The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

What day was this?

He lay there on the bed, blinking, trying to focus. Barely aware of the sunlight streaming in the window, the cool air, the crisp white sheet that enveloped his nude body, he tried desperately to remember something, anything.

A few days earlier, he had been rushing for a taxi in the rain. Seeing one stop, he quickly commandeered it, not seeing the nearly-drenched woman that had been standing there. As he got in, he turned and saw a pair of haunting green eyes locked on him.

Normally, he would have shrugged a “sorry” and gone on. This was his life, always in a hurry: the life of a newspaper editor. There was always another story to review, another disaster to cover, another fluff piece to tolerate. It was up to him to maintain order and control, and he did it very well.

But there was something about those eyes: piercing, almost dissecting his very essence. Inexplicably, he quickly motioned for her to join him.

A small voice in his head questioned the action. “Don’t do this,” the voice warned. “She’s trouble.” But those eyes . . . He swallowed hard and stammered, “Where . . . umm . . . where are you . . . um . . .?”

Without turning her gaze from him, she spoke, almost in a whisper. “We’re going to the Devonshire,” she instructed the driver. The taxi moved from the curb and glided smoothly into traffic.

He didn’t argue with her. He couldn’t. His gaze was locked on hers and he was unable—and unwilling—to break the stare. That small voice in his head was rising from a whisper to a frantic scream. “You’re going to regret this,” it said, over and over. “You don’t do things like this.”

And he really didn’t. It wasn’t in his nature. His co-workers and acquaintances knew him to be a classic, compulsive workaholic, a bit of a control freak, always the first at his desk and the last to leave. It didn’t leave much time for a social life or close friendships. Dating . . . that was completely out of the question. Relationships were too messy, too hard to control. If there was anything he was known for, it was his need to be in charge.

Besides, his true passion was his work. He had the proverbial “nose for news”—always listening to that inner voice that pointed him to the next big story or the next hot scandal. It had always served him well.

Why he chose to ignore that familiar voice on this particular day was a mystery. It was speaking to him as loud as ever, yet, when he stared into those deep, dark green eyes, everything seemed to go still. It was as if a warm blanket had fallen over his mind, absorbing all the noise in his head.

The next thing he knew, they were at their destination—her place, perhaps? He had no idea. The only thing he could say for certain was that they had almost fallen into the apartment, his hands and mouth all over her, uncontrollably. She had led him into the bedroom, stripped him, and had him in a state of complete ecstasy before he knew what hit him.

Every time he would try to stop, to get up and do whatever it was he knew he should have been doing, she would touch his face, and fix those intense green eyes on his, and he would lose any will to resist her. He heard the words “As you wish, Mistress” spoken in what sounded like his voice, but that was impossible. It had to be . . . yet it sounded so right.

What just happened?

She sat on the window seat in her bedroom, wearing nothing but his blue oxford striped shirt, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking. Watching him stir, she replayed the events of the last 48 hours in her mind.

All she had wanted to do was treat herself to a taxi for a change. Since she had left her umbrella at her desk, the clouds had—of course—opened up the moment she stepped outside the building, drenching her in the cold Boston rain. And, as was par for the course, empty taxis were few and far between. She was amazed she had actually caught one.

She knew he hadn’t seen her, and why would he? The man in the long raincoat and hat was obviously a busy man, far too busy to take stock of a quiet, introverted, drowned rat masquerading as a woman. “It wasn’t as if he would have noticed, anyway,” she thought. She had never been one of the pretty, popular girls to start with, and turning 45 had not helped matters. But for him to just grab that taxi and start to give her that “sorry” look, well, that was just too much.

From an early age, she had found that, if she concentrated hard enough under the right conditions, she could send a burst of pure emotion at someone, getting her subject to do what she wanted. Once, as a teenager, she had gotten very angry at her foster mother—who said something about how she would never amount to anything—and she just snapped. The next thing she knew, the pot of boiling water the old nag had been carrying was on the floor and the woman was screaming in pain.

That had been enough. That was way too “Twilight Zone-ish,” and it scared her. She buried that ability deep inside her and worked to make herself an invisible entity. Occasionally it would rear its ugly head, when she was exhausted, or just in a piss-poor mood, but she worked hard to keep it under control.

On this day, however, she was wet. She was tired. And she’d had enough. She focused on him and got her taxi ride, damn it. At first, all she had intended was to get him as far away as possible from where he really wanted to go and stick him with a really big fare.

Then, she had locked into those eyes of his. She saw suppressed needs and longings in them. Hell, she knew those feelings all too well. So, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a quick roll in the hay. She kept focused on him and, the next thing she knew, they were all over each other.

She had been amazed at how . . . pliable . . . he was. Every touch, every kiss, every caress—they were all so focused on her pleasure, far more than she had even dared indicate she might want. At one point he called her “Mistress.” She hadn’t even thought about that, and yet, he had responded with fervor to even her slightest request, as if she were, indeed, his Mistress. It filled her with a sense of wonder and delight that he would think of her in that way.

Minutes became hours. Hours turned into days. Each time it looked like he might start to become aware, she would touch him and refocus those bursts of emotion on him, and it would all begin again. She hadn’t intended for it to go this far. But, once it had, she didn’t want it to end.

Two days. Forty-eight hours of sheer bliss. And now she had to face reality: he had to go back to whatever fabulous life he had, and she needed to resume her incredibly unremarkable life. She swallowed hard and pulled every ounce of energy back into herself, allowing his mind to clear for the first time since they had entered the apartment.

What do I do now?

They each had the thought simultaneously.

He sat up, stretching, seeing truly for the first time the woman who had so totally mesmerized him. She was sitting with her head bowed, eyes locked in a dull stare on the floor. The warmth and energy she had been expending was gone. For some reason, that made him want to hold her even more.

She sat there, not moving, not daring to look at him or even acknowledge his presence. He was standing now, stretching, and she fully expected him to gather his things and disappear without a further word. That thought filled her with inexplicable sadness.

Walking over, he gently put his fingers under her chin and lifted it up. “That shirt looks familiar,” he said, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

Embarrassed, she stood up. “Of . . . of course,” she stammered. “Let me go get something else to slip on and I’ll . . .”

Holding her face in his fingers, he whispered, “It looks better on you than it does on me.” She tried to turn away from him, but his hand held her steady. “Look at me. Please.”

The moment her eyes met his, he anticipated what was about to hit him. He didn’t care. He was so tired of the struggle, the need to always be the one in charge. He needed to feel that feeling of utter surrender again. He instinctively dropped to his knees in front of her. “Please, Mistress,” he pleaded, “Don’t send me away. Don’t take that warmth away from me again.”

She inhaled sharply. She hadn’t allowed a new burst of energy to flow between them, had she? Or did he really, truly want to be there? Tenderly, her fingers began to stroke his hair lovingly as his mouth went to her most intimate of areas.

Finally, joyfully, she removed the mental wall between them and allowed the energy to flow from her mind to his freely, feeling him soak up the warmth. “Stay with me,” she whispered. “Please.”

“As you wish, Mistress.” The sweetest words he had ever said. And, the sweetest words she had ever heard.