The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the middle of the night, Rania propped herself up on one elbow and looked at the moonlight streaming into the bedroom, where she was spending the night with a young hoodlum she had never seen before.

She tried to stop the merry-go-round spinning in her head, and find a quiet moment to think. The boy next to her was sound asleep, and she knew that she was not permitted to wake him: but her little body was buzzing with sex twinges, and she felt driven to draw closer to the boy and offer herself again. Anxiety met anxiety and kept her still.

Her breasts were hanging over the boy’s head; it would not take much motion to drag her stiff nipple across his cheek. She could almost feel what would happen, the neural circuit between nipple and pussy being triggered.... She tried to stop imagining it. She wanted to calm down, but it wasn’t working.

That image, the image of looking down over her bare breasts at someone below...it had always given her an odd feeling. She remembered her teenage self looking down at a man she had been infatuated with, and being a little shocked to see him framed by so much flesh, flesh that hardly seemed to belong to her at that moment. Guys cared so much about these big things on her chest, and she carried them around without always knowing what to do with them, as if they were only in her keeping, to be delivered at intimate moments to their real owners.

Now the owners had taken possession, not just of her breasts, but of all of her. She looked down between her hanging breasts at the sleeping boy who had claimed her for the night. He was a light-skinned black, his hair elaborately braided. His face looked almost gentle now, but he had not shown her any kindness before. He might be a killer—the gang who owned her liked to talk about killing people. She could still feel his sperm inside her, and a smudge of it on her thigh. He had a series of ugly tattoos on his arms: his stomach was tight and muscled. His sex lay limp across his thatch of black pubic hair; it was rather small now, though it had not been small when erect. He had not exactly hurt her when he had fucked her, but he had thrown her roughly from one position to the next, and slammed into her from behind as hard as he could, as if speed and anger turned him on.

Panicky, she felt herself lowering her soft body down onto the boy, and froze in fear. Thinking about being fucked was making her thoughts spiral out of control. She lay as still as she could on her elbow, watching her tense nipples tremble every time her heart beat.

Two days ago, she had heard one of her johns mention what day it was, and it had been her birthday. She was 21 now, which meant she had been a slave for almost two years. Her sense of time had been impaired by her slave training; she would have guessed that it had been longer. Only four years ago, she was still a virgin. Among her European prep school crowd, she had been considered a prude—17 was a ridiculously late age to be broken in. As hard as she might try, she couldn’t remember the feeling of being able to have sex and then leave it behind, get on with the rest of your life.

The boy in bed with her stirred, and all Rania’s senses went on alert. He rolled toward her, and his hips and leg met hers. Rania’s brain exploded in a thousand little sparks. She leaned lightly into the boy, ran her whole forearm gently up his side, and tipped her upper body forward, placing her left nipple softly between his lips. The half-asleep boy took the bait, sucking the big, purple nipple into his mouth and twisting it with his teeth. Rania’s body was thinking for her now; her fingers and toes all found a grip on the boy, and her hips rubbed up against his sex and began a rippling motion that stroked and squeezed him. In a few seconds, the boy threw Rania down on the bed and took command; he pushed her head into the pillows with one hand, lifted her hips into the air with the other, and plunged into her.

The gang members weren’t sure whether to believe the boy who said that Rania had spoken to him. But it was a good story, and over the course of a few days it was embellished with a number of made-up details. Whoever had given Rania heroin that night was no longer around, and the gang never made the connection between the drugs and Rania finding her voice. The earwitness had reported that Rania was Arabic, and that her name was “Tanya, or something—Tanisha—some shit like that.” The gang had been referring to Rania as “that retarded bitch,” but the name Tanya gained some currency after that.

The gangsters were intrigued by the fact that Rania might be Arabic, and one night, after a drunken party, one of them put on some music and told her to do a belly dance. They got quite a bit more than they bargained for: the whooping and hollering from the house woke up the entire neighborhood. Rania was wearing a flimsy white slip that was her whoring outfit; whipped into a frenzy by her wild dancing (the gang had put on hip-hop music, but the beat worked perfectly well for a belly dance), one of the boys ran up to Rania and brutally tore the slip off of her, knocking her to the floor. She continued her dance naked, but the situation became unstable quickly. Rania would have been gangraped on the living room carpet if the leader of the gang had not seized her and carried her bodily to a bedroom, where he fucked her before they even reached the bed.

An unexpected side effect of this scary incident was that police arrived at the house to investigate the disturbance of the peace. In the end, a number of the hoodlums spent the night in jail, and two were charged with possession of narcotics. The gang had to lay low, and Rania’s whoring was temporarily suspended.

Holed up in a friend’s room with Rania, the gang leader had the idea of using her dance skills to make some legitimate money. One day the two paid a visit to the Los Angeles office of John Washington, a young entrepreneur and promoter who hailed from the gang’s neighborhood. After pulling the shades, the gangster turned on the radio and ordered Rania to dance for Washington, whose eyes almost popped out of his head. Then Rania was told to strip naked and dance again. The gangster explained that Rania was simpleminded, and obeyed whatever she was told.

Washington was puzzled. The girl was obviously not simpleminded. “Who put the tattoo on her ass?” he said.

“The homies were having some fun one day,” said the gangster.

“It’s got to go.”

“What is the problem with a stripper having a tattoo?” asked the gangster.

“You people think small,” said Washington.

Washington came up with a plan to make a great deal of money off of Rania, but there was an element of risk that made him uncomfortable. Who was this bizarre girl, how had she been reduced to her current state, and who might come looking for her? He decided to proceed with caution. Rania was told to put her mark on a lot of legal documents (Rania could no more write than she could talk), and Washington took charge of her, installing her in the back room of a huge bar he had acquired near Crenshaw and Adams.

Pretending that Rania was deaf and dumb and that he was her interpreter, Washington took her to a dermatologist and had the offending tattoo removed. Rania’s ass wouldn’t be presentable for a while, but Washington needed time anyway: he planned to renovate the bar as an Oriental-themed nightclub.

Washington quickly figured out that Rania was incapable of disobedience, and he put her on a detailed schedule, knowing she would follow it helplessly while he took care of business during the day. The worst of it for Rania was that Washington had told her to practice dancing as strenuously as possible for two hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon. “As strenously as possible” meant to Rania that she had to dance as if under the whip of Fouaz’s first wife. So each morning at 10:00, Rania dressed in the cute little gym outfits that Washington had bought her, and began dancing as if her life depended on it, struggling to move her body in ways that bodies normally don’t permit. Within minutes she was drenched in sweat—but she had to complete the two-hour workout, and then had to perform whatever chores Washington had scheduled for her afterwards, though she could barely move. There was rest time built into her schedule; but at 14:00, she began dancing again.

The second and third days were worse than the first, as her aching muscles begged for inactivity. But, as the weeks passed, Rania once again turned into the superhuman dancer that Fouaz’s first wife had created. Her fleshy body developed a powerful infrastructure of muscle, and her large, soft ass cheeks became as round as two soccer balls, projecting at a dramatic angle from her lower back. She could once again rotate her hips in an oval that was almost a meter across, all the time keeping her upper body so still that her breasts barely quivered. She could kneel and arch backwards until her entire body looked as if it would fit inside a large briefcase, and still undulate so that her breasts moved in synchronized circles across her chest, and her feet fluttered rhythmically on either side of her head. She could cock her hips behind her until a valley developed between her ass and back, then tuck them so far forward that her sex would gradually come into view, its lips parting slowly.

Washington dropped by the bar more and more often as the club’s opening date approached, to watch Rania’s practice sessions and to give her dance instruction. He had definite ideas about how she should present herself, and organized her moves into a choreographed act. At night, every night, he fucked her. Surprisingly, he was an excellent lover, as sensual and attentive at night as he was remote and businesslike by day. Rania was easily brought to orgasm with or without such attention, but he seemed to enjoy giving her pleasure, and lingered inside her as long as possible. He never cared to take advantage of the erotic possibilities of Rania’s total obedience, and the belly-dancer mystique that he crafted so carefully for her during the day didn’t seem to be part of his own fantasy life. He spent a few unhurried hours with her each evening, then dressed and returned to his apartment without a word.

Rania’s ass had completely healed from the tattoo removal by the time Washington was ready to open his new nightclub. He fussed over a belly dance outfit for Rania, trying endless variations: the final result, though not quite as naked as the jewelry-only ensemble that her brother had once crafted for her, was inspired by the same Orient-via-Hollywood mythology. Diaphanous skirts hung low on her hips and descended to her ankles: the law would require that Rania’s sex be covered, but Washington made sure that her tights did not show through the filmy garments. A jeweled, tasseled push-up bra lifted Rania’s huge breasts high on her chest. Washington had been very particular about this bra, knowing how important its contents were to his enterprise, and had rejected one design after another until Rania’s breasts bounced exactly the way he wanted them to. A fake ruby was pasted onto Rania’s navel, and various other jewels and bangles were placed here and there. In addition to several rings, Rania wore finger cymbals, which she already knew how to use. Below her ankle bracelets, Rania’s feet were bare, and Washington had the wood floor of the club sanded and polished until there was no danger of her picking up slivers. Compared with other exotic dancers, Rania showed a lot of flesh.

A crucial part of Rania’s dance costume was a thick, almost opaque veil. Not only did Washington think that Rania’s mysterious appearance would be good business, but he also wanted to make sure that no one would recognize her. If the nightclub was a success, Rania would become a minor celebrity, and it would be crucially important that no one speak to her or encounter her anywhere but on the club floor.

Washington got a decent turnout for his opening night, mostly friends and business contacts. EVeryone wondered why there were almost as many bouncers in the club as there were customers—but the reason for this expenditure became clear when Rania (billed as Tanya) did the first of her two nightly floor shows. Rania undulated onto the dance floor in a state of high anxiety: in her tampered-with mind, dancing was a way of offering herself to be fucked; but Washington had given her orders that she should move quickly in the opposite direction if anyone should try to touch her. Fortunately, no one could see her internal conflict through her dark veil. And there was certainly enough else to look at besides her face, most notably her outsized breasts, flying in every direction in their light casing, every jiggle controlled with pinpoint accuracy by barely perceptible twitches of her torso. Fouaz’ s first wife used to hold the point of her whip at different places around Rania’s chest, sometimes nearly a foot away, and train the miserable, naked girl to swing her breasts until her soft flesh would just barely brush the whip. If she missed, or slapped too hard into the whip, or moved her torso too visibly, she took a lash on the thighs or ass. By the time she was completely trained, Rania’s breasts had practically taken on a life of their own, and all her owners had become accustomed to feeling the little princess’s hard, purple-black nipples brushing lightly against them at every opportunity: while she served them at table, knelt at their feet, or moved in her sleep.

Rania’s dancing was awe-inspiring from the front or the rear: her ass seemed almost as mobile as her breasts, and almost as exceptional in quality. No one in the room had ever seen a belly dancer who moved in such an openly lewd fashion. Where Rania had learned her art, a dancer was obligated to fulfill the desires that she provoked; but, instead of prostrating herself on the ground at the end of her dance, she followed Washington’s orders and scampered out the exit to her rooms, guarded by a phalanx of bouncers.

The club’s host announced that Rania would perform again at midnight, and the giddy audience took to their cell phones, alerting their friends. The room was considerably more crowded by the time Rania made her second appearance, lit by a spotlight. Everything was exactly as before—except that Rania was now topless. The crowd went berserk, and the bouncers had to force people back into their seats. Rania worked the room once more, starting out in a slow, sensual mode, and gradually building energy. Clubgoers were splashed by the sweat flying off of her bouncing breasts as she paused by their tables. The house was in an uproar by the time Rania ran off the floor; the bouncers blocking the exit after her departure had to earn their pay.

“Tanya” was a hit. The sizable club was quickly booked for months in advance. Washington successfully kept the press away from Rania, who never left the club building. His secrecy looked like a shrewd publicity gimmick, and no one questioned his motives in keeping Rania under wraps. Still, success worried Washington: he feared that the avalanche of publicity would result in Rania’s past coming to light, with unknown legal consequences for himself. He decided to make as much money as possible in a short time, then to call an end to the game before something bad happened. Despite all his efforts to control Rania’s image, some clubgoers snuck digital cameras into the club, and topless, veiled pictures of Rania began circulating on the Internet.

Rania’s sex-addled brain had a hard time dealing with the stimulation of so much dancing, and she spent much of her days in an uncomfortable, lubricated fog. Every night, almost without exception, Washington came to her bed in the early hours of the morning, after the club was closed. He always spent a few minutes trying to calm Rania down to a less urgent and passionate state, then lay the whimpering girl on her back and made love to her in a leisurely fashion. Rania had not really been trained for this kind of sexual treatment, and it made her anxious; but Washington seemed to enjoy the game of pacifying his high-strung lover. Other than Washington, Rania fucked no one, and saw no one except for her goggle-eyed public.

After eight months of doing land-office business, Washington got word that a private investigator was trying to gather information about Rania, though he couldn’t discover who the investigator was working for. Tempted to shut down immediately, Washington decided to maintain Rania’s normal schedule of public appearances while he started looking for dancers to replace her, dancers with identity papers and normal lives. Getting rid of Rania would be a delicate matter, but he suspected that her amazing sex drive might make her very valuable to certain people, and he quietly investigated his options.

Rania was not notified that her dance career was ending. After her last night in the club, she returned to her room as usual. Washington appeared on time and made tender love to her for hours. As the first light of dawn broke, Washington got out of bed, dressed, and ordered Rania to use the bathroom. When she returned, there was a large suitcase open on the floor; Washington told the naked girl to curl up inside it. Rania was very flexible, and fit inside the suitcase easily.

“Now don’t move at all until the suitcase is opened,” he told her. Rania became very still. Her obedience was below the level of consciousness: she felt almost paralyzed.

Without a word of farewell, Washington zippered Rania into the suitcase, and in fifteen minutes two men arrived to cart her outside and strap her to the luggage rack of their van. Naked, motionless and packed for travel, Rania was transported up the Pacific Coast Highway and toward Northern California.

The dancer that Washington found to replace Rania (a stripper, actually, who had briefly studied Middle Eastern dance) did not make a good impression on Rania’s following, and the club lost business and closed a year later. But Washington had expected no less, and he did not waste money trying to keep the enterprise afloat. All in all, he had done quite well for himself.