The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I spent a good seven minutes reading the ingredients on my shaving gel, water streaming down my more-stubbly-than-usual lower half. Was there soap in this? Would it aggravate my problem? I could feel it more in the shower than outside in my room—an itch I couldn’t scratch. My naked body was doing nothing to distract me—the illusion of “easy access”. My primal self still thought I could find satisfaction with a mischievous finger or, god forbid, the shower head. That sneaky finger—the one which wasn’t holding the can of shaving gel above the steam, even crept down to fiddle with my growing bush, my conscious self unaware.

“What the hell is parfum?” I asked the empty room. Nice reverb: the room asked back a fraction of a second later. Was parfum causing my issue? Was parfum ruining my life?

I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. Best not to risk, I thought—and who was I trying to impress in here anyway? Nobody saw my legs (or the spot they met!) over skype, and I didn’t mind a bit of stubble. As long as it didn’t get out of hand, it should be fine.

I didn’t spend much time in the shower—it felt wrong somehow. Without having to apply soap, cleanser (another luxury I’d decided to forgo), or shaving cream, what more was there to do in there to keep me busy? I could think of one thing, but wasn’t making any headway in that direction.

I stepped out of the shower and wiped down with the same towel I’d been using all week. “A little musty…” I noted. Would have to wash these, when I got a—

“Shit.”

How was I supposed to wash my clothes? There was a communal washer and dryer in the building’s basement, but I hated using those things at the best of times. Like hell I was gonna be caught dead using them during a pandemic! Was that silly? It probably was, but the paranoia was really getting to me.

I ran the towel through its last few pats and gave it a visual once-over. Not so bad, nothing out of the ordinary. Gave it the sniff-test. Not so musty—not yet. I hung it back on its designated bar. It would have to do until I could figure out this laundry situation. I couldn’t afford to waste any more clean towels—I knew there were already three waiting for me in the hamper, which didn’t leave much in the linen closet.

I returned to my room in a buck naked huff. The arousal had already gotten me flustered, and I didn’t have the capacity to schedule out a laundry ration.

“Fuck it.”

I grabbed yesterday’s outfit and pulled it over my dewy skin, feeling an unfamiliar prickle as my gently-used panties crawled up my legs.

“No one will even see me anyway.”

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, I glanced at the microwave’s digital face. 11:00AM; my sleeping habits were getting worse. I rubbed at the corner of my eye, flipped the faucet to “cold” and filled up the kettle. Sniffed.

I was usually so punctual, but in quarantine that kind of thing was losing the thin veneer of purpose it once held. Why wake up at an hour my mom would’ve found acceptable, back when I was a teenager? Why go to bed, for that matter, at a time my dad would have found acceptable, back when I was living in under his roof? Why not, hypothetically, stay up until 4:00AM flipping through half-innocent, half-illicit image searches? (Why not take it a step further?, the voice behind my ears whispered.)

Coffee. Coffee and—what did I have within reach?—oatmeal. That’d be easy, that’d be simple. That would take my mind off the numbed yearning between my legs. Every time my forearm brushed my chest (reaching for the french press, prepping the cinnamon, closing the fridge door), I’d be reminded how unsatisfied my shower had left me. It’s true that I couldn’t (or rather could hardly) feel my nipples, but they were difficult not to notice otherwise. Had they ever been so engorged? Below them, little shadows extended a half-inch down the fabric of my t-shirt. It looked ridiculous, and I swear my other t-shirts weren’t this thin.

I stirred my oatmeal ingredients together while the kettle simmered and rose, trying to clear my head.

It didn’t help that the musty towel smell followed me from the bathroom. It wasn’t too bad, but mixed with the grimy feeling of used clothes—used underwear—I felt as if I might as well had skipped my shower. I smelled like sweat. Sweat and something sweeter, but I didn’t want to give that much thought.

I caught the kettle while it was still building to a scream. Poured, stirred, enjoyed the requisite morning smells. Oats soaking, coffee steeping, set a timer for four minutes and stepped out of the kitchen into my apartment’s main living space. Usually tidy, I had to admit it was looking a little disordered. Yesterday’s socks were still on the floor, next to the futon, where I’d removed them in a huff last afternoon. There were a couple of empty glasses, and one mug empty of tea save for the lees.

It could wait. The flush rising up my chest would tell any observing third-party that I hadn’t found whatever I’d been looking for last night. Luckily—or unfortunately for me, opening my laptop placed me exactly where I’d been last night on the hunt. A google image search for “busty”, with three or four (at a glance) mesmerizing results. Sleep and a half-assed shower had given me time to get over my silly (faux-heterosexual) inhibitions. I turned off safesearch, deleted my tenuous term and typed in a new one, hesitating only a half-second before daring to pound “enter”.

“TITS,” read the search bar. Tiled below, topless women filled up my computer screen. My nipples pulsed, and when I reached down to check, my pussy was hot to the touch.

Already three-quarters of the way to breaking, a screen-full of anonymous amateur breasts was more than enough persuasion to let my fingers have what they clearly wanted so badly. What did it matter to me? I was numb to their dancing anyway. Without thinking, I found myself leaned back on the living room’s futon, hunched unnaturally to bring my face closer to the laptop’s screen, right hand ruffling illicitly down my sweatpants. I didn’t even realize I had started jilling off, then and there, so mesmerized was I with a .gif that started bouncing on autoplay.

A squelch from below pulled me from my reverie. “What the fuck?” I breathed, pulling my hand up my lower stomach, surprised at my own actions. A warm streak of honey wiped up my lower stomach, fast-cooling. I grimaced.

These fingers were shiny with my juices—positively oiled. They brought attention to the odour which had arisen when I snapped my waistband back, raised my fingers to my face for inspection. I smelled sweet and sour, I realized—there was something earthy and organic about these feelings, this aroma. Had it always smelled like that? Something felt off.

But of course something felt off, I thought. This was all off. I’m leaned back in my futon, hunched over a laptop, windows open to the neighbouring apartment’s (three of which, I knew, could see right into my living room), jilling off to girls on the internet like some basement-dwelling pervert. The thought was meant to chastise me, but something about it only excited me further. My eyes fell back to the screen, and the middle finger of my left hand slid on its own accord to a different .gif, this one messier.

My right hand returned to its important work, this time with my blessing. And all to no avail.

“Shit!” I spat, frustration warming into anger. “Why can’t I feel it!?”

My left palm swung up to my left breast, squeezing it harder than I’d ever allow any lover. Index finger and thumb pulled and twisted the poor nipple, relishing that paper-thin echo of electric sensation.

“I need this!!”

Right hand, fiddling with my clit, changed tactics and stuffed two fingers in my pussy without warning. Caution to the wind (I’m sure the panties were already stained to oblivion), they started pumping in earnest. My focus zeroed in on the woman’s tits onscreen—they teased and teased, like they found my predicament amusing.

“Fuck!”

And then my timer beeped. The coffee was ready.