The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I leaned my weight against the apartment door and locked it behind me. Whatever was left of the girl I once was?—the girl I’d been less than a week ago?—knew that whatever was about to happen, needed to be confined to these three hundred square feet. This was a den?—a cave?—littered with scraps of half-eaten rations, treats, staples. Greased-up veggies, stained sheets. I recognized my own smell, standing there, taking it all in: sweat, musk, thick humid air. It mixed with the mess yet in my shorts. The sour smell of sticky-dry ammonia?—it’d run down my legs, gathered between my toes. My pussy buzzed at the direction this day was going. Terry’s cum was drying in spots across my shirt. Coagulated, still running down my chin. The thought of having been exposed to everyone I passed in the hallway, on the way here. It was too much. My nipples pulsed for attention, fertilized by the cooling cum creeping down.

I retrieved my laptop, headphones, and plunked myself down on the floor, leaned back against the seat of the futon and upon my own mess. Leftovers. An idle hand lifted floor-food to my dripping mouth, its partner clicking through and entering search queries with a mind of its own. My mind, still enraptured with this new fascination with exposure. My eyes, along for the ride. Michael’s voice echoed around me?—binaural sound-waves?—I hadn’t even realized my headphones were on, so absorbed was I in the workings of my hands, the taste of this root beer I’d just finished off. No matter, though?—I was beginning to feel I needed his voice the way I needed to feel exposed. Used, the way Terry used me. Or, rather, I used him to use me, if that even makes sense.

I hadn’t ever heard of “http://camwhores.xxx”, but evidently my fingers had. More than that, they took no umbrage with the idea that I should register an account with my work-provided email address. My real name. They even entered my personal details in the “About me” section?—anyone Googling my name, moving forward, would surely be directed here. Here, where my fingers just uploaded an avatar of my real face?—the same one I used on Facebook, Instagram, everywhere?—the me before all this. I noted these developments the same way one would sit on a park bench, watching one pigeon bully another: a peripheral event, but one which draws you in nonetheless. Someone, somewhere, might be concerned?—but they were far away. I let it all go.

My fingers continued their dance across the keys, and it was only when I slid the cursor over “Start Stream” that I realized I’d been in control the entire time. That would explain the indifference. She was me, after all?—I had to keep reminding myself. How else could I explain away our mirrored obsessions? The purpose of “The world’s cheapest hussyhouse!” became clear, then?—and maybe I’d known all along. My food-scooping hand brushed against yesterday’s zucchini. I smiled at the memory, clicked through to begin my first stream?—

?—and my pussy bloomed to life.

Like cold water crashing over my shoulders, vibrations snapped me back into my own body. The girl who appeared on-screen couldn’t have been me. Her movements mirrored mine with a quarter-second delay, but she was covered?—head to toe?—in grime. I could confirm this first-hand: her bare feet crossed one another at the crotch?—they’d collected dirt from the hallway, specks, crumbs scattered on the floor. I had to look down at myself to confirm that she was, indeed, me. The musty smell of chlorine, sweat, and soiled clothing was more than confirmation enough. I suddenly felt like she looked: terrible.

How long had I given myself to these passions? Was it not just a single trip since my fateful shower? Or had I spent some time in the bedroom? Was that a dream? Was there more I didn’t remember? How dirty could I possibly have gotten in, what, less than a day? The pacing seemed all wrong.

My phone had been buzzing for the better part of thirty seconds, but I hadn’t noticed, so consumed was I in this horrifying investigation. It was Mom. Wondering how I was, what I’ve been up to, why I hadn’t been on the family group-chat in the last few days. The usual.

And thank God for the usual.

Her voice, her mild habitual concern. More than a shred of my old life, my old self?—the familiarity washed over me warm, hot, relieving. Speaking with Mom?—even if only briefly?—was like coming home from a trip I hadn’t realized I’d taken. The apartment smelled terrible. I couldn’t believe the state of this place?—the state of my skin, my clothes, my pits. I shifted my weight, and remembered with a shudder the mess I’d made downstairs in the lobby.

I could never face Terry again. My conversation with Mom ended?—she’d really just wanted to check in and make sure I was still alive?—and I met my own eyes on the livestream. Eleven anonymous users watched horror crawl up my spine and seat itself between my eyes?—she wasn’t me. I’d let her in, but she couldn’t be me. I could still hear her, if I listened hard enough, repeating Michael’s words behind my ears, Let yourself go, but Mom gave me courage. She revived my sense of shame. My sense of self preservation.

No orgasm was worth this. If it meant remaining myself, I’d cover myself with soap and scrub until there wasn’t any pussy left to plague me. I needed out.

My finger smeared through something glossy as it directed the cursor to the browser’s bright red ‘X’. I hesitated, eye catching that “eleven users watching” notification. My tits were nearly showing, at this angle, not that it mattered much. They’d be watching for the stains, no doubt. How many of them were getting off while watching this feed? How many cocks had risen for dirty, smelly, J?—

?—I clicked out, stream ending. Eleven jerk-off users would have to deal. I had my own problems, and where to begin?

Probably with the most egregious of my indulgences, if “indulgences” they could be called. I lifted myself from the floor and pulled my jeans down sticky legs. Exposed to the air, the odour of my embarrassment smacked me with the intensity of an open palm. The seat of my pants was surprisingly heavy, the package I’d left in there substantial. I couldn’t bring myself to look beyond the briefest of confirmations, afraid that the image of something so shameful, something so humiliating, would give her more of a foothold than she had already. She seemed quiet, for the time being.

I stepped out of my soiled garments, pulled the cumsoaked t-shirt over my head, and discretely brought the offering across the room, into the kitchen, where it all fell splat together into the bin. No sense in trying to preserve, wash, or save any of that material. It was evidence of my momentary (though that was quite the moment, wasn’t it?) lapse of reason.

Thank God I’d left the cheque down there with Terry. I wouldn’t have to face him for at least another month. And by then maybe this pandemic thing will have calmed down. Maybe I could have a friend deliver him my rent, or something.

My bare feet picked up crumbs on the way to the bathroom. There were serious remnants of mud between my cheeks, and the dry rivulets gleaming sticky down my stubbly legs smelled sour like a cat lady’s basement. It seemed natural, somehow but I knew that couldn’t be true. This’d give me a rash, or something.

Naked, I marched into the bathroom and flicked on the cold water. I was going cold turkey. I was putting an end to this.