The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

From my “old” point of view, spending my life negotiating a never ending series of domestic problems seemed boring. There was something in my nature that made the whole thing seem suffocating. Intellectually, I wanted to settle down, but my soul was still bucking the idea. It seems humorous now, as I lay on a sofa, doodling in this notepad and lazily squirming on the vibrators in my ass and cunt, that I could have ever thought that I wanted another life. But I did. I wanted to hold the leash instead of writhe in the collar. I was conflicted. Then one night something started that would make it all better.

Frank and I were in bed together. He was perusing some article in Scientific American and I had my nose buried in trash romance. We hadn’t really finished moving in. The sole piece of furniture in the room, apart from boxes, was a tall floor lamp with a long adjustable neck. Frank and I were sharing it to read by, and somehow it had ended up on his side of the bed. I couldn’t see as well as I wanted to, and I lost my patience. I pinched his calf with my toe. “Hmm?” he said. “You know what Goethe said on his death bed?” I asked him. “More light,” he said. He turned to me and smiled in a mock patronizing way and leaned to press his face against my cheek. He grabbed the light by its neck and maneuvered it over me. It made big spooky circles on the ceiling and walls as it went, eventually stopping to hover obnoxiously over my chest. “Better, Mr. Goethe?” he asked. I told him it was.

I was getting drowsy. The light was slowly drooping closer to my chest, relaxing at its little elbow joint, and I could feel its warmth coming. I nodded slightly, I think, and Frank turned and took my book away, marking the page with a kleenex. “Sleepy?” he asked. “Mmm hmm.” I groaned. He put his hand on my stomach and started making slow circles. In those days I slept in a flannel night shirt, and the feeling of the warm material spinning around on my tummy was very soothing.

I’m certain that at the time I had no idea my husband was hypnotizing me. We had played around a little with hypnosis in the past, when Frank was finishing his psychiatric training. It wasn’t much more than me dutifully providing a warm mind to practice on, and the kinds of techniques and suggestions Frank used were very boring and clinical. Or such is my recollection. It’s possible of course that Frank started taking liberties with my thinking way back then. I really don’t know, and at this point I’m quite a ways beyond caring.

I let Frank continue on, rubbing my stomach, telling me about the warmth of the light, caressing me and soforth. Somehow the warm spot of the light migrated its way slowly across my midriff and settled comfortably over my crotch. By now Frank’s mutterings were nothing more than a muffled buzz in my mind. Soon my husband’s hand made its slow way south of the waistband of my pajamas. He began to slowly stroke my mons as though he were polishing an apple, rubbing me everywhere but my dampening slit, still muttering in his steady quiet baritone. I remember pushing my bottoms off, possibly at his suggestion, my moist thighs freshly touching each other, the wonderful smoothness of thigh on thigh. His cock began to harden against my hip. Still teasing my pussy, he kept me in an eternity of sleepy anticipation. And then his hand in my cunt. He pumped me slowly, rubbing the top part of my channel as his rough thumb diddled my clit. The music of my nerves began slowly luring me to orgasm. Frank’s ministrations changed from gentle plucking to delicious percussion, and my mind began to unzip under his relentless whispering, his fingerbanging and hot talk. I came.

In my dream I must have been sixteen. Frank was a weird but mature amalgamation of himself and my uncle Owen, in a linen suit and bolo tie, Cary Grant as Colonel Sanders. I was in a candystripe bikini, just beginning to ripen, coppertone and pigtails. I suppose we must have been near some kind of pool. My younger self was in big trouble. I think uncle Frank had overheard me say a curse word. In particular, I think he had overheard me say the word “fuck”.

“So you like cursing, do you, Barbara?”

“No sir.” I whined, distraught, braces dragging across the insides of my sunburned lips.

“But it seems like you do. Come here, I’ll do you a favor.”

He led me across a brick patio to an unshaded cement wall next to an aging grey gazebo. I felt him take my wrists and press them against the wall, my ass briefly touching his trousers through my thin bottoms. He pulled my shoulders back. He cupped my face with his hands and moved my gaze from the ground up to a rather dull patch of masonry between my hands. I felt his loafers nudging at my calves, and took the hint to splay my legs to shoulder width.

“Barbara, I want you to stay exactly as you are now until I tell you may stop. In the mean time I want you to swear. I want to hear every curse word you know, and I want you to repeat them until I feel you’ve remembered how to speak like a lady. Do you understand?”

I whimpered assent and felt my eyes beginning to moisten. He was still standing only a hand’s breadth away. A quick pinch on my ass wrested a chirp. The fingers lingered there for a moment, Frank’s knuckles caressing the cheek he had assaulted.

“Start anytime you’re ready.”

“...fuck.” I said, tentatively. It was easy from there.

I woke up sticky, and wide eyed, trying to catch the tail of some dream thing which was squirming its way back into my mind, wary of the light of day. My panties were literally plastered to my cunt and I had to wince as I peeled them off and padded for the shower. In the bathroom mirror my sleepy reflection slowly resolved itself. I was surprised to see that I looked flushed, almost as if I had been sunburned, though it was mid February. I turned on the shower and stripped off my tee shirt to reveal what for the world looked like tan lines around my naked breasts. I was mystified, though not really concerned, as I stepped into the warm fog of the shower. A few minutes later Frank shuffled into the bathroom humming the delightful Frank morning song.

“Good morning baby,” he said, sliding into the shower behind me, hand cupping my belly. His lips found the nape of my neck through a cataract of wet hair. “Hi” I said, turning to face him, though he stopped my shoulders in mid pivot. Without speaking he took my hands and placed them shoulder width apart on the slick two tone tiles of the shower wall. Something inside me clenched as he did this and though I moved my lips and gargled something at his weird behavior, a little moan was all that really came out. His hand slid up my slick hips and over my breasts to cup my chin and move it slowly upwards until my gaze settled on the field of water droplets between my hands. It felt strange.

“Good morning baby,” he said again, this time closer to my ear and huskier. I felt a reply rising irrepressibly in my throat though I didn’t know what it was until it burst from my wet mouth as a sultry “pussy...".

“That’s right Barbie,” Frank whispered, invoking the childhood moniker I had forbidden him to use. “Just let it all out.”

As his right hand made its way down my wet torso to the now wetter crook between my splayed legs, I began to murmur nasty words in a timorous voice. A picture of my dream pressed itself down seamlessly over this new reality and my eyes widened in recognition. “...cunt...cock...a-ass...” I said, craning my head to see Frank manipulating something behind me. I had just identified the object in his hands as a bottle of conditioner before I felt his gooey fingers begin a delicate invasion of my rear passage. My legs felt locked in place as my husband ran his lubricated hand up and down the crack of my ass, pressing with increasing persistence at the button in the center. “F-Frank...” I managed, before he buried a finger up to the knuckle, punctuating it with a slow susurrus “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” into my ear.

Frank fucked my ass and I liked it. I remember thinking in a bemused way about the acoustics of our new bathroom, as the slaps and whimpers of my violation provoked the wonderful illusion that several of me were being fucked at once. My cheek was pressed somewhat uncomfortably against a lufa dangling from the showerhead and I was worried about losing my balance. My primary concern was for some reason Frank’s enjoyment of me, always an issue in my mind during sex, but never before the glaring inescapable sun of my concerns. As Frank would slide into me I would squeeze his length slightly. The effect of his obvious pleasure on my own state of enjoyment was like a Ferrari pulling a bicycle. When he came in me I exploded, screaming and forgetting myself totally. Coming down from orgasm I noticed that I had been unconsciously standing on tiptoe. Both my hands were on the showerhead and my ass was still thrust generously against Frank’s gently rocking pubis. He quietly withdrew and we both washed my body, Frank lathering me quite thoroughly with bath gel and rinsing me not so innocently with the detachable head. All I could muster was an occasional squeeze of his cock, still hard, as the last of the water fled down the drain.

We toweled off together. I found myself back on the bed with him, being held in a warm terrycloth embrace. “What’s going on?” I asked him, pulling myself away slightly, trying to look serious in case argument became necessary to get to the bottom of things. Also, I suppose I was a little angry about the advantage Frank had apparently taken of my trust, though not as angry as I might have been. As angry as any sane, non-hypnotized, person would have been. I was mostly just lazily curious.

Frank looked at me very seriously. “I’m going to turn your life into a fantasy for awhile, Barbara. A warm fog, like the shower. You agreed to it yourself a few months ago. Under hypnosis. Some of the things we’ve been doing since then are just starting to work out. A few late night conversations. A few injections. You’re going to love it baby, just be patient.”

I looked at him, somewhat puzzled. Nothing he had said was really surprising, nor could I say I really knew what he was talking about. He sounded like he had said the same thing a lot of times before. “But...what?” I said.

“Just remember that I love you,” he said, pulling me back into his arms. As my face fell against his chest I felt the world shift slightly. When the vertigo passed I was sprawled on what appeared to be some kind of gynecological table, my feet in stirrups, my hands restrained. And I was naked. And there was some weird phallic thing rising up out of the chrome gloom at the edges of my awareness and pointing at my pussy.

Frank came in. Or rather it was Frank merged in some ineffable kind of way with Christopher Walken wearing a lab coat. He sauntered over with a half smile, brushing my hair away from my eyes and resting a hand on my left breast. He reached into a pocket and extracted a large red pill full of something gelatinous. He rolled it back and forth between thumb and forefinger gracefully, smiling and tweaking my nipple. I knew what he wanted, and I found my mouth opening for him, my eyes rising, questioning him, though he was silent. His thumb slid between my lips to deposit the pill, and withdrew with a wet caress. I kept the bauble on my tongue for a moment, feeling its gummy sheath grow slick and weak. Frank brushed my cheek once more with the back of his hand and the urge to swallow became irresistible. I swallowed the pill. Beneath my shoulders were textured metallic plates, which I understood to be some kind of perch as Frank stepped onto them, his legs astride my torso, my bare nipples rubbing somewhat on the wool of his trousers. The tail of his labcoat covered me down to my pussy, and obscured my view of the mysterious friend between my legs.

“Barbara, your mind is connected to your pussy through ropes of nerves. Strings of nerves. The pill you took is going to pull those nerves tight. I believe you’ll feel it very soon. Pulling the strings taut. Tuning the strings. You’re like a cello, Barbara. A sexy little smooth cello, and I’m going to learn to play you. I’m going to show you how to play yourself. Play with yourself. You love to play with yourself. The cello loves to be played, doesn’t it? When you rub yourself you make the strings sing. The nerves get hot, and the result is beautiful and moving. You’re beautiful and moving. The strings are getting thicker now, tighter, better. More sensitive. More delicate. Your brain and your pussy are coming into harmony. The harmony that’s your essence. Your purpose is the harmony, the constant playing and rubbing and fucking and singing inside yourself with your nerves, isn’t it baby? Your essence is this:” Frank produced some kind of control from his pocket, pressed something with his thumb. The phallus between my legs began to thrum in deep low cycles that seemed to center on my pussy like some kind of sound laser.

“God...” I said as the machine thrummed again and the sound, the vibrations, fucked their way inside of me. “Good baby. Let the music come. Let yourself come.” Frank stroked my face as another wave of bass poured over my clit.

“What do you do, baby?”

“...Cum,” I said, mouth on shoulder, trying to blot some of the saliva I had drooled during the last salvo.

“When? When do you come?”

I believe my mouth opened and I looked at my husband with wet eyes but I was at a loss for a reply. A twitch from Frank’s thumb triggered an enormous eruption of sound, shaking the top parts of my thighs, rubbing like a dragon across my sex.

“All the time. You cum all the time. You cum when you wake up...” An explosion of sound.

“Agnng.” I came.

“You cum when you go to sleep...”

“Agh.” I came.

“You cum when you do the dishes...”

“Ogh.” Again.

“When I touch your ass...”

Again.

“When I call you from work...When you walk... you CUM.”

Frank turned the device to what I can only imagine must have been the top setting, and I lost consciousness as the biggest orgasm of my life tore through my loins and mind, filling my ears with a high whine.

EPILOGUE

When I woke up, Frank was gone. The bedroom was empty except for a very rumpled comforter and me. Dust motes were wandering in a bath of spring light pouring through the open louver windows. It smelled and felt wonderful and clean, the whiteness of the carpets and blankets, of the walls and my own skin shining in the morning sun. Looking down on myself I saw my body still flushed from my dream adventures, my naked pubis radiating an impatient plum through my sparse down. The phone rang. It was Frank.

At the sound of his voice my hands began to drift of their own accord from the knobs of my knees up my smooth thighs to the magic cleft in between. As I touched my clit I felt something run through me, a weird vibration, almost musical. Almost like a deep G. “So what do you think about that?” he asked in a smiling tone. “The music? Strange...” I replied, finding an obnoxious feeling F sharp along the ridges of my labia. “When I get back I’m going to perform a concert for you.”

“I can’t wait...” he replied, as I immersed a digit in myself, to the reward of an A major. I mewled for him. “I can’t wait either.”