The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She’s only a little shorter than I am. And though slender, she seems to radiate a kind of strength. Perhaps I just mean she seems confident and relaxed. She’s very attractive too—and perhaps that explains it. Yet there is that boyish thing there... And I cannot deny the importance of that.

Her hair is too long—but that can change. And even with it, I like her. I like her a lot. I think she may be the one. I’m almost certain of it.

She’s left her small group of friends—mostly men—for a toilet break. I like that she drinks beer. I even like the way she holds her glass. Does she know about this boyish thing, I wonder?

I pushed a little as she was making her way to the toilets. She’s not so drunk as to make it too easy. It’s no good if it’s easy.

It’s been a while since I last took a girl. Do I need another? Certainly the emails have become a little stale recently. And I must confess I have a stack of unopened letters. Of course I must exert restraint—a woman who can’t control herself should not be controlling others. But then, there is no arbiter in these matters. And I rather think I can I trust my own judgement.

In any case, I haven’t seen her close-up yet. But I’m about to. In order to intercept her, I’ve moved to the open end of the short corridor that leads to the toilets.

And now here she is coming back—emerging from what almost seems the wrong door. The real appeal lies somewhere in that almost, I think.

My decision is immediate and most definitely final: I push again. The lighting is much brighter in the corridor—quite unforgiving in fact. But it really does seem that there’s nothing to forgive: she’s even more attractive than I thought. Perhaps she’s a little younger too. Her face is so fresh, so clean. I really want her now... And I realise that I’m pushing far too hard.

She’s become aware of her disorientation. She stops and raises a hand to her forehead. Because she’s only slightly drunk, she’s acting like someone acting being drunk. But the disorientation isn’t due to drink.

I take the opportunity to inspect her wrist. Why do these things matter? Slender is again the only word. And a piece of tied black cord is the only decoration. That probably signifies something that I could easily have her forget. I find even the soft hairs on her arm incredibly erotic. She really is quite something. And I’ve already established that she’s left handed too. For some reason I can’t possibly explain, I prefer the minds of left handed women.

I’m still pushing but only ever so gently, pulsing it a little. She looks around and sees me. I smile. And push. Yes, she’s only a little drunk but it still feels good to share her buzz. She can’t know what I’m doing—or even that I’m doing anything—but what she’s feeling, she will associate with me. That’s just how it works.

She doesn’t know who I am but after barely a second or two she is smiling back at me. She has lovely brown eyes and a warm, friendly smile. She lowers her hand slowly, deliberately. She still thinks she’s drunk and she thinks I’m smiling at her because I noticed her little moment—the moment she noticed. She thinks we’re sharing a moment. But I’m not sharing. I push a little harder and keep smiling.

She can’t look away. The gentle pulsing is just enough to keep her spinning mind in motion. But really it’s more of a wave than a spin.

The smiling and staring have gone on just that little too long now. Now she no longer feels that she knows why I’m smiling at her. And she doesn’t know why she’s gazing back. But why do people normally stare at each other for too long and smile? I just create the gaps; they have to fill them in themselves. If you can jump slowly to a conclusion then that’s what she’s doing. And after all, at this moment she is practically weightless.

She wants to laugh and look away but she can’t quite do either. She’s squirming. I’d feel sorry for her—release her—if it weren’t so delicious. There’s a question in her mind and confusion is manifest in her eyes. She’s still smiling, but it’s so awkward.

I’ve wound her up—and so now I let her go.

She’s walking towards me. She doesn’t know why but she’s hoping to find out. It’s this boldness I like, I think. No, it’s everything I like.

For someone so lost she still looks magnificently cool. She looks like she’s wearing her boyfriend’s clothes. But I know now that there is no boyfriend. And incredibly, there’s never been a girlfriend. But she must know. She must be aware of this masculine thing. She must know what she’s doing.

The loose fit of her jeans looks almost studied. Her faded black t-shirt is not tight either, and her breasts are small, yet her large nipples are easily making their presence known. Much like me they’re pushing against soft, pliable fabric. And it’s so cool. And so sexy.

“Hi.”

It’s almost a question. And the inevitable follow-up arrives right on time.

“Do I...? Have we...?”

I try to sound kind, friendly, innocent.

“I don’t think so.”

I’m smiling and holding eye contact. For maximum effect there ought to be a twinkle in my eye, but I don’t think my eyes have it in them.

For the hell of it, I stop pushing completely—just like that.

She never knew why she was here but now suddenly she’s not sure if she even cares. But she hasn’t looked away yet. She’s still looking searchingly into my eyes. It’s gratifying. The idea that she could have entertained sexual thoughts about me does not revolt her even though the thoughts themselves are evaporating.

But I begin to push again because, interesting though they are, ultimately this is not about her desires.

Her momentary confusion slowly melts into her warmest smile yet. She has beautiful teeth. Of course she does. And she has something to say, but she can’t quite believe what it is. And of course I already know. But I need to hear her say it. That’s why I’m here.

“I’m sorry, but... it’s just...”

She can’t say it. She wants to but she’s terrified. And I love that, but it does make me want to help. I’m not a good actor but my audiences are usually somewhat forgiving. I laugh, intending to convey the idea that I’m as confused by all this as she is. And I push harder to make up for my shortcomings. As intended, her much more convincing performance resumes.

“...It’s just... I’ve never—you know—with a woman... but it’s just... I mean, I find you... very attractive.”

She almost laughs with relief—and with embarrassment at her own earnestness. But she doesn’t. If she laughs she might cry. I feel for her. I really do. She wants so much to make a sexual advance. She wants to put her hand on my breast. But instead she places it on my arm, hardly daring to grip at all.

And that is it, right there: the only touch I need. I know that I have her now. And it feels so good. It always feels good. It’s the crest of the hill. There is nothing better than this moment of submission. I will need to work for a few seconds more before she is truly taken, but I’m on that. Really it is all over.

Perhaps it is the knowledge that it’s downhill from here that makes me feel a little rueful. Her perfection is of course unaltered, but somehow at this moment it feels all spoilt. Perhaps I’m just feeling a little cruel tonight. Or perhaps I’m bored with the inevitability of it all.

Or perhaps she needs to be punished for being just too beautiful.

“Show me.”

I try to make it sound conspiratorial—fun—rather than an order. But there wasn’t enough time between thinking it and saying it to get it right. Besides, it is an order.

“What...?”

“Show me. Show me something.”

I manage to make it sound a little softer. And I push just a little harder.

It takes a surprisingly enjoyable few seconds. But finally she releases my arm from her butterfly grip and, with both hands, begins to lift up the hem of her t-shirt. She hesitates, with a questioning look. She doesn’t know if this is what I wanted. Neither do I. But then I suppose that actually that was what I wanted. I nod and she continues.

It’s just a young woman’s belly. Just the body of a slender, boyish young woman. I’m almost surprised, but quite pleased, that she stops again just below her tiny breasts. I’m sure she knows that that will not do.

“More.”

She didn’t know—she was just hoping. There’s a satisfying hint of despair in her eyes. And then two very large, very stiff nipples flip out into view as the hem rises higher. It’s just a body, but she’s undeniably beautiful all the same. She may be my perfect woman.

It’s a struggle to appreciate the sight whilst making sure no one else realises what they’re seeing. I may be being cruel but I don’t want to hurt her. I realise now that I never want to hurt her. And besides, I don’t want any trouble.

She’s starting to understand. And that’s always the problem. She’s waiting for permission to cover herself back up. But the longer I keep her like this, the less she’ll be waiting because I’m making her, and the more she’ll be doing it because she wants to, because she knows it’s what I want. But it’s a price I happily pay for a few extra moments gazing on perfection.

And I touch her too. It’s just a stroke with my fingertips across her breasts and then down—a pointless exercise really. Perhaps I’m just making sure she’s real.

I’m slightly surprised to hear my voice granting the permission she’s waiting for.

“Thank you. You’re beautiful.”

Despite the situation, I fear a degree of awe is evident in my voice. I can hardly be the first to have told her. But I had to tell her.

“Thanks. But... you know, you’re amazing.”

Oh yes, she’s regaining a little of the boldness that made her so attractive in the first place. She lowers the shirt quite slowly, rather than simply letting it drop. And she’s positively beaming—realising she’s less embarrassed about this public display than she thought she would be. She still hasn’t stopped gazing into my eyes though.

I push hard again. Though she hasn’t quite realised it yet, she’s already truly mine by now. But I need to feel her needing me for just a little longer at least. And she really does. Even perfect women do. How nice.

“Would you... like to see some more...?”

I would. Of course I would. And of course I could. But I know I mustn’t. She’s really starting to understand this. The thrill will soon be gone if I don’t stop. And I don’t want anything to spoil the memory of this.

“Your friends will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about them. They’re fine.”

I take what I can from her desperation to stay. To disappoint her—to leave her needing more—is to assert my control in the only way that she can’t undermine. She can’t learn how to get pleasure from giving me what I want if what I want will deprive her of pleasure.

“No no, you must get back. But... you can still show me more.”

I hand her the bag. Even though I’ve taken her, for some reason I contemplated not putting her through this. There’s something special about her. It feels... not right to do this to her. But I have decided that I’m going to anyway. And I suspect I will enjoy it all the more for precisely that reason. The thought of her... naked... tamed... compliant... mine... Well what is the point of her being mine if I don’t see this?

Her gaze finally breaks to look at the bag. The spell might appear to be broken but I’m actually still pushing quite hard.

“What’s this...? A camera...?! What’s...?”

“There’s a sheet of paper in there. You’ll read it later, when you’re alone. And you’ll do what it says.”

“But... I...”

She’s confused, and disappointed. Am I, too?

“You should go back to your friends. You bumped into someone you know who was going home feeling unwell. You’re holding on to the bag for her. It’s just some books. But... I want you to remember that I think you’re beautiful.”

Did I just say that? Do I have to keep telling her?

“But, I mean... Thanks...? But...”

She looks so sad. And I’m feeling it as I push. And unusually I don’t enjoy it at all. There’s a pause. And then for the second time my own voice takes me by surprise.

“Can you be here next week? A week today—without your friends?”

What am I saying?! Am I asking her out on a date?! Asking?!

Suddenly she looks less despondent, more hopeful. Well of course she bloody does.

“I can... I will be.”

Am I doing this just to stop her feeling sad? I want to laugh at the irony: she made me do it—whatever the hell it is I’m doing. At the very least I’m certainly smiling.

“OK. Then I’ll see you then.”

I kiss her on the cheek. Just a kiss, on a cheek. Just my lips touching the soft skin of her beautiful face. I know it will mean something to her.

She can’t help herself: “I love you.”

She’s adorable: not sweet; just earnest, pure.

“I know that. And I love you too.”

Of course I do know that she means it; I’m really not sure that I don’t.

“Next week...?”

“I promise. Now go.”

I watch her walking away. Baseball boots. Perfect.

For a moment I contemplate calling her back. I really want to sleep with her now. I want to do everything but sleep with her. But I’ve already taken her, and I know that nothing will top that. Not tonight.

Perhaps next week though?

What was I thinking?! After the haircut I might not be able to resist her...

But I know it’s just a body and a beautiful face. And by then I will have had the first photos. And videos. And a letter.

What was I thinking?

I think I know that I will sleep with her.

No, I won’t sleep with her.

Oh of course I will sleep with her!

But I can’t... I don’t...

Her. Utterly compliant... naked... in my bed...

But no, it never...

Oh this is pointless. I have seven days to think about it.

Shit! That’s too long...

We all have needs. I certainly have needs right now. And just in time, here’s another girl, heading for the toilets. There’s no mystery here: everything is on display—and all of it waxed and buffed till it shines. But overlooking her bad taste and low self-esteem, there’s really very little to fault. And after all, she has hands, and fingers, and a tongue. And she’s drunk. And I could use a little more of that buzz just now.

I will only be borrowing: I don’t have to take her. I don’t take what I don’t need. I can control myself. And I trust my judgement.

I follow her to the door. The sign says “Push”—and so I do.