The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The loud banging noise startled the hell out of me, almost causing me to drop the box of dishes. It took me a couple of seconds to place the sound as someone at my front door; this was only my second day in my very own house, so I was not accustomed to visitors.

Quickly but carefully I set the fragile package down, then brushed at myself in a futile effort to dispel the intense grime that accompanies any move. My skin was naturally dark, so I was not too worried about that, but my grey sweatpants and light green tank were smeared with such thick black smudges it looked like a demolition derby had been held in my casuals drawer.

As I stumbled over inconveniently placed boxes on my way to the front door I was also reminded of my bralessness. I doubted that my unfettered B-cup-sized bosom would scandalize anyone, but I was entertaining visions of a pair of anxious Jehovah’s Witnesses when I finally made it to the entryway. The door did not yet have a peephole (a delightful if incautious symptom of the good neighborhood I had been able to afford) so I called out to my visitor.

“Yes? Who is it, please?”

The voice that came back was male, strongly accented, and very near the other side of the door.

“Open da dar an’ den stan’ back away fom it, now,” he ordered. It took a moment to process exactly what he had said, but when I did I felt a strange numb tingling in my head, if that makes any sense. As soon as that had happened, I unlocked and opened the door then stepped away from it, just as he had so imperiously demanded!

The man stepped inside instantly and closed the door loudly, as if wanting to enter before I could react. He was quite successful; I was still stunned at myself for letting him enter in the first place. We looked each other over, he with a smug expression on his round face, me with what was probably blank disbelief.

He was my height, more or less. That made him a bit short for a man, though he was probably a couple of years older than myself. He was certainly thinner than I, which is saying something because, except for my mother’s wide hips, I am fairly slender. He was not balding, exactly, but what hair he had was unusually sparse, like a single coat of black paint where two should have done. His skin was as white as his hair was dark, except where it was scarred with what must have been vicious teen acne. The most striking (and disturbing) feature I found in that brief appraisal was his left eye: it was badly bloodshot, in the “recent head injury” sense. It may have bothered him, or perhaps he needed glasses, for his gaze was tightly pinched as his eyes devoured my body with a contemptuous hunger I also found disturbing.

We spoke simultaneously, with my exclamation trampling on whatever it was he was going to say.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I nearly shouted, very unnerved.

He closed his mouth and smirked in a way that made my blood turn to sludge.

“You’re even bedda lookin’ up cloze,” he said in that accent of his. I could not place it. In some ways it was almost Slavic, but it sounded very inner city, too. Kind of like Spike Lee if he directed Polish films.

Once again, there was a pause while my brain registered what he had said. Up close? Had he been watching me as I had been moving in the last two days?

“Mister,” I growled, “I do not know what sort of insidious con game you are playing, but I do NOT want you inside my house!”

A puzzled look carefully crept across his face as if his acne scars were mines in a minefield.

“You sure don’ talk like a block girl,” he said in a quiet whine.

I was guessing he meant “black girl”. My sarcastic nature almost had me putting a hand on my hip, shifting my head and talking sass to him, but my survival instincts vetoed that as a reply. Something was very wrong with all of this.

“I talk like a ‘black girl’ who is getting her Masters in English Literature in another year, bozo,” I said instead. In hindsight, I am not sure that was any better of a plan.

He looked back for a second, nonplused. He made some sort of decision then, I suppose, his expression once again becoming entirely too smug.

“Why don’ you sittown over dar,” he suggested, pointing to a chair in the nearby kitchen/dining room.

“Why don’ you go’n kiss my butt?!” I mimicked, my ‘survival instincts’ now clearly out for coffee.

His face grew hard, but not actually angry, as if he were expecting...even welcoming... just such a response.

He spoke again in a lower, more direct tone. “I wantet to say, go over dar to dat chair an’ sit town.”

Again then bizarre pins and needles spilled across my frontal lobes, making me jerk in alarm. A moment later I found myself walking purposefully over to the simple pine chair and, pausing for a split second for some reason, sat down in it.

A part of me tried to rationalize that I did that just to placate a possibly violent stranger, but the denial did not last long. Placating assholes came neither easily nor naturally to me; if it had, I would likely not be in graduate school today.

On the other hand, it was beginning to look more and more like it would be a skill I should take up, immediately.

He watched me will barely contained glee, then snickered and shook his head.

“Your hair lukes like shit,” he commented, indicating the hall mirror across from me. “See?”

I bit back a reply concerning the rigors of ‘moving day’ and turned to glance at my reflection. To my disbelieving yet dawning horror, I saw my head topped with piles of rolled brown goo! I choked on my own breath, my eyes wider than I had ever seen them before, and stopped my hands from clutching at my scalp. I was quite afraid of what I would find. I thought I could smell it.

He cackled brazenly, enjoying my aghast expression.

“Naw, naw,” he smiled, approaching me. “It don’ luke like shit...it just a little dirty, I gezz.”

Right before my eyes the mess on my head instantly became...well, a much more tolerable mess on my head. This time, I ran my fingers through the short frizz, finding exactly what should have been there. I compulsively continued to comb through my hair, staring at my reflection in shock and amazement.

It was at this point where I became honestly scared for my life and sanity. It seemed, somehow, that this man (for lack of a better term) could either seriously and effectively control my mind and senses, or, even worse, had some magical way to shape reality!

As I slowly turned back to the stranger, I realized that I would have to figure out which one it was—was he “merely” using some kind of powerful mind control, or could he in fact alter the world with a few words? If it was the latter, I felt my chances of somehow getting out of this intact went straight from “slim” to “none”. Of course, I might have been kidding myself about the “slim” part, but I had to try.

He stood only a few feet from me, now. He was looking me over again. If only I could jump him from where I was, I could finally put my three years of Akido lessons to use. However, he had told me to sit, and...and I had! I had done what he asked! Was I free?

Before I could test that question, he beat me to it.

“Oooh, sweaty ol’ block girl not wearing a bra-zeer! What a slut! Play with your titz for me, block slut,” he leered.

“My name is Rhonda,” I spat, but no sooner had I corrected him when I felt that brain tingle and my hands, like salacious tarantulas, virtually crawled under my tank top and began to pinch and caress my breasts! It was as if I had suddenly forgotten how to work the muscles necessary to redirect my hands, vaguely in the way stroke victims had to relearn how to move a leg or arm. But I felt everything my hands felt, and I could certainly feel every touch on my chest!

We stayed like that for what felt like an hour, but was probably closer to a minute. He was watching me with an expectant look on his face, his eyes a bit glassy and his large ears pink. As for me, I was busy wrestling with my bosom and quietly going mad, trying to find a way out of his command...if there was one. Over that minute, his expression grew more concerned, or impatient. It finally dawned that he was expecting me to go into some sort of spastic arousal, for I looked down at his corduroys and saw HIS arousal pretty plainly. The longer I looked, the less plain it became.

He actually thought I would get off on this.

I stared into his eyes in the most bored way I could muster, considering I was still scared to death. He scowled, like a boy whose new toy did not quite work the way the commercials said it would. I raised an eyebrow.

“Your titz are too small forra block slut,” he scoffed. Then he leered disdainfully. “Dere gettin’ bigger, now, an’ it feelz good...feelz real good as dey grow.”

There was a pause while his directive sank in, then the now dreaded brain tingles hit again. I yelped despite myself as I felt the fabric of my top slide across my skin! Looking down, I did indeed see my chest expand at an improbable rate...see it, and feel it, too, as my hands were still busy working them over like a fifteen-year old boy with his first pair. And it did feel good! Not in a sexual sense, but as my breasts magically filled past the C-cup range I sighed as a pleasant warmth seemed to radiate out from them.

My amazement broke for a moment, though my mammaries were approaching softball size and getting quite heavy, and I looked up at my tormentor. His leer had downgraded to a smirk as he watched me try to handle my predicaments, literally. He was already getting bored, somehow, and it showed in his eyes (his good one, anyway). I had no idea why; I was rapidly becoming most males’ wet dream, to the point where I could not help but lean forward from the weight of the twin sacks of expanding flesh attached to my front. Looking back down, a part of me...the analytical part that I was desperately trying to keep active...noted that, despite them now weighing perhaps ten pounds apiece, the whole process did not hurt at all. It honestly did feel good, although not so much that I was not still frightened and furious. I swore under my breath as I started to unbalance, pitching forward, my hands still unavailable to catch me if I should roll right out onto my face...or, rather, my breasts, since they were now beginning to rest on my legs! They grew past the bottom of my tank top, still being kneaded and pinched, my eyes probably growing along with the damn things.

“I’m going to fall!” I exclaimed, hoping for a release from my fondling command at the very least.

“Good for you,” he replied.

Tipping over, I looked to him urgently for help, only to see him laying down on my kitchen counter, rubbing his head! He was not even paying attention! Hell, I’m about as straight a woman as they get, and I know I’D be staring at me!

Too fat to stay on my lap anymore, my breasts took the leap and pulled me along with them. I made some sort of strangled noise as the bright yellow tile of the floor rushed towards me...then I saw stars as my forehead smacked soundly onto it. This was odd, as either one of my inflating breasts should have been large enough to cushion the rest of me. Yet, they now lay to either side of my chest like enormous waterwings.

What the hell was happening?

“Okay, okay,” he said, sliding off of the counter. “You are bock to normal, now.” I heard his steps nearing. I was acutely aware of my rear end sticking up in the air.

Only for a moment, however, until the current crossed my lobes again and very suddenly my hands were my own and my breasts were a great deal smaller. Just like that, instantaneously. Acting on instinct I rapidly flipped over onto my back to face my attacker. His expression showed that he was back to enjoying this again. His grin spread to one side, making my skin crawl.

“Now play wit’ yourselv for me,” he ‘suggested’. His smugness was so thick I felt it drip all over me like used motor oil.

There was a pause where nothing happened, just like the time when I was getting ready to sit down on the chair. Then I felt his command take hold. Gritting my teeth in terrible frustration, I still could not stop my favorite hand from snaking down into my sweats and going through the motions on my entirely unaroused vulva. Try as I might I could not stop. He had commanded me to play with myself, so play I did. On the other hand, he did not say for how long...

Just like a miracle, I stopped.

Quickly, I started up again, but this time under my own power.

Why had some of his commands taken so long to overpower me? Why those, and not others, like when he ordered me back to normal, or when he told me to play with my breasts? Was it because it had taken me a moment to sift through his accent? Maybe some of the times...but not this last command...I had pretty much understood what he had said instantly.

He was starting to get that concerned look again, so I half-closed my eyes and gave a soft moan, hoping that would give him what he was obviously watching for. It worked like a charm. His face broke into the widest grin I had seen yet on him and his skin flushed. I rubbed faster between my legs.

Back to getting out of this alive: it was almost as if my brain were trying to understand what it was exactly that he wanted. If that were true, if all this hocus-pocus were dependent upon how my brain interpreted his control, then that would explain why my humongous breasts had failed to support me when I had fallen...they had not been there in the first place. It was all smoke and mirrors, albeit extremely convincing smoke and mirrors. Illusions that I had to follow, but illusions nonetheless.

I had almost forgotten my role. I groaned and panted, wishing now that I had tried to fit in at least one theater class during my undergrad work. To my dismay, he had worked his penis out of his pants and now was starting to play with the thing...a thought which almost made me giggle, as frazzled as my mind was, imagining him “playing” with it by dressing it up in miniature clothes like a doll...

My gasp of revelation was so profound it made him come.

As he groaned out his orgasm, shaking and spurting, I just lay there basking in amazement, forgetting to act. His commands had only taken effect when I had decided, subconsciously, what they had meant! He was forcing my mind down certain paths with his bizarre power, but when he gave me a fork in the road, so to speak, I could choose which way to go!

Or could I?

Knowing that if I had guessed incorrectly I was setting myself up for a world of hurt, I figured my best bet would be to keep him off balance until I could gag him or something. And there was no better time for that then now, while his mind was still on his dribbling member!

I bolted to my feet, startling him badly. Before he could twitch, I screamed bloody murder at him and leaped, intending to crush his windpipe and worry about the consequences later. Fortunately, I had him as stunned as I had been just minutes earlier. I landed on him with all my weight, both of us flying through the kitchen door and into my cluttered living room with a fantastic crash. He was quick; despite having the wind knocked out of him he managed to scramble to all fours and beat a hasty retreat, kicking dusty boxes of books on his way. I had landed badly, on the other hand, and was still trying to get my bearings as swiftly as possible by the time he had made it to the other side of the room.

“Y-you can’t move!” he screeched! My heart froze as I waited for the command to settle on my doomed brain. Stark desperation must have cleared my thought processes, though...

I felt the tingling and stood up anyway. I took a few menacing steps towards him, grinning like a cat!

“Damn,” I said sarcastically but honestly, “I hope I really like my new house, then!”

His mouth gaped wide enough to plant my foot inside, which I fully intended to do. Still, he found his voice awfully fast.

Pointing at me in alarm, he commanded “You gotta cum until I say stop!”

Laughing insanely at the pins and needles (and glad that I did not have to READ his orders) I shouted “Whatever you say!”

Then I rushed him. After all, he had left it to me as to how FAST I could come.

He screamed like a girl as I rained down blow after blow to his head and chest. I was barely bothering to aim my strikes—I was giddy with panic, giving him everything I had. His arms flailed wildly as he tried desperately to block, but I managed to break his nose and loosen some of his teeth before he broke away, crying out.

“Stop!” he wailed.

Well, now I didn’t HAVE to come. I did, anyway, with a vengeance.

“You FUCKING son of a BITCH I hope you ROT in HELL!” I yelled in time to my fists battering his thin body like a meat hammer on a slab of steak. I then took him by his shirt and smashed him repeatedly against the wall. I only stopped when he appeared senseless. I panted in anger, watching as he bled on my new floor.

To my amazement, he slowly opened one swelling eyelid and croaked out his last command.

“You...c-can’t hurt m-me... no more...”

My vision became red as blood, my heartbeat doubled and I hissed in rage as the pins and needles took over. I do not remember much directly after that, but considering the mess I had after my head cleared...trust me...as of now, I CAN hurt him no more.

I find it ironic that, even though his commands had become impotent after he had died, I still can not move from my new house. Well, I COULD...but probably should not. Somebody might discover what was buried in the previous owner’s garden.