The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dear Readers:

Some of you have requested a sequel to After Work. It’s got more of what that story had: femdom, male-male, nonconsensual, etc. Steer clear if that doesn’t float your boat.

I’m always pleased to hear from readers who enjoy my stories. I like writing, and I’m curious about people-what they like, what they find interesting, and what they want.

Best,
Adam Lily
* * *

After Work: Into the Fold

I’d come right home after work, which was odd. These days, I normally went to the gym. In the last six months, I’d become quite the gym rat. I didn’t entirely understand why—I’d never been much for exercise before. I’d just suddenly felt compelled to get in shape. And the results had been great. I’d lost twenty pounds and toned up nicely. My wife appreciated the changes. And I liked how the women at work were taking notice. Getting noticed by twentysomethings gave this 35-year-old guy’s ego a boost.

Not that I’d ever cheat on my wife. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I wake up every morning with that thought in my head: Your wife is the best thing that ever happened to you. And I’m so grateful for everything she does—another thought I wake up with, every morning: You are so grateful for everything she does. I love my wife so much that, when I think these thoughts, I hear her voice, not my own.

Like I said, I’d skipped the gym that day. I was wiped out—I’d gotten to work at 4:30 in the morning, and it was now 5 p.m. All I wanted was to get home, sip a glass of red wine, relax with the dulcet metrosexual tones of NPR, and share my day with my wife.

I was disappointed, then, to reach my driveway and encounter an unknown car. My wife had a friend over. Jillian, maybe, or Monique, or Rebecca—although that car didn’t belong to any of them. Whatever. The car meant no relaxing for me: I had to be social.

The day was cold, windy, and rainy, so I was grateful to discover the house warm, dry, and comfortable. Spotlessly clean. My wife took tremendous care of the place—she practically did the work of three people each day. I marveled how she got it all done. The scent of homemade bean-and-bacon soup simmered in the crock-pot.

“Home,” I called. No answer. I kicked off my shoes and set down my laptop and headed up the stairs to our bedroom. And I heard music—something gentle, electronic, thrumming. Relaxing. I’d never heard it before, but it seemed familiar, anyway. Something from a dream

The music was coming from our bedroom. I opened the door to find my wife and a guy I’d never seen kissing on the bed. They were clothed, except that the guy’s cock was out and my wife’s pale white hand was firmly and slowly jacking it. Two glasses of red wine cuddled on the nightstand. The air was perfumed, the music gently throbbing.

“My God,” I said.

“Hey, man,” said the guy, smiling. He was familiar, too. “Here we are again.”

“What the fuck,” I said. “Who the fuck are you? N___, what are you doing?”

My wife sighed. “You’re home early. Why aren’t you at the gym?”

I boggled. “Why aren’t I at the gym? What the fuck are you doing? Who the hell is this?“

The guy snorted. “Oh, right. The little game you play.”

“What fucking game?”

“He’s a good actor,” said the guy. “He always really seems angry.”

Rage roared in me. I was going to beat the living fuck out of this guy. I’d never been in a fight before, but my new gym-body made me think I could do it.

I’d nearly reached the guy when my wife said, “Subby hubby.”

My legs wobbled, and my legs gave out, and my torso filled with light, and my mind thickened and exploded, whipping away like puffs of marijuana smoke.

I fell to my knees, my gaze fixed on my wife’s small, slender, pale hand gripping his thick, red, cut cock. The purple head was dry except for a large bead of precum that had bubbled over.

Now I remembered. The guy had been right: Here we are again, like so many times before.

Except this time was different. The other times, the music hadn’t been with us. Or the sweet scent. Or the wine. Or the tremendous television behind me and that my wife and the guy were facing. This time was different.

“Silly subby hubby,” my wife cooed. “Why aren’t you at the gym?”

“I was tired,” I said. My voice always sounded like I was speaking from a deep foam tunnel. “I worked so long. I just wanted to relax with you.”

My wife tsked. “Exercise every day, hubby. You know that.“

“He does look really good these days,” said the guy, leering. “The silly faggot.”

Pleasure jolted through me, and my erection inflated. The guy had gotten really good at abusing me, thanks to my wife’s coaching. Your wife is the best thing that ever happened to you.

My wife sighed. “Him getting home early is a wrinkle. But we can turn this to our advantage.” Her eyes locked mine. “Hubby: Go work out in the basement. Earn your keep. You understand me? I need about another hour.”

“Seriously?” said the guy. He was obviously ready right now. “And an hour? What for?”

She grinned toothily, kissed him. “For us, silly. To get you super-duper ready for the fun.” And she rubbed her thumb, a little too firmly, over the head of his cock. He shuddered and gasped.

My wife showed me her thumb, glossed with the guy’s pre-cum. “Lean in, hubby.” I did, and she painted an invisible, sticky circle on my forehead.

The guy chuckled. “Goddamn do I love you guys. I practically want to move in.”

“Mmmm,” said my wife. “Hubby, go work out. Come back around 6:30. And bring up a full bottle. Lover and I are going to keep enjoying ourselves.”

I left them smooching on the bed and descended to our home gym in the basement. An extravagant den of mirrored walls and weight sets and jump ropes and elliptical machines and treadmills, all facing an enormous television mounted on the wall.

An hour wasn’t much time, so I hurried. First, a quick rinse in the shower, along with a shave to remove my pubic hair. Then a deep toweling off. A few stretches to warm up. Good enough. I opened a hidden panel—one my daylight mind knew nothing about—and turned on the cameras and microphones. Anyone with an Internet connection, a credit card, and a fetish for nude exercise could now see our gym.

Earn my keep, she said. So many ways to do that. This specific way involved me working out in only running shoes and a cockring.

After putting on that uniform, I set a timer. Then I turned on the television. A corner pop-up said “15 viewers.” By the time I’d gotten on the treadmill and turned on the pornography, 25 total strangers were watching me run an 8-minute mile in the nude.

The pornography, it was always the same genre, even if the specifics changed. A man serving a woman. A man serving a woman and a man. Two men serving a woman . . . . you get the gist. And woven through the pornography, something else, some music I couldn’t quite hear, some voice that bypassed my ears and directly hit my brain.

Fifty-seven viewers, now. Nobody I knew, but they knew me . . . . every jouncing, sweating inch of me.

Running with a full erection? Not easy. Running in a viselike cockring that balloons out your balls like some purple tropical frog? Even harder. But I loved it. I felt so happy, so open, so fulfilled, so free. Oh, and so, so horny. I’d learned a rhythm that caused my prick to whirl ’round and ’round like an obscene rotor. And I oozed, oh, I oozed, my cock periodically whipping off precum that thapped against my forearms, my ankles, my eyes and lips. My lips were the best, because I could taste myself.

On screen, kneeling porn-men pumped their cocks as standing women lovingly stroked their heads.

Three eight-minute miles later, my cock was a numb, purple club, and my distended balls ached. I took the pace down, toweled myself off, and started a cool-down pace.

I called up the chat window on the monitor. Line after line of requests from my audience. Well, not just requests. Some were praising me, some were cheering me on, and some were calling me filthy names. All made me feel wonderful—not just cock-wonderful or prostate-wonderful but deep-soul wonderful, purpose wonderful. Fulfilled wonderful.

Your wife is the best thing that ever happened to you. You are so grateful for everything she does.

I smiled dopily and reviewed the requests. Most were familiar by now, but that was fine. I was happy to serve the customer, happy to earn my keep. Here was a familiar one . . . .

I went to the squat bar and put on a decent warm-up weight. Then I retrieved a medium butt plug, lubed it up with my mouth, and slipped it into my rear. And then I commenced to do a full set of squats, the challenge being to keep the butt plug in. If it slipped out, I needed to retrieve a larger one and start over. And if that larger one slipped out, move to the next size up.

Three butt-plugs later, I finished my set, my legs trembling, sweat blinding me. My God. Sadly, my cock had shrunk. Not to nothing, but still. But my shrinkage was also fortunate. My blood was needed elsewhere.

I checked the comments. More praise, more cheering, more name-calling. My cock recovered. I felt so proud.

On screen, the porn-men were on their backs, faces smothered by squatting women.

I looked at the clock. Fifteen more minutes, and I was already wiped out. My audience, they were killing me. Who were they? Dirty old men? College girls? Kinky couples? Right-wing congressmen or stoned burnouts? I had no idea. And it didn’t matter. I was earning my keep for my wife.

One audience member suggested I needed a further cool-down. And so I did. I made a bowl of ice water, set it on the floor in front of me, and plunged my poor, swollen balls and cock into it. And it hurt—Christ, did it hurt!—and I cried aloud, and kept my head up, and kept looking at the comments, and I showed them my agony, O My God did they love me . . .

Put some ice up your ass.

Yes, I will.

More ice. Stretch it, piggy.

Yes, I will.

Suffer, piggy.

I am, I am.

Do what we say.

I will, I will.

On screen, a kneeling porno-man was blowing a sitting porno-man who was kissing a woman who was petting the kneeling porno-man’s head.

The music and the voice I could not hear caressed my brain.

Your wife is the best thing that ever happened to you.

Yes, she is.

You are so grateful for everything she does.

Yes, I am.

The timer went off. I wrenched my red, abused cock from the ice water . . . oh, I feared for its health. Meltwater from my ass streamed down the backs of my legs. Trembling, I stood and waved wanly to my audience. Lots of comments begging me, ordering me, to stay.

Sorry, folks. My wife, she needs me back. Off went the cameras.

I showered again, warmth returning to my loins. God, I hurt. God, I felt wonderful. I dried off, applied a light scent, and made sure my cock and sac were as appealing as possible. I believed I knew what was coming next, and I needed to make it as appealing as possible.

I retrieved the wine and ascended to the second floor and returned to my wife and her lover. My bedroom was much warmer, the scent a little heavier, the music thrumming bone-deep like a distant train. They were naked, of course, the man cross-legged on the bed, my wife pressed up tight behind him, her thighs by his waist, her feet by his knees. My wife had reached around and slowly stroked his cock. Up, then down. And up. Then down. A slow, deep, mesmerizing rhythm. He was almost comically hard.

And the enormous television facing them was on. And on the screen were the same videos I had consumed in the gym. No audience statistics or comment box, of course. But the same men serving their women, and men pleasuring men for their women, and women deriving their own pleasure from men serving them and pleasuring other men.

My wife was whispering in her lover’s ear. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it.”

The man had a thousand-yard stare. No, a ten-thousand yard stare. His whole self was absorbed by the monitor. “Wonderful,” he mumbled. No expression. Just, “wonderful.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it.”

“Beautiful,” her lover agreed. Whenever he agreed, she gave his cock a little extra pull-and-pump, and he shuddered.

She looked at me, cocked her head to the empty wine glasses. I filled just one and brought it over.

“You’re thirsty for wine,” my wife told her lover. “You want to drink it all.”

“Yes,” he said. He took the wine and swigged it all down. His eyes never left the screen. My wife signaled I should fill another glass. I did, and he took it again, and down it went.

On screen, a kneeling man was blowing a standing man. The woman had her hand on the back of the kneeling man’s head and was talking softly in his ear.

“You feel wonderful,” said my wife.

“Wonderful,” he agreed. And she pulled-and-pumped a little faster, and he shuddered and groaned.

“Happy,” said my wife.

“Happy.” Pull. Pump. Shudder. Groan.

“Purposeful.”

“Purposeful.” Pull. Pump. Shudder. Groan. On and on like that. I stood on standby.

Minutes passed as my wife talked to him and he agreed with everything. His breathing quickened, his pulse raced. The tension of approaching orgasm.

“Look left,” said my wife. The guy did. My cock stared back at him.

“It will fulfill you,” said my wife. Pull, pump, shudder, groan.

The guy breathed in sharply, and his eyes refocused. The three of us, we’d been playing together for months. I’d blown him, and I’d let him cum on my face, and I’d sipped his semen from my wife’s heavenly twat, and recently he’d even fucked me and spanked me and cum in my ass.

But he’d never kissed my cock before. He’d never done anything to reciprocate.

But my wife had never put him under before. Not until today.

“I—” the guy said. He was struggling. “No, I—”

Pull, pump, shudder, groan. “It will free you.”

“Nuuhh—” he said. I stepped forward a little bit. I was inches from his lips.

“It will free you.” Pull, pump, shudder, groan. A throaty moan. He was so close to release. A bead of precum oozed out of my head; I’m sure a river of the stuff was flowing from his.

“Fu- fu- uhh,” he kind-of-said.

“Kiss it,” she said. “Kiss it. And you’ll be released.” Pullpumpshuddergroan.

The guy breathed deeply and sat forward and kissed my cock. Precum anointed his lips.

“More,” said my wife. “Take it in.” Pull. Pull. PUMP.

The guy moaned in defeat and opened his mouth wide and took in the head of my cock. My cock was still cool from the ice-bath, and the warmth felt good.

“Good boy,” my wife said. “Suck that cock. Here’s your reward.” PullPUMPPUMPPUMP.

The guy hollered around my cock as he came, came bigger than he’d ever cum, a cum more devastatingly transformative than even his very first one. His orgasm rocketed up from his toes through his pelvis up his spine and into his brain, searing his mind with the most important lesson of his life: Suck cock, get pleasure. Suck cock, be rewarded. Suck cock, and you’ll experience an ecstasy that you’ll do anything to experience again. You’ll do anything at all.

I know the guy felt like he was cumming for hours, but of course it was only about 10 seconds. Still, his output was prodigious. Up shot his pearly ropes, slathering his chest, painting his neck, hanging from his chin, dripping back down onto his thighs, his shins, running over my wife’s still-pumping hand as she emptied her lover’s balls in the same way as she had emptied his brain with the scent and the music and the drugged wine and the video subliminals.

Just like she’d done to me.

Once the guy’s balls were empty, my wife released his cock. His head lolled off my own cock, and he slumped back into my wife, staring vacantly at the screen. The subliminals in the television were stuffing his brain with all sorts of information.

“Hubby,” she said. “Our guest has made a mess. Please clean him up, in the way you love.”

I lip-ate the cum hanging from his chin, slurped up the spunk on his neck and chest and legs. I lovingly cleaned my wife’s glazed hand. And, finally, I carefully, gently, tenderly cleaned her lover’s cock. Of course he groaned and moaned and shuddered. A post-cum-cockhead is the most sensitive thing in the world. But never did he stop staring at the screen. Never was he ever anything but empty.

Your wife is the best thing that ever happened to you. You are so grateful for everything she does.

Once I’d cleaned him, my wife and I took good care of him. I carefully (if awkwardly) put his clothes back on. She cooed in his ear, told him what a good boy he was, told him what he’d remember from this day, and what he’d forget, and how he’d come back soon, how he’d need to come back. How it’d be quicker next time, how he wouldn’t need so much wine or scent or television. Oh, and, by the way, here’s a very important phrase for you, this is the most important phrase in your life, because the phrase is the doorway to what you just felt, the passageway to the new thing growing inside of you. . . .

My wife and I dressed and left the room. We ate supper. He slept. I ate her out, and she practically broke my neck with her orgasm. He slept. She made me jack off into a wine glass and then sip it while we watched television. He slept.

He had to sleep. What was happening to his brain, he could hardly be conscious for it.

Around 11 p.m. we heard sounds. Downstairs he came.

“Wow,” he said. Bright-eyed. Normal. Clueless. “You guys really wiped me out this time. That was incredible.”

My wife grinned knowingly. I just nodded my head.

At the door, he said, “Um. All right. Do this again? Soon?”

“Counting on it,” said my wife, grinning. “Maybe we’ll show you our gym.”