The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When I awake, before I open my eyes, I see the spiral and I am calm.

It is only when I open them that the struggle begins, the struggle that has become my life, but compared to some, my tribulations are minor, and so I make do much like anyone does. I awaken around 6, rise, wash, and head straight for the gym. It is time to maintain my body, as has always been important, but also a time to see and be seen, and should an opportunity arise, so much the better.

My exercises are chosen carefully… I am to remain trim, but not hard. I must be soft, inviting, exciting to see and touch. So I stick mostly to aerobics, both to sweat and also to sway and bounce, to draw wandering eyes and encourage them if possible. Often it isn’t. The ones here now are serious about their workouts, and the brief glances at my revealing attire do not promise enough to act on. Too much impropriety and I would be thrown out, which would make my morning routine significantly harder.

There is one, today. A young man here with friends who are regulars, using a guest pass. His eyes spot me, and I hold eye contact. He considers, I can see it in his eyes and from the tent in his shorts, but one of his friends sees it, berates him, and apologies to me… he will see to it I remain unmolested. I smile and thank him while cursing him in my head. Oh well. Come 7 am I shower, dress, and head to work, where the real games begin.

My boss is a pig, chosen as such by design. So many interviews to find someone appropriate, then all the work to be certain I’d get the job. From what I read, it would once have been much easier, even expected, but now is an age of prosecution and lawsuits, and even swine like Jordan Templeton cannot be relied on to act inappropriately without some other cause.

I bend over his desk as I bring him his coffee and morning reports, my blouse largely unbuttoned, and affect not to notice as he stares at my full, glorious tits. It is part of the game. He must think me innocent, air-headed, a hot piece of ass just waiting to be nailed, a prize begging to be claimed. If he sees that I am the predator, he will spook, run, believing I seek his money. A lesson hard learned, and confirmed over and over again.

“Damn, Carrie, looking fine today.”

It isn’t easy to fake a blush, but I can. My bodily control is near perfect… a consolation prize for other control that was lost. I fake a giggle to suppress. “Oh, Mr. Templeton, you are just so BAD!” I want him to be worse. NEED him to be worse. It is all I can do to not hurl myself over his desk, rip off his pants, and take his cock all the way down my throat.

“Not yet, but you keep dressing like that and I could be?”

“Sir?” I am thirty-two years old, with a Ph.D, two master’s degrees, and a pussy that starts sopping when I bring this pig coffee. Damn, but I was sure this would be the easy part.

He walks around his desk, and I back away slowly, eyes widening, chest heaving. Seeing a woman afraid makes men feel powerful. Men who feel powerful want to fuck. The only reason I’m even wearing panties is so you’ll keep them as a trophy, so just make a move, you tedious prick.

Soon my back is against the wall, my hands dropped to my sides and my head to the side as he places a hand close enough for me to kiss it, if I wanted. It’s a power position, designed to make me feel trapped, docile. Instead, I am stoked to the point of meltdown but it is too soon. If I kneel down now, without prompting, he’ll spook and run. He needs to make me kneel, to make me a conquest. Then it’ll work, if he would only DO it. Just order me, dear God, I need it so bad, ORDER me…

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you? You’ve needed it the whole time you’ve worked for me. I’ve seen the clothes you wear when you work, the way you watch me as I walk by.” Well, he did eventually. I’d only been able to find this particular secretary ensemble at a fetish store. Did he think the fishnets came standard? “One of these days, someone is gonna teach you what you do to men, and take you home to keep.”

I try to avoid blinking faster. Would he do that? Christ, but that would be easier, so long as he let me keep to my schedule…

“...but lucky for you, I’m a busy man.” He backs off. “Uh, no calls for the next fifteen minutes, lock the door, and knock before you come in. Now get out of here.” Shit… he STILL spooked. Now he’ll masturbate instead of getting blown, and I’ll just have to sweat it out until the time comes.

“Of… of course, sir.” I could beg. He’d like me begging… until he started thinking with his brain again. I had to be conquered, or he’d panic, and the game would be up for good until I could find someone else. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He barely even looks at me the rest of the day, and when he leaves for lunch, he grumbles about feminism. It’d be funny, if I didn’t need his dick so goddamn bad. At the strike of noon, I go to the bathroom, pull out the biggest sex toy that would fit in my purse, and plunge it into me, vibrating so hard I go through batteries three times a week. It takes a minute for me to cum… not the best one, but that’s my limit for the day, unless I succeed elsewhere.

At 3:15 he leaves for golf, swatting my ass for good measure on his way out. I squeak out a giggle, and he gives me a wink, but it’s all show. He’d spent two hours locked in his office that morning, thinking about bending me over his desk. Eventually he’ll crack, I tell myself, praying to any available deity that I’m not just wasting time again. Once he leaves, I open my private email as Stacey shows up.

Stacey’s a cute kid, hired for her tits much like I was, our latest IT tech. She says nothing, just stands there while I push my chair out of the way so we can both kneel before the screen while the video plays.

No words, no commands, just a spiral, a thrumming noise. I watch it, and I am calm.

I hadn’t meant for her to watch the video. I suspect that she’d been ordered to spy on my computer use by Mr. Templeton and found it the first time, then came to ask me about it… and watch it again. Now she joined me every day after he left work. Her eyes are still dazed after it ends, and I whisper the truths that will help her get by. Keep fucking that boyfriend of hers anyway he wants until it scares him off, then the real game will begin, at least for her. Perhaps some toys next, or a nice fetish uniform. Perfect for the girl who soon will always need to fuck.

As we stand, I lean in and kiss her. She doesn’t respond, but unlike in times past, she doesn’t fight me, either. Progress. My hands grasp her young tits and she groans a bit, and I resist the temptation to give her neck a bit. She isn’t ready, and it would be cruel to scare her boyfriend off so soon. It will happen on its own, after all, without my urging. Then, I tell her to go home and let that boy of hers take his first shot at her ass. She nods and wanders off, hand already down her pants, and I smile as she goes.

Once upon a time, I had been that young, horny, and brainwashed. I consider taking her in when her boyfriend finally kicks her out. Surely, if we prowled together, we could bring in someone who’d want us both. I could call her my daughter, see if anyone ever wanted to fuck a girl while her MILF licked his balls. And the scandal, the speculation. It made me hot, hotter even than usual, just thinking about it. No Men could resist that scenario, right?

Or they’d scare all the more easily. Men could be so timid.

After I clock out I go to a restaurant where the waiters are cute and forward, handing out my number to any who ask. Typically this gets me nowhere, and I would head to the next haunt, but fortune strikes; one middle-aged man chats me up for an hour, bragging about his car, his career, his money. He has a wife, two young sons, and two blue eyes that haven’t left my tits since he sat down.

Perfect.

I smile demurely, and soon we are in his clearly second-hand Corvette. It turns out that it is Spice Red, rather than Torch, like he claimed. He was even wrong about the year. I smile vacantly and laugh at all his jokes, and soon we are walking up his driveway to his house. There was room in his garage, but he didn’t want his exhaust to touch the boat that was in there, so instead any snoop with open blinds on the street can see him walking into his house with a blonde bimbo while his wife’s away. Oh, how the rumors will fly in this bored suburb. I tingle at the thought.

“I don’t have much time,” he mutters. Based on his staying power, he didn’t need all he had anyway. He fucks me from behind while my tits are smooshed up against a window. I see the teenager who has just been supplied with new masturbatory material for a while, and wonder who I can’t see who can see me. The very idea makes me buzz, which is good, because this guy sure wasn’t up to it.

That’s when the screaming starts. Another asshole with so much blood in his cock that his brain forgets certain facts, like when exactly his wife will be home. This part worries me. You hear stories, and one day a woman will find her man fucking me in their house and take matters into her own hands. Will she kill him? Me? Both?

I can’t even decide if I would blame her. Hell, I might thank her for the release. But right now the only release I am permitted is his tiny cock that I had to take anally just so I could fucking feel it. The fake tears flow, I apologize and flee, an Uber ordered before I even get through the front door without having to glance at my phone. His wife pursues me as far as the front step, where she screams after me, calling me a home-wrecker, a slut, whore, a dirty tramp, a bimbo.

Would she still do so, if she knew about the mini-orgasms each slur gave me? All they meant was that I had obeyed, a pleasure beyond any vibrator in the world. Thank you, miss ex-Johnny Corvette. Take him for every dime he has. And then, if you want revenge, pay me a visit sometime.

Her screams still serenade me as I enter the car, disappointed that the woman driving seems uninterested in my tits. Lesbians had made an interesting loophole, one I was still learning to exploit. But without so much as a glance at my rack she takes me to the restaurant, then drives away. Oh, well. I get into my car and head home. I’m still horny, as always, but also tired. I stop at a red light and close my eyes, just for a moment. When they close, I see the spiral, and I am calm. Then my eyes open, the light turns, and the struggle continues.

My phone rings. It’s Alecia, an old friend, and fellow former prisoner. “Hey there, babe, how’s it going?”

“Carrie, I-I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“About him. What if he comes back? What if he does it all again, or someone like him?” Alecia and the others have been calling me with these worries more and more often, lately. I worry about them.

“He can’t come back. He’s gone, remember?”

“But it happened YEARS ago and here I am, waking in cold sweats, imagining that he has me in front of that screen again. I can’t even open email attachments anymore!”

Not a bad strategy, I muse to myself. So long as she never trusted anyone, it would work. “All you can do is be careful, Alecia. But you’re safe. You’re with your family.”

She’d been returned to them, like the others who’d been there when the police came. I had been out and about, running errands. They’d all simply assumed, when I contacted them as was my job, that I had been freed as well. They never asked about it, no one ever did.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. Are you sure?”

“Listen to me. Get yourself a drink, go cuddle with your hubby. If it’s still a problem tomorrow we’ll set up a date to talk it through, I even have a video my… therapist… gave me to help.” Technically true. He’d been my Therapist at first, after all. Before he became my master. Our Master.

“Ok… ok. Thank you, Carrie. You’re one of the only ones I can trust anymore.”

I don’t respond. I don’t like to lie outright to friends, not when I can avoid it.

I stop at the fetish shop again, and the cashier, Anna, grins and greets me by name. She’s a hot little firecracker herself, tattooed up like a Suicide Girl with eyes that never saw me in a dress she didn’t want to take off with her teeth. One time, we’d headed to the special changing room and worked the glory holes together for a bit. When I’d first heard of them, I thought I’d found the answer.

It hadn’t worked. I needed to SEE them use me. But it HAD been fun… a realization that made me wonder exactly how much of me was left after all. The woman I’d been… she seemed like a myth, a bedtime story. I headed for the costume aisle.

“What is it this time, Car-bear?” she cat-called from the register. “Space Slave Girl? Purple Harem to complete your set? Pony Girl? Or are you finally gonna grab that schoolgirl set I saw you ogling the other day?”

The last was probably next… as my hand grazed the fabric of the pleated skirt, I could feel my mind take its shape like water poured into a pitcher. Skirt too short, shirt too small, pig tails just right, just a naughty little girl looking for a Daddy to help her with her homework. And I had a LOT of homework.

It would have to wait, though. Next paycheck at least, or even the one after that. Fetish outfits that could weather multiple washings were expensive, especially if you had to avoid such purchases being traceable. I removed my hand from the skirt and felt my mind flow back to it’s previous form… the horny secretary once again. “Just the weeks thongs, Anna.”

“You’re the only one I know who has to reload on sexy silkys every week, you know? They ARE reusable after you take ’em off, in case you were curious.”

“Not if you do it right,” I shoot back, and she laughs as I peruse their latest collection. This was the hardest order to follow. Fresh sexy underthings every night, until he could choose what exactly he wanted me in. A choice that would be a very long time coming. I pay for them, trying hard not to think of how much I’m paying per inch of lace, and head out, wiggling a little as I go for her benefit. I consider, for the twelfth time in as many days, getting her email to send her an attachment, but again I wait. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Stacey is still coming along, and there is so much yet to do...

The day nears its end. I drive for some time, stopping for gas, a soda, and to change in the bathroom. The secretary unravels from my mind as I peel off the fishnets and soon all that remains is the slave, beautiful, intelligent, owned. The leather collar feels good around my neck, as if it is a part of my soul that is lost whenever it is removed. Maybe it is. The woman I was is gone. This is the real me, now.

The owner of the shop is proud of his business, of his family, and shakes his head at the degradation of American women twice, first when he sees how I am dressed when I enter and again as I leave. He doesn’t even know the half or even a quarter of the story, but I endure his lecture on virtue; in fact, I’ve been looking forward to it all day. This is not required, but once I found it, I started seeking it out whenever possible. Dad never saw me this way, never had to speak to me like this. But if he had, he would have, and so for a moment, I am just a wayward girl disappointing a father who loves her. Almost.

My mascara doesn’t run. It never does.

When I finally arrive, the guard comes out. He’s an older fellow, no judgement in him. Kids will wear what they want, in his opinion. He concentrates only on my punctuality. “All this time, and still you come every day. He was a lucky man.” I nod, he waves me through, and I drive up the pretty lane, smelling the fresh cut grass. I see Him, and stop, walking over to him with a parcel in my hands. I kneel before him like a slave, my eyes lowered like a submissive, my tits out like a slut.

“Master,” I report, “I have done all as you asked. My body has been maintained, for I exist only for the giving of pleasure, both physical and visual. I must always pursue a fucking, if not from you then someone else who sees me as the sex toy I am. I watch your video every day, and watch for new talent to add to your collection. Stacey is coming along nicely. I seek new ways to improve myself for the pleasure of others. I fuck those who are forbidden, so that society may know its rules to be a lie, and forever seek your approval in the packaging of my body, your possession.” I open up the parcel which holds my latest purchases, and place it before the tombstone. “I submit this weeks set, for your approval.”

Silence is his only answer. I finally raise my eyes to read the words on the weathered tombstone, the date of his death nearly four years passed. Luckily for me, lack of rebuke is enough, in this instance.

The orgasm is overwhelming, and I collapse for a while, gasping and crying in pleasure, peace, and humiliation. As always the old guard takes it for grief, and closes the gate behind me as I depart. As I turn onto the highway, I put in the tape, and listen to the screams of porn stars faking their pleasure for the pleasure of others. I listen because they are the best, and I still have much to learn.

When I get home, exhausted from work and chores, I check my phone to find a series of texts from Alecia, desperately sorry for the disruption, needing a change. Needing peace, needing calm. “Next week,” I respond, marking the date in my calendar. “Come over, we’ll watch the video, and we can try on some clothes together.” I don’t feel bad. Freedom isn’t working for her. This will be better than limbo, and then maybe she could join me and Stacey. Anna might do it just for the asking, or perhaps she would be the next to see it, but in time a bimbo orgy would be ready for any man with the balls to take us up on it… so long as he met the criteria.

I never thought that would be the hard part. Maybe the girls alone would be enough. One could always hope.

I remove my clothes and feel empty, my essence too spread out, even with the collar. Naked, I have no identity. Once, I knew who I was without question. Now, I must be told. I strap into the new lingerie, and breathe easy as once again I know who I am… a sex toy ready to please physically and visually, should Master arrive and demand me.

I look at myself in the mirror and pose before I turn out the lights, so far from the mousy researcher my Therapist had hypnotized all those years ago. If I found her clothes again, if I could wear them, would I be me again? Could I be? Or would I just find myself rejected by those I needed to fuck? They didn’t want that girl, had never wanted her. They wanted the Bimbo… or at least, that was what they claimed.

I look in the mirror again and pose, knowing he would fuck me in an instant if he came back. Anyone would, at least once. Having obeyed, I turn out the lights and slide into bed.

And after my eyes close, before I drift to sleep and dream of him, I see the spiral. And I am calm.