The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The office buzzed around me as I glanced at the clock on my computer. 4:54. My routine was perfected to a fine art. Rising smoothly, I picked up my briefcase and strode quickly to the toilet, making sure I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Especially Ellen Carstairs.

Ms Carstairs’ disappointment was abundantly clear. Up until a few months ago, I was an up-and-comer, busting my ass to rise through the ranks. Now I was one of the ‘clock watchers,’ losing any brownie points I’d made by staying late.

Fuck her. There were more important things than work; arenas where loyalty was a much more valuable coin.

I closed the stall door, balanced my briefcase on the back of the toilet and opened it. Then I removed my panties, carefully folded them and placed them in the case. My blouse was hung on the door. In a few seconds, my bra joined the panties.

I checked quickly that the seams on the back of my stockings were straight while the garter belt was settled just so. Then I smoothed down my skirt and put the blouse back on. I used to be a pant suit kinda girl all the way.

A simple suggestion ended that fashion trend.

My small, firm breasts bounced deliciously against my silk blouse, another recent sartorial change. I’d abandoned simple cotton for more decadent fabrics. My nipples tightened. I made a mental note to say thank you … again.

A quick check of my makeup in the mirror and I was back at my desk. No changing into running shoes for the ride home anymore. I stayed in the three-inch heels I’d been in all day. The discomfort was worth the knowledge that it was pleasing.

4:59. I turned off the light in my cubicle, put on my coat, said goodbye to my work friends and headed for the elevator at the stroke of five. Rationalizing my behavior had become easier with time. They paid me for eight hours and that was what they got. I worked my ass off for them, too. My performance had actually improved during this period; these wonderful twelve weeks.

All of these rationalizations were true. None of them mattered.

The simple fact was that I couldn’t miss the 5:15 train. I had to be at the Washington Street Brown Line stop. Period.

I walked as quickly as I could through the chilly Chicago night. The infamous wind swept up my skirt, hardening my nipples and drying the moisture on my thighs. Please. Once more, just one more trip.

I made the platform in plenty of time and positioned myself so that I was sure to get a spot on the train. For the first time all day, I was able to partially relax. Then the anticipation truly began. Would it happen again? Would it be as good as yesterday or the day before?

Was it real?

Was I going mad?

The train arrived and disgorged a small contingent of people. I led the flow into the carriage, trembling slightly as the last question rolled through my mind.

Did it matter?

That was the important one. I had wrestled with the other problems and come to satisfactory answers.

I hoped it would happen again and that it would be as good as … well, every single time it had happened. It might not be real and if it wasn’t, I almost certainly was going mad.

The answer I had come to for the last question, did it matter if I was going mad, was both simpler and more troubling. No. If I was going mad, inhabiting a madwoman’s world of my own delight and gentle delusions, then that was a road I would eagerly tread.

I waited, for there was nothing else to do. We passed the Quincy and LaSalle stops. I repressed the urge to look around.

Passengers went through the ritual of egressing and ingressing at the Library stop. I fought to keep my hands at my sides; away from my breasts and sex.

We approached the Adams stop. I began to sweat. Panic took hold in my belly, cold fingers reaching down to ensnare my bowels. If it was going to happen again, it would start around now. Just as it had eighty-three days ago, fifty-nine if you didn’t count weekends. I had come to loathe weekends.

Please, I thought as loudly as I could. I don’t know if you can hear me but please, whoever you are, let it happen for me once more.

Please!

Then came the sensation I had come to cherish, to anticipate as much as my next breath. Without warning, without preamble, reality seemed to slip out of gear. Everyone around me began to slow down until they were seemingly frozen. Time’s river, standing still.

As always, I felt her before I saw her. A tingling began down low in my belly and quickly spread through my body. Every nerve sang. All my senses were sharp as a brand-new razor.

For the first time since she left me yesterday afternoon, I was alive.

“Did you really think I would not come for you again, my pet?” I heard the suppressed laughter in her throaty contralto.

“No, not really,” I said. I let myself lean into her and closed my eyes, feeling her breasts press into me as I drank in her scent. I can only describe it as earthy and fresh with a hint of vanilla. “The fear is always there, though.”

“Banish it from your mind,” she whispered. Her strong hands reached around to unbutton my coat. I gently followed her motions, my hands on hers, reveling in the slight contact.

The promise of what was to come.

She began to undress me, as she always had since that fateful first encounter. I turned to face her part of the way through the now familiar process, gasping as I always did when I saw her. She was lovely; beyond anyone I had or would ever see.

I wasn’t a lesbian, not by that point, but I could deny her nothing.

Her eyes held me pinned as she removed my coat and blouse, using the arms of a motionless businessman as a clothes-horse. There was a power in those dark green eyes, flashes of something beyond knowing glittering like flakes of gold. I felt her flow into my mind. It’s so hard to describe, that soft sense of someone far greater sliding in and over the very contours of myself.

Then, with a nod, I was given leave to return the favor, my hands trembling slightly as I disrobed this intoxicating woman. She pulled me in for a soft kiss when I finished, taking the lead in all matters of the flesh and mind.

The actual act was, in and of itself, almost irrelevant. All that mattered was basking in her presence, pleasing her, dragging our time together as much as I could. I lived to feel her joy transmitted through my lips buried in her slick, warm sex, rolling the ring through her hood on my tongue.

I came with her, my orgasm her sweet gift.

She pulled me to my feet, kissed me softly, deeply, and we were done. It was Friday. The damned, endless weekend lay before me. Still, I dressed her as I always had, then allowed her to dress me.

I held my tongue until she began to walk away.

“Please, don’t go,” I said softly.

She slowed and glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve discussed this before, my pet. Not until you do what you must.”

Not until you do what you must. How I’d agonized over those seven simple words. I’d thought that asking her not to go was what she wanted. Wrong. Then I’d tried asking politely. Another twenty-four hours out of her presence had been my reward.

I watched her walk away again, despair blooming in my heart, when an idea suddenly rose in my mind.

“Please, Mistress,” I said in a strong, clear voice. “I surrender.”

She stopped cold. Slowly, glacially, she turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face me.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I surrender, Mistress,” I said, gazing into her dark green eyes. I was trembling, weeks of pent-up stress pouring from me. I shook so hard my thighs and breasts jiggled while my hands almost flopped about. Tears rolled down my face “I surrender to You. I am Yours, mind and body. I will abase myself before You …” I was starting to kneel when she stopped me with a gesture.

“Don’t,” she said. “The floor is filthy. I won’t have my property lying upon it.

“I accept.” She stepped forward and pressed the tip of her index finger to my forehead.

Her power tore through me, opening my mind to its widest limits. My eyes rolled back into my head; my breath hung ragged in my gasping mouth. Somehow, I stayed on my feet despite my buckling knees.

Only Her will kept me upright.

She poured into me, cataloguing all that I was. Her touch was a silken caress, spreading liquid bliss. I slipped out of myself. I was lost, hanging between a long, slow session of the sweetest, most tender love making and the culmination of a crashing orgasm.

Looking back on it now, I can see that’s exactly what was happening. All my prior encounters with Her had been foreplay. Everything I’d thought was an orgasm during our time together were mere pulses of sublime pleasure leading up to this moment. I’d thought the passion of our dance was the sweetest I would ever know. Oh, foolish girl!

Distantly, I felt Her reach down the corridors of power She had laid into my mind. How do I convey to you how it felt? How do I paint the picture showing how She sorted through my mind, my gift to Her, then gathered up and filed away those parts that no long had any meaning in my life while I screamed my thanks? My family, friends, career, apartment … all slid in neatly upon themselves like the folds of an accordion.

All the while, the pleasure continued to build. I was a trembling, sweating, drooling, blissed-out wreck, laid out upon a silver serving platter for Her to dine upon.

I couldn’t have been happier.

Then I felt Her twist the energy in my mind, swirling it and then giving a slight push. I swear there was a distinct click. She pushed a pulse of energy through me; sealing my mind, binding me to Her and finally, blessedly, pushing me over the edge into a blinding orgasm.

Just saying “I came” doesn’t do justice to these sensations. This was the perfect storm of a climax, coating the layers of Her handiwork in my mind with layer upon layer of molten bliss. I have no idea how long it lasted, nor can I provide any further details.

I do remember that for the first time, I spoke the most important word in my existence. I called Her “Mistress.” That was the sweet cap to my taking.

My mood was oddly blissful when I came out of the orgasm into my new self. I was still me. I could still think and remember who I had been. I had been perfected and purified by the sweet certainty of my new reality.

Mistress had accepted. I belonged to Her.

Time slipped back into gear. The carriage doors opened for the Adams stop and we exited. I followed Her, keeping my head down as I thought appropriate.

“No,” I heard Her soft voice and felt Her strong hand lifting my chin. “That is inappropriate, but you could not know that. Let me explain. Some of my kind prefer that their slaves keep their heads down as a sign of obeisance. That is not my way, my pet.

“I do not have many slaves, sweet girl,” She whispered. Her smile was a warm fire on a cold January night. “Each of my pets is unique and adored. Do you know how long I searched before I found you? Months, my pet, I searched for seventeen months before I found you on that train. Only then could I begin our pas-de-deux. You were worth the wait.

“So no, my pet, do not hang your head. Hold your head high in pride at all times. Know that you were chosen. Know that you are cherished.”

We shared a tender kiss that caused one gawking teen to walk into a support column, and then I followed Her down the stairs out of the station.

I could barely suppress a smile when I saw the sign for the Adams Brown Line stop. I wondered if She knew that I’d been on that train by accident twelve weeks before.

She probably wouldn’t care.