The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Two weeks passed, and Karsten was almost always with me, now, one way or another. I was thoroughly addicted to the present—his presence—inside me. All barriers were down, the shell of control breached; I had been thoroughly penetrated on all fronts.

I spent nearly every evening I could at his place, and he often tormented me and made me wait until I could wait no more. I’d beg him for release. He’d say: not yet, you’re not ready yet. And I’d beg him more, and do whatever he wanted, basically, until the time came for the magic words: ‘let her go’. To achieve this goal, I abased myself thoroughly in ways that were neither Fast Track nor High-Flying.

Suck this, Suck that. Kneel here. Kneel there. I didn’t care one bit. As always, I was entirely focused, goal-oriented, and results-driven.

But much as I told myself not to, when I left his place to go home, my goals reached, results achieved, his present safely tucked in my tote bag, I could barely wait to get back to my apartment and slide it back into its natural home, and feel the sweet pulse start all over again.

Thus the cycle of my days passed, burning the candle at every conceivable end, in a daze of sex and work and sex and work and sex and sex.

I tried so very hard not to use his wonderful present when I was at home. But I always did, and without his voice to unlock its grip, it came to work with me too, and so almost all of the time I had it lodged firmly inside me, a constant reminder.

Walking into the agency every morning, platinum collar on, Karsten Talv pulsing in my loins, I felt as proud as I could be. The collar was, after all a stunning piece of jewellery in its own right (I reasoned to myself). The other was maybe less to be advertised, out here in the High Flying world.

The collar attracted attention. It had become my trademark, of a sort. The constant slight flush of my cheeks and the brightness of my eyes from the other could just be interpreted as good health, and was.

“You’re looking stunning, darling,” people would say. “I’m loving that necklace. What is it, silver? Platinum?”

“Platinum,” I always replied, although I wasn’t really sure.

“Very out there. Very edgy. Very you.”

It was certainly very somebody, I thought.

Karsten made other things too, of course, in his Officially Designated 3-D Printer Workshop and New Product Development Centre, which, if wasn’t so obsessive myself, I would have begun to call an obsession. His creativity knew no bounds.

He showed me a rose he’d made, in a lovely silvery material. The detail was astounding, and the petals flexed as delicately as real petals. I was almost afraid to touch it. The thorns were razor sharp, and not to be touched, he said; that much sharper, in fact, because the point of each thorn was no more than two molecules thick.

He showed me another moving thing, a toy. A step up in electromechanical complexity, apparently. It had too many legs, like a centipede, and too many antennae, several at each end, and it scuttled horribly, blindly, around the tabletop bumping into whatever was in the way, never stopping. I didn’t like it at all, and I never saw it again.

He showed me some new materials he’d invented—stumbled upon, really—and after I’d admired them, stroked them, he said it was time for him to give me another of his specially 3-D printed presents. Something new to wear, this time, he said. What colour would I like? I considered the swatches, and picked a lovely silvery material. It almost looked like metal, with an unusual sheen to it, but it clearly wasn’t; a very glossy and unusual material, I thought. Whatever item of clothing resulted, it would stand out in a crowd.

The first thing I had to do, which was not unusual in the company of Karsten Talv, and especially here in his apartment, was take off all my clothes. The next thing I had to do was remove all my jewellery; he even unlocked my collar, which always made me feel truly naked. Finally I tied my hair up above my head.

I stood, naked, in front of him and the machine. He grinned. I knew he liked what he saw. He always did.

“We need to measure up,” he said. He sat down at the keyboard, and I saw complex windows, filled with symbols and images, scrolling across the various monitors. He stabbed at an icon. Behind me, a puff of air, and as I turned I saw the glass front of the printer’s main chamber slowly pivoting open.

“In you go, then.”

I stared at him, perplexed. “You want me to get in there? What for? Is it even safe?”

“Yes, perfectly. I did it myself, remember? It’s just going to scan you. Your dimensions. Your proportions. Measuring up, you see; a fitting.”

“For what, Karsten?”

“Your next present. I know how you love dressing up.”

True. But answer the damn question, Karsten Talv, I thought.

“What is it? Why can’t we just use a tape measure, like normal people?”

“Shush. Please, get in.”

There is very little point in arguing with Karsten Talv. He is a man who tends to get his way. So in I climbed, into the cold chamber, and lay down, trying to get comfortable. The glass front of the carapace closed with a muted, high priced, highly engineered sound like that of a Ferrari door swinging shut. Things began to whine into life around me, flickering lights and precision moving parts. I closed my eyes, hoping to God he was right, and that this was safe, and that he’d pressed the right buttons, and that he knew at least roughly what he was doing.

Not suitable for home use, I thought, as the machine buzzed purposefully around me.

Fast as it moved, it was a full hour before the glass door clicked open again. Afterwards, I dressed and stood by his shoulder as he clicked through a series of files, images, checking everything was absolutely perfect, all the dimensions of me duly measured, logged, cross referenced, catalogued, stored and confirmed down to the micrometre.

There on the screen, an exact image of myself, naked and perfectly detailed.

His second present took a little while to print, it seemed, but within forty-eight hours it was finally ready, and I was quite excited to see what it might be. He held it up for me to see.

“You love to dress up for me,” he said, and I nodded. “So I’ve made you something to dress up in.”

I wondered what it could be, and then, as he held it up fully, I saw. A full length, whole body outfit of some sort; and if I saw it right, the body suit ended seamlessly in built-in six inch heels. I was impressed.

“Exactly to your measurements. Exactly as scanned, in microscopic detail, and built up—printed—layer by layer, molecule by molecule. Just a few years ago it wouldn’t have been possible. Astounding!” His green eyes sparkled with excitement. In this mood, he was almost childlike in his fascination with the world, I thought. “Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?”

I knew exactly what he meant. I shrugged out of my clothes, and he handed me the suit. It was very light. The material stretched, just a little. It wasn’t rubber, or latex, but something else. Man-made, though, for sure. It was very silvery, and very shiny, and as I examined it, it reflected my face, vaguely recognisable in spite of the distortions in its folds.

“It fastens at the back,” he said.

Turning it over, I could see the hint of a very thin seam running the length of the back of the suit, and at the neck, a tiny zipper.

“And down below, of course” he added.

I unzipped the suit, and slipped one leg into it, then the other, pushing my feet into the boots. They weren’t boots exactly, just part of the suit, but the fit was perfect. I pulled it over my legs, my thighs, my butt, and squeezed my arms into its arms, and my fingers into its fingers, and raised it over my chest. It fit my breasts exactly, bulging precisely over the nipples, as if taken from a mould. I could almost see the crinkles in my aureolae. Extraordinary.

“Let me help,” he offered.

I turned, offering him my back, and with a quick movement and a cinch at the waist, I felt myself zipped in.

Once fitted, I could barely feel the suit, although it hugged my body all the way up to my chin, over my arms, to the tips of my fingers, and all the other way down to my toes. Wiggling my fingers, I felt no resistance, so it must, I thought, be very thin.

It pulled my waist in slightly, although it was not exactly constrictive. My full breasts looked like polished silver globes below my chin. I stretched, reached behind my neck, feeling for the zipper. I couldn’t feel it, although I knew the delicate fastener had to be there somewhere. Ah, there it was.

I hardly recognised myself. The suit was an absolutely perfect, skin tight fit. It simply looked sprayed on. In fact I looked entirely naked. My breasts bulged out proudly, full and round and high, the nipples prominent.

A tiny padlock dangled at my crotch. A nice touch, I thought. Reading my thoughts, he said: “For extra fun.”

The material was really very tight indeed. It seemed, felt, like a part of me; completely seamless. There were no fibres, no creases, no imperfections whatsoever in the fit.

It made my skin tingle all over.

“What’s it made of?” I asked, preening myself in the tall mirror, a vision in liquid mercury. I felt different, like this; sexually charged; electric.

Karsten Talv frowned slightly. “Not sure. I’ve got it stored on the system somewhere.” He didn’t like not knowing things, and I knew if I asked him tomorrow he would be able to tell me.

I strutted around in my suit, heels clicking on the parquet. I felt taller, and not just because of the heels; I noticed the material kept me in posture; there would be no slouching, wearing this. It was very comfortable, yet somehow slightly demanding too. I admired the metallic sheen of the material and wondered again what it might be, and why it tingled slightly against my skin. It would match my collar rather beautifully, I thought.

“So you like it?”

“Yes, I do. It’s beautiful. It’s amazing. I love it.”

“You are beautiful. Now,” and he looked at his watch, “time to go out.”

“I’ll get changed. What would you like me to wear?” I’d found he was always very specific about this.

“No. Come as you are.”