was Stanley, and tell him that you are not coming home. Tell your employer the same.” I gave her the Email addresses. “Say goodbye, and make it final.”

Over her shoulder I read, as she typed, “Dear Daddy, I am running away and will not be coming home any more.”

“What are you going to write for your name, how will you sign yourself?” I asked her.

She turned and looked at me over her shoulder. She shrugged her shoulders as thought to say, “I don’t know!”

“Just write, ‘I’ve had enough!’” I told her. “You haven’t done anything to earn a name, yet. You don’t even have a name for yourself right now, do you?

Well, do you?”

She jumped up out of the chair and trembled as she shook her head. The pencil was pressed too hard on the pad and the point snapped off. She was abject, tearful, sorry, gauche and graceless. Panicked, she chewed the little bits of wood off from around the stem of the pencil and picked at it with her fingernails, creating a blunt point in her haste to reply. Her hand was shaking like a palsied limb when she finally got her response onto the paper. She had bits of wood and greasy graphite smudges on her teeth. She wrote, “No sir i mean no Sir, i havent got a name i don’t know who i am Sir. Can i have a name Sir, please will you tell me who i am now, will you make me into a person a real person”

The tears dripped onto the page and blotted her sentence. I pretended not to have read it.

“Finish the job I’ve just given you, and then give yourself a reinforcing dose of programming before coming upstairs.”

I showed her how to set up the swizzle wheel program and listen to Bach with the headphones on.

“You’ll watch and listen to all the subliminal commands for twenty minutes every morning. Do you think you can get your brain around such a difficult task as learning how to turn the machine on by yourself? Are you capable of learning at all? Or must I program every little bit of information into your brain directly so that it bypasses your consciousness?”

Humiliation radiated off her in waves. She was blushing and crying and short circuiting her own thought processes. At that point in time, it appeared, she was incapable of hanging on to a single coherent thought for long enough to orient herself, or find her emotional, physical or spiritual center.

She stood looking at the floor unable to find a reply in her mind. Her verbal centers had shut down as though in some radical systemic trauma. The word ‘autism’ came to mind.

“Do not get into this habit of procrastination,” I spat at her harshly, “answer when spoken to by your betters.”

She looked up at me in mute terror, a large puddle of urine spreading traitorously around her feet, silent testimony to her undoing. Her hands were steepled together like praying hands; she lifted them to me in mute supplication. I also noticed that her eyes though pouring tears were open very wide, and they were very pretty... Standing there in a puddle of her own urine, incapable of autonomous motion or any act of self preservation, the woman suddenly touched my heart. Not for a moment did it occur to me to release her, ease her pain or throw the reset button on her mind, but a plan was forming in the back of my mind.

“Go into the bathroom and remove all your clothes.” She left the library trailing wet footprints through my apartment. No matter, I would make her pay for it all at a later time. I threw down a towel to mop the mess and followed her into the bathroom.

I took a sponge and washed her down. Parting her legs when I needed to get access to the folds of her skin and lips. Suddenly, I was caught, fascinated by the short little string hanging out of her vagina, white against her dark wet curly hairs. I began pulling on it. In response she rocked and arched; spasms of clutching muscles valiantly trying to maintain their grip as I put pressure on the tampon. Her internal friction was not up to the insistence of my tugging. It came out, bit by bit. It was almost a wailing I heard out of her, more a keening sound, like a child long past crying. Like a silent scream it accompanied her jack-knifing movements. Again and again she buckled and bent like someone vomiting, in the grips of a whole-body orgasm. It had only taken that slight movement in her vagina to push her over an edge into a chasm she plumbed only in her own deepest unconscious. I almost envied her the intensity of the orgasm she had manufactured for herself. I let her enjoy it; she’d surely worked hard enough to get there...

The tampon bled red as it plopped wetly into the toilet bowl. I guessed this one was going to be flushed down the drain regardless of the instructions on the packet. None of the black clotty, rich, smelly stuff, I reckoned she was at least four days into her period, very red, bright as a poppy but nothing else.

“Good, good,” I said soothingly to her, as we watched the swirling water take her life-blood down the toilet. “I am going to put you to bed now, and when you wake up all this will be over and you will be a boy. No more peepee hole, no more bleeding, only dryness now. You are going to be my little boy without a penis, and I am going to love you.” Her body began to rock with fear and trembling. I led her to my bed and made her lie down, arms spread-eagled, on her back. O, she was a sight. Taking the telephone receiver off the hook I waved it in front of her face.

“See this electric shower-head?” I asked her. Her wide eyes followed it back and forth as I waved it around. “Now, don’t move. Listen, every time you touch it to your groin you’re going to feel all the electricity pouring out of it to sting your pubis. The electric shock will be of high voltage and very low amperage, it will stimulate all your nerves and sensory input receptors. But every fifth time you touch it to your cunt the current will touch off a spark and an explosion in your insides and you will come as strongly as your body will let. Then you will sleep”

Saying that, I handed her the telephone and she began rubbing it softly over her flesh, down her legs, over her calves around her ankles and back up between her thighs. Suddenly she jammed both ends over her mound, the speaker end almost touching her asshole, the pickup end right over her labia. She jumped as though shot. She held it to her crotch for a few jerking moments before moving on upwards to her breasts. Her nipples danced as though sparks were running out of the telephone, she stuck it in her mouth. All this time, wherever the plastic touched her skin she was reacting as though to an electric shock. Again she brought to bear on her cunt and again she shuddered violently. She rubbed the telephone over her scalp and under her arms, between her toes and deep into her vagina. Eventually, the fifth time came around, and she was released from her torture. It was a pleasure to see her so thoroughly worked over, and not a peep did I hear out of her as she slipped, crying, into sleep. I let her sleep for ten minutes.... No more.