The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

CHAPTER 4

It was like pulling teeth, prying myself from that hypnotized state. Ironic, considering how uncomfortable it was: needing something, having it withheld, and that withholding making me need it all the more. An ouroboros: I should’ve been grateful for the kitchen distraction—usually I’d be elated at the imminent prospect of coffee!—but this morning it felt like I’d been called away from my toys to come eat my vegetables.

Huffing around the kitchen, cool and sticky down my thighs, I was too frustrated to think about the streaks my fingers were leaving on the bowls, knobs, cutlery as I tossed my breakfast hastily together. Press the coffee, pour it in a mug. Stir the oatmeal. Where did I leave that spoon? I pulled open the cutlery drawer and grabbed another one, slammed it shut with more force than was warranted. Yesterday the kitchen was neat and tidy, but today it was showing signs of my dishevelled state. I’d left last evening’s snack half-eaten in the sink. The missing spoon had fallen on the linoleum tile, forgotten for now. The whole apartment could use a quick sweep.

Chop up an apple, maybe. Or raisins. Raisins? I opted for chocolate chips. I had an extra bag lying around for when I baked a cake for my brother’s birthday, months ago. Not usually much for sweets, today I had a craving. And brown sugar, that’ll hit the spot. I plopped a too-large lump of the chocolate-brown powder in the center of my bowl, lacking the subtlety I usually possessed when baking. I scratched my pussy through my sweatpants, annoyed. How can you be itching when I can’t even feel you? That’s when it caught my eye: maple syrup.

Had I ever craved something more completely than I did maple syrup, then and there? Has anybody? It wasn’t the good stuff, either—I think the label said “pancake syrup”, so I was certain it was almost entirely corn-syrup. That, for some reason, made it all the more enticing.

Mouth watering, I reached into my pantry to grab it—top shelf—forgetting that my right hand was probably not the gal for the job. Still slippery from my earlier session on the futon, the plastic bottle slipped clean from between my fingers. I watched Aunt Jemima revolve upside-down and almost back upright before—smack—landing on the kitchen counter, knocking my bowl askew and spraying “pancake syrup” randomly across a 3-foot radius.

“Shit!” I had been caught front and center, as they say, in the splatter-zone.

Oatmeal covered my front, from about my ribs to my belly-button. I’m lucky it had cooled from hot to warm, before this accident. What I was sure would ruin the shirt, though, was the syrup: it had completely covered my crotch, and was fast dripping down my thighs.

I wanted to swear, and I knew I should be rushing into the shower, or stripping, or—I don’t know—but something felt off. “What the heck is… wrong with…” My question faded into heavy breaths, feelings taking over where words wouldn’t suffice.

It must have been doing this for the last few days—I could see that something was up down there—but now I could feel it. Not completely, but something was definitely there. My clit—syrup had soaked through my panties, and I could feel my little button pulsing. Begging for attention. The yearning was red-hot, and rivalled the psychological, instinctual, yearning I’d been feeling all morning. But now it was matched in intensity with a physical tickling, like it had been united with its twin, it’s other half, and the two were working together to demand attention.

It wasn’t a good feeling. In fact, precisely the opposite. This need was too intense.

Ignoring the mess I’d just created, I used both hands to push more maple syrup through my sweatpants into my pussy. That was a good feeling. I breathed a sigh of relief. “I think—I think I can feel it,” I whispered. Like my nipples, it wasn’t perfect—there was more numbness than there was sensation, but it was a start.

Right there, alone in the kitchen, my right hand drew small sticky circles while its counterpart rose to continue abusing that raw, restless left nipple. The coffee was getting cold. This outfit was ruined. But all would have to wait.