The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Just being naked was weird. My skin had grown used to the warm erogenous buzz I had slowly built up with caked-on pantry items, that glossy layer of sweat. I stood on a bunched-up towel outside of my bathtub, the water already running. What was this anxiety? The waves of carnal dissatisfaction which had taken the wheel out of my hands, these last twenty-four (maybe thirty-two) hours now soured into some deep, nightmarish pit in my stomach?—it warned me that I would regret what I was about to do.

Ever fibre in my body resisted as I raised a stubbly leg and brought it into the hot, streaming water. The rest of my perfectly musky body followed suit?—I resigned myself to this ritual I knew would wash my essence away. Scrubbing, lathering, conditioning, I couldn’t help but feel that that which made me me was running down the drain. The new soap smelled acrid to my reformed nostrils. Gone was the yellow-brown scent of cloves pressed through sweat glands. Now I’d just smell like Ivory?—like some geriatric sponge-bather. I spat in the tub, frustrated. My carriage was turning back into a pumpkin.

When I stepped out of the shower, the old me?—who seemed to be running the show, for the moment?—even padded out into the hall and retrieved a new towel from the linen closet. I suppose I should’ve been thankful that she didn’t force me to shave?—my legs, armpits, and pussy continued their slow, sensual bloom?—but it didn’t seem that way at the time. That close to orgasm?—that close to cumming, only to have it snatched away and placed under lock and key.

Towelling off, my hands had ample opportunity to assess the damage. Boobs, areola, nipples: numb to prodding. Pussy? When I closed my eyes, I could half convince myself that I was fiddling with the pointing stick on my old Blackberry, rather than diddling myself in earnest. Last but not least?—something I’d never have considered in less desperate times?—I extended my pinkie and leaned over twenty degrees. My rosebud?—as numb as the rest of me, but there was something else…

When I caught myself hunched over in the mirror, that old-me running the show?—somewhere right below the surface—stoked her alert into a positive fire of humiliation. I may not have been able to feel a god damned thing down there (and I had the tears welling to prove it). But in lieu of physical stimulation, for the first time in my life?—I realized that humiliation could feel dangerously good.

It was probably too large a length of time I spent in that position, prodding my own unmentionables, consumed with this degraded sight of myself in the mirror. One might expect me to have given my head a shake, eventually, snapping out of this trance that seemed to wrap around me like a curtain of hot air—equal parts relaxed with letting go and working myself up into a claustrophobic frenzy, trapped with needs I couldn’t meet. But the epiphany my old self was expecting never came. Eventually, my back grew sore and I righted myself without breaking eye contact with my double. A half hour had passed since I’d stepped out of the shower. Cleanliness had paradoxically factored into a further step along this path of degradation: my numbness had returned in full force, but my corruption had continued psychologically. I could feel it festering—I was craving that stomach-bottoming feeling I felt when I awoke with disaster strewn about the apartment, hentai onscreen and a pair of fresh vegetables stuffed up my unmentionables. It somehow wasn’t even a desire the physical feelings experienced in that moment that got me worked up, here and now. It was the implication of that moment. The knowledge of what I was becoming—how far I had fallen in such a short time.

The thought of it made me want to crush the sheets on my dishevelled bed, lay upon my stomach and jill my clit to oblivion from the morning to the late afternoon?—a repeat of the previous day’s session. Maybe I had time to grab those headphones from the other room and—

—and already I was late on paying rent! Already Terry must’ve been wondering where I had been! Finally the cold wash of responsibility that I had been waiting for, better late than never. I needed to wash my hands—my right pinkie especially. I needed to put on clothes and venture out into the world beyond this disaster of an apartment. I hopped to it.

It was amazing: the hallway was exactly the same as it had been before all this began. This pandemic, it seemed, had changed my world psychologically (the apartment pinching off as my door inched closed was my world, for instance) but not so much corporeally. The cheap fluorescent lights—buzzing every six feet, flickering every six seconds—looked the same. The freshly vacuumed carpet—bus-station upholstery print—felt the same. The Polish couple boiling potatoes down the hall—Jakub and Zuzanna—even smelled the same. How could an experience so the same feel so different, and so suddenly?

It was the smell that got me. Until I stepped out into the wide (paradoxically narrower) world of the communal hallway, I didn’t realize what a musk had built up in my own living quarters. The world I was leaving was a warm one—shower steam and going-bad groceries. Sweat and my own sexual fluids. I should’ve relished the chance to escape that world, but the festering part of me wanted to get this over as quickly as possible, so I could return and let go...

I made my way toward the elevator, punching the “down” arrow with my elbow. Deep breath. I could do this.

Was it the lingering virus that had me so nervous, or was it the fear that I couldn’t trust this new version of me to confine herself to her own quarters? The elevator doors opened, accepted me, and closed when I pressed “L” for lobby. I’ve been referring to this bundle of new needs, frustrations and fascination as a separate entity, but if that were really the case I’d have a good deal less to worry about. It wasn’t that I was afraid of her and what she liked, wanted, needed?—it was that I was afraid of me and what I was becoming. My right hand tapped nervously against my thigh. I watched the digital display click from twenty-four to twenty-three, counting down slowly, the low rumble lulling me into a false sense of security. And devoid of sensation?—the theme of the hour?—my mind’s eye fell upon its own devices:

Natural light streams through the front lobby doors. A crowd of strangers jostles around the main elevator doors, waiting impatiently to reach their own apartments after a long day of work. Many of them I know: my best friend from highschool, my boss, the priest who gave me my first communion, the biology TA who used to flirt with me after class?—and Terry, the building’s superintendent. Those digital red numbers descend, deeper and deeper. Five, I can feel it impending. Four, just letting go. Three, there’s no shame in it. Two, relaxing completely. One, and DING. The elevator doors slide meaningfully open, like crimson velvet curtains pulled aside for a show. A moan echoes out from within the chamber?—the crowd gasps! It’s me inside: legs splayed, pants around my ankles. Those who know me divert their eyes, turn their backs ashamed. I’m violently frigging my ruined pussy. It looks like I have four fingers squelching in and out, but it’s hard to tell with the speed their moving. The feeling builds?—the crowd now adding to my frenzied humiliation?—and I feel something coming.

I cry out at the top of my lungs. Piss sprays out between my merciless fingers. Eyes widen like I’ve reached epiphany, and I evacuate my bowels into the crumbled mess of clothes below me.

“Main floor. Lobby.”

The pre-recorded voice snapped me out of the trance I hadn’t intended on falling into. The elevator doors were open before me?—no crowd. I stepped out, dazed, suspicious of the familiar way natural light streamed through the front lobby doors. I was wearing clothes. My hands?—my fingers?—clean as they were when I stepped out of the shower. My legs?—

My legs. I’d pissed myself. Tears welled, breaching quicker than I could sniff, and streamed down both cheeks. I’d shit myself.

“Hey,” Terry had heard the elevator’s chime, poked his head around the office door to save me the trip. “Sorry if I was?—” My distraught appearance caught the words in his throat.

I watched him, six feet away, take in the scene in its entirety. In all my life, I’d never felt so hot.