The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Quick Summary: The daughter of one of Ken’s victims has taken it upon herself to punish him, but she’s not completely heartless. She’ll let him try to escape if he can remember one tiny thing...

Quick Notes: I posted an earlier draft of this story in the Garden’s Location thread. This is not what the prompter had in mind with a nursery setting, but I’ll take any excuse to play with age regression gone wrong. Comments, as always, are welcome at .

All Grown Up

by Bad Penny

The bitch’s presence slides over him an instant before Ken feels the change. The cell—no, his perception—shifts so it’s suddenly a room. No bare concrete walls and floor, no pallet in the corner. Instead, it is a nursery with pale blue walls decorated with sun and moon trim. Warm sunlight trickles in through an open window, catching the nursery tale mobile dangling above the crib Ken suddenly finds himself in. A slight breeze makes it jerk to life, so the cow jumping over the moon seems to be chasing the owl and the pussy cat in their little boat.

He has to give the bitch credit. Her mastery of his perception is superb. He can feel the sun on his skin, feel the soft give of the crib’s mattress, hear the buzz of a lawnmower outside, smell the fresh-cut grass.

The change licks his mind. Ken knows better than to fight. The bitch is stronger than him, and she’s been doing this for a long time. Months, at least, maybe years. Time is a fuzzy concept for him now.

If only identity was, too, but the bitch is far too cruel for that. “You ruined a lot of people, including my mother. I’m not going to let you forget that.”

Perhaps she’d be kinder to him if he could remember her mother, but the name “Kelly Milton” means nothing to him. Ken had enslaved hundreds of women when he had been free. Some he kept for minutes—quickies, after all, did not take very long. Others he kept for months—eighteen was about his limit before he got bored. He can’t be expected to remember every single one.

He doubts the bitch remembers every single one of her targets. Her count has to surpass his. She wouldn’t have been able to take him down without practice. Of course, she admits nothing. She’s the worst kind, convinced she has some sort of moral superiority over him. The only difference between them is that he’s honest about his wants.

The floorboards outside the nursery creak, and then she is pushing open the door. “I see someone’s up from his nap,” she sing-songs. “How’s Mamma’s big boy?”

Ken’s not surprised when he let loose a stream of baby-talk in reply. Time is a fuzzy concept, but not so fuzzy that he doesn’t remember this is one of the bitch’s favorite hallucinations. Regression is an addictive game. Of course, he hadn’t spared his pets’ minds. The fun, for him, is in making the regression complete—feeling the knowledge slowly drain out of a beautiful woman’s mind and stretching out that perfect moment when she comprehends exactly what he’s doing to her and just how helpless she is to stop him.

Even now, when he can’t do anything, remembering the power he used to have makes Ken hard.

“Awww, Mamma’s happy to see you too, baby.” She leans over him, her chestnut hair spilling over her shoulder to dangle tantalizingly above him. Ken reaches up and grabs it, babbling happily.

She chuckles and gently extracts her hair from his fist. “I bet you’re hungry.” She lowers the crib’s railing and sits, gathering him in her lap.

Again, Ken has to marvel at her mastery. He knows he is not an infant, but she not only has the skill to make him feel and act like one, but also the skill to allow him this part of himself that’s aware of everything. Aware and helpless.

She runs a hand over his erection. “Let’s get you fed first. Then we’ll take care of this.”

She unbuttons her blouse and fumbles with the nursing bra. Ken can never tell if her clothes are an illusion as well, or if she actually dresses the part. They feel real, but so does the sunlight on his neck and side as she guides him towards her breast.

Ken also can’t tell if the milk he tastes is real, or if it’s another example of her skill.

“Ooooh, yes. That’s a good boy,” she croons, shifting so her hips slide against his. She squirms out of her skirt and then guides his free hand down beneath the elastic of her panties.

He’s gotten used to the mechanical way she uses him. He’s not so much an active participant than a living sex toy. Perhaps that’s the point. Or perhaps she has to sacrifice his enthusiastic participation in order to keep him aware of his situation.

If it’s the latter, perhaps she has other limitations. If he can learn the true extent of her skill, he’ll have an advantage. He’s had the thought before. The problem is regaining enough control so he can test her.

She comes, clenching around his fingers. “You’re such a good boy for Mamma,” she says after the last of her tremors runs through her. She slides him off her lap and gets him settled on his back. She raises his hand to her mouth and sucks her juices off him one finger at a time.

Ken groans. Captive or not, some things feel damn good. He knows what’s coming next and feels himself harden to a full erection despite his helplessness.

She gives his cock a playful squeeze. “I did say we’d take care of this.” She takes him in his mouth, and it’s warm and wet and slick, and Ken can’t stop the thrust of his hips because he needs to go deeper.

She hums, or maybe chuckles, and swallows him so he’s as deep as he’ll go. The nursery fades away. Ken almost doesn’t notice—his entire universe is pretty much his cock—but the sudden chill and the musty smell eventually force their way into his mind. And once they do, they remind him that the bitch has never dropped control like this before. Never.

The realization makes him shudder. He reaches down and grabs her hair. The bitch makes a startled sound and starts to pull back. He tightens his grip and forces her back down. “Finish what you started,” he rasps, and oh, fuck! Being able to talk feels almost as good as mouth around his cock.

Almost. The bitch grazes him with her teeth. He pulls on her hair. “None of that.” He’s surprised she actually settles down. And then he doesn’t really care because he’s close, he’s in control, and the bitch’s helpless choking noises push him over the edge.

He comes, and the bitch actually swallows. He lets go of her hair and leans back against the wall to catch his breath. She settles back on her heels and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He doesn’t like the way she’s smiling.

“You think I’m conquered that easily?” She laughs, low and throaty, and rises to her feet. “Give me more credit than that.”

The room shifts again, and they’re in some sort of Candy Land setting with gingerbread houses, candy cane fences, and butterscotch streets. The smell is cloyingly sweet. He gags.

She rises up on her tip-toes in front of him, wearing nothing but some artfully arranged blue cotton candy. “I see you’re still a sick fuck.” She laughs again. “Of course, that’s a total ‘pot meet kettle’ comment, but at least I’m only harming you.”

“And that somehow makes you better?”

“Well, it makes me less likely to get caught by a sick fuck.”

Ken tries to wrestle some control, but the landscape feels too real. “I’ve got nothing on being a sick fuck in comparison to you. I don’t need an excuse. You have to hide behind revenge.”

“Sticks and stones, little boy.” She smiles sweetly. “You let me know when you remember my mother, Kelly Milton. I may let you grow up to be a big boy then.”

“You can’t handle a big boy.”

She smirks. “And you can’t handle a big girl.” She skips up the path to one of the gingerbread houses and pauses at the door. “Kelly Milton. Remember her, and then we’ll really play.” She blows him a kiss. “I hope this time, you remember her. As fun as the nursery is, I’d really like to try something different. Bye now!”

The setting fades. Fucking bitch! Next time. He’ll get her next time. He has to, because he’s starting to go crazy.

Kelly Milton. He sighs and sits down on the pallet. The regression has to be a clue. He recalls the bitch’s chestnut hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes and tries to remember all of the pets he made into perfect little girls.

Time is fuzzy, so he doesn’t know how long it takes, but he finally remembers the research librarian he had taken on a whim. She had shown him a school photograph of her daughter—the bitch had been a gaunt-faced pre-teen at the time, poised to grow into something quite attractive if the mother was any indication—and begged him to let her go, and he had, after he had her beg for Daddy’s cock.

He hadn’t bothered resetting her back to normal. Why should he? If she was strong enough, she’d reset herself, and if she wasn’t...well, her strength, or lack thereof, isn’t his fault.

The bitch’s presence slides over him again, and Ken feels the beginning of the change. He smiles. Oh, he and the bitch will play now. Really play, as she said.