The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Can you feel the heat already sinking in to you?” Cleo asked.

Dora retook her spot on the couch next to her. “I only just put the kindling in the fire,” she argued. “It hasn’t even had time to really start burning yet.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Cleo agreed. “But you have. Already. Haven’t you?”

Dora’s cheeks lit red, betraying her internal feeling. “Yes,” she admitted, and Cleo looked satisfied with herself upon hearing this.

“We’ve done this enough times now, you and I,” Cleo went on. “You know that as soon as there’s even the smallest spark in the fire, you can feel it inside yourself.”

Dora sucked her cheeks in for a second, then let them go again, and bit down on her lip instead. Then she gave this up too: and nodded her head. She knew; Cleo loved to play this game with her, and what had started out more innocently had now progressed far enough that Dora couldn’t deny it. Or even… really… fight it.

Dora could feel the sparks she saw in the hearth— feel them lighting up inside herself. And she’d been here in this position with Cleo enough times now— Cleo had trained her well enough that her eyes knew to follow every nuance of the fire, so that inside her mind, she would know the same was happening inside herself.

“Just wait until the fire gets going all the way,” Cleo said, sounding almost like she could barely contain her excitement.

Dora knew what would happen when the fire became completely ablaze— she’d been through this enough times by now.

Dora watched as a spark lept from one log to a next; watched as some of the findling caught fire. The simmer of faint sparks which had danced within her shifted in parallel. She could that she, too, was starting to catch in the same way. The simmering was turning to a burning… it was beginning to spread all through her body.

In Dora’s case, part of her was aware that there were no real flames burning inside her. On some level, she knew it was only pleasure, only ecstasy which Cleo had programmed to rise in her in concert with the visual trigger the flames provided.

But the ecstasy burned so brightly in Dora— so bright it was almost painful, and she had spent too many uncountable hours staring into fireplaces thinking she knew how the logs and kindling felt— too many to be able to keep what was true straight any longer. Even if she knew she wasn’t lighting up in flames literally, in the end, what did it matter? She felt she had enough in common with the logs she was watching now to think she was sharing some part of their experience with them.

The kindling had caught completely on fire now, had burned away to leave the fire for the logs underneath to take on completely.

They had taken it on, and the fire was crackling and popping cheerfully as it burned through them. Much slower than the kindling had gone up in flames— it was a more sustained, steady burning, but the fire would burn there, until the logs in the fireplace were reduced to ash.

The ecstasy in Dora was burning just as hot, but it had reduced from its initial flareup, which had followed the consumption of the kindling to the smallest detail. It was now an equally steady burning; with pulses of feeling that seemed to follow the pops of the wood as sections of it burnt up anew.

Dora knew her internal ecstasy would burn as long as the flame in the heart would; and as steadily, giving the illusion of patience. But just like the log she was now watching so closely, Dora knew that by the time the log had burned down to ash, she would find that equivalent for herself, too.

For Dora, when she burned and burned in time with a given log, what it felt like for her was a deepening of all that Cleo had placed in her head. The longer the fire burned, the more her pleasure grew.

But the consequence of that was a deeper obedience; a greater susceptibility to Cleo and her influence. That only rose in Dora, like the flames in the fire burning ever higher, until at last, when the logs in the hearth were ash, so too were all remnants of resistance ash within Dora, leaving only complete emptiness and receptivity; just like the empty, ash-filled fireplace she would by then be staring vacantly into. A fireplace waiting for another log and another fire— and only if Cleo decided to make it so.

Cleo’s hand was on Dora’s shoulder, giving it a comforting series of repetitive strokes. “Are you really beginning to feel it, now that the fire is growing?”

Dora was. She could feel the pleasure lit up in her; igniting every part of her from the inside with quiet, crackling heat. There was no inch of her left safe, no inch of her left cool. All was warm— all was pleasure, but not yet overwhelming pleasure. The pleasure would not become overwhelming, as long as the flames were steady.

But Dora could feel its deeper work unfolding: already her thoughts had be come so scattered that she could not string them together in any kind of coherent order. Already she found herself in the mental space of wanting to accept anything and everything Cleo might want to offer her. For now, it was only that repeated stroking of her shoulder. Dora accepted it eagerly, her body forming itself to fit around the space of that touch. But if Cleo wanted to give her more, she would take it. She was already so obedient… she would only become more so, as the pleasure burned on within her.

“There’s never any reason to rush this,” Cleo murmured, as if answering Dora’s unasked questions, and speaking to her unthought thoughts. “We know the fire will burn for a good few hours; and we know neither of us is going anywhere. We can both just sit and watch the flames… follow their cue… it’s all either of us has to do now. And you, specifically are already doing everything you need to do. Just… let the pleasure keep burning inside you… let it take you over, more and more… follow it to where it leads. You already are— just keep it up.”

Dora felt herself breaking out into a sweat. It wasn’t from the heat of the fire in the hearth. The pleasure inside her had grown hot enough to raise her own body temperature, and her body, naturally, was responding by trying to cool her back down again. Yet this didn’t really work out as intended; when Dora felt the sweat beading on the surface of her skin, it only reminded her what was causing her to burn. It only made her feel hotter, by several degrees more.

She’d reached the point in the induction where everything was a trap. Everything was an escalation to the next level of obedience. If she let her attention lay low, settled among the flames, that would raise her internal temperature, and tie her mind into further loops. If she pulled her attention back out of the fire, and set it on her own body, to watch her own reactions; she would notice how hot she felt, and that would be a path to the same place.

She and Cleo had done this often enough— Cleo had rearranged the landscape of Dora’s mind, to turn it into a labyrinth from which there was no path out. Not once the fire started burning. Any attempt at resistance, no matter how small, would always end the same way: a dead end, with no further path forward. It would always end with her feeling more obedient, not less— more turned on, not less. It would always keep her sitting here, on this couch cushion, staring into the flames and feeling herself falling deeper and deeper.

There was no way out, until the log had burned down to nothing. And even then, the only escape would be a total openness to Cleo, which would only result in Cleo having still greater influence over her the next time around. Dora would be here feeling like this, really, until Cleo told her she was done, and woke her back out of it properly.

But there was no telling just when that was going to happen— Cleo tended to like keeping Dora burning for hours, and judging by the patient, repetitive way in which she was still stroking Dora’s shoulder, she was in no greater rush tonight than usual.

Dora had been burning for a while, now— was still burning. She’d burned long enough tonight, and felt obedient enough as a result, that she was almost grateful for it— she was burning because Cleo wanted her to burn, had taught her how, and told her to burn, tonight, specifically.

How lucky that made her.