The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The stains on the ceiling looked like a howling dog with three legs. An hour ago it had been a cow, but now I was sure it was a dog. I had been staring at my pitiful dorm room for well over three hours. The muted grey light of morning that filtered through the blinds had gradually become the naked rays of a beautiful spring day. From my tomb I knew that thousands of people out there were busy being productive citizens. A few miles away surfers bobbed up and down on the waves, enjoying mid-morning swells and the warm, clear air of another perfect southern California day.

I lobbed a foot off the bed in a half-assed effort at getting up. The floor was littered with text books and notes. My bra hung off the chair where I had flung it the night before and remnants of my last 8 meals inhabited nearly every flat surface. It was official: I was depressed.

Somewhere between the adolescent fervor of my freshman year and the burned out apathy of this last semester as a senior, I had lost my initiative. I still had a few ounces of grace left, thanks to an impressive GPA sustained for more than three years. However, if I didn’t get out of this rut soon I would loose the race. I remembered hearing about free counseling down at Student Services and decided I should probably go. I threw on a sweater and a skirt and fixed my hair as best I could.

The Student Services building was an ugly, gray brick box, designed in the same obligatory style as the DMV, the courthouse and virtually every other civil structure conceived mid-sixties. The newly retrofitted automatic front door swished open upon my arrival. Behind a large white desk, an unbelievably blonde secretary with even less believable huge breasts greeted me with a plastic smile. “Welcome to Student Services what can we do for you today?” she asked me in her bubbly blonde voice.

“I’m here to see a counselor,” I said.

“What’s your name sweetie?” she gleamed at me.

“Sara Jackson,” I said.

“Ok then, why don’t you take a seat, fill out this information form and Dr. Mendez will be with you shortly.”

I took a seat on one of the standard issue waiting room chairs and started the form. It started out normal enough. There were the standard name, weight, age, height etc. Then it asked about the reason for the visit, any associated symptoms and any related family medical history. But later it seemed to get a little too personal. It asked if I had a sexual partner, how often I had sex and whether or not I was using birth control. Finally, did I have any kids and how many did I plan to have? Begrudgingly, I answered all the questions.

Four chairs down another girl who looked like the receptionist’s twin bimbo sat reading a book whose title read, “How to Please Your Man: A Young Woman’s Guide to Marriage.” The title made me cringe and I could barely hide my scorn. “She must be in here for some kind of dependency problem,” I thought. As if hearing my thoughts the girl looked up from her book and gave me a way too friendly smile.

“Hi, who is your counselor?”

I replied with my most polite ‘please don’t talk to me’ voice “Um Dr. Mendez, I guess.”

“Oh, you’re a lucky girl. He’s mine too. I’ve been going to him for about six months now. God, I feel so much better. I used to be so depressed,” she giggled.

“What did he put you on Prozac or something?” I asked wryly.

“Heavens no. He just talks to you, you know. He’s really good at figuring out your problems. I meet with him every week.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

“Sara, Dr. Mendez is ready for you now,” the receptionist chimed into our conversation. I climbed out of my seat and followed the receptionist through the tiny corridor that led to the offices in the rear. The hall was decorated with those retarded office posters that were supposed to inspire the mind-numbed workforce. There was a picture of guy bungee jumping with the words “cease the day” under him. Another showed a picture of a cliché rainbow sky panorama that read, “Every day is a new day.” I thought I was going to throw up.

Finally, we came to an office with a fake wooden door. “Right in there,” the receptionist said. As the door opened a man in his mid-forties stood up and came around his desk to offer me a seat. He was slightly over weight, with dark hair that was thin and receding. He had a carefully trimmed mustache and large, out of style, silver rimmed glasses that enlarged his penetrating blue eyes.

“Ahh...Ms. Jackson. Welcome. Won’t you please take a seat,” he said.

His desk was an object of order. Pens and paperclips were secure and tidy in their proper bins. Any loose papers had been filed neatly in a multi-tiered horizontal filer. The only thing on the desk that was mildly extraneous was a little rack with four sliver balls suspended by wires. It was one of those marvels of physics. If you let one of balls on the end hit the balls in the center, the energy would then be transferred to the ball on the opposite end and vis versa forever.

“So what seems to be the problem Ms. Jackson?” he asked me in a touchy feely voice.

“Well, I don’t really know,” I said searching for a way to explain my problem. “I just feel depressed. I’ve been missing classes and staying in my room all the time. It’s weird. I just don’t have the energy to complete my normal routines.”

“Your transcripts note that you have made the Dean’s List almost every semester. Do you think, maybe, you’re just burning out?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I guess?” I said, so far unimpressed by his mediocre inquiry.

He studied me carefully from behind his large glasses and combed his mustache thoughtfully with his fingers. “I’d like to try something with you that seems to help my other patients relax,” he said. Then he reached across the desk and gently raised one of the silver balls. It fell with a small tap against the next ball causing the last ball on the end to fly out, as expected. The result was a metronomic rhythm that counted time in our conversation. “Just forget about the orbs and let it play in the back ground. Do you have a boyfriend, Sara?”

“No, not right now.”

“It says in your transcripts that you are a Women’s Study major.”

“Yea, that’s right,” I said.

“I’m afraid this may be the root of the problem. I’ve seen it before in other girls in your field of study.”

“Women! Dr. Mendez. I’ve had my period so you should refer to me as a woman not a girl,” I shot back. God, I hated that. So, far this fop wasn’t scoring any points with me.

“Right, Women,” he said, carefully sounding out the word. “I apologize. Yes, well as I was saying about other Women in your field of study. Your inability to secure a mate for procreation could be the source of your ailment. You are in your prime right now and you are only getting older.”

“Procreation? What are you talking about? I can get a boyfriend if I want one. And I’m still in school; I don’t need any babies right now,” I glared at him, incensed by his comments. Jesus, this guy was a dinosaur.

“Ms. Jackson, I apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes the truth is hard to accept. People need time to adjust to such realizations. If I could direct your attention back to the silver orbs for just a moment,” he said gesturing for me to look at the little toy on his desk. During our entire conversation they had been tapping away, redistributing energy and mass. “If you look carefully, Ms. Jackson, you can see your reflection in the silver shapes.”

Still a bit angry, I reluctantly peered down at the rhythmic invention. It was true. The balls reflected the reverse image of the office like a fish—eyed carnival mirror. I saw myself in all four of the orbs moving back and forth. My reflection redistributed according to Newtonian physics.

“Quite fascinating aren’t they.” he said.

“Yes,” I heard myself reply as I studied the weird image a little closer.

“They are really a kind of metaphor for living. What are we really but a collection of free roaming particles, bouncing off of one another in an endless chaotic dance of action and reaction. Because when you get right down to it there are two kinds of people in this world, you know -those who act and those who react. Right now you are simply reacting to your environment, with your fears, your prejudices and your dogma, hoping that your accidental trajectory will send you somewhere safe. But if you can learn to be like the orbs in the center, your life will be calm. If you can bond to another more stable, masculine orb, the chaotic energy you are experiencing will simply pass right through you. Does that make sense?” he asked.

“Um...yea it kind of does,” I replied vaguely, still staring at the mesmerizing motion of the orbs. I wasn’t really sure what he was talking about, but his words seemed soothing and wise. I could find no fault in his logic. I just kept staring at the motion in front of me.

“Ms. Jackson, are you paying attention?” he asked.

“Um, yea,” I said, prying my concentration away from the toy. But even as I looked up, I could see the rhythmic knocking of the objects in my mind.

“So let’s talk about your issues. It’s obvious that you are a victim of your own repressed patriarchal values. I think you’ll find that if you let go of some of them you will be able to express the feminine identity you have been searching for in your studies. When was your last that last time you had sex?” he asked.

“What does that matter?” I said, a little too relaxed to argue but awake enough to miss the relevance. “About six months ago, I guess.”

“Hmm, that’s far too long for a woman...well let’s face facts, a Girl your age. I find that there is a direct correlation between frequency of intercourse and depression. You should be enjoying the fruits of your youth, not squandering it on boring books about feminism. You’re just replacing your old dogma with a new dogma. True feminism isn’t found in the rhetoric of academia. The scholars you hold dear now will just be replaced and revised tomorrow. And you will still be just another free floating particle, bouncing off the latest intellectual fad.”

What he said made sense. Maybe that was my problem. I was disillusioned with the intellectual path I had chosen. I followed it as far as it could take me and I was ready for something new. Still, something wouldn’t allow me to just cast away my old self and accept his new philosophy blindly. I tried to protest but I knew it was futile. “But Dr. Mendez, I have spent three long years studying this stuff. It can’t all be for nothing. There’s still some truth in it,” I said feeling my defenses start to crumble.

“Well of course there is, dear. But true knowledge isn’t had by books or teachers. It’s found within you. No one can really teach you anything. They can only point you in the right direction. And I think you are beginning to realize your new direction. Take a look at the orbs again. Do you see your distorted reflection?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said gazing once again at the images.

“We are going to make you whole again,” he said. “That’s what psychologists do. Now watch the orbs move. Feel the energy moving through them. Imagine that you are becoming the center orbs and the energy is flowing through you. You are still, and unmoved, an empty vessel for the energy to pass through. Listen to the rhythm of their movement, with each click of the orbs, a little more of your old chaotic self is pushed away. You are empty and ready to be filled with a new personality.”

I don’t know if he was hypnotizing me or what, but as I watched the play of the orbs I felt my peripheral vision start to fade. There was nothing but the movement of the orbs. I was the orbs and I started to feel a little better.

“Ms. Jackson, how do you feel?” he asked.

I looked back up at this middle aged man who I had found mildly repellent before and saw a new person full of wisdom and sagacity. “I feel very calm,” I said in a quiet voice.

“That’s a good girl. That’s how you’re supposed to feel. Now let’s get back to your problem shall we,” he said. I looked up from the orbs with glazed eyes and waited for him to speak.

“If you really think about it you’ll find that your unhappiness is rooted in your ideology; well, more accurately the ideology which is spoon fed by the university to young, helpless girls like yourself. Society expects too much out of you. You are torn between the unrealistic feminist values of financial and social independence and your need to be taken care of, to lay on your back and make beautiful babies. You do want babies don’t you Ms. Jackson?” he asked.

“Well yea, someday,” I said groggily. I had always wanted children in the future. I never knew that I would need them so soon.

“And how do you get those babies Ms. Jackson?” he asked.

“Um...through sex,” I said, a little unsure of myself, like a kid being quizzed on her first sex ed. exam.

“That’s right. But in order to lure a man, or a few men, you need to look sexy. You need to tell the world that you’re ready and willing to copulate. Men like large, milk producing breasts. It’s important to give the men around you a glimpse of your bountiful gifts. You see you’ve confused feminism with femininity,” he said.

It was making a lot of sense. I had been trying to carry someone else’s flag and it had taken me further from my true self. It was incredible how he, a man, could understand what a simple girl like me was really feeling way down deep inside. I looked at the middle-aged doctor with a new sense of awe. He was so smart, smarter than I’d ever be. And he was even kind of sexy.

“What you truly want to express is your femininity,’ he continued. “And the best way to do this is through your clothes and your actions. Girls who are in touch with their true selves are soft and sexy. They like to paint their nails, shop for sexy clothes and copulate with many anonymous partners. This increases their chances of getting pregnant.” Tell me, are you on birth control right now?” he asked.

“No, not for a few months,” I said. “Since I haven’t had a boyfriend in a long time I decided to quit taking them.”

“That’s good,” he said, “and I’m sure you feel better, more natural. Now we just need to work on your allure and you’ll be on the road to happiness in no time. Like I said, Sara, a girl needs to not only advertise her sexuality with her choice of clothing but also display it in her demeanor. The best way to do this is to show the world how horny you are, how available and willing. Men don’t want a girl who can quote from books. They want a girl who can, well, to put it bluntly, suck cock.”

Although I felt embarrassed by his course choice of words I could feel a tingle in my panties and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. This whole conversation was starting to ignite my neglected sex drive. My depression was quickly changing into arousal. “But wouldn’t that make me a ...Oh, I can’t say it. Never mind.”

“No, Sara, go ahead. This is what we’re here for. You need to vocalize your innermost feelings about yourself,” he said encouragingly. “Go ahead, I’m sensing there’s something you want to tell me about yourself.”

“Well wouldn’t that make me a...I mean, does that mean that I’m a...well, a Slut,” I said meekly.

“I’m very impressed Sara. I think you’re making extraordinary progress today,” he said, his praise evoking a self-conscious smile on my face. “But I think that in order to truly grasp your new identity you need to fully accept it. Why don’t you Tell me what you are.”

“Ok...Um...I’m a slut,” I said triumphantly.

“Could you elaborate for me, Sara? Take your time. Try and express your new identity as much as possible,” he said.

“Well, I realize now that I’m not as smart as I thought I was. I’m really just a silly girl pretending to be smart. Deep down I know I’m just a cum hungry little slut who needs a big strong man to shoot his baby juice inside me. I want to be soft and feminine. I want to be taken care of and protected. But I also want to fuck lots of different guys and have lots of babies,” I said, feeling a weight being lifted from my chest.

“Bravo! Well put. That was splendid, Sara. You are doing so well,” he beamed. I think we can actually move on to the next evolution ahead of schedule. Now Sara, actually why don’t we just call you Slut from now on. Your name isn’t really important is it. Because you’re really just a receptacle for men’s cocks, aren’t you.”

I had to say it made a lot of sense. I mean, what was the point. I was really just a silly slut anyway. Guys didn’t care what my name was, I thought. “Sure Dr. Mendez that sounds about right.”

“Excellent. Now about your physical appearance, you’re going to need to take a trip to the beauty salon and the mall. But for now I think we can get by. Is there something you want to show me?” he asked.

It was more of a statement than a question. Of course we both knew there was something I wanted to show him. I had to show him I wasn’t just some frigid, man-hating bitch anymore. I could be soft too. I could be sexy. I slowly pulled my sweater over my head exposing my big, firm tits to the open air. I felt free and relaxed.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he said, admiring my perky tits.

Feeling his arousal I began to rub my big sexy tits together and arch my body back and forth. I ran my hands slowly down my stomach to the hem of my skirt and then gently raised the fabric so that he could just barely see the little wet triangle of my panties.

“Very nice, slut. I think you were born to be a stripper. If you’re a good girl I may just put a call into my friend down at the Dancing Cheetah Pole Bar for you. How would you like that my little fuck toy?”

“Mmm,” I moaned, licking my lips, “that sounds great doctor.” The thought of strutting my stuff for a room full of guys turned me on.

“Why don’t you come over here so the good doctor can take a closer look at you,” he said. I sauntered over to where he and his flag pole waited and stood accessibly in front of him. With the grace of a serpent his hand quickly slithered between my legs, finding the tender flesh of my exposed thigh. His big middle—aged hands felt warm and experienced. I knew I wasn’t special. I was sure he had had a lot of coed pussy, but I was grateful just to be another conquest, another notch on his bed post. Instinctively, I lift my skirt even higher so he could see everything. Finally, after what seemed like hours his nimble fingers found the wet cleft in my panties. I was absolutely swollen with lust. As he pulled the flimsy fabric to the side and found my clit I thought I would orgasm right there. Instead, he freed his engorged cock and held it out for me, gripping it firmly like a sword. It was mouth watering. I dropped down on my knees, where every girl longs to be and swallowed it down to the hilt. As little pearly drops of pre cum salted my tongue, I whimpered in the anticipation of feeling the full force of his cum shooting up against my cervix. I could wait no more. I stood up, straddled his chair and guided his thick cock between the soft, pink folds of my throbbing pussy. As soon as I felt its full girth inside me, I knew exactly what I was made for. I knew his cock was heroine and I was its junkie.

That afternoon and many more after, Dr. Mendez fucked me there in his office next to the silver orbs. He pumped gallons of his thick cum inside me every time and I have recently learned that I’m going to be a mom. I’m not depressed anymore. I’ve found my new calling and my true self, here on my back.