The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He spent time learning the capabilities and quirks of his new toy, and when I went to his apartment there was usually something new to see as a result.

He showed me a perfect sphere, in white. It was the roundest, smoothest thing I had ever seen, a kind of ur-sphere. He said it was as close to the Platonic ideal of a sphere as it was possible to get—there was no more truly spherical object in the entire world; possibly the entire universe, outside the mathematical abstraction of a black hole. It was, he said, his first stab at perfection.

Sex and work and sex and work. That was perfection, I thought. The perfect double life.

He showed me other shapes too. He’d created a cube, of similar unearthly accuracy. An icosohedron. A dodecahedron too. They’d make a great line in lamp bases, he thought.

Work and sex and work.

He showed me a small cylinder, about the size of a Cuban cigar, and explained that although it wasn’t the most interesting shape, he’d now graduated to be able to design moving parts and mechanisms and circuits of increasing complexity. He laid the black cylinder on the table top, pressed something on its surface, and it began to move; an alternation of contractions and stretches dragging it slowly forward like some protean peristaltic worm.

Sex and work and sex.

That Saturday, Karsten told me he’d spent much of the previous two days in what was now officially named the 3D Printer Workshop and New Product Development Centre. Always slightly OCD, in my opinion, he’d even now put a neat sign to that effect on the door. He wasn’t short of rooms, of course, in that huge apartment of his. Apparently he owns the whole building, and there were many floors I hadn’t visited. When I asked about this, he just said they were used for other purposes.

“Like what?”

“Other purposes.”

“Such as?”

“Other purposes. Maybe I’ll show you later.”

But for whatever reason, ‘later’ never quite arrived, for yours truly.

The next time he came out of his Officially-Designated 3D Printer Workshop, he was smiling, and he carried a neatly gift-wrapped box.

“Your first present,” he said, handing it to me. “A beautiful job, if I say so myself. That machine is quite something.”

“Why, thank you, Karsten.” I undid the ribbon and wrapping, and opened the box. Inside was a silvery object that looked very familiar to me. I held it up. “Is this what I think it is?”

“What do you think it is?”

“A dildo.” It was indeed a dildo, and it was a very realistic looking depiction of what it was supposed to substitute for, albeit in smooth and seamless silver. It wasn’t metal though; it flexed to the touch. “It’s very lovely, but how could you imagine I’d need such a thing?”

“You’re a busy woman, High-Flying-Kate, and I’m a busy man. Anyway, it’s not just any dildo,” he said. “Externally at least, it’s an exact replica of the relevant part of me.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “But I already have you. Or vice-versa, perhaps.”

“And now you can have me any time you want,” he said, “and vice-versa. All the time, actually.”

I wondered how he’d managed to do this. He explained the machine could not only print from CAD files. It was much more sophisticated than that. Seemingly, if I had managed to read pages 357-420 of the manual, I would have known that it could also scan objects in 3D and create a design file accordingly. Then, you could reproduce those objects in exact simulacrum, in any material you liked.

“So I just climbed into the chamber, scanned myself, and the rest was easy.”

I turned the object, the present—a silvery plasticised version of Karsten’s cock, basically—over in my hands, and decided to save it for later.

“You’ll never have to wait, now,” he said.

And later, rather than do what I should have done, which was relax and prep for the next day’s High Flying, I picked up his present, lay back on my bed and began to use it, just as he used the real thing.

It felt exactly like Karsten. I pushed it deeper, slowly deeper, until it could go no further. Exactly like Karsten, in every contour and detail.

And then, with no warning, it came to life.

At the sudden, shocking sensation of it throbbing warmly inside me I let go of the dildo and threw my arms wide, my back reflexively arched, and I threw my head back on the pillow. It was delicious, and precisely familiar. Unbidden, I felt it slide further inside, on some mechanism of its own, opening me wider still, and I gasped, stretching to accommodate it. It began to make itself felt in new and unexpected ways. In, out, in, out, in a slow and insistent rhythm that was all too familiar and addictive. I spasmed and twitched and squeezed, down there, and unusually—thrillingly—it didn’t start to slide out under pressure, but burrowed still deeper in response. Whatever mechanisms he had built into the thing were very well thought out. I expected nothing less.

It was exactly as if he—Karsten—was here, right now. It was like being fucked by the invisible man, and I squealed and writhed on the bed as if he was truly here with me.

After I had come for the fifth time, I thought enough was enough. I had a busy day High Flying ahead. With a twinge of regret, I reached down to extract his wonderful gift. I gripped the slippery half inch that was still protruding, down there and with a sigh pulled it out of me, relishing the final slow slide of withdrawal.

That’s what should have happened. But as I pulled, nothing moved. I felt resistance and then a countervailing tug deep inside me. I pulled again, and again the thing refused to come out. It had evidently attached itself somehow, and as I pulled harder, slightly panicked at the thought, it suddenly burst into renewed life, faster and harder than before.

I moaned in some inexpressible combination of joy and alarm.

The night was sleepless. I learned one thing very quickly, that trying to pull his present out of me always set it off with renewed vigour and urgency, and that once it started, there was no way back until it had finished, and I had finished too. Left alone, it simply pulsed, gently, deeply, with the occasional quick sliding push to keep me interested. At which point the temptation was always to do what I mustn’t do, to reach down and try to pull it out, knowing that it wouldn’t budge, and that it would instead begin its job all over again.

I tried calling him, texting him, but there was no reply. He never replied unless he wanted to.

I gave into temptation many times, that night.

Bleary eyed and hungover from lust, I showered at six as usual. I resisted the temptation to try one last time to extract the thing, because I knew what would happen by now, and I knew it would prostrate me until it had done its work, and I would consequently be late for my first meeting. This would not happen. I was a High Flier. I was in control. Later, I had to meet the Honcho, to discuss our (note: not his; our!) strategy for Tokyo.

I got changed and left my apartment, and I was very aware, walking the few blocks it took to get from A to B, of the dildo’s pulse and slide. The push and pull and throb of Karsten Talv inside me, exactly replicated and as lively as the real thing. I found walking a certain way was very pleasurable indeed, and it took significant willpower to block it out.

By ten thirty I was quite as horny as I’ve ever been at work. Normally I could put that to one side and keep it in a box, even though there were quite a few very fanciable guys, and work was work. Not today.

For example. “Hey Kate,” said Jeff, a good looking guy from the Social Media side, who I’d flirted with harmless before. We were the only two in the elevator. “Great pitch. Looking hot.”

On any other day I swear I would have just flirted, smiled, and said thanks. On this day, I was feeling like a pressure cooker about to blow, and for whatever reason, in a sudden access of unfocussed lust, I opened my mouth, licked my lips lasciviously, and said “I am hot, Jeff. Very hot, and very bothered. And…”

And I’m Kate. I can do whatever I want.

“And what…?” said Jeff, a little startled.

“And what I want more than anything right now is to rip off your clothes and suck your big sweet dick until I’ve taken my fill,” is what I didn’t say, although I certainly thought it.

I collected myself. This wouldn’t do at all. “Just kidding, Jeff.”

There were a lot of such near misses. It was agony.

Meeting after meeting, I sat there, twitching and distracted. Every so often, a random, delicious push and pulse, and then another, and another.

“Ahhhhh,” I’d moan, compelled in spite of myself, “so good … that idea of yours.”

“Are you all right, Kate?”

“Oooooh yes,” I’d manage to say, “I just need to go to the—ah—bathroom.”

And there in the executive washroom I finally gave in to temptation, and although I was consequently flustered and late for my meeting with the Honcho, I made up for it as usual with a sunburst of irresistible thirty-something High Flying charm.

Karsten texted back, at last, and suggested we meet up for a drink after I finished work. How kind of him, I thought, squeezing reflexively down on his insistent present, which pulsed gratifyingly back in return.

Later, as I twitched on the bar stool, killing time, unable to keep still, I wondered again: why did he always make me wait? I found the most tolerable position was to sit bolt upright, but no matter, my whole body still gently throbbed to the pulse of his present; his presence, a constant reminder. Every shift of position sent a new jolt of sensation though me.

The heat and arousal was killing me.

Whatever else I might be wearing, he insistent I never wear panties, when we met. Why did he always make me wait?

“Tere õhtust, Kate.” A familiar deep, calm voice behind me. Words from the Old Country, he’d told me. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the seat beside me, and ordered drinks. “That collar really does rather suit you,” he said. “I assume you’ve been enjoying my present? My presence, as it were?”

“You might have—ooooh—told me what it did, Karsten,” I said. It was quite hard to talk, with him in front of me and the feeling of him inside me all at the same time. “I assume you have some—aaaaah—means of removing it.”

“Of course. It’s just a case of asking it to let go, to release its tiny grippers, so to speak, and then it will stop and be just like any other such toy.”

“I see. What do I—oooh—have to say? Something like ‘let me go’?”

“Close enough, actually. But it only responds to my voice, I’m afraid. It is sort of part of me, after all. Would you like me to say it, now, to set you free?”

His smile was ridiculously infectious. I looked at him, considering, and then said: “No. Not right now. Later.”

And much later still, only when I was completely out of my mind with heat, and begging him—begging him on my knees, as I would never beg any other man!—to be free of it, he kindly let it go at last; and it was very quickly replaced with the thrust and push of the real thing, which was even better and exactly what I needed.