The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

So I was at this function; I guess that’s what you’d call it. I didn’t really know, except it was something to do with my husband’s business. He’d gone off somewhere to talk to people about their various interconnected commercial affairs. It was all new to me. We were still practically newlyweds in my mind.

I was sipping a glass of white wine in the kitchen, trying to stay out of the way. But there was this man who kept talking to me. His speech was vaguely British. Probably an affectation, I thought. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to what he said.

He said: “Something, something, something.”

I said: “Mmm hmmm. . .”

He said: “Did you hear what I said?”

“What?”

“I said I want to shag you. I want to shag you very much.”

“I beg your pardon. What do you mean by that?”

“If you’ll please bend over that breakfast table,” he went on, “I could slip my dick right into you from behind, doggy-style. I’ll do all the rest. I promise you’ll enjoy it. . . You’ll enjoy it quite a lot actually. I will, too, of course. Why, I’ll ball your eyes right out of their sockets!”

“Don’t be absurd. Now get lost and leave me alone.”

But he kept talking. . . and talking and talking.

“I guarantee you this’ll be enormous fun, he said. “Just from looking at you I can tell you’re a woman who truly enjoys a nice hard cock shoved up deep inside her. The way you stand there, the way you hold your body. Especially your legs. The moment I saw you I said to myself: ‘Now there’s a girl who likes a good screwing. I bet she thinks about sex all the time. I bet she wants it right now. I bet she wants it really bad.’ You have wonderful legs by the way, and they look fantastic in those shoes. Why, my John Thomas is hard as a rock.”

“Please go away,” I said. It was true I was wearing my favorite pair of heels, the tall silver ones with the straps and buckles. I thought then about how slim and leggy they made me look, which was kind of gratifying, knowing my body was hot, that I could turn a guy on just with my looks. I tried not to think about it too much, but it was getting hard—I mean it was difficult not to.

It seems silly, relating it now, that I didn’t simply tell him to fuck off and slap his face. Or find someone in charge and demand they call security, and please have this lunatic restrained. Or call the police, or my husband. Or somebody or something.

All I can say is I thought I could—I wanted to—handle his problem alone. I wanted to handle it.

“Honestly,” he said. I can slide your dress up over your hips and plug my cock straight in. I’m ready to bone you right now. I mean, it feels like I’ve got a four-by-two down my pants. You’re so sexy in that little mini. . . You don’t believe me? Here, I’ll show you. . . Give me your hand.”

I became abruptly self-conscious about the length of my dress, which now seemed way shorter than when I’d put it on, and was rapidly shrinking further, the hemline crawling up my thighs like an ardent lover’s fingers. I tried to stop thinking that way, because I knew where that thought was going, and I feared it was causing me to blush. It was making me think about other things, too, very wrong things that I could never have done. No matter how much I wanted to.

I said: “You can’t seriously believe this approach of yours is going to work.” I was getting to know how well it was working, but at least I didn’t give him my hand.

“Oh yes, I do believe it. This is an opportunity that’s too good for either of us to pass up. We’d never forgive ourselves. I’m sure you’ll see it in your end, I mean the end. In the end, you’ll see.”

“Dream on, asshole. You’re never going to get any part of you inside my end.” As I said that I was imagining a specific part of him going exactly there, diving in and dancing with my own parts, bopping to the beat of the music of. . . Stop thinking like that!

“I’ll make sure you’re well lubricated first, of course. I do have quite a large thingy, but when you’re good and wet and slippery down there it will glide in easy as pie. Ooh, that sounds nice, doesn’t it.”

“No, this is silly. Nothing like that could happen here, to anyone. There’s a huge crowd of people all around. Don’t you see?” I realized too late that I’d made a mistake by mentioning an obstacle—and an easily-avoided one at that. I’d accidentally told him that my cooperation was only a matter of time, once he solved all my objections. Sex was up for reasonable debate and he considered himself both reasonable and patient. Now I knew he’d never give up. Inwardly I sighed and resigned myself.

Naturally he was only emboldened by this stupid foray of mine.

“Would you rather we go to one of the bedrooms?” he said. “There are plenty of them available. But I assure you it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. None of these folks would care—or even notice—if we do it right here. Except perhaps to envy our enjoyment. That’s the way it is at all these functions. Everyone’s lost in his own head, engrossed by his own fantasies.”

“Not a chance,” I told him. Inside my head swirled a pack of deliciously filthy, salacious fantasies of the lewdest kind.

“Well, we could go if you want to. But this table is pretty much the perfect height. Why don’t you try placing your hands on it? And spread your legs apart for me, too, please. There’s lots of room and no one is looking. Not looking yet, I mean. I suppose they may watch us later, but by then we won’t care. We’ll be too busy—and too focused on each other.”

I shook my head and tried to keep from breathing noticeably hard. Can he tell how much he’s affecting me?

“Either is fine,” he said. “Here or there, it matters not. I can imagine our consummation in any number of places, all of them nasty, all of them glorious. I can almost feel your wet lips sucking on my penis already. Can’t you? Yes, I say, I see you can feel them. How brilliant!”

I realized with surprise that my pussy had gotten sopping wet. It did that on its own, without my knowledge or direction, and now I felt it clenching and unclenching, like it wanted something to grasp ahold of. I had the inexplicable, unsettling feeling that it was going to get what it wanted with or without my help—and that I couldn’t prevent it. Then—the very second I had that thought—I felt my nipples swell up hard as pencil points, jabbing aggressively out through the thin straining fabric of my dress. I knew he could see them. Everyone could see them! Belatedly I regretted my failure to have worn a bra. What had been going on in my head when I was getting dressed? I felt at that moment like I may as well have been shouting, “Look at my tits!” I was mortified, and—I could no longer deny it—incredibly horny.

Meanwhile he talked on and on.

He told me all the positions he wanted to put me in. He told me exactly where he’d place his hands and how he’d move me around and how lovely it would feel, how aroused I’d become, and how satisfied afterwards.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, thinking I wished I could get a look at the boner he had bragged about so much, see how big and hard it really was, whether I could fit it in my mouth. . . My thoughts were becoming jumbled and confused, in the grip of so much passion. Stop you! Stop thinky!

Then he told me again how turned on he was by how hot I looked.

I tried to ignore him, but that was exactly what I wanted to hear. I tried not to listen to him or think about what he was saying. It was all I could think about. Sex! Wet sloppy sex! Dicks in cunts! His and mine! I desperately wanted to jam a finger or two up my twat and stroke my clit, which was by that time poking its nose out of its hole all conspicuous like the red button that launches the nuclear missiles. But he wouldn’t stop looking at me. I wanted him to look. It made me even hotter. I wanted him to watch me rub my fingers all over my. . . Stop! Stop! Stop!

Talking, talking, talk, talk. Fuck!

I wore down; it was inevitable. I finally let him bang me just to shut him up.

“All right, you son of a bitch!” I said. “I surrender; you win! Let’s get on with it.”

He smiled and guided me firmly but gently into position with strong hands on my waist.

“Excellent,” he complemented me on my tractability. “Now place your palms flat on the table. And raise your butt. . . up, up more. . . perfect! You look amazing in that pose. Don’t you feel beautiful?”

I did feel good. I’d gotten even more juicy inside by then, to the point I was practically dripping on the floor. I gave my hips a little jiggle, kind of a trademark of mine leading up to the act—a bit of a salute for the spectators—and noticed my underwear had apparently disappeared. I was sure I’d been wearing some—pretty sure, anyway, even if it was only a thong. Still I wondered why I’d decided to go braless that evening. In fact I had no memory of making such a decision. To be honest I didn’t remember making any decisions at all, for days and days in the past. What was there for me to decide, really, after all was said and done?

I looked around. People were watching me then, of course. A fair number had gathered, all unfamiliar faces. They observed, but in a desultory fashion. They went on talking among themselves, some sipping their drinks, occasionally chuckling, as if a young woman’s naked butt up in the air was a fairly ordinary phenomenon, nothing they hadn’t all seen before. I supposed they were right.

Unseen hands fondled my ass and adjusted it. I responded with a low-pitched moan. My pussy lips opened for him spontaneously—in my mind they did at least, if that sort of thing is even possible.

Something pressed against me, something unexpectedly large, though I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised. There wasn’t the slightest pain, though, when he forced it in. I felt an agreeable, token resistance, then nothing but intense delight as he began to work his rigid tool into a rhythm inside my plumbing. I gamely found my own rhythm, resisting his thrusts and pushing back, and we joined our exertions together.

“Oh my god!” I cried out. What am I doing? But then I gave up rational thinking, aware only of the pure fucking pleasure of being used as I was intended, filling the need I’d been created to fill, become the receptacle for all the swollen misogynistic rape-fantasies pent up in the blood that fuels every single man’s raging erections. I felt that joy of use pounded into me, filling me, fucking me for what seemed like hours. I made a lot of noise, I’m afraid, which I guess attracted some more witnesses as we thrashed around. It wasn’t a big deal, though. Some stared at us for a while, then wandered away. Evidently there were interesting things going on in other parts of the building, too.

My man went on pumping me energetically, and said no words, only grunts. I did have the distinct impression that he enjoyed himself, which seemed important for some reason, and made me feel a lot better about the whole thing.

When at last he’d pulled out and finished on my backside I heard, or imagined, a ripple of polite applause. I’d had too many orgasms to count. I was exhausted. We’d had fun, but I was done for.

I lay resting for a few minutes on the kitchen table, which we’d pushed across the room and banged loudly up against the opposite wall. I felt good about that, too, knowing I’d given everything I had and made sure everybody had noticed. If it’s worth screwing, it’s worth screwing well. I had done well; I knew that, down deep in my private, secret organs. I was sated and happy.

When I turned around I saw the man was gone; I never got his name, and now I have no memory of his face. Who cares? I was more concerned that I couldn’t find my panties.

Finally I rose up, pulled down my dress, and went off in search of one of those bedrooms that had been mentioned. My bottom was all sticky but I didn’t care about that. I wanted to take a short nap.

The night was not done with me yet though: I opened a bedroom and came upon my husband.

Maison wasn’t alone in there. He’d been talking to some short, greasy guy with an oversized mustache. There was a very young girl, too, perched on a chair. She had the biggest pair of tits I’d ever seen. I got the idea Maison was pressing the other man about filling some kind of prescription.

“Hydro and Soma, Doctor,” he was saying. “Hydro and Soma are like peanut butter and jelly. This child wants her lunch.”

The little guy made an uncomfortable face. “The BMQA was already on my back,” he said. “Now the BNDD. The Feds have to mess up everything.”

“You’ll get your reward.” He glanced at the girl. I guessed she might be eighteen. I hoped so. She had a greedy, hungry quality about her. Her eyes followed the conversation without turning her head.

Maison noticed me then, said, “Welcome, my dearest.”

“Listen,” I admitted right off. “Some guy just fucked me on the kitchen table. A lot of people saw the whole thing.” I felt the whole thing. “It was disturbing. I mean, I didn’t want it to happen, but I couldn’t stop it. I guess I liked it; I came a bunch of times. I hope you’re not mad.”

“No, of course, not,”he said. “It wasn’t your fault. Um, look, sweetheart, you can stay in here with us for a while if you want, but I’m gonna need you to take a time out.”

“Okay.”

“Crawl up on the bed,” he told me.

“Okay.” I did as he said.

“Good, now get on your knees and elbows and raise your ass up in the air as high as you can.”

“Okay.” I did that, too, certainly, because I always tried to do whatever he told me.

“Now give me one of your patented wiggles, nice and sexy.”

I wiggled my bottom.

“Good girl.”

He paused to think. I waited.

“Okay, that looks great. Now I’m gonna need you to stay there for a little while, so zone out and be quiet while we talk.”

“Okay.” I closed my eyes and froze, with my back arched up as far as it would go, my too-short dress riding up my thighs, my bare ass open to the air. Of course I did; Maison told me to, and I was perfectly comfortable doing it. I even liked the feeling, posed there like a showgirl in Las Vegas, available for looking but not touching. Maison liked guys to admire my body, since it belonged to him and he took pride in all his stuff. But I think this time he might’ve forgot to tell me something he usually didn’t forget—which was not to listen in on his conversation.

I heard the little guy say: “What a piece of ass!” Bug-eyed for sure, probably drooling, and shaking his head, the slimy little deviant.

Maison said: “Later for that. Now for the paperwork.”

“How about I have that one instead?” I couldn’t turn around but I knew he was pointing at me.

“I thought you liked Cecilia?”

“Sure, but I ain’t married to her.”

“We had a deal.”

“Deals change.” His voice turned crafty. “Besides, I could always write more.”

“What about the Feds?” I know my husband well and I could tell he was teasing the little doctor, toying with him, probably for no reason, just his sick sense of humor.

“Screw the Feds.”

“Hmmm. What if I let you join in with me? Give me a hand with her, as it were?”

“Maybe. How would that work?” The little guy was wholly taken in.

“You like anal, don’t you,” Maison asked him.

“Christ, yes. You’d go along with that?”

“For a price. How many scripts?”

“A dozen. Christ, two dozen. Lord Sweet Jesus, what an ass she’s got on her!” He was committed now, but still a little frightened of Maison and unsure. “What about Cecilia?”

“Oh,” said my husband. “She still gets her scripts. And. . . we can let her watch.”

I gulped.

“You’re the doctor,” said Maison. “Go open her up.”

Maison came and took my face in his hands while his tame doctor went to work on my other end. The man was a smarmy, disgusting little fellow, but he made my anus feel terrific. I could feel myself opening wide up under the deft compulsion of his fingers and thumbs. When I felt his tongue inside me, and his awful mustache rubbing on my ass, the feeling of it was such an unanticipated jolt of stimulation that my pussy immediately had a powerful spasm and filled up with my come. Not quite an orgasm, but close, and mind-numbing. I didn’t think I’d had much experience with anal, but maybe I didn’t remember. My memory is fuzzy on a lot of points. Anyway, I took to it with alacrity. I twisted and squirmed and my asshole gaped invitingly wide for what we both knew was coming. I think my anus was more eager than I was. I felt the doctor climbing up behind me, shaking the bed.

Then Maison put his cock in my mouth. It was the biggest and best of all, the greatest thing ever for kissing and licking. I loved sucking on it. I used my tongue a lot, moving my head up and down and around, just the way he liked it. It never took long for me to bring him off.

So, eyes closed, I worked away with my mouth on his dick, focused, thrilling to his obvious enjoyment. After a while I opened my eyes and found myself looking directly into the gaze of the big-tit girl, Cecilia. Her butt seemed glued to her chair; her hands were working furiously down in her pants. Her eyes were impossibly wide. We looked into each other’s minds and I think we had our orgasms together.

Then I felt Maison’s erection swelling and pulsing between my lips, so I knew he was close. I sped up and he responded, grabbing my hair with both hands, pulling my face down on him as he exploded into my throat. I tried to swallow what I could, but a big glob got away from me landed with a splat on the floor. I tried to lick him clean, but he backed away quickly and collapsed on a chair, before I could do much good.

I saw the chair he landed on was the one that Cecilia had previously been occupying. She’d left the room. I wondered how much time had elapsed while I was sucking. I hoped she got her prescriptions filled; I knew mine had been.

I’d forgotten all about my little doctor. I didn’t see what happened to him. It didn’t much matter to me what he did or where he went.

Not long after that Maison and I returned to our sumptuous home.

I’m sure you’d like to know how I met Maison and got to know him. It happened at Caesar’s Palace, in the casino, on a weekend trip to Las Vegas. I left my life and my friends, the ones who were with me at the time, and lived happily ever after with him.

I was traveling with a few acquaintances from work but I happened to be by myself, playing some slots, when Maison sat down a couple seats away from me. Here’s this older guy, I noticed, conservatively well-dressed, having a good look at my tits. At first I thought he was harmless, some letch evaluating the merchandise: interested, but only window-shopping. I was wearing jeans and a blue tee-shirt. I remember because of how tight my outfit was, how deliberately titillating. There was a guy along with us on that trip whom I was hoping would notice me, but I’ve forgotten everything about him now, even his name.

The way Maison kept glancing over at me, the look on his face, the huge wad of cash he was holding casually in one hand as he jerked repeatedly on his lever. . . Well, I began to find myself very attracted to him, infatuated even. It was kind of magical how suddenly my love for him took possession of me, and how overwhelmingly. It was all so charming, so devastatingly romantic. I was captivated.

I caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back. His eyes were ice-blue. I moved over to sit next to him.

We talked endlessly that first afternoon and evening. I told him all about myself, my apartment, the boring job I had, working in the school district office, the friends I didn’t really like who had come with me to Vegas. I even told him about some of my old boyfriends and our unsatisfying relationships. He was so easy to talk to, so comfortable. I didn’t want our time together to ever end.

Don’t bother to ask me why I was willing to go alone with him up to his hotel room. Look, he invited me to get in the elevator, so I did: I went with him. It’s not like I gave it any thought. I didn’t even form an intention to go, not really, since I’d never considered doing otherwise. I’d known him for about an hour and I’d spent the last half of it wondering desperately how I was going to make myself so attractive to him that—when he eventually went away—he would take me along. He was magnetic. I would have gone anywhere with him, done anything. When he suggested we should go up to his suite I was ecstatic. I leapt to my feet, nodding like a maniac. I wasn’t afraid of him; our age difference meant nothing to me. I wasn’t even thinking about having sex with him, only being in his presence, basking in the proverbial glow.

Maison had Russian vodka in his room, a jug of it, with limes and caviar. I drank too much too quickly and lost all my inhibitions, such as they were. I stripped out of my clothes and threw myself drunkenly at him. But he rejected me, saying he needed more time to work up to a good level of passion. What a gentleman! But I was devastated.

“We need to do some shopping for you,” he told me and made me get dressed again. We went down to the concourse where the shops were. He helped me choose several things: dresses and shoes mostly, lots of shoes. We both like high-heels. With his help, I was supremely confident that anything we picked out would look great on me.

We went back up to our room with my new stuff and I modeled it for him. We had a bit more ice-cold vodka, maybe quite a bit. He decided the outfit he liked best on me was basically nothing—only some long, dangly earrings and a pair of five-inch heels: the silver ones. Otherwise just me! I threw myself at him again, then, and this time he caught me enthusiastically.

Here is what we did that night; we did some erotic role-play!

Maison told me to pretend that he was the director of a porn movie and I was the star. He said the plot would revolve around an evil scientist who wanted to hypnotize me and fuck me senseless. In the first part of the movie he would play the hypnotist. Then he sat me down and used a gold watch swinging on the end of a chain to pretend to put me in a trance and plant in my mind some nasty suggestions. I wanted to go along, but it was such a hokey premise I couldn’t stop giggling.

Phase shift.

Then I was playing the slots again, losing consistently until my twenty dollars were all gone. I looked at my watch and decided it was probably time go up to the movie set and look things over. Actresses in porn have to be careful about working with unfamiliar production companies. You can get hurt. This guy, the producer, seemed legit, and the money was good, but the script he gave me, with its mad scientist and goofy dialog, was too ludicrous for words. I resolved to ignore my stilted lines and ad-lib everything. How much difference could it make?

I rode the elevator up to a high floor that I don’t remember and strolled down a hall to a room with a number I immediately forgot. I knocked and the producer-director answered. I had a hazy recollection of having met him before. He was polite enough, and very presentable. I shook hands with a tall, handsome older man who was conservatively well-dressed. He did take a quick look down at my jugs, but in our business that’s par for the course.

He apologized for the lousy script and told me to say whatever I wanted. The important thing was to remember that for my next scene I was supposed to have been given a powerful hypnotic suggestion, and I should really get into the sex.

“Fine,” I said. “Do you have wardrobe?” He led me to a room in his suite where a bed was laid out with an assortment of tight, sexy dresses and a number of pairs of spike-heel shoes. Everything was my size. That was good; I was very fond of the heels. As per usual I had to do my own make-up.

It was also reassuring for me that the front room had given the impression of a fairly professional film set. Cameras on tripods, tall stands for official-looking light bars. Cables, wardrobe, script pages strewn about. Best of all, a crew of at least three guys fumbling with equipment, speaking in low tones, all faceless and anonymous behind the glare of the light bars. A crew means a serious production. The last thing you want to find on a shoot is a guy with one camera all by himself in a hotel room. You know he does a lot of camera work with one hand.

I dressed, slipped into a pair of silver, sexy-looking pumps, and went out to meet my co-star. I touched his hand and we both mumbled something about how great it was going to be to work together, and so forth. The light was in my eyes and I never got a good look at his face. Now I wouldn’t recognize him on the street two feet away. But I couldn’t miss the fact that he had a lot of gray in his hair.

We went to the couch and got straight to work. He really did have a prodigious cock, and no trouble keeping it hard, nearly like he wanted me for real. When he got going inside me I began to believe he really had hypnotized me into going all nympho on him. I’m not kidding, I didn’t have to pretend to be into it. I got wet right away, and we never even needed to stop for the lube in my purse. I really was into it, like almost never happens on a porn set, certainly not to me. My improvised dialog ran almost entirely to spontaneous squealing and moaning and barely intelligible stock phrases like: “Yes, yes, yes, oh, oh, yes, please don’t stop!” or “Oh, baby, yes, fuck me harder, give it to me right there!” It was all very realistic, and it went on so long that I virtually zoned out, like I was in a daze or a fugue state. Or a hypnotically-induced trance.

The last thing I remember thinking was: “What a movie we’re making. This is gonna be a fucking classic!”

Phase shift.

In the morning I woke to dozens of missed calls and texts, all worried about me, but mainly curious. Or just nosy. I told them not much at all and then quit my job over the phone. It was nothing, what I’d given up. What I’d found in that garish, phony-elegant Las Vegas hotel-casino was much, much better: genuine love! Maison and me together for all time!

It is true there may actually have been a crew of employees along with us, lodged in the room adjoining Maison’s, camped out with a pile of video equipment and movie lights. I’m not sure. It’s also true I may have had more sex later on that night, too, maybe on into the early morning and the next day. I don’t know, but I was unusually sore, like I’d been fucked by a herd of thoroughbred racehorses turned out to stud. I’ve admitted that my memory is fuzzy. I guess I had too much to drink that night. It doesn’t matter. The weekend turned out magnificently anyway.

Maison and I have been together ever since that night in Vegas, the very first time we met. At least I think it was the first time. The first time I remember.

We flew home in a private jet. Not Maison’s, it belonged to a business associate. It was his home we returned to, though, and opulent it was, where I moved in and lived in indolent luxury like the concubine of an Arab sheik. For months we fucked constantly. You wouldn’t think a man his age would have so much stamina. We tried many different methods, played many games, turned things upside down and sideways. Sometimes women joined us; he seemed to know a great number of them and all were attractive and adventurous. Sometimes, I think, strangers came to watch. There were mirrors around that could have been one-way glass. The sex for me was always new and different and interesting. It was almost like I was continually banging a brand-new partner, which most anyone would tell you is the most exciting, if also the most stressful. The variety kept me on my toes, so to speak, proped up high on my five-inch heels.

We were married six months later. He is a lot older than me, maybe fifteen or twenty years. I’ve never bothered to ask about it. We’re very happy. We have been from the beginning.

The next thing I knew I was back playing the slots. My friends were coming towards me, all speaking at once: “Where have you been? You disappeared for three days; we were worried about you!”

One particularly frumpy clerk said to me: “So you’ve got a new wardrobe, now? Find a weekend sugar-daddy, did we?”

The guy whom I’d been trying to get to notice me said: “I like your new shoes.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I do, too. Everybody likes them on me.”

Phase shift. . . Oh please, God, give me just one more!