The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He was outrageously insistent about this and although I had my misgivings, I ended up doing exactly that. Luckily ‘out’ wasn’t the usual upscale restaurant, but a very outré gallery opening downtown, where he said I’d fit right in. I was supposed to not speak unless he asked me to, he told me. It was another game, of a sort, played to the rules of conceptual art, whatever that meant. To facilitate my enjoyment of the evening, he’d unzipped me at the crotch, deftly inserted his first present, zipped me up and locked me in again. Another tiny lock at the neck made sure, and my collar completed the look.

The building itself was pretty anonymous and did exactly what you might expect from an on-trend gallery operation. Hipster-central redbrick—check; quasi-industrial zoning—check. Converted warehouse-ish—check. Low key lighting—check. Massive glass doors—check.

I’d seen it all before, of course, in the High Flying world—but never as an exhibit, and never in the other part of my double life, which seemed to be getting doubler by the day thanks to his wonderful presents.

The gallery was buzzing with money and strangeness, and, as advertised, I fitted right in. My costume was by no means the most outrageous, amongst the women, although I attracted my fair share of admiring glances. Looking around at some of the sculptures and other objets on display, and looking at some of the guests, I was occasionally unsure which was which. Karsten knew quite a few people here, although I noticed that all of them called him Mister Talv.

He parked me by a pillar while he fetched drinks, and I put my hands behind my back, stood up straight, and did my very best impression of a statue. Very quickly, I was surrounded by a knot of people—men, mostly—admiring my silvery form.

“What is it?” said one. “I can’t see a label anywhere.”

I thought about telling them I was a guest, not an exhibit, but decided to play it out.

“It looks like it might be one of Mister Talv’s,” said another guy, luxuriating in a check shirt and a hipster pseudo-Edwardian beard. He looked like a very well-groomed Lumberjack.

“Very nice, isn’t it? Quite beautiful. And very realistic. Is he here, tonight, do you know?”

At which point Karsten materialised by my side, holding two glasses of champagne. “Speak of the devil,” said the Lumberjack. “Is this yours, Mister Talv?” he said, indicating me.

“It certainly is.” And they drifted off in a cloud of low art-biz chatter, leaving me to my own devices, until at last he returned. The pulse and slide of his presence was entertainment enough.

“You’re doing very well,” he whispered.

Before I could reply, a stunning woman drifted into view, and his attention flicked like a switch. I felt a twinge of jealousy as Karsten smiled broadly at her. I was not about to show him, though.

“Tere õhtust, Katya,” he said. “Beautiful as always.”

She smiled back, tilted her head in greeting. “Good evening Mister Talv.” She really was extraordinarily good looking. High cheekbones, vivid blue eyes, and a wide sensual mouth. She moved with the grace of a cat, and she exuded sensuality. Katya. Katya. Interesting, I thought. I kept my counsel.

The ice goddess indicated me with one perfect hand. “And what have we here, Mister Talv? Another of your works in progress?”

I was about to introduce myself, but remembered just in time I was supposed to stay silent. It was not a role I was used to.

“Very perceptive.” He put his hand on the small of my back, and through the suit I shivered. “A work in progress indeed. Representing—the medium being the message in this case—the coming together, the merging, of humanity and technology. How can one tell where one ends and the other begins, these days?”

“And what is this work called?”

“It started out as a Katya, actually. A small joke. It’s entirely itself, now.”

“Indeed?” she said, amused. “And is one Katya not enough for you, Mister Talv?”

“Au contraire.”

She reached over and stroked my arm. This close, her perfume was intoxicating. There was something very erotic about this woman. “I have not seen this material before. Is it new?”

“I made it myself,” Said Karsten. “3D printing. New, cutting edge. Microscopic tolerances. You can make almost anything.”

“Fascinating,” murmured Katya. “I’d love one of these myself. I wonder where this will take you, Mister Talv.” And she looked back to me, smiling. “And you, young lady. I wonder where it might take you.”

“Karsten,” I whispered. “I need the ladies’ room.” I was desperate, actually, after the requisite four glasses of champagne. He handed me a small key, and I strode off in the appropriate direction as fast as I could manage.

After about five paces, I turned around and walked back to him. “You forgot something.”

“Ah yes. ‘Let her go’,” he stage-whispered, seemingly finding this hilarious. I felt his present release its grip, and off I strode, faster this time, and free for a moment at least.

Afterwards, having reinserted the silvery cock with a pleasurable thrust, and tugged on it just enough to activate it fully, and having zipped myself up and locked the tiny padlock, I opened the stall door and prepared to rejoin the action.

There at the basins, delicately drying her hands on a linen towel, stood Katya. She smiled at me.

“You can talk, here,” she said. “He won’t know.”

“You mean Karsten?”

“Yes. Mister Talv.” She looked at me appraisingly. “You are playing a game, with him?”

High Fliers are not easily intimidated, by men or women. Especially women. I turned on the faucet and started washing my hands, water beading on silver. “A game. Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“He tells you what to do, and you do it.”

“Not exactly. I do what I want.”

“Of course. A game of charm and submission, then, which you choose. To express yourself in a different way, to be more fully alive, perhaps?”

I eyed her. Yes, Katya was a perceptive woman. I found I liked her. “You seem to know all about it, so yes. I’m not like that normally, you know, in my career and so on. I usually like to be in control. In charge. But it’s—different with him. Have you never done that?”

Katya didn’t answer. “Mister Talv is a very interesting man. I’ve known him a long time, from the Old Country.”

“He is very different. Unique. He started off by calling me Katya, until I—was able to be myself, by myself, he said.” A thought, unbidden, unwelcome. “Katya. May I ask, have you ever … slept with Karsten?”

If she was flustered by the question, she didn’t show it. Nothing much would fluster this woman, I thought. “That and more. We’ve done many things together,” she replied. “But he doesn’t own me. And Katya, it’s just a name. What’s your real name?”

“Kate.”

“Remember that” she said, “when you play your games.”

I said nothing. Katya seemed lost in thought. “I think he loves women, you know, but not as other men do. He sees us as an art form, of sorts. He’ll want to know what you truly want, deep down, what are your most secret hidden desires, the fantasies you can’t tell. And then, Mister Talv will give you whatever you want.” A pause. “Has he asked you what you want? Have you told him?” asked Katya.

“Yes. He has. I have.” And I remember what I’d said, when he asked me what I really, truly wanted, and I knew it was true.

It had been, I think our third or fourth or fifth assignation. I was still conflicted, then. Who do you think you are, Karsten Talv, using me like a hooker and telling me how to dress, who to be, what to do? But I couldn’t shake off the intriguing excitement of the game, and the shock and thrill of renewal, yet still fully my own person; and any disquiet at playing it out to its unknown conclusion was overridden by the desire to see where it would take me. Living my double life, I was starting to believe some ideas have a life of their own.

He had stopped calling me Katya, now, because, he said, I had finally learned to be myself, to express myself fully, without any such pretence or artifice. I didn’t have to play the whore, didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. Whatever I was had been freed, and I was simply Kate, entirely myself, whether High Flying or Submissive or both.

“One more thing, lovely Kate” he’d said. I’d learned by then that there is always one more thing, another detail, with Karsten Talv. He held up a steel collar. It looked hand-made, well crafted. It is the same one I wear still, even now. The metal ring at the front glinted in the soft light of the room. “Wear it, try it on. See how it feels.”

I took the collar from his hand. A new game? Such riches he offered me. That evening was dressed in something resembling a very revealing corset, with integrated suspenders, stockings, heels, a stretchy belt of a skirt, and nothing else. The collar fitted the look, there was no doubt about that.

The sex was different, somehow, that night, wilder than before.

He pulled me up and set me on top, straddling him. He lifted my hips slightly with his strong hands, and then a push at my groin. His erection was like iron. Sliding into me, bigger, harder than before. He pushed deeper, deeper, and my muscles stretched and twitched as I opened fully to him with a gasp.

“You’re a strong, intelligent, independent woman.”

“Yes.”

“You’re successful, driven, admired. Out there, people hear your roar. You do what you want.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Yet you dress how I want you to dress.”

“Yes.”

“You go where I tell you to go.”

“Yes, yes.”

“You do what I tell you to do. If I tell you to be a sex toy, you’ll be a sex toy for me.”

“Yes.”

“What does that make you?”

I let myself go, and suddenly I was doing a complicated thing with my hips—a sort of wiggling, squeezing roll—a wanton movement I had never done before. The game was freeing me. I felt free.

“A slut,” I cry. “Take me, baise-moi!”

Mister Talv grabbed my hips and thrust hard, and I positively screamed in delight, feeling the full extent of him.

“You’re always in control, yet you follow my orders. You take what you want, yet you dress to my instructions. To look how I want you to look. To be how I want you to be.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You spend your days achieving what you achieve—the sky’s the limit—but you follow instructions without question. What does that make you?”

“Definitely. Ah. Your. Ah. Slut.”

I would say anything by now. Loving the role, and the sound of the words, I rolled my hips exactly so, and felt him sliding in, out, in out, deep deep deep, the delicious friction of it. I wanted it all; the career, the money, the success, the control, the power, the submission, the sex, the ownership. Master and slave, all of it, all at once, right now.

He reached down and stroked me as I rode, back, forth, side to side, faster and harder. As my pussy convulsed around him I felt nothing but lust and pride. And I knew with crystal certainty that I would never—ever—be able to get enough of this feeling.

“No,” he was saying. “I know sluts, Miss High-Flying Kate. You’re not a slut. You’re something else, more complex and beautiful by far.”

Withdrawing, Mister Talv turned me around on the bed, and there on all fours, I ached for more. A few seconds felt like an empty eternity until he entered me again, urgently this time, hard and fast, and, pinioned, I bucked against him, urging him deeper still.

“Who are you? What are you?” he whispered. “What do you crave? What do you really want?”

As I felt him explode inside me, lost in lust, I screamed my answer.

I still remember it now.