The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

This all started back before when my memory clearly reaches. My craving stretches...years? Decades?

I’m not sure when you got me, but you did.

As I move through the day I increasingly find you scattered across my thoughts. Reminders of you in one way or another at work. News headlines that prompt some kind of curious question that I think you’d have an answer to. Or, as is ever more frequently the case, thoughts of one of our (many) past encounters and plans for (many) future ones.

But I should start by saying that I don’t understand how you do this to me. I’ve always gotten bored so easily. I usually encounter things (jobs...ideas...men) and as soon as I have come to understand them (far too quickly), to figure them out (sometimes even better than they have) my interest begins to wane. I’m good at solving puzzles. I like solving puzzles. Most people aren’t really puzzles. But you’re the exception (as usual).

Somehow, this all feels a bit different, too (does it to you?). It’s like things are somehow new all over again. The tingling excitement and coy smile I get when I see a message from you. My mind, always been prone to wandering down multiple tracks, seems like it now only travels roads that lead to you, and to getting tighter and tinier and hotter (for you). To being better (the best). To turning your want into need and your need into addiction.

I used to be good, or at least better, at compartmentalizing my thoughts. I could push through distractions and still focus on whatever task lay before me. But lately, that feels almost impossible; it’s like you’ve loosened every compartment’s lid and are rifling around. You’ve retrained my focus (and my desire, and my energy), so that now even the briefest moment of unoccupied thought goes straight to you.

I wake up in the morning and I’m grinding into my pillow, thinking about rubbing myself on your cock. I catch myself admiring the curve of my waist and daydreaming about you wrapping your hands around it, about you bending me over the counter, about getting to show you how wet I am. My thoughts drift during the day and suddenly I’ve lost a half hour to thoughts of you, and of your words running over (and under, and through) my brain.

I’ve started masturbating (and cumming) a lot more over the pas few months. It’s like I can’t get enough; what used to be a few orgasms in quick succession is now at least 5, usually 7, oftentimes more. Over the last year I’ve gone months without...I feel like now I can barely go more than a day. And even after I cum all those times (exhausted), pretty soon I can feel my hips rocking underneath me (grinding, back and forth, again, just like they are right now); can feel myself getting (impossibly) wetter; can feel myself trembling a bit (or more than a bit) in the anticipation of going back to my bed and to cumming (again) to thoughts of you and your words and the things I wish (need) you to do to my body.

When I’m cumming now I hear your voice. The sound of it when you’re cumming for me. The sound of it saying my name, begging me to release you, to drain you, to stroke out every last drop. The sound of your voice as you repeat our mantra. Hearing (making) that aching need in you...knowing that I am the one (and the only one) that has managed to wiggle her way into your brain (and your balls) time after time (over and over, year after year). I remember your resistance; how much you want it (while pretending you don’t when deep down you do) but won’t admit it, so as to ensure that I work even harder to succeed.

And it’s the thought of pulling those words out of you (can you hear them?) that really pushes me over the edge. The thought of their long-lingering (and ongoing. always.) effect. The thought of you filling me again and again, me squeezing you, imagining the you inside me while I’m cumming and breathlessly shouting your name. Pulling you deeper, as you tell me I need to cum one more time so that you can finally cum too.

Right now, as I sit and write, imagining you reading this, I think about your cock growing. I imagine you having to slip away to make yourself cum for me (you have before; you will again) and my heart races. I can’t help but smile smile (hmm-mm, that smile), at least a little while thinking about this moment (right now) that I am making for you (and for us), even when you’re a million miles away. I think about you, eagerly scanning the new postings (did you read this right away today, or are you saving it until later?). I wonder what your smile (or blush?) looks like when you find me there.

It makes me feel sexy (fucking insanely so), sitting here (grinding, again), puzzling over the code that unlocks you. Knowing that no matter what your day ahead may hold (and good god the places you go!), that the excitement you felt seeing my name (and planning your escape to read this) is likely among the highlights (is it?). It turns me on knowing that right now (and, if we’re being honest, probably always) you are mine; that the very act of reading this lets me get a little bit deeper, my hold on you a little bit stronger (almost as strong as when my hand is wrapped around your cock?).

Hmm. I sit here, unable to stop these thoughts (let alone even get bored of them). Imagining new (and familiar and better) ways of getting you off makes my heart race a bit (is yours right now?), my skin get a bit flushed and goose pimpled...I start to think that maybe if I went and made myself cum again (would be the 8th time today) I’d feel like less of a live wire, a little less anxiously excited about what you are thinking right now, maybe just feel a little bit...less. (Writing these always takes so much longer than I ever plan because I wind up getting so turned on during the process.)

I get to the point where I can only think about how desperately I want to be your little cum machine (fuck, am I already?), and exactly how I can (must. will.) turn you into mine. My chest feels a bit tight (still trembling, btw!) and the energy running through me has made my body so hot that I am starting to get a bit dewy (just like after I have cum). It feels almost physically and mentally impossible to pull myself away from these thoughts right now, even if I wanted to. (I don’t. I won’t.)

I breathe in. Deeply. Again. Focus.

I want to be taken (by you), owned (by you), kept (by you). I want to wait for you to come through the door every evening so that I can wrap my legs around you, and then refuse to let you leave in the morning until you’ve fucked me (I really don’t care what meeting you have). I want to take, and own, and keep you. Spend every day devising a better way to get you off, and then perfecting it every night. Getting my body a little bit leaner, and bendier, and stronger for you. I want to show you precisely how good of a cum machine I can be (and am) for you.

You’ve always been good (the best) at making me wet. It’s like I have a hidden “on” button that only you know how to push. I think I used to hesitate to show that to you, too shy to let you really see the primal (vulnerable. needy. aching.) urges you’ve created in me. The ways that you can (have. do.) put me into a twitterpated haze. And now, I’m starting to see how each thing I try aimed at making you need me a little more ultimately always has the exact same effect for me. The way(s) that I am already (always) your submissive (fuck).

But none of this is really new, is it? That’s part of what makes it feel so good (it can be so acutely pleasurable, can’t it?); we go so far back into one another, dancing our little pas de deux.

I hear your voice (but it’s my voice, but it’s your words?) inside my head, reorienting every stray thought (over and over) to the aching heat I’m feeling between my legs. Telling me how you need to be fucking me (now) and vice versa.

I try to shake myself out of my increasingly horny (and wet and hot) haze. Pull myself together.

I wonder: How this story got so turned around, talking all about what you do to me instead of what I am going to do to you?

I wonder: How you keep managing to control my thoughts as soon as I start to think I might be controlling yours?

I wonder: What will be the exact tipping point that leaves you no choice but to come see me?

But most of all, I wonder: Will this be the time that we finally (finally. Finally.) accept the inevitability of us?