The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It’s not that I hated being a woman. It’s that I simply never was. When people used words like “feminine” I would think ‘What a beautiful word’ to describe someone else- not me. Whenever people spoke about me as a woman it filled my ears and mouth with dust, made me want to lose my body, and stare into the world like a blinking blank sheet of paper.

Then I met Mark, and he told me I was beautiful in a way that let me believe it. I liked being seen as a woman by him. I liked being touched as a woman by him. After about a year of being together I began to forget that I had ever been less than at home in this role- at least with Mark. My comfort with him made most of the gender related discomfort in my life temporarily enough that I could ignore it. It was just bad weather. Then one day his attention dried up, like a wave that never returned to shore.

At first it was almost imperceptible. He wasn’t rude, just a bit brisk or distant. But then whole evenings would go by without our eyes meeting. I found myself following him with my eyes, waiting for his to join mine, but they never did. He didn’t want me in the same way. And as the days piled on I felt empty. Useless. I was just there: going to work and mulling about our apartment. The man who had given my life rhythm had left me, even as he sat next to me.

Eventually, I tried to ask him if something was wrong. He would reply that he was tired. Or had more work to do. Or was just feeling off. Or he gave the answer that hurt me most of all: everything’s fine. I tried to convince myself I was being paranoid, but when his friends came over he came alive. When we went out nothing was different except the way he treated me. Nowhere was he different except with me. I kept waiting for him to break up, but he never did. Instead, we spent our time moving about the apartment like magnets that never touched.

In the mornings that followed what I began to think of as ‘The Great Retreat’ I would hide from the day by pressing closer into him. I wanted to feel his breath melt on the nape of my neck. I wanted to feel him get hard against my ass, turn me over and fuck me until my body felt like jello. I wanted him to need me. Other mornings, I’d turn and face him; then burrow my face into his chest, until I had to back away and gasp for air. But it didn’t work. We had stopped having sex. There was no discussion. It just happened, or, rather stopped happening.

Before The Great Retreat, our sex life had been fine and functional. It was … what I expected growing up- not what I had hoped for. But like the looks I collected, it gave me substance and meaning; it made me sure I had a body. Some nights I felt euphoric in the way I used to feel during a choir performance. I was getting everything right. I was dissolving into a greater mass. I was creating something beautiful, to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. But unlike a musical performance, there was no innate drive. I was not communicating something deep within me. I was crafting from air. I was she who did not exist but still shimmered in the dark. I was she who could make him feel like this or that, and I felt a great satisfaction in being her.

So when the sex dried up, and the dark was just dark, I was just eyes, floating in a room, wondering if I was annoying him by always lying so close, breathing in his ear, moving in the night, getting up to pee, getting back into bed with feet cold from the tile. I was miserable, but I couldn’t stop waiting for him to come back to me. I decided: he would have to be the one to end things. He would have to break first: either the silence or our bond. But instead he brought her home.

I heard them in the hallway, shoes scuffing backward and forwards at sporadic intervals, walls being used as leverage and then giggles when walls appeared as themselves: things to fall into and slide down. I heard the floor; it must have felt deceptively soft in their passion because they couldn’t stop laughing when they fell, or when she fell- I assume.

“Quiet, shhhh,” as they came towards the door. It was a command, but I could hear the smile even in his hushing. His seriousness was forced like a kid play-acting on stage. He was delighted to be heard, to have a reason to tell her to shut up, or he was just careless.

As they came closer to our apartment door I made my way to the bedroom. I laid in bed as frozen as a body in a grave. But my eyes wouldn’t stop opening. They burned when I blinked. Within minutes, they were fucking on the couch. I heard the sounds of bodies filled with syrup and dripping sweat. I heard the clap of a hand against an ass. That was when they gave up being quiet. She screamed, and I heard her gasp, breath flooding her body. The rhythm of his fucking made her moans warble, like light interrupted by a hand but so much more real. Hearing him slam into her I was sure of the angle at which their bodies met; she was head down ass up. I was sure his palms were filled with her hair, pulled taut between closed fingers as he pushed her head into the pillow, and then pulled her up again to remind her who put her there in the first place. They continued like this for a small forever: wet sounds, thuddy sounds, screams caught in her throat and screams let loose in the room. I couldn’t hear his words, but I heard something in them I’d never heard before.

I realized he never fucked me until I screamed. He never slammed into my cunt with the urgency and speed someone could make out a whole hallway and closed door away. For the past few weeks I had been consumed by the worry that he was done with me, but I realized in that moment, I had never even met him, not in the way this woman had, not in the way he wanted to be met. I had always been useless. My performances felt embarrassing. I couldn’t believe that I let myself believe that I was the woman he wanted.

As humiliated as I was, I didn’t cry. I waited. I wanted to know how their story ended. And eventually it did. I heard zippers in the place of thrusting. I heard whispers, as if only moments ago they hadn’t been screaming, as if she hadn’t been screaming. And then I heard the sound that broke me: a kiss. A single slow kiss between lips, meeting tenderly, meeting comfortably, meeting not to say “good bye” but simply “until next time.”

I held my breath when I heard the door close, and I didn’t start breathing until he turned on the shower. 10 minutes. He’s never taken a shower shorter than 10 minutes. So for 10 minutes I practiced loosening my muscles and closing my eyes. I willed myself to reach for the glass of water nearly a foot away from the bed. ‘You have time. Get it. Just get the fucking water.’ So I did. And I set it down just as the water from the shower stopped.

He was naked when he got in the bed. He was warm. He was soft. He was exhausted. He fell asleep, and in the middle of the night his arm flung out and rested on on my body. I pretended some part of him knew he was doing this, and I sunk farther into him and then the night.

In the morning I woke up first and made us breakfast. Scrambled eggs, toast, coffee. Simple. So simple that he would never guess that I knew. It wasn’t impressive, and that was the point. When he came out into the kitchen he was reading his phone, checking instagram. He smiled and said “Thanks babe” as his fork reached for the eggs. He showed me a reel of a cat and a dog being friends. It was cute. We laughed. We hadn’t laughed like this in so long, it felt like a stretch, both the effort and relief. This was almost how it used to be. And that is how we came to our agreements, to the end of The Great Retreat- not by way of wordy discussions, but simple acts that became permissions. Yes I’ll watch this video with you. Yes I’ll go on a walk with you. Yes I’ll tidy the couch, and when I find the things she left behind I’ll place them on your nightstand with care- the nightstand that held things we shared at the start of our relationship: a book he had never finished sat on top, and in the drawer were small trinkets like a drink coaster from the place we had our second date.

The silence that covered us now was a different silence than the one that had proceeded it. I had waited for him to see me, but I quickly realized, I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted him to need me. I wanted to be useful. I started small, “No leave your dishes in the sink. I’ll get them.” Then I did the laundry. I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I would make up excuses “I know you had a hard day at work.” I had a hard day at work, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t joy I felt when I started getting all the groceries alone and cooking all the meals. It was momentum. I was in motion. I was doing something. As long as I was doing something I was confident we wouldn’t break up.

He stopped protesting all the things that I started doing alone. He never protested much to begin with. This was better than it was. Therefore, it is getting better. We are getting better. He is coming back to me. I am one dirty dish away from being loved. I am one unfolded laundry basket away from being fucked like my cunt is shaped for his dick. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t stop. My exhaustion made me move faster, into a blur. I would get home from work and rub his feet, cook dinner, cleanup dinner while he was eating, wash his clothes, pack his lunch, organize both our closets, and 100 more small tasks. Tasks so small it would have impressive if anyone had noticed.

Within these first few weeks, she came back at least once a week. And every-time I would stay in the bed like the first. And I would wait for them to finish, for him to shower, and I would spend 10 whole minutes telling myself ‘now, now is the time to reach for the water and take a sip.’ And then he would come to bed, and he would feel softer than he ever had, and I would want him more than I ever had. It was a couple weeks before the exhaustion at home was affecting my work. And it was a couple months before I got fired. When I got fired I cried. When I got home from being fired I cried. When he walked in the door and saw me sitting on the couch I cried.

He asked me what happened, and I told him I lost my job. He told me things would be okay, that his new promotion would help make up for the cost, at least for a while. I apologized to him. I felt useless. After months of incessant motion, I was useless. Everything I had done to make life easier didn’t matter compared to this. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t keep this up. I wasn’t a real person. I was just a body waiting in a bed. It was at that point I broke, and I told him. I told him I heard everything. I told him I didn’t understand. I said that last part over and over again, as if understanding would make anything that had happened better.

He was calm when I told him, and I realized he was expecting it. He was ready for it. This moment had probably already played out in his mind, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

“Get on all fours and close your eyes. Hands on the floor. Back Straight. Head facing down.” his voice came out flat. I started to say something, but I wasn’t really confused, and I didn’t want to fake it. Not anymore.

I slid off of the couch slowly, letting my pants drag against the fabric. When I reached the floor I placed my hands flat against the wood and my legs made a sharp 90 degree angle. This posture resulted in a striking resemblance to the coffee table to my left.

“Good. Now stay there. Don’t move. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t do anything until I say so.” His words were measured and calm. I stayed there, unsure of my decision. My eyes, tired and swollen from crying, shut easily, and I was only distantly aware of the lemon scented floor cleaner that wafted so close to my face. My thoughts spilled out faster than I could understand them, but I had no answers, so I let them pool like water at the bottom of a waterfall. A path had been set, and I intended to follow it, to find where it led, where he would lead me.

Time passed and my knees started to hurt, but I was so tired that it was easier to endure the pain than to move, than to ask to move. I didn’t want to disturb whatever was happening because despite the quickly accruing pain and confusion, I was doing what he asked. He had asked something of me. That made me real. That made me wanted.

I concentrated on minimizing my movements, shifting my body imperceptibly and only when and where I needed. At first, every breath was an enormous effort against the tightness of my body, but I learned how to slow my breath, how to stop shaking against my own chest. I was unworthy of movement, of thought, of sitting next to him. It felt right to be on the floor. If I accepted my failures I could become better. I could become useful. Useful things were worth keeping around. Useful things had purpose. As I stayed there on the floor, waiting, but beyond waiting (beyond time) I realized I would rather be a useful thing than a useless person. I was tired of trying, of pretending I knew what I wanted or needed. I was tired of arguing with people, pulling at the seams of every discussion, trying to be seen as smart or competent. I was tired of building a future in a world that saw me as stupid or childish no matter what I did. Now there was no burden of being. I just existed.

Eventually I heard the tv turn on. He turned it to a sports channel. He put his feet on my back. I didn’t move. It didn’t matter if I understood. It only mattered that I did what he said. On the floor I was the summation of his words, his wants. I wanted more. I wanted him to dictate my every thought. I wanted to exist only as he saw me. I wanted to be so stupid it never even occurred to me to think. I wanted to give my life over to him. It was the closest to not existing I had ever come, and it was intoxicating. I wanted this forever.

I was in a state not dissimilar to sleep, in that I was so far inwards I felt beyond consciousness. The pain became enormous, and then I was numb. I had no concept of time. I had no concept of where he was. I couldn’t feel his feet on my back anymore. Had he left? Was he watching me? If he left would he return? It didn’t matter. Everything was up to him now. My entire reality had become one simple word: stay. I never wanted to open my eyes again.

Then there was a knock at the door.

Instinctively I started to get up, but I caught myself before my movements were discernible. I suddenly felt the sting of sweat bead on my neck and back. Someone would see me. I wanted him to see me this way, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for someone else. Who? Who would see me humiliating myself this way?

Of course it was her. “Oh my God. Mark, why is she like that?” A bright voice bounced towards me.

“It’s a fucking table for all you care. It’s learning a new place in my life.”

“Don’t you mean in our life Mark? You told me..” She whined as she spoke, sounding like a little girl learning she might not get to go to the mall with her friends after all.

“Yeah, yeah” he interrupted her. “Just don’t get cocky about it. No one likes that.”

“Okay sure!” She said brightly.

“You better remember what I like in a woman, or you might be down there next.”

I was sweating. I was shaking, hopefully, imperceptibly. How could he do this? Why would he do this? Why would he do this to me? Did he always know I could hear? Was this always the plan: to make me feel so worthless that I would accept my own humiliation? But there was another thought I had too. Beyond the surface of my indignation I knew that I would have done this whether or not he manipulated me. This was always what I wanted. I wanted him, and I didn’t care what it took. I wanted to be nothing, and it didn’t matter if she saw me. It was his decision. I was his decision now. I would learn to agree with him. I would learn to agree with everything he said and stop trying to form my own thoughts. I would become hollow, so he could fill me up with the right way of understanding things. Or I would stay empty, whatever he wanted. This is what I deserved. I would never be enough for him. I owed him everything, so I would become nothing.

They kept talking, and I focused on letting the emptiness return. I felt farther away than I had in the bed, listening to them. With my eyes closed I heard them start kissing. I heard their bodies merge together in various poses. I heard him unzip his pants, and then I heard sucking.

“That’s it, take it all bitch.”

I had never heard him talk this way before. He never spoke to me that way. Had he changed or had I never seen this side of him before? It didn’t matter. I could hear the sound of her head being forced farther down his dick, and I imagined the drool leaking out the side of her mouth as he fucked her face harder than he’d ever fucked any part of me. I heard her moan on his dick, gagging every so often as he relentlessly pounded her throat. It was his hands I imagined most clearly; the same hands that had held mine, chopped dinner with me, held me close when I was sad were now wrapped around her head, treating her like nothing but a hole meant for his dick.

Did I feel sorry for her? No. The stupid slut moaned as she took his dick farther into her mouth. She needed his dick. Just I like needed whatever was happening to me. I was jealous of her. The way she effortlessly pleased him, became what he wanted. The way all of her was held by him. The way her body existed for him. I learned from her that night.

I learned how to embrace stupidity, how to embrace nothingness, how to embrace being Mark’s above and beyond being my own. I didn’t know how long this would last, but it was all I wanted. I learned that even this slut deserved more than me. I wasn’t even worth fucking. All I could do was stay. Like a dog, like a table.

Then it happened. When I had given up the expectation of ever being touched again, of ever opening my eyes to the world, he slammed his dick into me mercilessly. I was dripping, and I’d never felt anything like it. It was surprisingly easy to stay still. I was shocked by the speed and roughness of his thrusts. The pain felt amazing. His dick felt hot and wet from her throat. I was second. I wasn’t worth fucking first. I was something else to do. My body screamed in sensation. Every part of me felt drawn to him. I never needed to be anything or anywhere else. I knew I would spend every waking moment trying to get him to fuck me like this. He grasped my hips and pistoned in and out of me. I felt limp in his hands. He lifted me like I was nothing. He fucked me like a sex toy. I stayed silent, unable to make a sound, overcome with the pain of his hands clasped around my hips.

“You fucking whore. You need to learn how to serve. You’re fucking nothing without me. You wake up to serve me and go to sleep to serve me better. From now on, you’re just another object in this home. And I will use you whenever I want to, however I want to. You aren’t a woman, you’re a slut, a hole, a body for me. From now on when I wake up your lips better be around my dick. When I get home you better be by the door waiting for me: naked and ready. You will cook what I want. Clean how I want. Talk only when I want you to. You are part of this apartment. Another fixture. You can’t be trusted to make decisions on your own. That much is clear. So on Monday we will transfer all your cards to me, and I’ll manage the finances. Sally here is going to help you order some more appropriate clothes. Until they come, I want you naked, all the time. If your friends ask about you, tell them you’re sick and need to rest. I’ll figure out how to deal with them later. You don’t make decisions anymore.”

I felt my eyes release tears in joy. I had never been so thoroughly understood, so released. He was right. I was nothing, and now I was his. When he came in me, I knew that I’d never go back to my old life. I was thoughtless, blissful, and full of cum.

“Open your eyes and tell me if you understand.”

The light was terrible on my eyes. I looked up and saw him standing with his dick right in front of my face. I wanted to lick it, worship it. I wanted to feel my mouth filled with him. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I just nodded. Then he walked towards me and rubbed his wet dick all over my face. I looked up at him, needing this, needing him to tell me exactly how to be. I wasn’t a woman, I was a slut, a whore, a thing, anything he wanted. I smiled at him dumbly.

The days passed by, and I was happy. On a typical morning, I would wake up before him, sneak into the bathroom and tidy myself up. Then a few minutes before his alarm clock was set to go off I would wrap my lips around his dick and suck. I looked at him with awe. I couldn’t help it. He was incredible. I worshipped his body when he was there, and prayed for him to come home soon when he was gone. He was everything I’d ever wanted. When he came I would clean him off and then run into the kitchen to make breakfast. I would sit under the table, ready to blow him again.

When he was at work I would clean and prepare the house for him. Then I would prepare myself. I would wear what he wanted, mostly the clothes Sally had purchased for me. Then before he arrived, I would kneel in-front of the door, ready for him, ready to serve him. Sometimes he would walk right past me and my heart would break. What had I done wrong? But then I would remember. I didn’t matter. He decided if I mattered.

When he watched tv in the evening I would kneel in-front of him and blow him while he didn’t even bother to look at me. When I worked around the house he would walk up behind me and lift my skirt, fucking me without warning.

Sally kept coming over and fucking Mark in-front of me, sometimes he asked me to join in, but usually I watched in shame, reminded that my body was not enough for him, not yet anyway. Eventually, I moved past my jealousy. I realized that Mark’s happiness was more important. I would never stand in the way of what he wanted- not even when he told me Sally was moving in, and would be sleeping in my bed. That’s when he showed me the cage at the foot of what had been our bed. I shivered, knowing this was exactly what I wanted.