The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sex and work and sex and work and sex. The familiar slow pulse and slide of his presence, ever-present inside me, fully three-dimensional and delicious, always there. There was never enough time.

They wanted something different, something ‘edgy’ for the new jewellery ad, so of course they came straight to me. The Big Pitch, from the High Flying Girl in the Big New Role. I gave them what they wanted, all right.

“A firelit room,” I began. “It needs to look modern yet timeless. Very classy.” I thought of Karsten’s apartment.

“A tall, dark man is standing by the fire. Perhaps he has a glass of brandy in his hand, that sort of thing. The room is dark, apart from the fire. A woman enters the room in an off the shoulder dress. Bare neck, bare shoulders. The camera follows her into the room, behind her. Her hair is up. Brunette, I think, for this one, or a redhead.” I smiled, working the room. “Like me.” A few smiles of encouragement.

“He smiles as she approaches. ‘I have something for you,’ he says softly.

“She approaches him, and stands there for a moment.

“‘I have something for you too,’ she murmurs, and gets down onto her knees in front of him, gazing up at him with love.”

The room fidgeted slightly. Had I gone too far, too fast, I wondered?

“Hang on,” interjected one of the clients, a fierce looking German woman with a slight moustache. “We can’t have a woman, kneeling like that. What are we saying about women, here?”

“Just let me finish. Then from behind her back—no, that wouldn’t work—or out of a pocket—no, there are no pockets in the dress, but we’ll think of something else—she pulls out a jewellery box, black, very clearly a ring box, you see, the type of box you’d get an engagement ring in. She opens the box and lifts it to him, offering it with both hands, and in a cut to close-up we see it contains two wedding rings. He takes one, and she takes the other, and they smile at each other.

“See? She’s asking him. Empowered, taking control.

“Then it’s his turn. He walks behind her—she’s still kneeling, remember—and he very gently places a broad jewelled collar necklace around her neck. It needs to be very clearly in that style, by the way, like this,” and I indicated my own ‘necklace’. There were reasons for that which I wasn’t about to go into with the clients.

“It sparkles in the firelight. He pulls her too her feet, and she turns and kisses him, tenderly. “Then your tagline: ‘Yours, forever’.”

The room burbled assent and confusion and excitement.

“Look,” I said, calming the hubbub. “Maybe people won’t always admit it, consciously, but this is what it’s all about. Sex. Possession, through possessions. Symbols. Signifiers. It’ll work like a charm.”

I thought of my collar. I thought of the wonderful silver skin he’d made me. I thought of my job.

I had been so torn. But in the end, I’d told Karsten my career needed to come first, right now; that it was the opportunity of a lifetime. He understood. “You only live once, Kate. We can’t have everything. Nothing is forever. We must all make the most of the time we have.”

I hated to hear that. You only live once. You can’t have everything. Nothing is forever. Why the hell did it have to be that way? Why should I be denied? It wasn’t fair. Maybe I couldn’t have it all, but I was determined to have a damn good try.

There was so little time to play. I spent as much time as I could with Karsten, and that meant as much time as I could in my beautiful suit. And I always made sure to wear my collar now. In a way, this was the sort of thing that helped make my name, make me stand out, along with the jewellery ad, and who is to say they weren’t the same thing?

But the clock was ticking. There was so little time to play.

He spent more and more time, he said, when he wasn’t with me, in his Officially Designated 3-D Printer Workshop and New Product Development Centre. There was always something new to see.

He showed me a study in complexity, a shape I had never seen before and may never see again, executed in twists of silver and black. Surfaces twining and intertwining, somehow hinting at dimensions and impossible angles far beyond the mundane. A projection of something called a Calabi-Yau shape, he said, impossible to construct or even visualise otherwise. Karsten bemoaned the fact the printer only worked in the standard paltry three dimensions. Why not more? He was going to get someone to work on that, he said.

We made the most of the time we had in many different ways. It was simple, in a way. With the silver suit on—my slave skin, I sometimes called it—I was submissive, obedient, everything you could ask of a beautiful object like me. In the daytime, I was Miss High Flier, in my trademark collar necklace, and very often the constant reminder of Karsten pulsed between my legs. There was little in between, and the boundaries were indistinct.

He showed me a tiny 3-D printed bird, black and gold, in a silver cage, all printed as one. The very pretty little artificial bird could even flap its wings, and move its head. Sometimes, slightly alarmingly, it would open its beak and croak like a bullfrog, destroying any illusion of animate authenticity, yet somehow conveying a deep and disconcerting sense of inarticulate misery. It was not exactly the dawn chorus he’d been aiming for, he said. He admitted the model’s croaking was something of a buzzkill. It had been laborious, he said, because the damn bird just wouldn’t stay still long enough for a proper scanning. He wasn’t entirely happy with it, and was going to have another go.

Thus the weeks passed with a distressing inevitability. I would miss him, I knew, in Tokyo, and Tokyo was looming ever closer, more real by the day.

Karsten was in a reflective mood, too. He felt we were lucky, or more accurately, blessed to have had this time at all.

“I don’t control you. I don’t own you. You must do what you need to do, Kate.”

“I know. But this is real. It’s not just a game, any more. Why can’t I have it all, forever? It’s not—fair.” Even to my own ears, I sounded like a spoiled brat.

He told me the story of the travelling woods; how in the Old Country, the forests were the life blood of the land, and the trees moved in the night, always clustering around good people with good intentions, and edging away from the bad. The trees could move quickly when they needed to. A greedy and ill-intentioned man had once woken up to find his entire forest had—so to speak—upped sticks and vanished over the bleak horizon, leaving behind only bracken and a few pine cones. His well-intentioned neighbour—grateful to the world, and a friend to forests—thrived, while the avaricious man was condemned to wander a wasteland of ever-receding treelines, their fruits always just out of reach.

I liked the story very much, I told him. But with all the good intentions in the world, I feared not having all life’s fruits within my grasp. He nodded.

“The paradox of ego. Everybody thinks they are special, unique, the centre of the universe, and that the world should deliver on demand,” he said. “We all live in our own little worlds, one way or another, to a lesser or greater degree. We all want control, total control. Over our environment. Over love. Over life. Over others. But we don’t have control. You can’t make people—real people—do anything they don’t want to do. You can’t have it all.”

“Not even me?”

“Not even me, for that matter. There is so little time. And rushing through life, desperately pursuing what we want, or what we think we want, how do we know—truly know—what is meaningful, what is real? I’ll tell you a true story,” he said. “About a young man. I was a very different person, then.”