The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

We small-talked about my job, for a while, and he told me some of the stories of the North, sometimes at the same time. I was—I am—in advertising, a shallow profession at best, speed-skating across the ice-slick surface of life.

“So in a nutshell, in your world, you tell stories, and people buy them, and buy things as a result? And you’re the high flier, the great hope for the future of this agency of yours?” he said.

“Sort of. For example, I’m working on a campaign at the moment, for a beauty product line. The theme is ‘authentic.’ Big budgets. Global.” Yes, and all about me.

“’Authentic, you say?’”

“Yes,” I said. “Real. Real people, not models. Authentic, not fake.”

“And these ‘real’ people,” he said, “how do you choose them? To be representative? At random?”

“Well… not entirely,” I had to admit. “There’s always a suspension of disbelief involved.”

“I expect you might have one that’s a little bit plump, but not too fat, am I right, because too fat would be off putting, non-aspirational?”

“No doubt,” I answered.

“And a mix of ethnicities, but nothing too jarring? Can’t have culture shock, can we?”

“Of course,” I admitted. The whole idea was beginning to feel wrong, fake.

He was smiling at me, a little ironically, I thought.

“Could you squeeze in a disability perhaps? Nothing too disabling, of course, you wouldn’t want to frighten the horses.”

“Very funny.”

“And of course, they’ll be wholesome types. Nothing too confronting. Nothing too different. No hint of transgression from the norm.”

“Mmm. Well that’s why they call it ‘normal’, isn’t it?”

“It’s not real, though, is it?” he said. I was startled. Nobody had ever spoken to me like this before. “This is not authentic. So why don’t we just go to my place and have sex, like you want to? That would be authentic, Miss High Flier.”

Suddenly all my barriers were up. I didn’t know why; I can’t pretend it hadn’t been on my mind, this last hour. An automatic reaction, perhaps. A conditioned response to his surreal directness, or just a fear of the shell of control being breached, penetrated.

“But I’ve only just met you,” I said. It sounded lame, even to me. “We don’t know each other at all. I’m not that sort of girl.” Lamer still. Stop being so passive. “Don’t you think we should at least have dinner? Witty conversation?”

He grinned at me. “The full girlfriend experience, you mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“All work and no play makes Kate a dull girl,” he said. “Let’s play a game, Miss High Flier. In my experience, a game will always make you think differently.”

“What kind of game?”

“Well, I know several. Here’s one to start. Imagine the scenario, the story. You are a ravishingly beautiful thirty-something single woman, alone in a bar.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” I said, secretly flattered.

“We are strangers.”

“Yes, that’s the point.”

“Ah yes, but just listen,” and here he signalled for more drinks. The bartender nodded in acknowledgement. “Sometimes it’s good to be a stranger to yourself, too. You are a free spirit. You do what you want. You can sleep with whoever you want. Strangers in the night.”

“Sounds like a hooker.”

“Not at all! An even if you were, that wasn’t how things were, before. A free spirit, why not—a courtesan. An honourable profession. Not a whore, of course, but a player in a sophisticated and worldly entertainment. A woman who can do what she wants, unconstrained by society’s rules.”

I eyed him. This wasn’t what I had expected at all, but as was becoming inevitable, I was intrigued. A part of me stood outside myself, disapproving in the strongest possible terms.

“Go on,” I said.

“It’s just a game, Kate,” he continued. “In this story, your name might be, let’s say, Katya. Just like another woman I know, actually, an equally wonderful woman. You—Katya—are very valuable. Proud and precious! Few men can afford you. Few men can handle you.”

“True,” I said, “very few. But who’s Katya?”

“You, in this game,” he said, “Anyway. There are only a few men who can handle you. I can. You can call me Mister Talv, by the way, in this game.” And he smiled rather charmingly at that.

“And this Katya,” I said. “Who is she, Karsten, ah, Mister Talv?”

“You decide. It’s your story, too.”

“OK. I’ll bite. Perhaps I’m a little exotic,” I said. “With a name like Katya. I imagine my mother was probably French.”

“It means ‘purity’,” he replied, helpfully, and I couldn’t help thinking he’d used this line before. “As does Kate. Hopefully that will put your mind at rest.”

“She was—I was innocent. But I discovered my power over men,” I continued. “And I decided to use it.”

“Very good. But do not the men use you?”

I lifted my chin, proud. “Never Katya. Katya chooses. She takes what she wants.”

“Indeed she does! And in our story, brave Katya is sitting in her favourite spot, in her favourite bar, waiting for what the evening may bring.”

“And what may the evening bring, Mister Talv?” I smiled. I admit I was enjoying this. There’s something sexy and mysterious about the unknown, isn’t there? Strangers in the night, and so on.

“Me,” he said. “A ship passing.”

“And who are you, Mister Talv?”

“Authentic. A stranger. Myself.”

One drink leads to another, and one thing leads to another, and after a while, he takes me by the hand. I hesitate. New territory, and the first step is always the biggest. Then, I don’t hesitate any more, and we slip from our bar stools and walk toward the exit. I am in control of the situation.

See? His apartment is on the top floor, the one with the big windows. It’s a nice place. He’s a nice guy, I think. He’s probably high up in some bank or another. He’s a nice guy looking for a nice girl, just playing a sexy little game. I am completely in control. Nothing to worry about at all.

Inside, in the welcoming warmth, he offers me a drink, and I stand on my tiptoes, eyes closed, offering him my welcoming mouth to kiss. His tongue enters my mouth, exploring, gentle at first and then, as I respond in a rush of desire, harder and faster. I pull my blouse over my head and guide his hands to my breasts. Not that he needs any guidance; he knows exactly what he’s doing, and very soon I begin to relinquish control.

He begins to lead me towards the bedroom, and from that moment I am lost.

Lying there at home in bed the next Saturday morning, traffic honking outside, I replay the night before. Horny, unaccountably excited, and deeply ashamed, I think: I can’t believe I did that. That wasn’t like me. I’ll never do that again.

But my body knows better. It trembles at the muscle memory of him.

I remember thinking, blushing: he played it out to the end. He actually gave me money, paid me—paid Katya—for sex, in this game. Part of the game, he’d said, or else how would we know to suspend disbelief?

And I’d willingly played it out to the end too, and I’d actually taken his money, which game or no game made me just a… filthy… whore. I’d already gone too far, with this game. Why hadn’t I just thrown the cash in his face like anyone normal would? Who does he think he is, ordering me around like that?

Did he take my number? No. He just told me to be back there, same place, same time, next Friday. And then he told me exactly what to wear, and I’d listened, and nodded, like some passive, obedient slut. And I had actually liked it.

I am not going back there next Friday, I told myself.

I am not going back to the hotel. I am not going back to the hotel.

I am certainly, definitely, absolutely not going to meet Karsten Talv next Friday.

And the very next Friday there I was, exactly as everybody in the world except me would probably have expected, back at the bar, dressed in the most whorish outfit imaginable, exactly per instructions. Then back at his apartment, back on his bed. I was on fire. I had never felt so sexually charged, so dirty, so wet, so ready for anything. I felt his erection brush my buttocks and shivered. Why was he not taking me, like this, right now? Why was he making me wait?

I want it all, right now. All of it. I always have.

Why should I have to wait for what I want?