The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The “issue” wasn’t an uncommon one. The doctor didn’t seem especially concerned, though I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing you don’t think twice about when you hear about it happening to someone else, but can’t stop thinking about while it’s happening to you. Like a mosquito bite, but cutting a lot closer to the quick.

And plus, he couldn’t even see me. My real doctor gave me a number to call, and they directed me through one of those online teleservice things. Are those even real doctors? The guy seemed pretty nonchalant about something he couldn’t even see! He never asked me to show him anything, not that I would have if he’d asked. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see—no sign that anything was amiss.

And plus plus! He was a guy! Of course he couldn’t fully grasp the seriousness of this issue. I shouldn’t blame him, but his hurried, “I have more serious patients to attend to”, attitude didn’t give me a lot of faith when he recommended I use a hot water bottle, drink plenty of fluids, and change the soap I use in the shower.

That didn’t help me, really. This was a lockdown, and this was the only soap I had! I wasn’t going to leave for a circumstance that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

So, okay, the “issue”—my little problem—was a little bit of numbness. Not irratation, not skin rash, but numbness. Maybe more than a little, and in a couple (admittedly) less than common locations.

For the life of me, that morning after my shower, I found that I had a complete lack of feeling in my—ahem—vagina and both nipples. It wasn’t until later in the day, during an activity that I need not mention, that I discovered the numbness extended to my butt, too.

Well, not the butt, but, you know, the hole. When I pooped (sorry for being gross) I was surprised to find that it felt like nothing. No pressure, no clenching—nothing. And when I peed, too, and wiped, and probed—nothing! I noticed the nipples, first, when drying off from my shower, but wasn’t super concerned until I discovered the depth of this issue.

It was like that eerie feeling at the dentist, where you know you should feel something but don’t? There’s something ghostly about it. Or at least that’s how I described it to the doctor on my computer screen, feeling foolish when he didn’t smirk, smile, or move to assuage my fears. While he admitted that it was “curious” this numbness was “limited to erogenous zones”, he quickly pivoted and brushed me off to click through to his next—probably more in need of his services—patient. “Call back if any pain develops. See if a hot water bottle helps, and drink plenty of fluids. You might be allergic to your soap.“

Well, pain didn’t develop, but as the days wore on, my situation certainly felt like it was getting worse. I’ve never been a very libidinous person, by nature. Once I’d learned to masturbate in highschool (a combination of grade ten health class and self-experimentation), the novelty had largely worn off. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’d brought myself to orgasm since graduating college, and my boyfriends usually complained that I didn’t prioritize the physical aspects of my relationship.

I’m not saying any of that was true, per se—I definitely enjoy sex, and I’m perfectly attracted to the opposite sex. I’m just trying to set a scene, here, because that aspect of myself was suddenly changing.

It seemed like once I lost feeling in my downstairs, suddenly all I could think about were feelings from my downstairs, if you know what I mean. My single experience with porn—a sleepover with my best friend, where her older sister turned it on to tease us—grossed me out at the time. I hadn’t thought about it since, apart from it being a wedge between me and those aforementioned boyfriends.

But suddenly!

With nothing else to do, where did my mind wander? I found myself Googling trashier and trashier search keys—never daring to cross that line into legitimately watching porn, but—you know—getting kinda close. I think I left off on the bing search for “busty” before I clicked out, grossed out by myself. I realized the sun was setting outside my window—hours had passed, and I’d neglected even to cook myself dinner. So consumed, was I, with the tight shirts and tighter shorts of the guys...and girls...on the internet.

It was embarrassing. I felt like I was thirteen again, in a bad way. Like I was transgressing on something I needed to hide, even though what harm would it be? Who would it hurt if I, just, you know, slid my hand down and felt that which I couldn’t feel. The realization would snap me back to myself and wash me over with a claustrophobic chill. Why was I feeling like this? And this of all times—why couldn’t I feel those spots I needed to feel?

I stopped using soap in the shower. Water would do, especially considering I didn’t need to go into work. Nobody would notice something so subtle over a skype call (and even those were few and far between), and if foregoing a little bit of cleanliness allowed me to get the satisfaction I needed, then so be it.

I booted up the hypnosis file to help me fall asleep. These were stressful times for a few reasons. One of those reasons was a global crisis, but that was quickly giving way to more pressing, personal issues. Two of those issues were on my chest... The other two, between my legs. But the hypnosis helped. It allowed me to let it all go. To relax. To fall asleep. To grow excited. To let yourself go. To feel no shame. To stop... stop... sho...

I woke up the next morning with a start. The sun was creeping in through the blinds covering my window—a yellow light which, in shafts, allowed tiny shreds of dust to dance for morning. My headphones had slipped off overnight, and pressed a cowlick into my up-do. I had forgotten to pull that elastic before passing out, the night before, but what must’ve been a solid bout of tossing and turning had done most of the work for me. The mirror across from my bed showed me what a greaseball I became overnight. Such was quarantine life, I suppose. Should I even bother showering?

I tossed the question out as a silly one. I’d stopped using soap—that didn’t mean I had to become a complete degenerate. In for a dime in for a dollar? No thanks, I’ll just risk the dime. Of course I would shower. I swung my legs out of bed and made my way into the bedroom to brush my teeth and prepare for another day of doing nothing.

A little sweaty from a night under the comforter, I scratched at an itch right above my chest—and stopped square in my tracks. It had been a week since I’d felt anything from my boobs, and I could’ve sworn, just then, that I’d felt the faintest echo of a light brush. I raised both hands to my nipples and tentatively pinched. There it was again! A feeble, but definitely-there, spark of feeling. It sent signals down to my—I only now realized—already excited nethers.

I pulled the waistband out on my pajama pants to assess the damage, and was surprised to see how cartoonishly aroused I actually was. What had I been dreaming about last night? I usually kept things spic-and-span down there, but I suppose it had been a few days since I’d gotten around to shaving. Stubble had sprouted all around my bright red lips—they hung half-open, engorged like I’d never seen them before.

“Jesus,” I whispered. Was I so needy now that the tiniest glimmer of feeling coming back had me this close to ruining a pair of pants? I probed at the poor thing, feeling nothing when I swirled my index finger up down and around the spot that had hitherto driven me crazy. Nothing. Nothing, that is, save the same growing urgency that had been building since I first used that goddamn soap.

I huffed, and snapped the waistband back into place. Trudging to the bathroom, I remember pulling at my right nipple through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. I should’ve felt hopeful that some feeling was returning, after only a few days of foregoing suds. And I would have, if it weren’t for the dull thud of a foreign horniness, of a kind I’d never felt before. That didn’t show any signs of subsiding.