The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She was taking over already, as Terry pulled me into his office. That other me. The me I was becoming. It doesn’t make sense when I say it out loud, but it makes all the sense in the world when she’s taken the wheel, golden nectar trickling down my jeans and a tight, hot package in the seat of my pants. This couldn’t have been me me. It had to have been her me. But the two were fast growing harder to distinguish.

She loved filth?—the smell, feel, taste of it. And I was realizing I loved waking up in it.

But neighbours were moseying up the walkway. Quarantine breakers. I stood in my soiled bluejeans, puddle spreading around my soggy kegs, and whispered inaudibly, “Is there anything lower?”

Terry was paying more mind to my reputation than I was. Before the strangers had strolled close enough to the glass doors to see us behind their own reflections, he’d grabbed my arm and pulled me through the office doorway. He slammed it a little too hard behind us and zipped the blinds in a quick motion.

“Are you okay?” He looked like he wanted to pat me down, overcome with empathy. “What happened?”

But I couldn’t form words. My hands, my knees, were shaking. My stink had already filled the cramped office area, and hot, nervous tickles ran up the hair on my legs, my mound, leading up to my bellybutton and prickling under my arms. “I?— I dunno wh?—”. I trembled, feeling my back pockets without knowing exactly what it was I sought. “It just?— came out?— and?—” The lump in my shorts pressed between my cheeks. Did I have to wear such tight pants? Did I have to wear a fresh pair of panties? I found it. Wet and crumpled, now held out before me. Rent cheque. My objective.

Terry gaped at me, stupefied. He’d taken a step back, I don’t know when, clearly at a loss.

Just thrust it in his hands. Just leave it on his desk. Get out of here. Just pay the rent. Back to the apartment. Alone with a man.

My resolve wavered, my gaze following the outstretched hand across the room to my nervous-looking landlord.

Back to my computer. It’s past lunch time there’s Oreos on the floor. Carrot feeling empty.

Down his button-up.

Let it go. So hot. So messy. No shame. Stop showering. Hot for sweat.

Khaki pants.

Runny cunny for shame, for degradation, for humiliation.

Kirkland belt.

Sweatstains. Mustard stains. Cumstains.

His protruding erection.

Cumstains.

I swallowed, and lowered deliberately to my knees, like a mesmerized curtsey. Terry gasped, and drool pooled down the cleft of my chin. I was numb?—numb to all but the smell of my own shame. The cool air on my rapidly cooling crotch. The pressure against my rump. Soft, slippery sensation as my tongue pushed saliva past my bottom lip.

“I?—” I fell to my hands, still gazing up at his unwanted hard-on. The coward I was, I invited her to speak for me. But when the words dripped out, I recognized them as my own: “I can be your cumrag.”

Poor Terry. He lay passed out in his office, bare ass on the floor, back propped against the wall. His cock, shriveled and exposed, saliva drying around its base. Though sleeping, his eyebrows still flexed with concern—his long, seen-better-days balls cried out through his dreams. Begged for mercy, rest. In the span of, what, thirty minutes? I’d made the poor man pop four times. That last one sounded painful—I’d had my hands around his scrotum, tugging, and felt the muscles spasm, reward spurting across my tongue.

And just as I’d done for his previous two encores, I’d pulled him out and jerked him slovenously onto my chin, my neck, my t-shirt. Terry’s ejaculations marked me, dripped down beneath my sweaty breasts, pooled in the fabric and smelled of diluted bleach. I pushed my tongue firm as a glutton from the base of his cock to the head, an undignified attempt to pull any last drops from the urethra of his weakening member.

“N— no more...” he moaned, and his head rolled back against the wall. Unconscious. Four was, evidently, one too many.

For him. My stomach still grumbled with need, and though I didn’t seem intent on swallowing much of Terry’s tribute, cock-sucking instinctually seemed a worthwhile pursuit of satisfaction. If nothing else, because it gave me an excuse to hunch, here, in my own denim mess, servicing a man whose attraction to my state was clearly against his will. His simultaneous disgust-attraction towards me (I noticed him grabbing at his nose, halfway toward his second orgasm) was exactly what my altered state needed. Required. But it wasn’t enough.

This was low, certainly. My heart raced, even now, looking down at Terry from above, imagining what I’d done. Imagining what his wife would think of me if she’d walked in and caught us. Imagining what she’d do to me if I begged pathetically enough. But it wasn’t enough. I slid my hands down my pants as I exited Terry’s office, stepped barefoot (when had I lost my shoes?) into the lobby. My clit leaped up to meet my probing fingers through a thickening bush of wiry hair, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. My index and middle digits circled ’round it playfully, glossy to the touch, and to no avail. I could feel only half a tickle—nowhere near what was needed to achieve that epiphany I saw myself reaching in the imaginary elevator.

Speaking of: a old woman was waiting for the doors to slide open, so that she could ride the floors to her apartment and escape what must’ve been a frightening outdoor world for a woman her age. I kept my respectful six feet, waiting alongside her, diddling my cunny absentmidedly. No shame. She turned to greet me—small-talk complaint over our building’s infamously slow-moving elevator, no doubt—and her eyes widened.

My face, my chest, my distended nipples through the fabric—all plastered with poor Terry’s ejaculate. Different degrees of thickness: my shirt had spots and strings of sperm-proper, but I could feel its watery vehicle trickling down to fill my belly-button, dripping from my chin onto my collarbone. An eager glob hung fast to my nose, wriggling in time with my heavy breathing. My jeans, still, ruined down the thighs, stinking from behind. She must have caught my odour, then. The sweat, the degradation. Her expression—judgment, surprise, disgust. My probing, suddenly, elicited more than half a tickle.

I whimpered, dropping my eyes to my own bare feet. “I’ll take the stairs.”