The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Carolyn was having a difficult day. This was not because she couldn’t do her job; she was actually quite good at it. She was having trouble deciding if she even wanted to do it at all.

She was of two minds about this new Editor in Chief, Max Aldric. Before she had met him, her instincts had told her this was wrong. A man in charge of a feminist magazine? It’s kind of hard to subvert the patriarchy that way. But once she met him, she felt guilty about it. Was this reverse sexism? Her own brand of feminism wasn’t man-hating; it was woman-positive, with an end goal of equality. It really depended on him, and his attitude and ability. Still, perhaps this was a job that wasn’t meant for a man. The notion that an equally well qualified woman wasn’t available was repellent.

She knew that her own opinions about men were tainted by her experiences with her ex-husband Troy. Maybe she should give this man a chance. Most likely he would fail miserably and the board would come to their senses and replace him shortly. Maybe then, they wouldn’t overlook Carolyn’s years of competent service like they did this time? All she had to do was wait, and remain pleasant and professional. But it would be a shame, really; he was rather charming. He didn’t really belong here but she didn’t particularly want to see him crash and burn.

Oh well, she thought. Back to work. This magazine won’t run itself, and the Max situation will work itself out. Doing her job as well as she could would serve her best either way. She wouldn’t stoop to backstabbing.

The next day was Max’s first day on the job. He met with Carolyn in the morning, after they made the rounds of the office, introducing him to staff. The staff members’ reactions ranged from obviously forced professionality to puzzlement to scowls of distrust. At one point, following a particularly cold reaction from some of the members of the design staff, Max murmured to Carolyn, “I expected no less,” which put her much more at ease. At least he had a clue of what he had just stepped into. Or perhaps, stepped in.

Once they were back in Max’s office, he began to tell Carolyn about his background. She was shocked to hear that he not only had management experience in publishing (which she had assumed must be true, since the board was prone to thinking with their wallets at every opportunity, as is everyone at that level of wealth), but that he actually owned several magazines. She had heard of several of them; they were owned at the time by Le Mans Holdings, a relatively small but extremely profitable and secretive private company. “So... does that mean you bought them all from Le Mans?” Perhaps he was on a shopping spree, but what would he be doing here, as Editor-in-Chief, if he had that kind of money? “No,” Max chuckled, “it means that I own Le Mans, and now Le Mans has a controlling interest in this magazine, through a proxy holding company of course.” Of course. Huh? Carolyn kept up with the publishing industry as much as she could but this was far from an “of course” situation. What was Max doing here? Why did he want to own Pussy Power magazine? (She really hated that name, and used the more formal name of the publishing company on her business cards.) She smiled to herself upon realizing that even though “Le Mans” was the name of a city, it sounded an awful lot like “The Man”. Working for Le Man!

Max continued, “I’m impressed that you know about Le Mans, though. We try to keep a low profile, though the business media seems to want to dig up everything they can about us.” Well, sure, Carolyn thought; they love the mystery of a company that seems to have the Midas touch. She was pretty curious herself. “So... not to put too fine a point on it, but... why on earth are you working as an Editor-in-Chief when you own a company that owns several magazines?” she asked. What else did Le Mans own? She had no idea.

“I think this magazine has... unrealized potential,” he replied. “That’s what Le Mans does; we look for diamonds in the rough, and then we cut and polish them. Other companies simply back winners; we make winners.” She could tell he had made this speech more than a few times before. “Seemingly tiny details—branding notes like typefaces, paper, color scheme; which advertisers you go after and which ones you turn away; editorial topics and how you time stories—all of these can make or break a magazine. It’s all about the readers’ perception of your magazine. Too many publishers want to sell one magazine, and will do whatever it takes to accomplish that, but when the reader gets a chance to read it, it’s all poor writing sandwiched between endless ads. So the readers aren’t loyal. They lose interest. They get tired of being treated like children, and move on. My strategy is simple: figure out what the readers want to hear about, and what community of readers they want to join. Then, the editorial decisions become easy. It takes a few issues but pretty soon you have a loyal following, a buzz, and a market segment that advertisers can grasp.”

Carolyn was floored. This guy was no joke. He continued, “Pussy Power Magazine alienates mainstream feminists. Angry young women make a lot of noise but they don’t spend a lot of money, nor do they represent a large sector of the population. Frankly, they also don’t have a lot of experience or education, so most of what they have to say is bitter radical nonsense. There are real issues that need to be addressed but focusing on the negative aspect of the situation accomplishes nothing.” Carolyn was on the edge of her seat. She could have written this part of Max’s speech herself, because that’s how she felt too. She was far more mainstream than the rest of the staff, and had wanted to take the magazine into a more positive, less shrill direction for years. “Anti-media, anti-government, anti-male diatribes only appeal to those who already hold those opinions. They don’t solve problems for real women trying to succeed in the world as adults. This magazine should be highlighting role models, identifying progress where it’s happening, and telling the readers what they can do to affect change in their lives and in the world around them.”

Carolyn was only half listening. The other half was starting to get turned on. Max was not only rich, handsome, and apparently quite competent, but he had views on feminism and publishing that were completely aligned with hers. For a moment she felt a bit embarrassed that she only got turned on once he started getting really deep into publishing shop talk. Well, she was a career woman, so sue her.

She had denied her sexuality ever since her divorce from Troy. She couldn’t even think of the sound of his name without disgust. Imagine the ‘ptuh’ sound you make when you’ve eaten popcorn recently and there’s a bit of shell left on the tip of your tongue. Nobody’s looking. It’s biodegradable. Somebody gets paid to vacuum this theater every day. So you make a little ‘puh’ ‘ptuh’ ‘phuh’ noise trying to spit it out using just air. That’s the sound his name made inside her head. ‘Ptroy’. The pejorative form of Troy. Not the hands clasped in front of one’s heart, deep breath, “Oh, Troy” (blink blink), but the opposite. Like a bad idea in her head that needed to be ejected with force. Troy. Ugh.

She married a confident, athletic, handsome man who slowly devolved into a grumpy, fat couch potato with poor hygiene and no hobbies or interests aside from work, sports, beer, and porn. Troy was Al Bundy minus the sense of humor. She watched herself slip into the sitcom marriage role of smarter, more organized, frustrated, henpecking, nag of a wife who was physically out of his league but through the magic of Hollywood was somehow in love with a lazy worthless pig of a husband. Except this was reality and she gradually fell out of love and learned to hate her life and her marriage. She wasn’t sure whether to blame him for holding her back, or herself for failing to see what he really had been destined to become all along. It took a lot of strength, but with her sister’s moral support and the freedom that came with her financial independence, she left him. He was too much of a lump to even put up a fight. There were some harassing drunken phone calls, some vicious tirades with both of their attorneys present, but these were just moments of bitterness on his part. He just rolled over and let her leave. She was so happy that she had decided to put off having kids for her career, despite his jealousness regarding her income and his insistence that she quit and become a homemaker. It made it so much easier just to walk away.

Since then she hadn’t felt trust or closeness to any man. Everyone reminded her in some way of Troy. She felt like every man was a potential Troy, a Troy waiting to happen if they just could have someone to pay the bills while they let themselves go in front of the TV.

Max was different. He was older. If he was going to let himself go, he would have done so already. Maybe he already did, and had a midlife crisis, and recovered. In any case, he clearly had his life together. He was the anti-Troy. Carolyn started to wonder whether he was the anti-Troy in bed, too. A man with those looks, that kind of money, and that many miles on him surely had learned how to please a woman somewhere along the way.

No no no. This wasn’t a good road to go down. Co-workers were off limits but bosses were doubly so. Working at a feminist magazine, sleeping with Le Man? Scandalous. Hot to think about, but not something to do in the real world, with its real complications. But not bad just to think about. Nobody had to know.

Just then, Max’s phone rang. “I should take this. Can we continue this later?” he asked. She nodded and excused herself. As she exited she had a guilty smile on her face, which Ann noticed and answered with a puzzled expression. In a flash she was back in her own office, with the door locked, digging in her purse. Where is it? No, that’s real lipstick... there it is. Her lipstick vibrator. Her sister had given it to her as a birthday present a few weeks after her divorce. She had only used it a few times but found it remarkably effective. Mostly she had fantasized about anonymous trysts with physically attractive men... the UPS guy, a personal trainer from the gym who hadn’t been a total musclebound freak, and so on. But she had a separate fantasy that had never had anyone specific attached to it, until now. It got her hot just thinking about having a face to fit her fantasy scenario. She shuddered as her little cosmetic stowaway quietly buzzed between her legs.

Carolyn and Troy were at the opera. She was wearing her black dress, the black dress. Silk. It had spaghetti straps and was loose across the front, hanging in gentle waves across her bust, implying that if she leaned forward far enough one could see her breasts clearly underneath the loose fabric. The bottom came down to her mid calf but was dramatically slit up to her upper thigh on the left side. A triangular pattern of rhinestones covered the front of the dress, starting at a point at her left hip and expanding to the bottom of the dress, drawing the eye to exposed leg as she walked and up to the point where the slit began. Her sister had nearly fallen over from shock. when she had come out of the fitting room at the store the first time she had put it on. Troy, of course, was angry with her for spending that much money on a single dress, but he begrudgingly agreed that she did look fantastic in it. Together with her hair, which she had had done that day along with a manicure and pedicure, and her long black opera gloves, she looked drop dead gorgeous. She was sure she had never looked better, even as a teenager, because she had never had the fashion sense nor the money to make the most of what she had had back then.

Not so with Troy. He wore the same tuxedo he had worn to his brother’s wedding, nine years ago. It didn’t fit him well then, and it definitely didn’t fit his balooning midsection now. She had persuaded him to buy a tuxedo instead of renting in hopes that this would encourage him to agree to do things more often which require a man to wear a tuxedo. This had backfired. Now that he had bought it, the very few times he had a reason to wear it, he resented her for talking him into wasting all of that money, and still he insisted on wearing it despite its poor fit. The discomfort made him even more grumpy. His shirt barely fit; the neck was too tight. The bow tie was too small. The cummerbund was adjusted to its maximum girth. He looked like someone had taken a normal man and inflated him with a bicycle pump to the point of almost bursting, and then stopped, letting out just enough air that Troy could breathe a bit and waddle along without popping a seam in the process.

Carolyn suppressed her anger and frustration and embarrassment by reminding herself that she was finally getting him to go out to the opera, and that she had better not make it worse than it already was for him. Maybe he’d enjoy it once he got into it, and would buy a new tuxedo? Maybe he’d look around and see what a good tailor could do? After all, Carolyn had noticed that while women’s fashion tended to show off one’s figure and as much skin as possible, suggesting and tempting the eye with what was hidden, men’s fashion tended to hide the wearer’s flaws, using fabric and careful tailoring to broaden the shoulders, flatten the belly, and lengthen the legs. She saw it all around her on the men at the opera who had properly fitting clothes; she could tell by their faces that they weren’t especially fit underneath their clothes but the cut and fabric and style were forgiving and flattering and spoke of sophistication and maturity where beefcake had been long gone or perhaps never had been at all.

Not that her appreciation of the men around her was one-sided. She caught quite a few men looking at her, many smiling, a few winking and then looking away. Appreciation without drool, leering or wolf whistles was quite refreshing, and flattering without being threatening or demeaning. No one shouted at her with a suggestion of what part of his anatomy he’d like to put where on her. She suspected that a few of them were thinking those things to themselves, though. She looked sexy and elegant and she knew it. Nothing needed to be said.

And yet, it was a bittersweet feeling because she was with Troy. What must people think of them, seeing her next to him? Why, thank you for your compliment, charming sir, I’d love to join you in your limousine, but you see, I have to take care of my mentally handicapped second cousin here. Husband? Oh, goodness no. How droll! No, he’s just a surly man-ape that I take out from time to time out of the goodness of my heart. Family duty, and all that. Perhaps another night?

Of course, he had hated the opera, they had fought during the entire intermission, he had tried to fold his arms and sulk and, finding that his jacket was too tight to allow that, had simply slouched and scowled through the rest of the opera. So much for her plan of rehabilitating the man-ape. He ruined it for her too, as she sat and despaired over the hopelessness of her marriage. That was the turning point. She resolved to leave him.

And so, in her fantasy, she found herself wearing the same dress at a casino in Las Vegas, shortly after midnight. She was playing at a $25 table, slowly working her way down from a lead of several thousand dollars. She felt like she had gotten lucky but needed to stop and cash out before she found herself back where she had started.

“Lady luck is promiscuous, and it’s a big town,” said a voice from beside her at the table. Max’s voice. She turned to look at him, as he continued. “Enjoy her attention while it lasts, but don’t be fooled; this is a town built on the one-night stand.” He smiled. She looked away and smiled. Good advice, and funny. And handsome. And well dressed.

The table was full and there was a small crowd waiting to play, or just watching. They both focused on playing for a few minutes, sneaking glances at each other. At one point he caught her looking at him as she bit her lip. Without turning his head away from the table he raised his eyebrow and quietly said to her, “If you’re looking to get lucky for a second time tonight, this table isn’t where you want to be.” She looked away and smiled again. She had lost. Her stack of chips was half the size it had been at its peak. The dealer spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, this table now has a fifty dollar limit. Fifty dollar minimum bet, ladies and gentlemen.” She sighed. That was too much of a risk, especially considering the sure bet she thought she had sitting on her left. They gathered their chips and stood nearly at the same time, exchanging a meaningful glance. He leaned in closer to her. “I just lost quite a few hands in order to remain in the seat next to you. Perhaps my luck tonight is not with the cards?” She chuckled. He looked her in the eye. “Would you like to come have a drink with me upstairs?” She answered, “Do I get to cash in my chips first?” They both laughed, and walked off to the cashier.

He was charming, and patient. His room was rather large and had a full bar. They took their time and flirted for nearly half an hour before he put his hand on hers. They both knew where this was going, and there was no need to rush. His deft avoidance of straight answers to her questions about him was a form of foreplay. She knew nothing about him that she could write down. She didn’t even know his name. She only knew that he was funny, intelligent, educated, and attractive. He wore no wedding ring, nor was there a sign of one having been taken off recently. He drank at a moderate pace, not hurrying to intoxication, but seeking the relaxed feeling of alcohol nonetheless. She had offered information about herself in hopes that it would get him to open up, but he only hinted at things he had done, places he had been, without the specifics of when, where, or who he was with. Golf, but only as needed for relaxed business conversations. He preferred squash, which was useless for conversation, but exhilarating. He had at some point sailed from Gibraltar to New Zealand. Were these the truth, or was he just guessing that she wanted to hear these things? He seemed to know too much to be making it up, but he kept directing questions back at her. He seemed to like her answers, especially when they demonstrated an awareness of the difference between empty displays of wealth, and an appreciation of the finer things in life, wherever the quest for such things might lead. She was fascinated by him, how deliberately mysterious he was, how he was teasing her with bits of information. She didn’t care if it was true. This was, after all, going to be a one-night stand. He knew she was willing from the moment she agreed to come upstairs with him, though, so why all the talking? She liked the fact that he seemed to enjoy her company with her clothes on, and that he seemed interested in knowing more about her. Perhaps a man his age gets tired of putting up with empty-headed twenty-year-olds looking for a sugar daddy? It was nice to be appreciated. If he was a liar, he was a good one, and knew what lies she wanted to hear.

They had moved from the bar to a couch, and their conversation had gotten progressively quieter and more abstract. She knew he was going to cut to the chase pretty soon, before they got too drunk, or too sleepy, or both. She beat him to it. “So...” she started as she shifted closer to him, and slid the strap of her dress off of one shoulder. “Ready to play some more? No luck needed... I’ve got a game of skill in mind.” She chuckled at her own forwardness. He smiled and kissed her hand, and began kissing his way up her arm.

He was fantastic. Patient. Skilled. He knew how to tease her, how to caress her, how to look her in the eye to say something words couldn’t capture. When he finally took her dress off (from behind, nibbling at her neck and shoulders), he slowly turned her around and ate her like she never imagined a man could. She could tell he was enjoying driving her crazy. As she lay on the bed and relaxed, he pleasured her with his mouth and hands as if he didn’t care about anything other than giving her the most perfect orgasm she could imagine. She came so hard that as she arched her back and tensed her legs, clenching the sheets with all her strength, she thought she could hear all of the tension in her spirit pop like a fireworks display, with the sparks gently landing all over her body like snowflakes, tingling as they soaked into her naked skin.

Carolyn snapped back to reality with a short, loud yelp. Her eyes snapped open and she looked at her office door, trying to decide if anyone had heard her, and if they had, whether they knew what she had just been doing. She hastily cleaned up and jiggled the mouse on her computer to wake it up.

She usually didn’t finish that quickly. She didn’t even get to the part where he took his clothes off! As she began to go through the well practiced, mindless motions of checking her email, she was still out of breath and distracted by thinking about her fantasy, and Max.

She knew that she was alone now because she had isolated herself. She knew that there had to be a whole other species of men in the world that were nothing like Troy and could never sink to his level. She knew that she needed to find someone like Max, someone worldly and sophisticated and interested in her for everything she had to offer, not just her obsessions with fitness and fashion and cuisine. Someone who would appreciate her for her mind, and body, and soul. Someone like Max.

But not Max. He was a co-worker. He was her boss. Off limits.

She would find someone, though, and make her fantasy a reality. Repeatedly. Daily, if possible, and definitely not just in a hotel room. All over the world. With one man, preferably, or one night at a time, if necessary, until she was ready to fall in love again.

She smiled, took a deep breath, and got back to work.