The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Liv not only felt proud, but ecstatic as well. Peace of mind can only be truly appreciated if you’re able to contrast it against a moment of sheer stress. And Liv was now in a peaceful state of mind. After the hair-pulling craziness of the last few days, she felt like land that had seen its first rainfall after a year-long drought. Her grades had suddenly skyrocketed in the past week, and her house was clean, for a change. Small things could do a world of good to your mental health.

Sunlight was kissing her skin, and the air was cool. The world felt perfect. Liv would’ve liked to thank God for the beautiful weather and sudden positive results in her enterprises, but, truth be told, that was both bad form and a lie. The only reason she was feeling so elated was because the Episode had not seen a sequel, and she knew it. That is why she didn’t think much about it.

So she kept walking.

Liv had been out on her mother’s request. It was Liv’s turn to cook, and her mom had forgotten to do the groceries yet again. So she had to go out and get something from the corner shop. In her hand, she held a bag full of things for a light meal and ingredients; flour, milk, eggs, chocolate. Baking is great; it distracts, gives you peace of mind, and then you get a nice sweet out of it. She thought with a smile. The sun was high in the sky, but a light breeze made it bearable. Liv’s t-shirt stuck to her sweaty back, and the bag was heavy in her hand, but she didn’t feel bad at all. In fact, the discomfort was soothing, in a strange way.

Liv rounded a corner, stepping over an open manhole. When will they cover that thing? She thought, giving it a passing stare. When she turned her stare forwards she stopped dead in her tracks. She felt her chest tighten at the memory; wearing the uniform, the tears, the anger, the pleasure; she could feel the ghost of tears and dread would grip her throat, threatening to make her break apart like rotten cucumbers. A girl, dressed in a uniform, was walking towards her; she had headphones. But Live couldn’t see the girl, couldn’t see her face. All she could see was the girl’s uniform.

The girl passed Liv, completely oblivious to the golden-haired girl staring at her. Whatever she was listening to must’ve been that good. Liv stared. She stared at the sway of the girl’s green skirt, stared at the crisp whiteness of her button-down shirt, stared at the socks with the emblems, and stared at the black shoes. Her thoughts turned into that purple-coloured corner, and before she knew it Liv was thinking about the dark deed hiding in a pile under her bed. Why hadn’t she burnt it? Why!?

The peace of mind was shattered. Liv’s face twisted; nostrils flaring, teeth grinding and eyes twitching. Liv took an abrupt turn to the right and kept walking. She couldn’t tell for how long or how far she walked—such is one’s perception of reality when we try to walk away from our problems; it is not until we realise that we cannot ever walk away from them that we see that it has been a lengthy road travelled and with little scenery to it.

But eventually she stopped, the sun halfway to sunset, in a park where long shadows touched children’s games and sporting facilities, and she didn’t notice any of it. Had Liv been in a better mood, she would’ve jumped on one of those games. But she was deep in thought, in regret and fear. Instead, she kept walking, trying to escape the voices in her head to no avail. Eventually she started to face them.

Amidst the laughter of children and the sound of swings, Liv considered her dilemma. She had broken free from the uniform’s hold; a whole week without a single thought about studying or wearing it was proof enough. But one thing was taking off the shackles and another was escaping the prison. Liv’s wrist were free of manacles, but the temptation to try the uniform on was still there; in a moment of weakness she could fall thrall to her own... No! It isn’t me! It isn’t my fault... Her voice echoed silently in her mind, and she knew the lie for what it was. If she give a name to her weakness, it would be less real, wouldn’t it? Liv wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking like that—she didn’t want to think that the sole responsibility of falling into an imaginary temptation could be hers. She couldn’t live with herself knowing she was capable of failing like that.

Liv problems would be so easily solved if she could get rid of the uniform. God knows she tried, but whenever she held it over the rubbish bin something stopped her. Every time she held a flame near its flammable surface she found her conviction faltering. It was just so perfect! And, could getting rid of the uniform really help? Could one stop a volcano once it erupted? Liv held her head on her hands, thinking desperately, the swing she sat on making its rusty tune of disrepair. There had to be a way out; a safe, simple way out. She couldn’t be that far gone, really, if she completely forgot about the uniform for an entire week.

She heard her mobile phone ring three times, and she ignored two and turned it off at the third. Whoever was calling could wait as she sorted out her life. Liv let her eyes wander over the park, looking at the children run this way and that way, at the shadows getting longer and at the pigeons pecking at the ground. If only her life could be this simple, but no. Liv Faun has to deal with a family breaking a part, the promise of an easy life broken; from now on she had to fight for the life she wanted, and one of the few ways was to have the best marks in that sorry excuse for a school. She had put on the uniform as a means to relieve some of that responsibility off her shoulder and maintain her grades. The school might be a run-down testament to public education, but at least it had contacts, which, if she maintained the image of a perfect student, would open doors for her. That temptation of relieving responsibility and throwing it on a magical uniform, which would enhance her skills and twist her desires without doing any real work, had been too big a temptation to pass. She was so tired of working, of doing things on her own without anyone recognizing it or even helping. It isn’t laziness, just a shortcut, she thought, grimly.

Lack of light woke her from her reverie. Liv blinked and noticed the empty park before her as the dying light of the sun fell on her groggy-looking face. Slowly she rose, and slowly she made the penance walk back home in the comfort of the night. The cool shroud of night, the sight of angry people stuck in traffic jams, and the sounds of dogs barking in the distance made her feel better. Somehow, all that chaotic music seemed fitting. As she walked up the hill, Liv realised she had left what she had gone out to get in the first place somewhere in the park. She decided it wasn’t important and, if her mother complained about the missing ingredients, Liv could bring out some excuse. Not that her mother would even realise it was an excuse. She wanted to scream then, scream loud and long. Her mother wouldn’t even notice if she came back home without the food she had been asked to get at least six hours before. Speaking about that, her mother must be worried if she hadn’t returned in a while. Liv chuckled; it would be just like her mom to have completely ignored the fact that she had left the house hours ago and still wasn’t back. The desire to scream felt oddly comforting as it strained against her throat—it was good to feel frustrated at something real and not imagined.

Liv’s house was dark, empty and lonely, just like she knew it to be as of late. She confirmed her five hour absence on the wall clock and didn’t even bother to look for her mother—she was already working in her lab. Liv wouldn’t be seeing her for at least a day. Work, work and more work and never time for another soul—that was her mother. No wonder her parents broke apart; one was a work-a-holic, the other wanted nothing more than to escape his life choices.

Liv decided not to think about it and instead prepared herself a light meal of cucumber salad. As she looked for something extra to eat after the unsatisfying meal, she saw the hidden stash of chocolates and sweets she kept at the back of the fridge. She frowned, realising that she had been hiding things even from herself. The sweets were delicious, but bad for you; the uniform was the same. She kept a tight rein on her sugary cravings, but when she was faced with the thought—the addiction—there was no simple way of letting go. Once she saw a candy bar, it became a struggle of a grand magnitude against her willpower. She shut the fridge door in anger.

“Fucking fuck!” She screamed, hitting the fridge with an open palm. She turned around and leaned against the fridge. It wasn’t about some candy bar. It wasn’t even about the uniform, and she knew it. Oh, some of the problem came from it, but not all. Candy was real, something she could deal with, and something she could get rid off with jogging. But Liv knew she would most likely be defeated if faced by the plaid garments again. Any day she could break; she could be sitting on her desk, frustrated over a school subject she couldn’t learn, or driving, or doing god-knows-what, and she would break. Next moment, she would be wearing it. The moment she felt the craving to wear it she wouldn’t able to stop herself. And why did she feel these stupid cravings? Why did she want to run away from her responsibilities as a daughter and student?

“Mom, dad, you are jerks.” She spoke into her knees, having sunk to the floor. “You brought this unto our heads.”

Liv remained on the floor for a long time.

Eventually she went upstairs and with a click unlocked her door. She looked around, unsure exactly what to do. Nothing interested her. Nothing called to her like it used to. She felt that haunting shadow trying to shroud her—the depression, the anger, the fear... She spotted her reflection on the mirror, and smiled; she looked better than she had in days – cleaner, calmer, less obsessed. It felt good. When did the shadows around her eyes disappear? It didn’t matter; her reflection only helped steel her resolve. She still had to deal with the shadow but not tonight. Tonight she would solve one problem.

Looking around, Liv found where she had placed the uniform’s original wrapping. She put her hands inside a pair of socks, not entirely sure that they would keep the delicious tingles from shooting up her arm, but she had to believe they would protect her, or else she would break down into a fit of nervous shakes. She couldn’t allow that. If she so much as touched any part of the uniform she knew she would wake up, four hours later, dressed in the uniform, and panting and moaning like a whore. And, if that actually happened, she could blame her downfall on a pair of socks. It was time to stop running away from responsibility.

She dug under her bed like an explorer in a cave and, taking a deep breath, she let her hands wrap around the uniform. She gave a silent hallelujah when she didn’t feel a sudden craving to put it on, or to study, or... She stopped thinking right then.

It took her a while, but eventually Liv managed to fold and neatly put the blasted uniform in the plastic container it came in. Curiously, the uniform was clean, even after two weeks of collecting dust underneath her bed. It still looked pristine and beautiful as if it had never been worn. What is this thing made of? Liv wondered, It will just not get dirty. Well, whatever it was would soon stop being her problem.

It was early morning on a Saturday and all Martie wanted to do right then was to lie down and sleep for five more minutes. Rubbing her eyes with her palm, she cursed that her parents had decided to live so far away from town. She had to get up so early! She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and yawned audibly.

To be at the theatre at an appropriate time she had to get up well before sunrise to be at the bus station well before the crowds of commuters grew as thick as curded milk. At least today she had been lucky enough to find a seat—usually she couldn’t find any.

She yawned again into the back of her hand, and stared daggers at the man that blabbered on and on and on. If only he would shut up, Martie could shut her eyes for five minutes. I so need to rest a while. Just give us a minute, you dick!

“Very well, we’ve got most of the First Act spot on,” He was loud, and thin, with a voice like an insect bite. He hovered over the group of actors as if he wanted to be one with them. “But there are issues with subtext. Some of you do not seem to understand what subtext really is!”

“If you would stop pestering us about it...” Martie mumbled under her breath as she drank from a water bottle. Her throat was sore and it hurt to speak. That man had been pushing them all too hard this morning. Most likely, something had his knickers in a knot and he was venting steam off on them. “If he continues like that—”

“The whole play will go down the drain.”

Martie jumped, pulling the water bottle tight against her chest. She abruptly turned around to look at who had spoken. It was a common thing amongst their group to complain about the director’s mood swings, but no one ever said they were more than just an annoyance. To mention that they could jeopardize the whole play? Waoh.

The woman frowning at the loud director was an actress with experience that would take decades for Martie to acquire. The woman was playing a secondary role in the play, as a secondary character of some importance. At first, when rehearsals were just starting, she had had many a clash of egos with Director Bipolarity, as her skill far surpassed that of the lead actors; whenever she was on stage, she easily eclipsed everyone who shared it with her. This enraged the thin man to no end, as it was his opinion that only lead roles could shine in a play. Why she didn’t get the lead female role wasn’t clear to anyone, really. Least of all the director.

“I will not say I am an expert on the subject, but what we are doing can become something beautiful, and this man is ruining it with his text-book notions.” She turned her penetrating blue eyes towards Martie as if expecting something. “Don’t you think, Miss Charon?”

Martie didn’t know what to say. She averted her eyes from that icy-blue stare to see that the director’s attention had shifted. The backstage worker looked ready to punch the thin man. “I cannot say I know anything about those texts,” Martie began, drinking some water. “But he has a chip on his shoulder and is trying to vent off rage on us. He could learn to relax and let us work as we best can.” She looked at the woman’s face again, but found herself shying away from the drive burning beyond the blue veil of her eyes. “He should nudge us towards greatness, not hammer us towards it.” She added, a bit to like a whine for her taste.

“Well said.” The woman said and sat next to Martie, legs crossed, and a smile that said more than words could on her lips. She patted the floor and beckoned Martie to sit. “Do you know who I am?”

“You are the eccentric and promiscuous cousin to the lead role of Han Baran.” Martie began in a dramatic tone usually reserved for the few times she narrated the best parts of books or movies. In private, of course. “You then become the best friend and guide into a world of parties and fun to his love interest, Fernanda Gallego. Your name is Helena, daughter of Flowers; the woman with the blue eyes and who could easily turn this play upside down and inside out.” And, like that, Martie’s tone of voice returned to its usual, higher pitch. She looked down at her water bottle, and sat down heavily, like a rock being dumped into a pool.

Helena Flowers smiled and coiled her long fingers together. “Well said, Miss Charon, playing Rose the Barista, the loose-tongued confidant of Han Baran.”

“Thank you.” Martie had no way to hide the blush that crept up her cheeks.

“You act well, but you break out of character when the focus is not on you. You have to watch that.”

Martie’s brow furrowed. I do? She thought, remembering her many scenes in the bar where she became little more than a living prop. She couldn’t think up any specific instance in the rehearsals where she broke out of character. “By the life of me I cannot recall that I do that.”

“You do. And quite often. I suggest you ask around, and be conscious of this when rehearsing until you no longer do it. It wouldn’t to do have a barista who should be serving coffee suddenly scribbling god-knows-what on a paper.”

Martie’s blush reddened deeply. She smacked her forehead as, suddenly, it became very obvious to her. That is just horrible, I should be acting, not scribbling! “I will work on that.” Martie’s eyes went wide as an idea crawled into her consciousness. She bit her lip and suppressed a shudder.

“Glad you would.” Helena said and placed a hand on Martie’s thigh, oblivious to Martie’s change. “You are a good girl, with lots of talent, and beautiful. Be careful of your work, and always aim for perfection and you will do better than I ever did.”

Perfection... The word echoed in Martie’s mind.

Helena rose, elegantly and without stumbling, and walked with a brisk step to where her character was supposed to be. The loud director started shouting orders, and the actors mobilised from their small break, if it could be called that. Martie stared after her, brow furrowed. Was that melancholy in her voice? And why did I feel so... nice when she said-

“Martie, get up!” She heard the thin man shout at her. Abruptly, she turned towards him and gave a reluctant nod.

“Stop shouting, man.” Martie whispered before drinking more water.

She screwed the bottle and left it by her things. Rising, she wondered if Helena had given her advice out of free will or because she wanted something in return. Martie would have to be careful, if things were as she suspected. Then again, she sometimes found herself suspecting trees of having an agenda for growing so tall.

Soon enough she was standing behind a wooden counter, serving pretend coffee on red cups and acting as if she cared about what Han Baran had been doing last weekend. Her tiredness was soon forgotten, and the learned lines and cues came to her naturally. And as she moved, as she was swallowed by a person born on paper and imagination, she realised that she wasn’t breaking out of it. She was closer to attaining perfection. But why did the idea of being perfect suddenly seemed appealing? Martie shook the idea away.

Thanks, Helena. She thought.

Trees. Tall, bark-covered, leaves-topped trees.

Martie was starting to dislike them. Why did Barbo like trees so much, she just couldn’t say. Every time they had a date, they would meet in a park, or any place with a climbable tree in sight. Martie had the odd feeling that it was a joke of sorts, especially since she would have to figure out on which tree he had climbed and hope he wouldn’t invite her to climb it. She had gotten better at climbing them, sure, but there still was that fear of falling that made her nervous and twitchy. This time, she wouldn’t fall thrall to that easy-going face of his. This time she would stand her ground! On the ground!

She couldn’t help but giggle at the line.

Martie checked the tall cashew tree for vestiges of his climb when suddenly she felt a twig hit her neck. She slapped at it, and looked up and saw that smile of his and she couldn’t contain herself. She smiled back and was about to do whatever he asked of her when she managed to remember she didn’t like heights at all. She also felt like slapping him. Why did he throw a branch at her!?

“Get off that tree!” She exclaimed at him, summoning her best frown.

Barbo cocked his head to the side. “Why? Things look better up here.” He let go of the branch he was holding on to and started walking up and down the branch as if on a tightrope. “I would say you look better, but you always do.”

Martie’s gut clenched and she ignored what he said. “Barbo!”

He sat back down on the branch, “Crack!” he screamed loudly as the branch too his weight. He laughed at her look of fright. “Oh, Martie, you should know that I know how to move on trees. Why don’t you climb up here? I’ve got you a surprise.”

She perked up at the mention of a surprise. Martie shook her head and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve told you, Barbo, I do not like heights! You want to give me something, you come down here.” Do not be stubborn, you twit. I know you think it will help me, and it probably would, but I am not in the mood for it today.

For a second it looked as if he would not budge. Barbo looked down at Martie like he looked down at so many people—an irritating glint to his eyes that bespoke of arrogance. Martie hated the fact that she already knew that glint for what it was, yet she didn’t want it to change, specially not then. It was one of those moments that defined how people would treat each other, and Martie knew it. Maybe Barbo knew it too. Regardless of how he chose to react, this would be a moment both would go back to as long as they knew each other. Martie didn’t allow herself to smile; she had reserved that specific smile for the moment he decided to stay up there—it was a special smile that would let him know she had a vengeance prepared. Instead, she growled angrily.

Barbo considered, and then slowly climbed down the tree.

When on the floor, Martie punched his shoulder and told him never to do it. Barbo looked hurt, like a kid who had been told not to do what he liked best, but then Martie saw his face change. He got the message, good. So good! Martie smiled warmly, glad that Barbo had realised she didn’t like to be forced into doing what she didn’t like. Barbo’s nod was enough to understand he knew what the consequences might be if he pushed the issue.

“What was that surprise you had for me?” Martie asked as they walked away from the park and towards her house. She would’ve liked to remain in that pretty place, but she had had a long day at rehearsals and wanted nothing more than to rest. Maybe I could get a back rub out of this gorilla of a boy. She thought.

“Oh, it was on the tree. I’ll show you another day.”

Martie sighed, and felt the anger draining away. Silly, how infatuation made you simply affect people’s quirks. She placed her head on his shoulder, and allowed him to walk her home. If only I could root that behaviour out of him, she thought, maybe with rules that he would have to obey? Then she smiled as she thought about Hilde’s ridiculous obsession with uniforms. Oh, if only what she said were true.