The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cynthia woke up at about quarter past noon and promptly launched herself into the bedroom ceiling. You see, when she awoke on the floor beside the wreckage of her bed, she found herself head down, ass up, arms stretched before her. I had something to do with that. While she was sleeping I kept planting “seed feelings” in her body that made her feel uncomfortable in whatever position she was in. Quite unconsciously I slowly “herded” her into her posture of supplication. Of course, finding herself in that position when she awoke scared the living fuck out of her. Hence the drywall and carpentry damage.

She tried to shake it off and start her day, but now she had a bigger problem. Shortly after she turned on the shower, she heard the water trickling down the drain and began to shiver uncontrollably. It sounded too much like the water hose and drain in my training room. She couldn’t do it. So she plugged the drain and ran a bath instead.

«I’d rather have a bath anyway,» she rationalized, «I need something to soothe my nerves»

Even so, her whole body trembled again as she tried to wash her face. She couldn’t quite bring herself to put the soapy washcloth over her nose and mouth. So she soaped up her hands and washed her face that way. She was barely able to steel herself to splash water onto her face to rinse the soap off, but somehow she did it. She solved the problem of toweling her face and hair by squeezing the water out of her hair by hand. Blow-drying her wet face and damp hair this way hardly took any longer than before her irrational fear of towels.

She got dressed, fixed herself a late brunch, and tried to figure out what she was going to do about her wrecked bed. It was not just a matter of cleaning up. She was wondering whether she should replace the bed at all. Whatever madness was possessing her at night was clearly not going to change anytime soon. Why bother to replace it if she was just going to wreck it again?

Living without a bed would certainly not be a hardship for Cynthia. For centuries as an Amazon Warrior, long before she came to “Man’s World”, she frequently found it necessary to “sleep rough” in the field, on hard, lumpy ground. A nice soft carpeted floor would really not be a problem at all. So, no bed then.

All that remained, then, was to take care of the broken bed and ceiling. After backing her car out of the garage, she laid down a large tarp on the garage floor. Then at super-speed she ferried down heaps of wreckage onto the tarp. It still took her several minutes and then she still had to spend time vacuuming up splinters and bits of dry wall. Done at last with the cleanup she changed into her Majestic Woman uniform, grabbed the corners of the tarp, and flew out of the open garage as fast as she could, hoping that no one saw her. Off to the nearest landfill, where she gladly dumped the whole mess, quite anonymously.

And now what about the rest of the day? Though she was already dressed for action, the thought of going on patrol filled her with dread. So she thought of a compromise.

«I still have the Betelgeusean invasion defense plan to finish».

She sat down to work on her report. Greased Lightning and Magic Lamp both had sent feedback on her preliminary analysis. She incorporated what she could into her defense plan. After another review of Power Man’s reconnaissance report, she was still quite certain that the Betelgeuseans had made a fatal error. It was clear that that Empire’s leadership was not what it had once been.

«I wonder if we could create some kind of rebellion? Something to make them too busy to come after us maybe? Something that might even topple the Empire?»

But she decided against it.

«We had best just mobilize for the attack. After we beat their asses we can see about creating an insurgency.»

So she finished up and fired off her recommendations to the executive team. She’d done good work and she knew it.

Now she had time to cook and enjoy a leisurely dinner, and time to be alone with her thoughts. Her thoughts scared her. She hardly recognized herself in the abused, submissive woman she remembered from her dreams. Lucid, horrifying, humiliating dreams two nights in a row. And yet her clearest memory from each dream was the overwhelming desire she felt for her abuser, the pleasure she felt when she submitted to his control, and the earth-shaking orgasms he gave her.

Last night’s anal rape had been horribly painful, and it seemed to go on forever. But at the end—with no sexual pleasure involved at all—she still had the most powerful orgasm of her life.

«I don’t know what’s going on with me. But these dreams are going to drive me crazy.»

This idea of submission had once seemed so foreign to her, but she had lived in “Man’s World” long enough now that she had seen it happen many times. Women giving up their independence, their careers, their very lives at the behest of some man. Until now she had never understood the reason for, the attraction of, submitting to another’s will. Even now she couldn’t understand why her dreams were doing this to her.

«It just doesn’t make any sense! Have I been outside the Queendom too long? Am I starting to “go native”?»

Her commitment to the mission of the Gods was undiminished. And she was doing good. She was making an impact. Even though no one here worshipped the ancient Olympian Gods, not even her closest friends, her fellow “heroes”, she knew the Gods must be pleased with her. She was certain that she was responsible for at least some of the change in the status of women in Western society. Sure, most Western women already had the right to vote before she came on the scene during World War II. And sure, even during the war, women in traditional male jobs, “Rosie the Riveter”, were ultimately a bigger boost to Women’s rights than even the newsreels of the Allies’ “Star-Spangled Warrior Princess” beating back hoards of Nazis with her bare fists. But she certainly believed that she was serving as a role model for women who wanted to live without a patriarch, for women that wanted to own a business, for women who wanted to run for public office, or even to serve, and bleed, and fight, and die for their country. No, if these nightmares were a message from the Gods, the message was not that they were displeased with her. She was certain.

She did believe more and more that these dreams were some sort of message from the Gods. She knew what modern science thought of dreams; she was neither stupid nor uneducated. But she also knew—in much the same way that the best scientists knew—that scientists didn’t know everything. Scientists couldn’t even explain the most central facts of her life: her two-plus millennia of youthful existence, her strength, her speed, her invulnerability, her ability to fly. The Gifts of the Gods, gifts given so that she might serve humanity.

So, were these dreams another gift? If so they were the strangest gift yet. Various of the gods who had given her her powers had been ascendant at one time or another in her life. In her youth Hermes had seemed to be the one guiding her actions; her young life over two millennia ago had been a thrilling blur. Then her first adult independence was guided by Artemis, who taught her to love nature even as she guided the arrows into her prey. Later her thirst for knowledge caused her to pray to Athena. And when she saw her citizen’s duty and took up arms to defend the Queendom, Athena continued to guide both her strong right arm and her tactical and strategic mind. And now, in her mission to serve the gods in Man’s World, strong and fierce Hera, Queen of the Gods, seemed the ever-present guidepost of her life.

«Maybe the time has come for Aphrodite to take center stage in my life.»

When Mamá used to tell her of the Gods’ attendance at her birth, of the original set of gifts they had bestowed upon Mamá’s “Child of Destiny”, she always said that the gift of Aphrodite had been “great compassion and beauty”. «But isn’t she the goddess of beauty ... and love? ... Sexual love? And yet if these dreams were sent to teach me about love, then they are strange lessons indeed. They were nothing like my imaginings about romance. But what would I know about that? To live as an Amazon is to live a life devoid of romance. Ha! Unless you’re a lesbian!»

Even counting her brief entanglement with Simon, she could only measure her total romantic experience with men in terms of hours.

But how could these dreams be lessons about love? In spite of her dream yearnings for her cruel “Lord”, he had made it abundantly clear that he despised her “love”. Strange, harsh lessons, if lessons they were at all. «Is Aphrodite trying to teach me that love is cruel? That there is a purpose in submissiveness? Or is it just that two-plus millennia of a near-absolutely sexless life a were finally driving me mad?»

As Cynthia tortured herself for religious significance in her life’s latest plot twist, I almost wanted to help her. “Your Gods are not gods,” I might say. “They are real; they exist; they are powerful beyond belief. But they have not been here forever. Far from it! They certainly are not creators of the universe, they are not here to shepherd and edify humanity, and they are definitely not unkillable.

“Your ‘Gods’ do have a purpose for you, and they have given you—and to a lesser extent your sister Amazons—incredible powers. But knowing your ‘Gods’ as I do, I am certain that their purpose is not the purpose they told you. Their purpose in empowering you is not altruistic. Their purpose is not to benefit you or humanity. I half-suspect their purpose is to put up a front that helps ensure their survival. I half-suspect that their purpose is to flush me out, to get me to expose myself, perhaps to destroy me, although they truly have no idea who or what I am.

“Moreover, dear Cynthia, you are being taught lessons, but not by your ‘gods’. The being giving you these lessons is much much older than your ‘gods’. Or at least older than their presence on planet Earth. My lessons are designed to mold you into an image that I desire, for my purpose, not yours. And certainly not for your benefit. I will turn you into my obedient slave, both in your dreams and in real life. And in the process, I will turn you from their tool into my tool. My tool to use against them. But that, Cynthia dear, is a labor for another day. We have a long, long time to become acquainted with each other before then.“

But Cynthia had heard not one bit of my little soliloquy, and so she spent the evening in fervent prayer. To Aphrodite, she prayed to understand her sexy, submissive, horrifying dreams. And then through her regular prayer litany: to Hera for strength, to Athena for wisdom, et cetera, et cetera.

The end of the day eventually came, and she tried to ready herself for her ordeal. It had been a strange day. She had not checked radio, TV, or internet for news of crime or disaster. Her Legion of Heroes communicator had sat with her cell phone all day, both untouched. She had not turned on her police scanner. She hadn’t even checked her email since sending out her Betelgeusean threat assessment. Almost her whole day, short as it was, had been consumed with the aftermath and anticipation of her suddenly potent sleep time.

And now it was time to sleep again.

«Will I resist him this time?» she wondered, «What is the point of resisting? In my dream, I am powerless in every way. Resistance only brings me sorrow, yearning, fear, and pain. But who am I if I am not strong? Will I become the kind of wretched ‘victim’ that I have always despised? I have already become that wretch anyway, on both occasions. And I loved it!»

«Perhaps the ‘military science’ approach is right after all.» A strange thought in the context of “dreams”, so perhaps I should explain. After she came to Man’s World, as a former military leader herself, she became fascinated with the follies and wisdom of Man’s World’s various military forces. One of the recent tenets of the American military was that, for a prisoner of war, complete resistance of one’s captors was actually counterproductive. Fighting the torture, so the reasoning went, would actually make a prisoner “break” sooner and more completely. The US military actually taught their soldiers, sailors, and airmen to pursue a bend-but-don’t-break strategy when taken prisoner.

Cynthia had always been skeptical of such an approach «Small compromises are the cracks in which large capitulations grow!», but now, at this late stage of her long life, she was gaining undesired experience at just how powerless “powerless” really is.

«Maybe they are right after all. My resistance thus far has certainly “been futile”,» she smirked, «Maybe cooperation might work better?»

Excellent idea, Cynthia. We would soon see how that would work out for her.

I could hardly wait for Cynthia to fall asleep. Shortly after midnight, more than an hour after lying down naked on her bedroom floor, she finally nodded off. Her dreams were the usual hodgepodge, and I was still waiting for my moment. In one strange scene, I was naked and prostrate before her, but I begged to serve her in her voice, and she commanded me to fuck her in my voice. I almost took that one but decided to let it slide. Wrong image.

Scene after scene slid by. Betegeusean triumvirate as the Three Stooges. Power Man and Greased Lighting in flagrante delicto (Power Man, oddly, on the receiving end). Yadda, yadda, yadda. Soon a historical scene, a story from her mother’s knee about how Heracles had conquered and enslaved the Amazons. She saw her mother, Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons, naked and prostrate before Heracles, head down, ass up, arms outstretched, begging in Cynthia’s voice, “How may I serve you, My Lord?".

Now was the time.

In the penthouse, Cynthia lay before me. As she awakened, she began to leave her pose, but then she froze as my musk permeated her rousing mind. She hesitated and then decided. Resuming the pose of perfect submission, she humbly entreated me, “How may I serve you, my Lord?” Good. Very good. Let the games begin.

“Not now, baby bitch, I’m busy,” I murmured, not unkindly.

She didn’t know what to do! «He’s busy? Too busy to be fucking slaved over? “Discipline”» She visibly flinched as I dropped the seed, but then calmed herself, «No. No. Wrong attitude.».

In the absence of any command, it seemed to her that the safest thing to do was to stay put, so she did: head down, ass up, arms outstretched, awaiting the pleasure of her Lord. But her yearning for me was a tsunami pounding her shore. She felt the dripping wetness of her snatch, the hardness of her nipples rubbing the floor. In spite of herself, she began to squirm. She risked a furtive glance up. I was on the couch staring at my laptop on the coffee table, brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of me, combined with the smell, was like a drug to her. Involuntarily her pussy clenched, her nipples became even harder; they began to hurt. She wanted to leap up and ravish me, but she couldn’t. Even so, she knew she was going to go crazy if she lay prostrate much longer.

I was amazed at the thought that occurred to her at this point. I didn’t plant that seed! By the time she decided to risk it, I knew how I would respond.

“My Lord, please allow me to seek my own way to serve you.”

“What?” I snapped in mock annoyance. How dare she interrupt my concentration!

“I-I-I-I c-c-could c-c-c-clean, or d-dust, or d-d-do laundry, My Lord?” Now she was ready for the axe to fall.

«Please no “discipline”! Please, please not the dungeon!».

But, to her surprise and relief, I was amenable.

“Good girl. It’s been a while since the place was dusted. Find the supplies yourself and begin in the dining room. No vacuuming though, I need to concentrate.”

“Yes, My Lord! Right away, My Lord!” she squeaked happily, “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

Her joy was two-fold. First, in spite of herself, she was thrilled that I called her a “good girl”; her inner feminist was completely overwhelmed by the submissiveness, the desire to be commanded, the desire to obey, that comes with my female slavebodies. Second, she thought the activity would distract her, allowing her to more easily bear the crushing absence of my cock from her cunt.

Alas, the first joy was interfering with the second. As she rummaged under the kitchen sink, looking for dusting supplies, she shivered with the thrill every time I planted «“good girl”» in her mind. Which I was doing about once every ten seconds. A strong breeze between her legs could give her an orgasm right then, but not without my permission. That inner feminist, that military tactician who had been planning to “bend, but not break” was getting weaker with every wave of «“good girl”».

Eventually she came out with a static duster and some spare replacement heads. I know, I know. You’re thinking it should have been a feather duster and a tiny French maid outfit. I know how you think. Literally! But no, Annette, the slave girl with the doppelganger body, the one who does the shopping, actually wants to get up dust when it’s time to dust, and her Master agrees.

Things were a bit tough for our heroine right now. «“good girl”» Her thighs rubbing together when she walks were driving her crazy. «“good girl”» Her swaying tits were sending electric sparks through her body as she wielded the duster on the dining room table and chairs. «“good girl”» Every time she heard me grunt or move or type, her love muscle clinched forcing out a moan. Somewhere in the back of her mind, as she “bent” more and more in her lust for me, she realized with a thrill of fear that she had never had a clear concept of what constituted “not breaking”.

After she finished the table, centerpieces, chairs, she noticed the wet bar and wine rack for the first time. She stumbled over a «“good girl”» on the way over, which should have made her more cautious, but instead, she picked up a bottle of Glenlivet and began to dust under it. «“good girl”» She nearly dropped the bottle but somehow held on through the spasm; they were getting stronger now. She put the bottle back with shaking hands and now contented herself with dusting around the bottles. Another «“good girl”» caused her to rattle the bottles, but after looking back at me in terror she breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t seemed to have noticed the noise. She was still a good g- «“good girl”» A weak groan escaped her, but this time she was too afraid to look. The wine rack was only about thigh high, holding twenty or so bottles. Fearing an incident, she dropped to her knees for greater stability, just in time for another «“good girl”» tremor. She dusted the rack itself «“good girl”», dusted each bottle, carefully giving each a quarter turn after dusting «“good girl”». I was tempted to add a “very” to her last “good girl”—not many people these days know proper wine care—but I didn’t want her to start to suspect that the seed thoughts came from me.

Now she was shivering constantly as she moved to her next target, the entertainment center in the living room. Each «“good girl”» caused her to rattle and sway like an old jalopy on a country road. As she reached the cabinet, the next «“good girl”» hit her and she fell to her knees, clutching the heavy shelving to keep herself from falling over. Her inner feminist was silent. Her need was everything.

«I can’t do this anymore. What’ll I do!»

Now her stern slavemaster became her white knight. I shut my laptop.

“That’s enough dusting for now, little bitch. Go put the Swiffer away and hurry back.”

She staggered to the kitchen and then back. She knelt prostrate and beckoned, “How may I s ...”

“What do you know about fellatio?”

“Um, I beg your par ...”

“Blow jobs, cocksucking, giving head, face-fucking, swallowing the one-eyed snake. Ever done it?”

She blushed. “Um, no, M-m-my Lord.”

“Ah, jeez, you’re hopeless,” I muttered, visibly crushing her. “Consider it homework for next time. In the mean time, get over here,” I said.

I stood and dropped trou, my flag at about quarter-staff.

“You may lick it. You may kiss it. You may massage it. Do not attempt to take my prick into your incompetent mouth.“

She hurried to comply, an eager puppy with a new toy. She grabbed, she kissed, she licked, she stroked, she moaned and groaned with abandon. She looked up at me with awe and worship in her eyes. With all that and what I sensed going on in her head, it was not long before I was solid oak, mahogany even.

“Onto the couch, baby bitch.”

She was up in a flash, remembering the position: hands-and-knees, head resting—and moaning and shivering—on the arm of the couch. I wasted no time in coming up behind and under her, bringing my cock to press up into her stomach, lightly rubbing the root of my shaft against her clit.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Oh, My Lord, My Sex God! Please, My Lord, I beg you rule over my slimy, wet hole with your Holy Sceptre. I feel so empty without my true Master inside me, possessing me. Please teach me to worship you in awe.“

Yeah, it was more than a little over-the-top. But taking into account her inexperience, and maybe even awarding a point or two for originality, I decided she had grovelled enough for her reward. I entered her completely in one swift motion. The wave of pleasure overwhelmed her and she was already screaming for release, ”Please Lord! Let me cum! I’m ready now, Lord! Please, I beg you, Lord! Ple ...”

“Cum, little one.”

“Ooooohh! Ghnnggnnghh!” It was the most powerful orgasm she had ever had. The one in the training room two days ago? The anal orgasm yesterday? Not. Even. Close. And I hadn’t even begun thrusting yet.

She was winding down now, almost coherent again.

“What do you say?” I asked.

“Thank you, My One True Lord! I’ve never felt ... I’ve never dreamed of feeling ... I ... I ...”

I started moving, slowly. “Uuunngg!”

“ohpleasemylord, ooh, ohpleaseletmecumagain, ohple ...”

“Now, now, baby bitch. You’ve been a very good girl today, and you deserved a reward ...”

I heard her mind sing, «Good girl! Reward!»

“But you need to remember that you are here to serve me. So let’s see what you can do to please me.”

A loud moan was torn from her throat. In her own mind, of her own volition, no seeds involved, I heard, «Please him! Serve him! Worship him! Good girl! REWARD!»

Her cunt clamped down on my rod like a vise, but she was so slippery that my stroke continued unabated. Her hips began to move in counter-rhythm to my thrusts, rising to meet me as I sunk into her, curling away as I pulled out. Raw animal squeaks, growls, and howls escaped her throat; she was beyond words. Her one mission in life was to please me; in so doing there was hope I would one day deign to give her another reward.

Time passed happily for both of us. I was fucking her gently, but even so, she couldn’t keep up. To begin with, she was intimidated. She believed that I could fuck just about forever without cumming. Heck, she had pretty good evidence for that belief from yesterday. And she knew that her own tide of sexual pleasure was already past the high water mark of her own level of endurance. She felt like she had to cum, that her orgasm was just one stroke away, but she also knew that she was only a slave, a pet, a fucktoy; she simply could not cum without my permission.

But there was more than just the imbalance in sexual stamina between us. There was also a vast difference in physical stamina. I glanced at the clock. In only forty-one minutes, her love muscles were weakening, her hips’ counterpoints to my thrusts were slower and weaker. Her driving will was still to serve me, to bring me pleasure, but her exhaustion and sexual frustration were making it difficult. Still, she needed to learn to endure. My plan depended upon it. If I was going to reward her with another orgasm at the end of this—and I fully intended to—then she was going to have to feel that she earned it. She was going to have to persevere. She was going to have to find her second wind. She was going to have to achieve her reward.

“Are you feeling lazy, cock socket?”

“... M-m-my Lord? Mmmm ...”

“Where is that Kung Fu grip from a few minutes ago. You’re not paying attention. You just missed a beat with your hips and I almost came out.”

“I’m nnggh sssorry, My Lord. I can do better!” And truth to tell her vagina did start to respond. But that wasn’t the point.

“No. I think you need a little incentive,” I said, whacking her hard on the ass.

It hurt. It hurt her pride too. It was humiliating. Her inner feminist tried to make one futile last stand, but the truth was that the humiliation and the pain were both so thrilling that her sexual rush overwhelmed all other thought.

“Oooooooh, My Lord!”

Smack! “Why are you here, bitch?“

“I’m here to please you, My Lord! To serve you!”

Smack! “So why aren’t you doing that?“

“Um ... I-I’m w-w-weak, My Lord. You’re so powerful!” Smack! “I can’t keep up with you.“

Smack! “No excuses!” Smack! “Only bad slaves have to make excuses.” Smack! “Have you been bad?“

Now she saw where this was going, and it filled her with warmth and gave her another shock of thrill. She submitted completely to my authority.

Smack! “Y-yes, My Lord.” Smack! “I’ve been bad.” Smack! “I need to be ...” Smack! “d-disciplined!” Smack! “Please punish me!” Smack! “Teach me how to be pleasing to you!” Smack! “I want to be your good girl again!“

The spanking went on in earnest for quite a while longer. Me administering solid thumps to her backside, her begging and thanking me for discipline, gripping my member harder than ever—although her vaginal muscles were truly sore in the effort—responding to my thrusts in perfect rhythm, and, ultimately, crying out for mercy, even though she was riding the highest sexual high of her life.

I was near the end now. I grabbed her by the hair and jerked back hard, pumping her in earnest. “Cum now, baby bitch. Cum for my pleasure!”

She screamed—and I grunted—as her orgasm overtook her, her love muscle trying to lop off my cock and swallow it all the way into her womb. And now I came, ejaculating warmth deep inside her, which triggered another wave of orgasm in her on top of the one that had not yet abated. For a long time, we traded that wave of mutual orgasm back and forth. My spray caused her to milk me anew, which caused me to fire another rope of baby batter, which caused another wave of pussy-pleasure-peristalsis, which ... well, you get the picture.

Minutes later her cunt was still trying to milk my depleted cock. Every little twitch of my member triggered another round of orgasmic aftershock in her sex. Eventually, her still-clinching pussy expelled my spent prick.

Mind thoroughly blown, on the verge of exhaustion, Cynthia Royal, Majestic Woman, knew her duty as my slave. She begged me to let her up so that she could clean me properly, so that she could do what a good whore-maid-pet should.

I told her that she was a good girl, but that she could rest now, that she could clean up later. Still protesting that she wanted to perform this service for me, that she didn’t feel right leaving a mess, her words began to slur together and she drifted off to a real dreamland.

What did that cartoon wizard used to say? “Drizzle drazzle druzzle drome, Time for this one to come home.”

Now I swapped Cynthia back into her real body. My slave Annette lay sleeping before me but woke up as her mind had been conscious during the swap. Today, unlike yesterday, she knew what had happened here. She knew what the plan had been. She knew there was a mess to clean up and got right on it, as expected.

In her mind I saw that she did indeed sleep in Cynthia’s tired body until I awoke her, that she then strummed Cynthia’s body to a single orgasm timed precisely by me. At the end, she left Cynthia’s body in her supplicant’s pose, just as the afterglow was setting in, just as I swapped them back to their homes.

Cynthia awoke, somehow not surprised that she was symbolically praying to her Lord, head down, ass up, arms outstretched. Somehow not surprised that she was basking in the afterglow of a dream orgasm. Somehow not surprised that she actually felt rested, not exhausted like the previous two nights.

She got up to do her early morning business and came back to sleep on the floor again. This time she didn’t lie flat on the floor. There she was in her own home, head down, ass up, arms outstretched. It just felt right. And soon she was off to sleep again.