The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Harold Davis was, to be honest, not much of a man. Each of his days seemed much like the day before; waking up too early, dragging himself to a job he no longer wanted, moving an unending stream of numbers from one place to another, and then heading back home to find out in what ways his wife Marilyn found him deficient today. He had a moderately sized home, a moderately old and practical car, and an income that allowed him to pay his bills, pay his wife’s credit card, and very little else. Even his weekends were little more than a slightly different job, mowing lawns, washing siding, fixing little things here and there. There were only two bright spots in his otherwise entirely grey existence. The first was Gerald, his son, now 6 years old, was a wonder and a joy to him. Whenever his wife would let him, he would take Gerald out, on walks, to the park, to games, everywhere. It was exhausting, since Harold was already just older than fifty, but he loved it. His wife, almost ten years younger than he, was very possessive about their only child, and let Harold play with the child only when she had to, at the salon, or at one of her social meetings. Even then, she usually made sure to ask Nicky over. Nicky was the other bright spot. She was the baby sitter, and the single throbbing source of Harold’s every fantasy. She was still in high-school, barely 18, and, to Harold, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was shortish, a little over five feet tall, with long, firm legs, a slim waist, and breasts that were high, firm, and full, but not large. Her eyes were wide and bright blue, and her hair was a light blonde, usually pulled up in a pony-tail, but sometimes tumbling down around her shoulders in cornsilk waves. Although her lips were full and her eyelashes naturally dark, she almost never wore makeup, and from the few discussions Harold had had with her while driving her home, he got the impression that her parents (and Nicky herself) felt that too much makeup made one appear “loose”. He delighted at the light scent of soap and some subdued perfume that filled his car whenever he drove her home, even as he thought she always seemed stiff and uncomfortable on the 17 minute drive. He knew she thought of him as old, and tired, and probably never spared him a thought when she wasn’t forced to talk to him on the drive. Nevertheless, she was always very polite, asking him how his day was, and talking to him about Gerald and a number of other safe and banal topics. Little did she know that as soon as she got out of the car, Harold would be flooded with visions of her mouth, her legs, her delicate pink-nailed fingers, the hidden promise of her ripe, firm chest, or even the almost unthinkable delights hidden beneath her track shorts. He rarely got home before some fantasy overtook him and he was forced to pull over to the side of the road and relieve himself into the tissues he kept in the glove box for just this purpose.

The day that everything changed was surprising. Harold’s car started making a strange knocking sound and he was forced to take it into Doug’s Mufflers and Volvo Repairs. He then took the number 12 bus though the drizzling rain to work. While on the bus, after staring out the window for 10 minutes, he noticed a magazine, crumpled and damp, lying on the seat next to him. He picked it up and thumbed through it. It was some sort of trade publication for “Makers and Modelers” and was basically full of advertisements for inventions. Some were strange, others were obvious scams. Harold was just about to drop it again, when one met his eye. “Make subliminal CDs! Make others do your bidding! Command respect and power over your peers!” Harold read over it, and it looked like it was a download. The company, “DowningDyne Industries” was asking 99.99 for their “Special Software”, and Harold immediately felt a surge of disappointment. It had to be a scam. And there was no way Marilyn would let him have $100 without knowing what it was for.

He tried to let it go, to put it out of his mind, but he found the idea gnawing on his consciousness throughout the day, making him forgetful and absent. At the end of the day, the only moments he managed to forget about the ad were when he got home and plopped down on the rug with Gerald before dinner.

Finally, after a meager, gray meal of boiled meat and tasteless mash of some kind, Marilyn put on her mask and went to bed. Harold went into the office, sat down at his computer, and pulled up DowningDyne’s site. Before he could stop himself, he had gotten his credit card out of his battered brown wallet and typed the numbers into the site. He had no idea how he would hide $100 from Marilyn, but something had gripped him, some hope of color, the rush in his head thinking about Nicky’s hand sliding onto his lap, her deft fingers working at his belt, then zipper, then underwear, then...

And it was downloading! He watched the bar like a fox watches a rabbit’s den, his shoulders tensing every time the blue bar slowed, fearing it had all gone wrong. 98% 99% Finally, it was done and after a few more moments, Harold had opened up EZsublimdisc. It was basic and ugly in its basic-ness, but intuitive, with a link to a short tutorial on YouTube. The first thing he had to do was record him saying his own name, so that the “subliminal instructions can attach to a specific individual”. This caused a momentary panic, as Harold had no idea how to plug in a “Usb Microphone”. Some frantic searching on the internet and he finally managed to get a set of headphones with an attached mike plugged in and working. Drag and drop some sound files into the main area. Then use the dropdown menus to choose the message types. It was too easy. Harold was sure he’d been had. He chose “nicer” and “helpful” and “forgiving” from the menus. He also selected “Watermelon—arm test” from the “Test” menu, the tooltip informing him that it would cause a raising of the arm at the sound of the test term, which Harold assumed was ‘Watermelon’. EZsublimdisc even converted some of the songs he chose into “WAV”, but Harold had no idea what that meant. There were Advanced Disc Messages, too, all greyed out. They had words like “obedient”, “submissive”, and “lascivious”. He tried to click on one and was immediately informed that they could be unlocked with a code that cost only $1200. His heart raced and dropped all at once. But that didn’t matter now. Right now, he had a plan, a test, and if it worked, poor Harold could buy the code later.

He “burned” the disc, worrying briefly if that was normal, and whether he had just ruined a perfectly good blank disc. The software showed a number of messages: “interpolating voice patterns” and “intersplicing sub-harmonics” and “rendering wave form”. For an hour, Harold watched, nervous, frightened, excited, and guilty, starting at every noise on the street, every groan of the old house. When it was done, he labeled it with a Sharpie and left it for Marilyn. It said on it “For my Wife. Songs she Loves” in big, black, bold letters that somehow conveyed the idea that whoever had written them was weak of hand and dim of eye.

Harold didn’t sleep much that night. He was haunted all night by visions of Nicky, of getting caught, of the FBI storming through his door. By the time his alarm chimed its drab, dull irritation, he was a wreck. Still, he jumped out of bed, and began his morning routine. Harold did almost nothing worth doing at work that day, getting home a little earlier than usual. As he came through the door, Marilyn called out “Hello dear!” from the living room. She had not called out a hello to him in the last fifteen years. He practically ran to the living room, hearing the sounds of the CD he’d made coming from that direction. Harold could hear the music, but the sound quality was terrible, like someone had recorded it by putting a microphone near a speaker playing the sounds. Marilyn, though, didn’t seem to mind at all.

“He’s still napping,” she said, looking up at him from the tousled tabloid she was reading. She had dark blond hair in soft waves, and brown eyes, much softer today than the hard, cold disappointment they normally cradled. Harold smiled. “Thank you for the CD, Harry,” she said, “I just can’t stop listening to it!”

“Watermelon,” he replied. His heart stopped. He could feel a hard lump in his throat and his whole body was stopped, still, like it was in a vice. His wife, without seeming to notice, raised her left arm above her head, held it there for the length of a shuddering breath, and brought it back down.

That night, Harold paid the $1200.

Marilyn was asleep after what had to have been one of the most pleasant nights since before Gerald was born. They had talked and gotten along, and she had treated him almost like a friend, rather than the enormous, bitter mistake she seemed to usually imply he was.

Harold typed the short code into the box on the program. The “Advanced” menu lit up.

“Obedient” and “Receptive” were the keywords he chose, as well as the watermelon test. He filled the CD with the light, inoffensive jazz he liked to listen to in his practical and inoffensive car. As the CD burned, he went to bed, again falling down a rabbit hole of fantasies and fears, denying him any real rest. The next day was a blur. His heart pounded all day, leaving him with a roaring headache. It was his day to work late, moving different numbers from one file into another, and he knew, when he got home, Marilyn would be getting home from her book club, and he would have to take Nicky home. He imagined her pink lips, parted, moist, waiting on his every word.

Work kept him even later than normal, and when he got home, Gerald was already in bed. Nicky was waiting impatiently to go home. She was wearing a striped shirt with a brown jacket over it, and white cotton shorts. She held a book bag under her arm.

“Ready to go, Nicky?” Harold asked.

“Please call me Nicole, Mr. Davis,” she said, trying to look respectful and polite. “Yes. I’m late to get home for dinner.”

“Sorry... Nicole,” he said, sheepishly.

They got into the car and he made sure the CD was playing. He watched as she got in and scooted to the far side, practically pushing herself up against the window to put room between them. Harold began driving, staying quiet. He saw her frowning at the CD player. The music was old jazz standards, but so scratchy and almost static-y that an abused vinyl LP would have sounded better. Normally, Nicky would ask a few polite questions, but today she sat almost silently.

“Is your CD player working ok, Mr. Davis?” Nicole asked, scowling. “It doesn’t sound... right.”

“Um, oh, of course... it, um, its old music like from records,” he said, his heart pounding. Did she know? How could she know. Harold wasn’t sure how long she needed to be affected. Harold turned to her.

“I just need to stop for gas,” he said. “Do you mind?” She had to know. This was all a mistake.

“What?” she said, as if she were startled, “Oh. No, that’s fine.” The gas tank was 3/4 full. “I’ll just keep listening to your, uh, music, if that’s ok.”

Harold went out of the way to get to a gas station, parking but leaving the CD player going. He took his time fueling the car, wondering how long the CD would take. Then he folded himself back into the car and got back on the road. He waited as long as he could—they were about two or three minutes away from Nicky’s home.

His heart was in his throat and his breathing was irregular as he fought panic and excitement simultaneously.

“Watermelon,” he said, hesitantly, quietly.

His head felt like it was going to explode as nothing happened at first and then, slowly, her right arm raised slightly. He felt his excitement surge and rush. This was the best thing that had happened in his sad, slow life. He slowed the car, suddenly unsure what to do next.

“Mr. Davis? What’s the matter? You are all red. Are you ok?” Nicky was looking at him with concern, her blue eyes wide and concerned. Her arm slowly came back down to rest on her bag.

“Yes, er... yes, I just...,” he pulled the car over to the side of the road. There was a slight maudlin rain falling and the sky was the last sleepy grey before full night settled. They were on a suburban street, now parked in front of a largish house with a three car garage. He shut off the engine and the music stopped.

Like someone had just splashed water on her, Nicky shook her head to clear it. “Mr. Davis?” There was a little alarm in her voice now. “Are you ok? What are you doing?”

Harold sat there, trying to collect his thoughts, still on the edge between panic and exultation.

“Nicky... I...” he looked at her.

“Yes, Mr. Davis?” She sounded worried, even afraid. One hand went to the door handle as if she was getting ready to leap. Her body was tense, ready.

“Nicky, please don’t tell anyone about this,” Harold said. He’d thought of that last night. “You need to keep this our little secret.” His eyes drifted down to her chest, where her treasures were hidden beneath her heavier jacket.

“I don’t know what you are thinking, Mr. Davis, but this is... just inappropriate! Don’t tell? I think we are through, Mr. Davis. Please tell your wife, that I...”

As she spoke, her face red with fear, anger, and embarrassment, he fumbled the electronics back on and the music started back up.

“Shhh. Shhh. Sorry. Just stay. Hear me out. I’m sorry.... just listen....” He had lost it all: the one good thing in his life ruined already!

“OK....,” she said, worriedly. A hint of hope, of relief, stole into Harold’s heart. He turned in his seat to face her, his paunch uncomfortable in the tight seat belt and he undid it with a dull click.

“Maybe you should come closer,” Harold whispered, his voice tremulous. Nicky shifted almost imperceptibly closer. “Nicky, come closer,” Harold tried again. She shifted closer still. He could smell the scent of her hair.

“Maybe, um... maybe you could take off your...your jacket?” It was hard to tell if it was a question or a request. Nicky tugged her jacket closer around her.

“I think I should go, now, Mr. Davis... ,” the young blonde’s hand fumbled for the door. “I’ll just walk from here.”

“No! " Harold felt panic rising in his chest. “I mean, stay, Nicky. Stay.” He put an hand on her arm, imploring.

She settled back down, he hands clutching her bag in front of her defensively. He paused, letting the music play, the rain pattered on the roof and windscreen.

“Take your jacket off,” Harold tried again. Nicky looked at him and didn’t move. “Take your jacket off, Nicky,” he tried again, a little more forcefully. She slowly, reluctantly, shrugged out of her jacket. The stripes on her shirt accentuated the round firmness of the breasts beneath. Harold’s eyes were wide and greedy. He reached for her and she pulled back, her arms crossing in front of her as if to keep her safe. Harold frowned.

“Let me,” he whispered, feverishly, “let me touch you.” Her arms relaxed slightly and he moved her arms away. His hand went to her left breast, firm and perfectly round. She closed her eyes as if tasting something awful. Her body was tense. He groaned as his fingers squeezed her tit. “Relax, " he said, forgetting his nervousness, his fear, and a lifetime of disappointment and failure. “Relax and enjoy this,” he said. She leaned back, her eyes fluttering in what might have been momentary pleasure as his fingers pulled at a nipple through the cotton of her shirt. “Off! Take your shirt off, " Harold said, his eyes like coals, burning for the first time in years.

“I don’t think I should, Mr. Davis,” she pleaded, “it’s... not right. You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Take it off,” he repeated, firmly, looking at her. “And no more complaining. No more hesitation. " He was finally getting it. Obedient. Receptive. “You’ll do what I tell you, won’t you?”

She nodded demurely, her hands going to the hem of her shirt and pulling it off over her head. It was an awkward movement in the small car. Her breasts were round and taut, her bra a soft, transparent white with a pink bow in the very center. Nicky’s nipples were on display through the sheer material, dark and protruding. Harold reached over and pulled down the cup nearest him, baring her breast and nipple, naked, to the air. He groaned again, involuntary grabbing his crotch. He leaned forward, taking her nipple in his mouth, sucking. Marilyn’s breasts had never been this firm, this high and pert. His tongue lapped at the nipple, flicking and caressing. His other hand went to her other breast, pulling down the cup there and fondling the young flesh. He could feel her nipples crinkling, hardening under his tongue and between his fingers. He was a new man, a fire burning where his mind had once been.

“Do you want to touch me?” He asked, his mouth briefly lifting from the delicious nipple.

“No, Mr. Davis! " She sounded frightened and disgusted. He stopped his movements, a pang of guilt quickly quenched by the fire of a fantasy too strong to resist. He sat back in his chair, his hands going to his belt, fumbling to unbuckle it with a teenager’s clumsy eagerness.

“Give me your hand, Nicky,” he said. She tentatively stretched out her hand, her eyes wide and glued to his crotch as he finally got his belt open and unbuttoned his pants, scooting them un-gracefully down. His old white briefs were barely recognizable as white any more, and he shoved them down too. His penis, hard and erect but on the disappointing side of average, popped weakly free. Harold wrapped Nicky’s delicate white hand with its clear, sparkly nail polish, around his dick. “Stroke me,” he whispered, his hand dropping to let him recline his seat. She began to slowly rub her hand up and down with a totally lack of enthusiasm, like she was washing a carrot. Harold looked up.

“Have you ever done this before?” Harold asked. He knew her family was pretty strict, and that she herself was in “Virtue Club” at the high school. Suddenly he realized this may be the first penis she’d ever seen.

“Yes, Mr. Davis.” She flushed, embarrassed. “And...” She trailed off.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“And, I’ve seen some, you know, movies...” She murmured. Harold groaned and his dick throbbed.

“Nicky, beautiful Nicky,” he cupped one of her perfect tits, “I want you to be like in those movies. I want you to be thinking about how to do what I want you to, about being the best little... um, the best little slut you can. Do you understand?” He squeezed her tit.

“Yes, Mr. Davis,” she whispered. Her strokes changed, her grip suddenly becoming both firm and infinitely soft. Her other hand went to his testicles, gently cupping and pulling as she stroked. He kept one hand on her breast and leaned back, watching her stroke him.

“Good girl,” he said. He was quickly forgetting the grey old man he had become. “Such a good girl, a good slut. Tell me what you want...”

Her big blue eyes locked onto his, hope in her face. “I want to go home, Mr. Davis... I want to get out of this car....”

“No, no, NO,” Harold said, annoyed. She was spoiling it! He reached down and turned up the volume slightly. “You don’t want to leave. You want to stay and be my slut. You want to please me, and obey me, and be used by me, don’t you? You want to be my good little girl.”

“Yes, Mr. Davis,” she said, like a schoolgirl learning her lessons for the day.

“God, you have such perfect tits,” Harold sighed, continuing to palm them roughly.

“Would you like to suck on them while I make you cum, Mr. Davis?” Nicky asked in that same schoolgirl voice, her hand twirling around the rim of his cock. The only light now came from the dim dome light; it was dark outside, and even the streetlights were diffused by the rain.

“That’s better!” Harold cried. “Yes, Nicky.” Nicky reached behind her and undid her bra before she turned around so that she was facing the back of the car, up on her knees, her high breasts at face level. Her delicate hand continued to work Harold’s dick, stroking him in the perfect rhythm. His lips latched on to her delicate pink buds, sucking harshly. He moaned at the overwhelming pleasure of it all. He felt her push into his face, the soft skin of her tits against his mouth.

Harold’s hands fumbled at her cotton shorts, reaching up through the leg hole and sliding her panties aside. His fingers found her slit, warm and moist and he slipped his thumb inside her, feeling the incredible youthful tightness of her teenage pussy. Nicky gasped, and her free hand went to the back of his hair, pulling his face harder onto her firm tit. He began to pump his thumb inexpertly in and out of her cunt.

“Do you like that?” he asked, between sucks.

“Yes, Mr. Davis,” she said.

“Good girl,” he replied. “And you can call me ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir,” she moaned. He wiggled his thumb inside her, causing her to buck slightly.

“God, you are so tight,” Harold marveled.

“Thank you, Sir,” Nicky said, thrusting a little bit now up and down on Harold’s hand.

“Do you want me in this tight pussy?” Harold asked around the teenage girl’s wet nipple.

“If you want, Mr. Davis. Fuck me, please, sir.” Nicky moaned and ground her pussy onto Harold’s thumb.

“I need you to earn it...,” Harold said, twisting a nipple with his free hand, “with your beautiful mouth.” His thumb came out of her pussy and he brought it up to her mouth. Nicky’s full lips sucked it in, tasting her own juices. Then his hand went behind her head, pulling her face down into his lap. His small cock stood proud and ready.

“Yes sir,” Nicky sighed once before her lips slid slowly over the mottled crown of his cock. Harold disappeared into heaven. He had never, ever felt anything like he did at this moment. In control, getting what he wanted, and the most beautiful young mouth swirling its tongue around his dick. She put out her tongue, sliding it back and forth over the bottom side of the head. Nicky put her lips on the tip, sucking gently on just the merest tip while her hands stroked, beginning a corkscrewing motion. Then her mouth slipped slowly over the crown and Harold felt the engulfing heat of her mouth as she took him between her lips. Her tongue ran around in a circle at the end of each stroke. There was no way this had come from just watching movies. Her bright blue eyes were closed as she sucked, her mouth making slurping noises each time the cockhead disappeared into her. Harold leaned back, wanting to be deeper inside her, down her throat. Harold’s hands found her young tits again and cupped them, feeling their firm weight as he thrust into her receptive mouth. Then she took his small cock all the way, his dick going deeper into her mouth than he had imagined was possible. She stopped, his cock at the back of her throat, her lips at the root of his penis, his graying pubic hair against her face. Then she came back off, looking up. She licked her lips.

“Is that what you want, sir?” she said, her mouth open slightly, shining with moist spittle.

He didn’t answer. He just put his hands on the back of her head and pushed her face back down. He guided her head up and down on him, and she followed his every cue. He wanted to cum in her mouth, fill her up with jism and watch it drip from her lips. But he had to have her pussy. He pushed her back and told her to take off her shorts. She did, immediately, followed by her panties. Then she moved over him, her young, lithe body making the awkward space seem luxuriously large. Nicky only had a little dark blonde hair between her thighs, and Harold marveled as his hands went to her round tits. With a sigh, she lowered herself onto his upstanding member, and he felt the first resistance as her tight pussy parted for him, then the overwhelming pleasure of her hot wetness as she sank onto him, burying his cock fully in her vice-tight cunt. They both moaned together. She began to bob, sliding up and down on him, as his hands and mouth pulled hungrily at her tits and hardened nipples. He pawed her breasts as long as he could stand it, before he finally gripped her waist moving her up and down on him. Her pussy was hot as his cock disappeared into her.

“I’m gonna cum! God, I’m cumming, Nicky!” he cried as he began to erupt inside her. He pulled her cunt down hard over his cock and held her there as spasm after spasm passed through him and into her. Her head was back, her eyes closed, her breathing ragged.

Harold may have blacked out from the pure, glorious pleasure of it. A moment later, she was climbing back into her seat, still naked. The fifty-year-old man looked down at the mess on his lap; juice and cum coating his now semi-hard member.

“Clean off my cock, Nicky,” Harold said. She began looking around his car, about to open the glove compartment.

“Do you have any tissues or towels or....”

“No, Nicky. Suck me clean, baby,” he said, his voice low, almost growling.

She looked down at the mess with shock in her wide blue eyes. “Oh, no, Mr. Davis... gross...” Her words trailed off. She looked at his face imploringly.

“ Do what you are told, Nicky. ”

Reluctantly, she leaned over, slurping his mostly flaccid cock between her lips. He held her tits again as she sucked mess of his cock and from around his grizzly pubic hair. He felt himself hardening, finding new life inside her surprisingly talented mouth. He thought about telling her to continue, to take a whole new load down her throat, but suddenly, he wasn’t sure he could. He felt her tongue sliding over his slightly stiffened shaft. Finally she sat up again, wiping her mouth.

“Did I do it right?” she asked.

“Yes. Good girl. Now you can get dressed.”

As he drove the last few minutes to her house, Nicky got her clothes back on, struggling with the small space. When he pulled up in front of her house, she almost jumped out, but he stopped her with a word.

“Stop!” She froze, turning around slowly. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?” Harold asked.

“No sir,” she said, her eyes downcast.

“And you won’t dodge our calls, or avoid me.”

“No sir.”

“And you will come and perform for me again whenever I want you.”

A pause. Her shoulders slumped as she stared at the ground, the rain slowly dampening her hair. “Yes, sir.”

“Nicky, I want you to get some make up. And maybe some sexy clothes or something. Stuff to make you look like the slut you are. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh! And one last thing...” he popped the CD out of the player and reached across her seat to hand it to her. “Make sure to listen to this every day.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“Good. Have a good night, Nicky.” And with that, she closed the door and he drove away, drove home, back to his wife, his house, his life. But everything was different now.