The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lazar’s sleek car sidled into his garage, snuggling up into its berth amidst the other dozen or so priceless autos. He stepped out, taking a moment to admire his collection, all the while fully aware of their true worth: nothing.

He took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, checking his watch: the job had taken just a little longer than expected, so he would need to report in, change and leave quickly. Logging on to his computer he was at the cyber-rendezvous point in no time. A computer-modified voice commanded simply “report.”

“The target is eliminated.” he stated, removing his jacket. “No witnesses, no evidence and no collateral damage.” he continued almost automatically, his t-shirt slipping up over his head. This is a report he’d given often; he could complete it in his sleep. “Transfer the remaining funds to my account by 6am my time,” he finished, stepping out of his pants and grabbing black jeans from his closet, " I hope I can rely on you for that, I would hate to be forced to... take action.”

The computer replied back “Understood” and the connection terminated. Within another ten minutes he was dressed and back in his spacious garage, selecting his Aston Martin for tonight’s carriage.

He was, by design, the last to arrive at the crowded bookstore, taking a seat in the last row. Just as he landed the store owner stepped up, introducing her guest. “Miranda Cleaveland has been writing her unique brand of thriller for years,” she smiled, gesturing to the woman standing slightly behind her, “and we couldn’t be more “thrilled” that she’s agreed to be here tonight to share a tiny slice of her latest book.” The host felt the need to use ‘air quotes’ to make her pun. Lazar cringed slightly. “Ladies and gentlemen—Miranda Cleaveland.”

The awkward, hackneyed introduction was like fingernails on a blackboard to the terminally shy author. Her standard “happy to be here, please kill me now” smile smeared across her face; her stomach attempted to make a hasty retreat up her throat. As she stepped up to the podium, her heart beating loud enough to drown out all applause, Miranda noticed that one man at the back of the store still sat. Staring, but not clapping.

Miranda hated these speaking obligations but her publicist Joanie insisted on them. Her idea of a perfect evening began and ended with sweet coffee and her feet in comfortable socks. Yet here she stood, her poor, angry toes crammed into cruel black pumps and her face beet-red before the audience. The day that Joanie had forced her to shop for more “appropriate” clothing for these engagements had been the longest of her life, and even now the tight suit and pinching shoes felt like little torture devices.

‘Death and Design’, her most recent novel, sat on the podium before her, a bright pink flag peeping out from a specific page. She opened the book, feeling the resistance of the virgin spine, and began to read the chapter she’d marked; just compelling enough to pique interest but not enough to give away plot. Finally she saw the end of the section and rushed to arrive—safe and finished. She stepped back, head swimming with relief, and the host stepped forward to retake the microphone.

“Ms. Cleaveland will be signing copies of this or any of her other books up here for the next hour. Thanks and drive carefully.” The author took her seat at the table and began the other most uncomfortable requirement of her job: the friendly banter. Were she given a choice she would gladly staple hot coals to her face rather than try to make small talk with total strangers, and the more excited the fan the more torturous the conversation. However as Miranda chatted and smiled and signed she noticed that her unenthusiastic fan from the back row was now standing at the rear of the pack, unwilling to take his place in line yet never taking his eyes off of her.

As the hour drew mercifully to a close and the last one or two fans strayed away Miranda felt overwhelming relief—she’d survived once again. She bent to drop her lucky pen, glasses and wallet into her oversized bag and heard a “thunk” on the table over her head. Sitting back up she looked first at the hardbound edition of Death and Design sitting on the table, and then into the eyes of the unenthusiastic fan. He smiled. She gasped silently.

“Hi there.” he began, his eyes locking onto hers. She could only nod in reply. “I must say, I have enjoyed your words. Could you make it out to “your biggest fan” please?” Miranda remained transfixed in his eyes, green and hypnotic, until his smile crinkled them, freeing her.

“Right,...” she stammered, feeling around the desk and her person for a pen. “Right, right...” A pen slid into her hand, the other end still held by the stranger. She smiled at him again, opening the book and signing her autograph. As she handed him back the pen he allowed his finger to touch hers slightly. She yelped at the contact, blushing instantly.

“I wonder,” he continued, making a show of admiring her signature. “I would love to chat with you about how you get your ideas. Would you be free for a quick drink when this is finished?” Miranda smiled politely, preparing her pat answer of rejection. However as she looked up into his face again he continued. “I’m sure that you rarely get a chance to talk about your work with someone who truly appreciates it. And I doubt you have any plans you have to rush off and get to. What could it hurt, right?” She’d nodded her head twice before Miranda realized she’d agreed.

How was it, she wondered, that they were gone without her even getting a chance to tell her publicist that she was leaving, let alone anything of her plans? She had written this scene in so many of her books; based on her novels Miranda imagined herself lying dead and dismembered in the next alley by dawn. Three doors down her escort opened the door for her, ushering her into a dark, noisy restaurant. He placed his hand on the small of her back, directing her through the crowd at the bar and around a corner. She took his direction easily, and soon they found another booth blissfully insulated against the crowds. Here it was miraculously quiet.

Miranda slid into the seat, followed close behind by this mysterious fan. He smiled as she looked up, and she felt a cloud surround them, further blocking out the din of the club. His words travelled from his mouth to her ears without competition, slipping into her mind unimpeded. “I have read all of your books.” he smiled. “I enjoy your work, and love that such strong stories come from a woman. That’s rare in this genre.” Miranda felt herself sitting up a little straighter, the boldfaced praise pleasing her. “Can I ask why your stories never feature a female main character?” As quickly as he had propped her up with praise this question nicked away at her confidence.

“I don’t know how to write such a strong female character.” she replied, struck with the automatic honesty of her own answer. “And I’m not sure that most men would believe a woman in that role. They tend to want to think of their women as the innocent victim to be saved.” He chuckled to himself but shook his head.

“Not me.” he laughed. “Give me the strong female character every time.” He once again gathered her up and trapped her within his eyes, adding “And I have a hard time believing you don’t know about strong female characters. Isn’t it more the case that you don’t think others would believe that you’re such a strong person?” Miranda felt suddenly very exposed, as though this stranger had just begun reciting her diary to the room. “Tell me truthfully—you feel like writing a strong female character would be akin to your writing a check you couldn’t personally cash. Am I right?”

She drained her water glass quickly, using it as an opportunity to gather her thoughts. Looking deeply into the ice at the glass’ bottom she responded defensively. “I’m not a man either, and yet I write stories about men.”

“True.” His male fingers pulled a cube from her glass of ice, the sound of crunching a constant reminder that he sat just beside her. “But nobody would expect you to be one. The same is not true of a female character.” She agreed with his point, but wished to find some kind of upper hand in the dialogue.

“True.” she countered, placing the glass back on the table, “but nobody would expect me to be a spy either way, so it matters not what gender I make my heroes. They’re simply not me.”

He let the conversation slow. He let it stop. The silence felt like a win of some kind and Miranda looked back into his face for evidence he’d conceded the point. Instead she found his eyes there, waiting for her. They contained a smile which left no question in her mind: he had conceded nothing.

“So who in your books is you?”

She sat, struck by the question. “I...” no reply volunteered itself. “I don’t- I’m not sure...”

“Are you the fragile starlet who is rescued by the bold Secret Service officer?” His words seemed to slither from lips to ears, impervious to the noise surrounding them. “Are you the young millionaire’s daughter, tied up in the trunk of the Russian Czar’s limo?” Another ice cube slipped from her glass to his mouth. She watched it go in spite of herself, watching as the next words poured from his lips. “Are you the misunderstood prostitute freed from the sultan’s harem before she can be claimed?” As the word ‘claimed’ cascaded over her she felt herself shiver slightly.

Her answer came quietly, her gaze still locked on his mouth. “I’m the author. I’m none of those women.”

“Or are you all of them?” he smiled. “Are you perhaps the star and the millionaire?” another ice cube crunched in his mouth. She felt every crunch shoot through her. “And the sultan’s property?” The next cube left her glass, taking a new route and nudging her lips. She opened her mouth compliantly, crunching down the ice wordlessly.

As he smiled in approval she felt a brief rush of relief.

“Is it possible you simply cannot reconcile the various versions of yourself?” with a glance away the contact between their eyes was broken. For a moment Miranda had to collect her surroundings; inventory her situation. Did she even know this man’s name? How long had they been sitting here? “How did it feel to have someone suggest that you might compare yourself to a starlet?” This word had no impact on Miranda, and she began to feel her composure returning. “Or a possession?” The encore again rocketed through her, stronger than before. She looked to his face for some sense of his thoughts, but found only those eyes, impossibly green and pulling her forward.

Once again words—normally her refuge—failed Miranda. She stammered slightly, looking for the key to escape, but finding nothing.

“You seem... distracted.” he commented, allowing another smile to bait his trap. “Might I suggest we move this conversation to somewhere more private? Such as my home?”

The street lights flashed overhead and Miranda tried to understand her actions so far that night. How did she find herself in the car of a perfect stranger? With no one aware of what she was doing? Headed to his home? HIS HOME??? She began to turn and raise her objections, but the car turned into a long, dark driveway and she knew the opportunity was gone. A tiny light inside her felt relief that escape was no longer an option.

“Your coat?” he asked as she stepped out of his garage. Without thinking she handed him her jacket and purse, her attention taken by the lavish surroundings. She strolled into the foyer, admiring several pieces of art hanging in the hall. Exquisite glassworks hung as chandeliers in his hallway. His living room displayed glass cases holding rare and precious items, one after another. She wandered past a shelf of beautiful objects, running a finger over each one.

“You have a lovely home.” she commented over her shoulder. As she turned she noticed that he had seated himself in a large leather chair. The only chair in the room. Here and there were scattered stools, ottomans and cushions, but only the one chair. Rather than reclining her host sat upright, a glass of ice balanced on his knee.

“Thank you.” he replied, smiling generously. Once again Miranda felt a shower of approval from his smile, and marvelled at her desire for that approval. “Make yourself comfortable.” he entreated. She glanced about, finally settling on the footstool immediately before her host. She sat straight, her back tall and her feet planted flat on the floor facing him. “Now, where were we?”

“You were comparing me to the women in my previous books.” Miranda tried to sound commanding, attempting to wrestle control of the conversation back from this man. “The starlet. The Millionaire’s daughter...”

“The harem girl.” he added, noting the tiny jolt down her spine. “And what do you think? How do you relate to these female characters?”

“I’m sure there are aspects of me in all of my characters.” she replied. That seemed a safe reply.

“So you imagined yourself kneeling before the sultan as you wrote her final chapter?” Miranda gulped—at the sound of the word “kneel” she felt herself pull forward, preparing to drop to her knees at the command. She shook her head firmly, as much to shake out the feeling as to answer the question, but he gave her no chance. His commanding voice kept coming at her weakening defenses “It was such a powerful image in that book” the smile gathered her up to his face, his eyes pulling her the rest of the way.

All at once she saw herself as the character was in the book; kneeling, her head bowed and a simple-but-symbolic collar about her neck. Her pussy purred at the idea.

And still he came for her. “I am amazed to hear you didn’t try out more than one possible position in crafting the moment.” Ice settled in his glass, the tinkling sound showering over her. She locked her eyes on the glass, her mouth suddenly bone dry. “Would you like one?” he asked. Miranda only nodded, parched. “Well then, by all means,” he smiled, holding the glass out toward her slightly. “Enjoy.”

As if no longer the owner of her body, the successful novelist slipped silently from her perch, her knees landing on the wood floor with a delicate ‘thump.’ He leaned forward just slightly, plucking another cube from his glass and offering it just out of reach of her lips. She stretched her neck, hoping that she could cover the distance, but instead gently descended to her hands, hungrily crawling the few steps to take the cold prize in her lips. Her eyes closed as the ice filled her mouth with a chill. From beyond the darkness of her closed eyes a voice asked her “Does it feel how you imagined?”

Her closed eyes providing a kind of protection, Miranda answered quietly. “It feels... intense. Heavy.”

“Go on.”

“I feel... comfortable. Correct...” she strained against a third word, hesitant to set it free from the safety of her mind.

“Say it.” commanded the voice outside the darkness.

“...claimed...” she finished. As the word fell out of her mouth her pussy opened, allowing a gush of moisture to escape. A tiny gasp followed it forward. Her host smiled.

Miranda opened her eyes and found his there, waiting for her again. As she stared into the never-ending green his voice poured forth, covering her like water. She did not just hear him—she felt him enter her from every corner.

“My work is an ugly business.” he started. “I do a necessary thing, but it mars the world and surrounds me with ugliness. I have skills that aid in my work, but they are a precious commodity and should not only be used to damage. They can also bring pleasure. They can also surround me with beauty. Because of my work I look for ways to... balance things.” She felt his words slide down her throat, a rich liqueur as sweet and as intoxicating. “As you have already seen, I am a collector of beautiful things.” he continued. “Amazing things. Special things. Would it please you to know I have decided to add you to my collection?” Miranda nodded yes, afraid to let lose any sound for fear what would come forth. “Does it not alarm you to be one of my possessions?” Another nod, this time to answer no.

“Do you believe yourself to be equally valuable to those items you’ve admired?” Miranda answered no again, her shame bowing her head before him. She heard the sound of him moving forward in his recliner to sit at seat’s edge. A finger raised her head to meet his gaze. “Is there nothing you could do to show me your value?”

She could not remember, then or any other time since, actually having the thought. The idea came to her as obviously, as perfectly, as breathing. She simply crawled between his legs, slipping down his zipper and pulling out his cock. It was hard and hot, making her immediately wet as she beheld it. She allowed her tongue to circle the head twice before guiding him all the way into her mouth. The pulse she felt against her tongue called to her own to fall into step as they quickly found an eager pace, he thrusting in and out of her mouth. She caressed his cock with her tongue, feeing ripples of hungry desire punctuating every few seconds. After a time too amazing to measure he stood, towering over her like an idol to worship, and filled her mouth with his cum.

She swallowed without hesitation, collapsing in a heap at his feet. She was still fully dressed, and yet felt cracked open and fully exposed. Never before had she felt an orgasm so complete and all-encompassing.

Lazar crouched down beside her prone, gasping form. He placed his palm on the back of her head, feeling her press up slightly to meet him. “There.” he cooed, stroking her head gently. “Now you know yourself to be worthy of my collection.” A tiny purr trilled from her heap. “Come. There is a place for you at the foot of my bed.”

Miranda Cleaveland arrived at her book signing with a bold, friendly smile. Her hand shot out to grasp that of her host. “So happy to have you Ms. Cleaveland.” the store manager chirped, practically giddy with excitement.

“Happy to be here—Gail, was it?” Gail beamed with pride at being recognized by this celebrity. “Thanks once again for putting this together.” Miranda continued, tall and poised. “These are such great opportunities to meet with those folks who enjoy my work. I look forward to them so much.” Gail bubbled a response and, gobsmacked, she shuffled off to the counters.

Meanwhile Miranda crossed to the podium, each step in her sleek, black pumps feeling bolder and bolder. She enjoyed the feel of her tight, sexy suit as she moved; enjoyed the look in the nearby stranger’s eyes as he watched her setting her stage, she cast her gaze masterfully across the crowd, owning the room. Gone were the butterflies of her past, replaced with confidence, with calm. And there, at the back of the crowd, she spied the single empty chair now required at all her signings. A placeholder to remind her that her owner was with her always.

The thought brought her peace, and with that she opened her book and began.