The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Amanda parked the car and shot out of it, up the stairs, and into her room as fast as she could without actually sprinting. She was half afraid her mother would call her back…and half not afraid, half something else more ominous than fear, squirming not in her brain but somewhere else she didn’t want to think about.

She sat on her bed and tried to work things through. Something was very, very odd. The session had been remarkably productive; Dr. Fockson — Greta — was very, very…good with mom…the way she’d just come around the desk and Mommy had made that little noise and opened her mouth, and…

She shook her head. Had she drifted off sitting up? Something about Mom…the session had been good, but since then…that giggle in the car. Mom never giggled. Not like that; not like a 16 year old whose brain had been scooped out with a melon baller. And…Mom had been staring at her in the car too, hadn’t she. And she’d said, out of nowhere, that she liked her shirt — Amanda couldn’t remember the last time Mom had complimented her on something she’d worn.

Of course, it was good that Mom was pleased with her. Mom usually wasn’t pleased with anything. That’s why she’d convinced her to go to the therapist, right? So they’d get along better. It was important to get along. She found herself idly wondering what else she could do to make Mom happier. She was always so tense when she got back from work. Maybe a foot rub? Sliding up from the foot too, maybe a massage up in…

Her brain sheared off again. Maybe…she looked around at the clutter, stacks of notebooks everywhere, the bed unmade, dolls and books and junk hither and yon. Mom had asked her to clean it up a million times…and then without knowing quite how it happened, Amanda was moving around straightening. The small trash can started to fill up; she needed to get a garbage bag. And dust cloths, and the vacuum…she imagined Mom coming in and the pleased look of surprise on her face. “Good girl!” she’d say. Or maybe if it wasn’t good enough, she’d frown, and take her over her knee. She could almost feel the gentle rubbing to prepare her…then the slapping sting against her ass, her cunt pressing against her mother’s leg….

Amanda realized she was panting. She tried to tell herself it was from exertion, and that it had nothing to do with the throbbing in her crotch. She really needed to stop cleaning and get herself off. She didn’t like going to work horny — some of the girls talked about sexual energy, but Amanda didn’t do that bullshit. She danced for the money, period; it wasn’t sexy or exotic or fun. Dancing while actually wanting sex would be bizarre. She thought about grinding against some random guy, not too bad looking, maybe, and his penis slipping out of the jeans, her hungry little slit sliding over it — a few quick jerks maybe, and the spasming inside her. Then she could slide down and lick him clean…

She shuddered. She really needed a boyfriend, obviously. She’d dumped Mark two months ago for the perfectly good reason that he was a creep. But maybe…maybe he’d take a booty call? She could ask her mom…

What? No, she wasn’t going to ask her mom if she could fuck her old boyfriend. That was…

So hot. What if Mom wanted to watch? She could suck Mom’s big, engorged nipples while Mark pounded into Amanda’s hot little cunt… She imagined her Mom, that detached, irritated expression on her face, hefting Marks’ not-too-long-but-pleasantly-thick penis in one hand, perhaps feeling the balls a little so that it got nice and hard, spreading Amanda’s cunt lips (perhaps giving them a quick, preparatory, utilitarian lick) and then sliding it in. It would be like Mom was making her fuck him, like it was Mom’s dick and she had no choice but to let Mom cum inside her…even sexier because Mom didn’t even like him, was just using his cock to….

No, no, no. No sex with patrons, no sex with Mark. Absolutely no sex with anybody. She needed to calm down.

So why wasn’t she frigging herself like a shameless little tart?

She sat on the bed, looking around at the suddenly tidy room, feeling her tits like rocks against her shirt. Her clit was practically begging her…

Begging. “Please,” she said out loud. Her hand moved towards her crotch, then flopped away. She could feel herself seeping. There was going to be a damp spot on her jeans. She licked her lips. “Please…” she said again.

It was only when she’d climbed up on the bed to tear down the Ziggie Stardust poster that her mother had never liked (what is it with you and the weirdos?) that she suddenly realized that she didn’t want to masturbate until she got permission. She tried not to think about from whom.

Denise looked around Amanda’s room in amazement. “You…you vacuumed?” she said. She’d probably managed to get Amanda to vacuum her own room sometime, in her 21 years, but she sure couldn’t remember it.

Amanda nodded. She was sitting on the end of the immaculately made bed, head down, hands actually folded in her lap. She looked flushed, from the work maybe. So adorable, so…something. Denise wondered again what she looked like when she was dancing.

Somebody else seemed to say it for her. “Are you working tonight, honey?”

Amanda looked up. Her lip trembled a little. Denise thought about kissing it, her tongue running along the outer edge, then exploring inside. She knew Amanda would be slutty and needy, moaning into her mouth, bodies pressing together so she could feel those little nipples against her breasts…

. She had to ask Mandy to repeat herself.

“I…I called in and quit. You said you wanted me to…and…and…Greta…she said…obey…I needed to do something you told me to…and there wasn’t anything else…”

She trailed off. The disappointment on her mother’s face was obvious. “What…what’s wrong?”

Denise was trying to figure that out as well. She’d been trying to get Amanda to quit for a month — they’d had huge screaming fights about it. She’d called her daughter a whore at least a couple of times (the memory was oddly pleasurable. ) And now…all she could think about was…

“I…I guess since we talked to Greta, and she told me what a hot tight little…I meant that I needed to see you as a grown up…with tits…I was…I was thinking that maybe I should come and watch you….”

There was a pause. Amanda’s head was still down. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You…want to see me dance?”

Her mom thought about it. She hated her daughters’ music pretty much. But she sounded so eager…such an eager little bitch….

“Maybe you can just show me the outfit dear?” She paused.

The outfit was pretty spectacular, Denise had to admit. A one piece red shiny thing with some sort of strappy fetishy laced window up the front, and a back that plunged down to the ass. Denise had her spin around in it. She asked to feel the material, and let her hand slide down the butt, and gave a brief slap that made the flesh shake delightfully and Amanda whine like a bitch. She traced around the front, slid up the stomach, and cupped Amanda’s tits for just a second, and felt her daughter arch against her…then stepped back to observe judiciously. Maybe also catch her breath.

“Very….nice,” she said. “Were you a, uh, favorite then?”

Amanda nodded meekly. She was growing increasingly desperate. She had to cum, she had to rub her clit, but she couldn’t leave without permission and she couldn’t touch herself without permission, but she couldn’t ask her mom for permission or she would just die. She thought about how shocked her mom would be, the humiliation—or worse, perhaps, if her mom weren’t shocked at all. She felt again the hand sliding over her ass and pressed her thighs together futilely.

Denise was in some distress as well. The dress, the image of Amanda up on stage, surrounded by men with raging hard ons…she imagined her daughter crawling on her knees from cock to cock, the red lipstick on the shafts, the slick dress slicker with the cum. Someone sliding it up her hips from behind,…

But of course they didn’t do that sort of thing at the Pink Surprise. Strictly no touching.

Which seemed like a shame. Sexual experience was good. Amanda was luscious. She should be touched. She should be fucked just like Greta said.

When had Greta said that?

For an instant, Denise saw everything doubled. On the one side, there was her luscious sexpot submissive daughter slut in her hot red dress with the hot red cunt waiting to be filled, and she imagined the slick red dress sliding against her cheek as she moved up under it, the little whore thrusting so eagerly, the humid smell…

And on the other there was Amanda, Mandy, her baby, who she’d raised to do something with herself, not to be a dripping submissive whore. She thought about all the hours she’d worked, and the disappointment, and the fights, and wanting to make her daughter into something. It had seemed like an endless, hopeless task, with bitterness at the end of it. She’d work and work and her daughter would go away and wear Hello Kitty shirts and strip or do something else somewhere else. And that was what was supposed to happen. The kids grow up and they go away and your proud and sad and that’s life, baby.

And then she remembered when Greta had told her that Mandy was a hot red submissive cunt and how she would only be truly fulfilled by being constantly tended and humiliated by Denise herself. It was while Greta was pounding Denise from behind with the dildo. Denise’s big tits had lurched back and forth deliciously, her tongue buried in Amanda’s snatch. She licked and licked, the juices running down her chin, with Amanda begging more and more desperately, because of course she couldn’t come without explicit permission….

Amanda was in front of her again, in that dress, her eyes pleading in that way. Denise stepped forward. It was all clear now. The drabness of her old life washed away, and everything was clean and fresh and sexy like Greta. She stuck her fingers the short distance up under the dress. Amanda was slicker even than she’d expected, her hand went in and up all the way. “Cum now baby,” she said, and Amanda screamed and convulsed around her fingers, spasming helplessly.

“If you’re not working at the club anymore,” Denise said, “what do you want to do?”

Amanda groaned. She pressed against Denise’s hand, grinding. “Want to…obey…obey…obey...”

“That’s sweet. Cum again.”

She was even louder this time. It sounded like she must be about to wake the neighborhood.

“So…maybe tomorrow you can clean the whole house? And after that we can see about selling your cunt to whoever wants it? That’ll make up for the loss of income and maybe more and none of those stupid no touching rules. Come if you say yes.”

“Yeeeeesssss!” Amanda screamed. Her legs dropped out from under her, and she slid off Denise’s fingers onto the floor. She looked like a boneless blob of slick red and fluid and sex. Denise liked it. It was perfect and luminous. It was everything she wanted for her daughter. Sexual experience and a life as a grown horny cum slut.

She felt very proud.

Also horny.

She walked over and pressed her dripping cunt onto Amanda’s mouth. “Lick me out till morning dear, would you?” she said.

Amanda would.

At the next meeting with Greta the therapist talked about sharing and honesty, so Denise told about how much she would like to see Amanda gang-banged, and Mandy explained that she wanted her Mom to fuck her with her exes’ penis. Greta told them they had vivid imaginations and that it was good to have joint projects. She also gave them a referral to a brothel where Mandy could make lots of money and fuck lots of cocks and where the madam knew Greta and would maybe set things up so Denise could watch. Or even join in and take clients herself, who knew? Denise hadn’t ever considered being a whore before, but Greta did make it sound intriguing.