The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Some small part of me recognized the irony of my returning to bed, besmearing my duvet, sheets, and—presumably—the mattress below with wet clumps of oatmeal and corn syrup, impossibly sticky once it dried. I’d been wearing dirty clothes to put a limit on my dirty laundry, after all. And now think of the pile I’d have to figure out. That’s where the voice behind my ears intervened, and I let it all go. No sense in worrying over nothing. I was fast on my way to adding another stain to the linens—maybe one would cancel out the others.

I remember learning about “binge behaviours” in highschool health class, something like fifteen years ago. “Drinking is bad,” Mr. Romano had written on the board, and turned to the class to address us orally. “Not until you’re above the age of majority!” He’d tapped his chalk on the slate with each emphasized word, and it snapped in two on the last syllable. “But I’m not naive to the reality of the situation.” He tossed the white remnant onto the sill and pointed back up to his display. “Drinking is bad! But binge drinking is worse.”

Prolonged periods of abstinence, followed by short, intense sessions of indulgence. I had never heard the word “abstinence” used without its sexual connotation, and perhaps that was a foreshadowing observation. How could binge behaviours be worse when they felt like this?

I lay flat on my stomach, laptop plunked directly in my line of sight. A constant stream of overwhelming images and videos invaded my brain: “woman-caught-using shower-head.mp4”, “barely-legal-stepsister-eats-my-cummies.avi”, “titfuck-cum-complination2017.mp4”. Would some poor schlep at my ISP see these downloads coming through, and note how different they were from anything downloaded to this apartment since I moved in? The most phallic search that had gone through my computer before all this began was “best vegan hotdog brand”—not exactly titillating. This was a whole new world; one I wasn’t ready for.

I had probably never ceased rubbing maple syrup into my lips on my way from the kitchen, to collect my laptop, to the here and now in the bedroom. There was no way of knowing—the order of events was hazy, and of small concern. At some point, though, I had the foresight to pull my sweatpants and ruined panties down around my ankles. My headphones were still here from the relaxation session last night, and somehow, I found, they ended up back on my ears. Michael’s hypnosis session ran in the background while my fingers tried to match the movement of the women on-screen.

It almost felt like I was there. It was so easy To relax. To fall a-sleep. To grow excited. To let yourself go. To feel no shame. To stop... stop... showering...shaving…—except…

EXCEPT!

The women on-screen got to cum. Enthusiastically, they always finished—sometimes hydraulically. I pulled the headphones off (my right hand never ceasing its ministrations), and found that I had been drooling. I’d been grunting, and continued to (much to my embarrassment). The pleasure was a red herring. The maple syrup was a trap.

It could get me closer, but never there.

Closer was worse. I whimpered, and couldn’t stop jilling.