The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Denise shifted uncomfortably on her waiting room chair. At least it wasn’t a couch. Still, she definitely, definitely did not want to be here. She’d worked as a administrative assistant (read, receptionist) in various doctors’ offices for years, but despite that — or more accurately because of it — her faith in the medical profession was pretty much nonexistent. Her faith in therapists was even less. Paying someone because you were depressed? Being depressed was what life was about, baby. If you weren’t depressed, you weren’t fucking paying attention.

She looked over at Mandy — her daughter, her baby, the reason she was here, and also somebody who, Denise often suspected, was not really paying attention. Denise had brought her up herself, no husband, and precious little help from the grandparents, either. Scrimped and saved and kept her out of trouble; if there were drugs, or alcohol, or boys, they were sufficiently low key that they’d never landed her in jail or the maternity ward. Sent her to college…where, despite her mother’s pleas, she’d gotten a useless English degree. And now….

She sighed and shifted. Amanda glanced at her, half in sympathy, half in exasperation, but didn’t say anything. She was a sweet kid, but how had she ended up so completely different from her mother? It wasn’t just the appearance; curly black hair, adorable little snub nose, slender frame, modest B-cup breasts (thank the lord for small favors, Denise thought. She’d have reduced her DD’s years ago if she could afford it and could do it without doctors.) But she also didn’t have a practical bone in her body. She was wearing a Hello Kitty T-shirt now, for pity’s sake — and she’d brought her mom here. To talk about their feelings. God help them.

And then a pleasant voice, and in she came, the therapist, all fresh and energetic and smiling and healthy. She was quite tall, wearing some sort of Nordic pattern white and blue sweater. Her hair was cropped short, and was so blond it was almost white. Dr. Fockson — “call me Greta!” Just a touch of an accent. Amanda returned her smile effortlessly; she responded well to health and enthusiasm and cheer. Denise tried, but suspected she was mostly just grinding her teeth.

“Well!” said Dr. Fockson, or Greta, or the Nordic avatar of wellness, as she leaned forward, still smiling, clasping her hands in some sort of universal self-parodic therapist gesture. “I see…” she consulted her notes “that you wanted to talk to me because you are having trouble communicating, is that right? There is tension? Tell me what the problem is, yes? Help me to help you, as they say!”

Denise’ eyes rolled involuntarily. Amanda, she noted with some relief, looked a bit nonplussed as well — but this was her idea, and she obviously wasn’t going to give up on it just yet. She took a breath.

“Right…well. It’s…it’s mostly my new job. I mean, we’ve had arguments before; but these have been a lot worse, and I just thought…”

“So what is the new job, then?” Greta asked, perfect pale eyebrows arching up.

Denise found herself speaking before Amanda could. “She’s a stripper,” she said. And then with some bitterness. “At the Pink Surprise.”

Greta nodded seriously, which didn’t really seem like the reaction to have to the words “Pink Surprise,” but Denise figured it was the default for therapists. “You do not approve?” Greta said.

“No, I do not approve. I didn’t put her through college for her to take her clothes off in public. Those places have alcohol, there are gangsters, there’s drugs. I don’t know what she’s thinking.”

“Mom!” Amanda said. “I keep telling you what I’m thinking! I’m thinking I have loans! We have bills! I make a ton of money…more than I could waitressing or teaching or whatever. That means I can move out soon; get my own place. It’s a good way to get material for writing too. And it’s safe — there are bouncers all over the place, and nobody grabs at you like at that horrible cocktail waitress job I had…which you had no problem with. You’re always saying be practical….this is practical! It’s just taking off your clothes, it’s not…”

“So moving out is practical? Taking your clothes off in public is practical? Dancing like a…”

Amanda threw her hands up. “Here we go again.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Greta looked back and forth from one virtually identical set expression of exasperation to the other. “You have had this conversation before.”

Amanda nodded. Denise’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like her cheeks would pop out.

“Okay, that is great!” Greta laughed. “Yes, you look startled, but it is great because I can help! Therapy begins right now!” She hesitated. “You both signed the consent forms that lovely Lydia handed you, yes?”

Denise was completely mystified. “We signed a couple of things….”

“Did you read them? Closely? " Amanda nodded, but Greta shook a finger disapprovingly. Denise felt like she was being chastised by a ski instructor. “Be honest now! Did you!”

They both had to admit they had not.

“Great!” Greta said again. “Then let us see whether this stripping is practical or whorish or what have you, yes? Take off all your clothes please…right now, right now! No time to lose!”

Denise was certain now that the woman was insane. Some nudist colony health nut. Everything she’d ever thought about therapists, or indeed Scandinavians, was confirmed. She got up and turned to take Amanda firmly by the arm…

And paused. Amanda was stark naked. She was standing with her arms at her sides, her legs slightly apart, her small nipples firm and hard against the dark circles of her aureoles. Hard because of the cold, Denise told herself, though it wasn’t particularly cold.

It took her a moment to realize that she was naked as well. Her nipples — much larger than Amanda’s — were hard too.

Greta clapped, either to get their attention or in an excess of chipperness, Denise wasn’t certain. She didn’t look chipper, though. Her smile was more….feral.

“What…?” said Denise. That was about all she could manage. Her head felt like it had been stuffed with…tits? She was watching Greta’s beneath the sweater. Maybe she would strip too…. The idea was so intensely appealing she felt uncomfortable.

“Ah, you are a little confused. It’s the signature you see, when you sign? I’m by way of being a witch…not that Wiccan nonsense. Real old Norn witchcraft. Mostly with contracts.” She leaned over and traced a finger around Amanda’s breast. The girl shivered. “No one ever reads the fine print — lucky for me. And for you of course!” She stepped over to Denise and lowered her lips to her ear. “You belong to me body and soul.” She giggled. “Mostly body though.” Her tongue licked an earlobe, as her finger ran casually, almost accidentally, up Denise’s slit. Denise involuntarily thrust forward, but the finger was gone, and Greta was sitting behind the desk again, cheerful and healthy and clean as ever. She steepled her fingers deliberately.

“You can both play with yourselves now. No orgasm, though! Don’t want you to miss anything important, hmmm?”

Denise felt her hand inside her before she realized she’d moved it. It slid up her slit, just as Greta’s had. It was Greta’s hand, for all intents and purposes, she realized, and the realization made her so wet she thought she must be making a mess on the floor. She heard Amanda gasp, and thought about looking over, but it was easier to look at Greta….

“Okeydoke! So, this is a two part problem. She held up two fingers and waggled them. Denise’s hand, of its own volition, stuck up two fingers and waggled them deep inside her. It felt very good. She bit her lip to keep from groaning.

“First problem; Amanda is a disobedient little chit, yes? Amanda, your mom works and slaves and works for you, and what do you do? You defy her. That is no good. What is good is...” she tapped her finger on the desk. Denise’s finger made the same motion against her clit. “Obedience! You will obey! The more you do not want to do something your mother says, the more you are humiliated by what your mother makes you do, the more your slick little cunt brain will love to obey. Obedience makes you a hot little insatiable slut and being a hot little insatiable slut makes you want to obey. ”

Amanda’s head lolled on her shoulder. She looked into Denise’s eyes, her arm working furiously below, her other hand feverishly squeezing her tit. “Mom…obey…please…your…cunt.”

“Second problem,” Greta said, ignoring the interruption. “Denise, you are not sufficiently comfortable with your daughters’ sexuality. She is a grown, sexy, horny, young woman, who needs to cum and cum and cum. Acknowledge that! Enjoy it! Encourage it! As her mother and her mistress, it is your job to subject her to every type of perversion. Seeing her degraded and fucked silly is a great way to keep your own cunt slick and throbbing too! Sexual experience is good!”

Denise felt like her brain was a soft, pliable sponge; every word seemed to sink deep down, until she couldn’t tell the difference between what Greta said and her own thoughts. She was still looking in her daughters’ eyes. “horny…cum…fucked silly,” she heard herself say. Amanda grunted helplessly.

Greta’s voice seemed to come from a ways away. “Okay girls. We’ll play a little bit more, maybe. You don’t need to remember most of this in the front of your little cunt brains…just that it was a good session and that you think I am very, very attractive, yes? But deep down where your delicious juices are you will remember everything exactly, and you will be just who I want you to be. Loving, loving mother; oh so obedient daughter. And when you come back next week you will tell me alllll about it.” She was nude too now, Denise realized. Long, thin, beautiful nipples. Denise was sorry she wouldn’t remember their feel under her tongue.

Amanda was quiet as she drove home, and Denise didn’t really feel like talking much either. The session had been surprisingly helpful, and she felt like there was a lot to think about…but somehow every time she tried to focus, her brain seemed to go off somewhere else.

She glanced over at Amanda. She looked a little tousseled, but appealingly so. Denise had always hated that Hello Kitty shirt, but today, for some reason, she kind of liked it. The way it hugged close to Mandy’s perky little titties…. Maybe she should tell her to take that shirt off after all. Was that what little Mandy wore when she was stripping? She had a sudden, vivid image of her daughter dancing and grinding onstage, her cunt lips gleaming…and Greta, of all people, in front of her, her daughter squatting down so the horny therapist could slide her tongue up the lubricated slit…

She shook her head and wiped her mouth. She’d actually been drooling. She looked out the window, trying to ignore the needy dampness between her legs…not to mention her continuing consciousness of her daughter’s delightful tits…breasts. If she leaned over and bit one, just lightly, would Mandy scream? Or offer the other, so hard and ready… Somewhere a voice something like hers was yelling at her, but it seemed far away and not very important…she frowned. She wasn’t depressed, right? And if you weren’t depressed you weren’t paying attention. What wasn’t she paying attention to? Maybe she’d forgotten to lock the front door…? Left a burner on?

“What did you think of Dr. Fockson?” Amanda said suddenly. Denise involuntarily saw Greta’s long, supple tongue running up Amanda’s slit again. She imagined what it would be like to lick along the underside of those perfect breasts and suck in the long, thin nipples. Somehow she knew just what they’d look like. And to feel Greta’s fingers slide into her…

“She’s very, very attractive,” Denise said. And then, not like herself at all, but like someone she’d heard recently somewhere, she giggled.