The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I stand in front of the class and these are the words I say:

“So we can see that for Dworkin and the other radical separatists all forms of heterosexual contact, not just the openly violent are rape. Even, perhaps especially, the most gentle and chivalrous man is partaking in the oppression of women and even the most content woman is a victim.”

The words I do not say go like this:

You look at me and you write down the words I say so you can regurgitate them back at me in your neat little end-of-term exam papers and you know nothing about me or about what I say. Or what I do. You don’t even know that there’s a brand on my thigh, yes a mark where they put hot metal to show that I’m a slave, a piece of property, a slut who can be bought and sold. You’d think, if you were as clever as you think you are, that you’d be able to tell that about the woman who is teaching you Women’s Studies.

“Now, how do the Radical Feminists account for the fact the vast majority of women do not in fact find men to be totally worthless and regard sex with them as quite fun.... Sometimes.” That gets a laugh. “Well, they turn to an idea they found in classic Marxist thought. Marx wanted to account for the consistent conservatism of most of the working classes, who should have been much more radical than he found them to be. He said the non-revolutionary proletariat was suffering from False Consciousness. He said they had taken the ideology of their oppressors and internalised it.”

False Consciousness. If anyone is suffering from False Consciousness here, girls, she’s standing right in front of you. I talk about Mary Wolstoncraft and Emily Pankhurst and Germaine Greer and all the time I have no panties on and no bra, not because I’ve burnt my bra (we don’t do that nowadays) but because Master won’t let me wear them, because Master wants to let me know how much he controls me, because Master (that’s Professor Hillman to you, girls, the quiet one from the Psychology Department) wants to be able to come into my office and reach up my skirt and touch me and know there will be nothing in the way to stop his hand reaching my dripping wet snatch, my pussy, my juicy hot hole, my fuckpit.... Oh.

I have to pause for a moment. I have to pretend I’ve lost my place and look through my notes so I can go back to churning it out so you can gobble it up and pass the course and get your degrees. Don’t worry girls, normal service will be resumed.... That’s a dangerous word for me to think about ‘service’....

“Now this all touches,”

There’s another dangerous word, touches, better find another one quick,

“this all relates to the concept of memetics or the science of ideas. In memetics one of the primary analogies is that an idea, whether it’s a political idea, a joke, an advertising slogan, is rather like a disease. You can catch it from other people, it uses you to make more copies of itself, just like a virus does and then it gets passed on to others, perhaps a little modified....”

I have an idea in my head. It’s lodged there like a bug, like a virus. I didn’t go looking for it. (Or did I? Did I put myself at risk of being enslaved deliberately? Did I want to find myself owned, controlled? Did the girl I was then want to fall, desire to be caught up for debt and sold? It seems so long ago and she seems like a different person, living in a different world.)

{And in a way she did. This is Cyndi’s Master, the quiet Professor Hillman. I’d best explain that though Cyndi believes that she was arrested for debt and sold off as a personal slave under legislation introduced under the last Conservative government, no such event took place since no such legislation exists. It’s all a fantasy I created in her mind with my mind controlling Gizmo. She believes that she must keep it a secret from everyone. It makes her subjugation to me slightly more exquisite: part of her continues to be the feminist lecturer while her secret side gradually grows to love her enslavement more and more. }

The idea is that all of you, my dear girls, my dearest pupils, would be a lot better off if you were to be suddenly taken as I was, dragged out of the lecture hall, kicking and screaming to be stripped and branded and put on a block and sold. You would be sold to men you had never seen before, men who would take you and use you and teach you what it is to be a woman, kneeling at a man’s feet, being his toy. I think that would teach you more about women than any course of ‘Women’s Studies’.

“Now, the agenda of the feminism of the 1970s and 80s would have been incomprehensible to most of the nineteenth and early twentieth century pioneers. But not all....”

I stand there in front of my class and I drone on and on: I didn’t even want the post as Lecturer in Women Studies. I was quite happy to be the Equal Opportunities Officer. But He ordered me to apply. Said it amused him.

I’ve begged Him to let me leave this job, this mockery and let me be his slave openly. But He smiles and purses his lips and says ‘No Cyndi, no. I am not a rich man and we need the money you earn as a lecturer. And beside it would cause a scandal: can you imagine how the Vice-Chancellor and the head of your department would react to discover they had appointed someone who had a brand on her thigh to such a sensitive position. No, no. Kinder never to tell them.’ And I say Yes, Master, as you wish Master. And he strokes my hair and he parts his robe and he lets me lick his lovely cock erect.

I want to say to the class, Look, you don’t know me. You think this is Ms Mattell but it’s not. It’s Cyndi. She’s a silly slut and she doesn’t know anything worth knowing except how to kneel, how to crawl, how to beg, how to hold her Master’s manhood tight inside her. She can cook too (a bit) and she can clean house and kneel silently by Master while he works.

He named me Cyndi, that first evening when I knelt to him in his garden. My tits ached when my nipples brushed against the long grass as I bent to kiss his feet. He took my by the scruff of my neck and pulled up my face to look into his. And He said, not Cynthia, no. Not Cynthia. It’s too grand a name for a slut. I shall call you Cyndi, when we are alone, just Master and Slave. My little Cyndi-doll, my toy to play with.

{Is Cyndi known beyond the shores of the UK? A slightly cheaper and tackier rival to Barbie. Just right for a cheap slut like my Cyndi.}

I want to show you Cyndi, girls, I think but I do not say. She’s a good girl. She could take off this dress and kneel up on the desk and show you how to do what’s wanted by a Master. If Ann-Louise (that’s Dr Merriman to you girls, the long blonde slut from the Medical Centre) if she was here we could give you quite a show. He likes that. He likes to see two women make love to each other. Except in the case of Ann-Marie and me, it isn’t quite love.

We don’t quite hate each other either but we would both be happier if He would just get rid of the other. But he won’t and so we try to be polite to each other. Except that He knows how we feel and likes to play one off against the other. At the start she was the one in charge, the one who told the new slave how He likes things done. And He gave me to her, to be her toy too, to play with.

And play she did. Oh my, I remember that first evening when she took me upstairs from the garden where he had collared me, re-named me Cyndi. She took my leash from him and lead me upstairs. She kept me on all fours as we went into the small bedroom. It’s where his weekend slut spends her nights if he doesn’t want her to lie with him or sleep at the foot of his bed. She undressed from the French maid’s uniform he had her in and started to explain his requirements.

No shaving the armpits and pussy. Grow your hair long. (It’s down to my legs now.) How he likes his breakfast served. Little things, big things. I drank them in.

And I was thinking all the while how lovely she was and wondering why he needed me. And why she wanted to be his slave: there was no brand on her thigh.

And then I remembered how I’d felt when I had to crawl to him in the garden.

When we were both naked she took me through to the bathroom and sat me on the loo.

Relieve yourself, she said and started to run a bath, putting foaming and scented stuff in.

And when she looked at me again and I hadn’t done anything she slapped me. She pulled hard on my leash until I was nearly choking. I didn’t mean to defy her: really I didn’t. But my family had been.... My father and mother had been raised by very strict Baptist parents. They had stopped being believers in their twenties but all their lives they had been bad at touching, at being open about their bodies. Their problems had been passed on to me.

She called me a stupid slut, a disobedient slave. I was. Oh, I am so sorry, Master... And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it so much that she ordered me and finally I obeyed. Red in the face, heart pumping.

She ordered me into the bath and I settled down, wincing (she always runs the water too hot!) in the foam and water. I nearly fainted when she got in with me!

Understand, I had never even thought about other women. I had known some lesbians, there are not a few in the Equal Opportunities business. But even when they had shown an interest in me I couldn’t respond. Not in any way. I knew how to respond with men, with boys. At least I had a way of responding: it wasn’t the most brilliant way, using my pussy as a collar on them, nagging them, driving them away eventually.

But in the water, her breasts against mine, her left hand on the back of my neck pulling me closer, her right beneath the water on my cunt... Oh, and her in control, her not me, because the Master had told me to obey her, given me to her... Oh, it was new, it was sweet and bitter to be controlled. Owned by him, subservient to her as she warmed me up and opened me out and prepared me to be taken by him...

She had my leash in her hand, literally or metaphorically for most of the next three months.

But now, it’s about fifty-fifty. Sometimes I’m the one who gets to be in control and tell her to start licking out my arsehole while I suck the Master off. She’s good at that. Of course she takes it out on me when she’s the one in charge. And he smiles to see us playing. And we play up to him and make a show because it gets him hard and ready and that’s the most important thing for us. For the Master’s Sluts.

But while Cyndi is thinking all this, poor old Ms Mattel is droning on.

“Now, what exactly do we mean by Patriarchy?”

Cyndi knows what that word means. It means Daddy-rule. Master likes Cyndi to call him Daddy sometimes. Likes Cyndi to play at being his widdle gurl.

He took me on holiday with him at Easter break. All the way to some Greek island. Made me wear.... Little girl outfits. My tits nearly falling out and a skirt that is slit up to the hips. He knows how embarrassed that makes me: he knows how much I fear someone see the slave brand on my hip and knowing that I’m just a slut, a piece of property.

{She believes, you see, that she has a brand on her thigh: an ornate letter S for Slave. I told her that she did and now she sees it clearly. Her blushes when we met someone on the beach and the way she tried to hide her brand by pressing her hip up against me... Ah, a happy memory I shall carry to the grave.}

But I can’t say no. And I don’t want to. That’s at the core of my False Consciousness, you see. I know now that I wouldn’t be free of him if he offered me the chance. I long to be ordered, I dream of obeying. On the weekends when he takes Ann-Marie off somewhere without me, I weep and I burn and I imagine every minute of them together as I clean his house and run his errands. Cyndi has someone to love and serve. Even if He doesn’t love her, even if he just uses her and would cast her aside for a younger model. It’s not important.

“Phallocentric”. That’s another good word in Ms. Martell’s vocabulary. It means ‘cock-centred’. I give this lecture at the start of the course, on primitive concepts of male and female. And I do a slide show. Master helped put it together. We have the ancient carvings of big-breasted, hugely pregnant women. And we have rather more of the pictures of sacred phalluses from around the world. Little Roman household gods and African sacred fetishes. He ordered me to watch the class as I showed them, gauge their reactions, write it all down and report to him. Who licked their lips, who turned away in disgust, who acted cool and unconcerned. “A psychologist,” he joked, “is a man who goes to a strip show and watches the audience.”

Cyndi is phallocentric. Her mind is centred on Master’s cock. She knows every millimetre of it by sight, by touch, by smell. She loves to feel it with her hand, her mouth, her cunt and her arsehole. (He makes Ann-Marie clean me out with enemas and then lubricate me when he wants to take me anally. It’s a ceremony.) Master’s cock is the centre of his pleasure and therefore Cyndi’s centre too.

And then class is over and I’m picking up the package He gave me and going over to where Barbara is hurrying and trying to pack her books away before I can reach her.

Barbara watched the cocks-of-ancient-history slideshow with her mouth open in awe, totally unaware of anything else in the room and blushed bright red, red as her lovely long hair when someone nudged her and whispered in her ears.

Master was very interested in that. And the next day I had a message to give her from Professor Hillman. An appointment to discuss the possibility of some work as a research assistant.

The day after that I saw her headed towards the University Health Centre.

“Did you read the books I gave you”, I say.

They were some books I read before I was enslaved. Books about women in fantastic places and times. Women who were controlled, enslaved, owned. I told her they were for a project I was doing with Professor Hillman on the effects of pornography. Which is true enough.

She blushes and she nods and I smile.

“This is for you to listen to tonight,” I say and I hand her the Walkman with the tape the Master prepared.

Tonight is Thursday night. And tomorrow is the weekend. I don’t understand what it all means. But Master has told me to come to his place on Friday after work. And we shall see. Maybe Master will have a Barbie-doll to go with his Cyndi-doll. And maybe this time, I shall be the one who holds the leash on the new girl.