The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Where does one begin to search for answers to questions that cannot be answered? When I was a student at UIC I had done a paper on voodoo. These things that were happening to me, they were not voodoo insofar as voodoo is a religion practiced by sane people. But in the course of my research I had come across a shop on the South Side wherein voodoo was one of many disciplines serviced. It was called the Menacing Daydream, appropriately enough. There was no sign, you just had to know someone who knew someone who could tell you where it was. I hoped maybe Old Rick, the “proprietor”, could at least jump-start my search for answers.

The place was dark and smelled of earth and spice as I walked in for the first time in six years. I was glad it was empty. I was covered from head to toe, even wearing gloves and a turtleneck, to mask my new condition, but I still felt better talking to Old Rick one on one.

Rick’s eyes lit up when he saw me walk to the counter. “Danielle Dean!” he said with strange amusement in his thick Haitian accent. I had no idea how old he was, but I doubted that he was anyone’s grandfather, this broad, severe, scarred man. I had heard that he had spent time in the Tonton Macoute. I had no doubt that his mere presence could have hastened cooperation with Papa Doc’s initiatives.

“Rick,” I said, a little nervous. “You remember me.”

“I don forget when I get paid a veesit from pretty white college girls,” he said with a guffaw. “You wear de contacts dese days. You look better wit de brown eyes, chile. So you come here for a mojo bag, or you jus wan a little ‘chit chat’?”

“Rick, I’m having a bit of a... a crisis. I was hoping you could maybe help me, with some information.”

He smiled. “Information is free. Help, I charge for. We see what we come up wit.”

“Have you ever heard of ... like, tattoos? I mean, spontaneous tattooing. I guess you might call it tattooing by remote. I know how it sounds, but do such things happen?”

His smile weakened but did not crumble. I continued. “Not only that, Rick. What about a silvery metal that’s harder than diamond?” I had had a locksmith look at my rings and bracelets. He broke an expensive carbon drill on one and scratched his head. I’d thanked him for his time and left. He spoke through his teeth, not so much a threat as a warning. “I hope you have good reason for such inquiry. Dis ting you ask of, unless you really need to hear, you better off not knowing.”

I was silent for a bit, then I pulled off my glove and showed him my hand. He held it gently, turning it over and clicking with his mouth, then he looked at me.

“Dese tings happen most likely when you sleep?”

A wave of relief rushed over me. Even if he could not help me, he knew something. This was happening. I was not crazy.

“Rick,” I said, a little more animated, “how can someone do things like this to you from far away? Isn’t that, I don’t know, magic or something?”

He smiled again. “Danielle, dere is magic and dere is parlor tricks.” He reached into his shirt pocket and started to pull something out, a red piece of cloth. Very quickly, I recognized that it was a bra. It took the rubbing of my nipples against the inside of my sweatshirt to make me realize it was mine. I gasped.

“I apologize for de crudity of my demonstration, child,” he said, handing it back. I stuffed it in my pocket. “But you see, dere are tings dat may not be widely accepted or understood, but in reality are very simple.” He reached into his pocket again.

“I don’t need another demonstration!” I said quickly, but not quickly enough. He came out with my panties.

“But den dere are tings much deeper. It’s not de tattoos, child, but de ink. It’s not de piercings, but de metal. Do you begin to understand?” He made no motion to hand back my undergarment. Instead, he reached under the counter and came back with a long, thick lump that looked something like a potato.

“You know what dis is, right, chile?”

“Yeah,” I said, recognizing it from my research. “It’s a John the Conqueror root, the fruit of an ipomoea jalapa. It’s the voodoo version of a good luck charm. And a powerful laxative.”

“It works, too, at least on de first count. See, dat is de heart of voodoo. Voodoo is de only religion man has known in which your prayers are heard, and sometimes answered. Why is dat? Because we who practice see many tings udders do not. De power we draw upon, it is not unlike de powers dat are working you over. Like a knife—you can cut up an onion, or you can stab an enemy. De energy is dere to be drawn upon. But some use it... in ways I, for one, would not. For instance, to mess wit you, wit your body and your mind.” He put the tuber down. “I cannot help you, Danielle Dean. Nor can I tell you anymore widout risking bote our lives. Tings will become clear to you. And dere is one ting I can promise you. Dere is a way out, but you must find it for yourself. Trust me.” He smiled again, both reassuringly and carnivorously, and began to stuff my panties into a closed fist. He blew into it and opened his hand; they were gone. His smile melted away.

“Go, and do not return. But do not give up.”

Without a word, I turned to leave. He grabbed my arm. I saw what appeared to be a business card in his hand.

“Dis lady, she maybe can help. She is what you might call ‘outside the system’. You see her. But she demand payment for services rendered. Now go.”

I walked out of the Menacing Daydream and hailed a cab, stuffing my hand back into my glove and my bra into my pocket.

At first I just gave the driver my address. In the cab, I looked at the card:

AMI St. CLAIRE

PHOTOGRAPHER

I thought about it, and I handed it to the driver and told him to go to the address on the card. I might as well finish this. I had an overwhelming desire to take a nap, and I feared what I would be when I awakened from it, so I figured I should find out as much as possible as quickly as possible.

I knocked on the door of what looked to be, and probably once was, a dilapidated warehouse. A blonde amazon of six foot something answered, a cigarette dangling from two full, squarish lips. She looked me up and down without saying anything.

“You’ll do,” she finally pronounced, swinging open the door and waving me in. Do what? I wondered.

I saw a fairly well-equipped studio with all kinds of screens and props. It was immediately obvious to me what kind of photography took place here. There were some leather outfits, very small ones, sloppily hung from racks. That was the tame stuff. Some of the props looked positively painful.

A young woman, quite exquisite, was getting dressed. She looked a little embarrassed. Wordlessly, Ami waved her out and she made for the door.

“You look like you’ve got a good body under all that,” said my tall new friend. “Nice enough tits, I guess. You’ll have to let me see, of course.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, with mock indignance. It was clear what she thought I was, so I wasn’t offended, but it seemed appropriate that I should emphatically distance myself from her perception of the nature of my visit.

“Are you here to pose?” she said with some impatience. I handed her the card.

“I got this from Old Rick. He thought you might be able to help me.”

She looked at the card, then looked at me.

“So you’re in a jam of some kind? Save it, I don’t want to know. Well, if it’s odd stuff, stuff no one would believe, I might be able to help. But I get paid up front.”

I looked down. “I don’t have any money with me.”

She laughed derisively. “I don’t need your money. You’re a gorgeous piece of work. I reckon as I’ll have to photograph you for a couple hours before I even listen to what you have to say.”

“I have no intention of... of modeling!” I replied to her. “That’s not what I do, and it’s not why I’m here!”

“Look, you want my help, you do things my way. Now strip.”

I stood there. I wanted to leave so badly. But dammit, she seemed to know something. She was my only remaining avenue of inquiry.

“The clothes come off, or you’re out of here. How bad is your situation?”

I opened my mouth to say something, to tell her where she could put her camera. I shifted from foot to foot. She said nothing.

Steaming, I whipped my sweatshirt off. Then the gloves, then the shoes, then the socks, then the jeans.

She smiled. “No underwear?”

“Skip it,” I snapped. “Look, I’ve never done this before. At least tell me what’s involved, and where my ... my work here today might end up.”

She motioned me toward a satin-covered bed that was rather out of place in the middle of her dusty loft. “Magazines, the Internet. Doesn’t matter to me, whoever pays. Listen, I like the look, the tattoos and the piercing. I can move that kind of product, but can’t you get rid of some of those chains?”

“No,” I said firmly. “That’s part of the problem.”

A look came over her face, as though she understood something. She knew about the kind of things that had been happening to me. I think that if she had known, she might have told me to leave while I was still dressed. But it was too late now. I was standing by the bed. She gently pushed me back on it.

“Take it easy!” I protested. She sneered. “I’ll take it any damn way I please. All right, I know you’ve never done this before. Well, the work I do is hard-core. This is not Playboy.”

“Um... what does that mean?”

She grabbed a camera and began loading it. “What that means is, what I want is sex. Not sexy, but sex. Every copy of Hustler you ever sneaked a peak at, every awful cable movie you ever paused on while flipping, every web site you accidentally clicked on that said Live Show XXX. Can you do that?”

I began to gather a sheet up around me. “I’m not sure.”

She reached down and yanked the sheet away. “It’s not too late to back out. If anyone can help you, I can. And you look like you need help. But you will only get it if you do things my way.” She grabbed an unlabeled bottle of something dark and thick. “Here,” she said, tossing it to me. “Take a drink. Take two.”

“It’s a little early,” I said, uncorking the bottle and sniffing the contents. It made me a little dizzy. It smelled strong and sweet and I did not recognize it.

“Trust me. You drink this, you’ll get through this much better.”

I shrugged and took a swallow. It hit me immediately—I felt very warm and woozy before it even got to my stomach. I actually giggled as I coughed. It tasted a little like wine, a little like whiskey, a little like incense. “What is this, anyway?”

I got a smile out of her. “That’s the good stuff. Now let’s get going.”

I wasn’t quite drunk, but I definitely had some kind of buzz. I actually felt good. I mostly forgot about my situation as she started snapping the camera. I began posing, doing what I imagined you were supposed to do if someone was taking nude pictures of you. She gave me directions, some ha rsh, some nice. I felt like I was in a trance, in a bizarre and not unpleasant daydream. I made blow job faces at the camera. I spread my legs and slapped my ass. I fondled my breasts, taking my own nipples to my lips. I pulled on my labia rings. Damn it, I was having fun. And I was even a little aroused.

I started to forget that Ami was there as I rolled around on the bed. I felt heat from below, and I began to rub myself. I was making a mess on her nice bed, getting it all wet, but I didn’t care. Strange thoughts were coursing through my mind, tangles of writhing bodies ... soft, supple female flesh ... hard male muscles. I imagined I was being squeezed all over. I stuck a finger in myself, two, three. I was moaning and pulsing, wishing I was getting fucked. I had a vision that I was taking it up the ass and I loved it. Without thinking about where it came from, I started playing with a long, hard metal dildo. I shoved it in me, bucking on the bed in the apartment of the photographer ... what was her name? I put things in my ass, slippery things. Where did those come from? Soon I was having orgasm after orgasm, licking my juice from my fingers and going back down to frig myself some more. It was heaven. No, it wasn’t heaven, it was hell the way hell probably really is if you get past the centuries of anti-pleasure propaganda. I was an orgy unto myself.

Most of the rest of the session was a blur to me. I have memories of a shower, a long and soapy shower with a double dildo. I think I ate something from a bowl on the floor. For a while, I believe, we were on the roof. I just came and came and came, with a dim awareness of clicking and flashes and approving encouragement.

Then as soon as it all had started, it was over. I was sitting on a comfortable overstuffed chair with a blanket over me, and Ami was winding her film to eject it. She was silent for a while, smoking a cigarette and sipping from her bottle. My awareness was returning, of who I was and where I was and why I was there and what I had just done. It was funny that it didn’t bother me much. I wondered if I would be able to handle seeing the pictures. Finally, Ami spoke.

“You were amazing. Fucking awesome.”

I didn’t quite know what to say. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t what I expected. It felt natural. Isn’t that weird?”

She waved the bottle. “This always helps.”

I rubbed my face and concentrated on getting back to the subject that had brought me here.

“So what can you tell me about rings and tattoos?”

She put the bottle down and turned serious. “Okay. I guess it’s my turn to give it up for your camera, eh?”

Ami got up and strode over to the window. “Ever been married, Danielle?”

“No,” I replied.

“Well, you’re engaged. You’re someone’s fiancee.”

I mulled it over. I smiled and joked wryly, “I don’t remember getting proposed to.”

“Well, this will not be a marriage like any you’ve seen or heard of. And I’m sorry to say you probably don’t have much choice in the matter.”

She turned to face me. “It’s something like ... a marriage of convenience. At least for your groom. This groom, he wants to come here and once he does, he’ll want to stay.”

“Come where?” I asked. “To America?”

She laughed. “Not quite. He wants to come,” she waved an arm around her, “here.”

“To your apartment?” I was still a little foggy. To my surprise, I was feeling a little frisky, too.

She sat in an even larger chair across from mine. “Come here,” she said, patting her lap. “Sit.”

It should have seemed like a very strange request, I know, but surprisingly, it didn’t. Even more surprisingly, I slowly got up and walked over to her, sitting in her lap, wrapping my arms around her neck. I was scared and confused and it seemed like the right thing to do.

She stroked my cheek as I looked in her eyes. “He wants to visit our world for a while, and much like an immigrant from another country, it’s a lot easier for him if he has a wife, although for different reasons and in different ways.”

“Our... world?” I asked. I sounded so small, like a little girl. She started stroking my side, up and down, feeling my thigh under the sheet I had wrapped around me. I barely noticed. Well, my mind barely noticed. She definitely caught my body’s attention.

“I used to be married, too, Danielle.” She held up her let hand. I saw there was a silver band on it, much like one of mine. “I got out, but it wasn’t easy. And I still have this, so you couldn’t say I’m exactly free...”

“You... you’ve been through this?”

“Not exactly. I guess it’s different every time, for every ‘bride’.” She was now feeling around under the sheet. My legs parted willingly for her. I gasped as she started to stroke me.

“Help me,” I asked. “Help me get out of this...” I began to moan.

“Only way out is through, sugar,” she replied. Then she pulled my head to hers with her free hand, and we kissed. I’d never been with a woman. Never even thought about it until this day. And now I just wanted her to take me, I wanted her to carry me to the bed and order me around. I would have done anything for her, just then. She was still stroking me, pinching my clit as she squeezed my breasts and pulled on my nipple rings with the other hand. I was breathing fast and heavy, trying to suck her tongue out of her head. Then she brought me to orgasm with soft strokes and I felt myself begin to cry. I held her as tight as I could. Ami was now a bridge for me, between the insane world of tattoos and bindings that come in the night and the world of the sane.

We sat there for about ten minutes, then I wordlessly got up and got dressed.

“Now what?” I asked. “I won’t bring you trouble, will I?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully, “I can take care of myself.”

“Is there nothing more you can tell me?”

“Well, I can tell you that your husband-to-be is not acting alone. He has accomplices, and they are very... much more like you or me than he is, I’ll put it that way. I have no way of knowing who they are, and even if I did, I could not interfere. But they will come to you, soon enough. The preparations have but begun, my pet.”

“How did you get out of your... situation?”

She lit another cigarette. “I watched and listened. The clues are there. They cannot control you forever. They cannot keep you bound forever. The things that have been done to you, these things take energy and time and preparation. That is your best line of defense.”

She walked to the door. “That’s about all I can give you right now.”

I smiled and walked up to her. “It’s ... well, I’m scared and confused, but it’s enough, what you’ve done.”

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed her cheek. I wasn’t entirely sure what all had happened here today. I had felt good here, I wanted to stay, and I knew I’d want to come back. I was even thinking about doing more pictures.

She must have read my mind. “Listen, we may not see each other for a while. But if you get the chance, my door is always open to you... and my cameras are always ready.”

I blushed and looked away. “We’ll see.”

“Good luck to you, Danielle Dean.”

I was in the elevator going down before it occurred to me to wonder how she knew my name.