The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I looked in the mirror, and thought back . . .

A little over two years ago, I went through a substantial change in lifestyle. I came home from work one day, and rather than lying down on the couch and reading or watching television, I had an impulse to phone around and ask various health clubs about their fees and services.

A few days later I had chosen a club and joined. It was important, I knew, that I exercise regularly. I had to get in shape. This should, perhaps, have seemed peculiar to me—I had always dismissed the notion of “getting in shape” as a foolish, vain effort to live up to other people’s expectations. Yet here I was, buying a leotard and heading out to the gym to sweat away on the bikes and stairclimbers. I expected to hate exercise with my usual passion, but I found that it felt really good. In fact, it felt . . . well, um, sexually good, you know? I got more and more turned on, the harder I worked. I’d sometimes have an orgasm right in the middle my workout.

I started going to the gym’s fitness classes and jumping around to the shouts of the instructor. At first twice a week, then more and more often, until I was finally going to classes about six times a week. I started to lift weights, and to cross-train with various sports; all in all, I spent anywhere from two to three hours a day in the gym, once my body learned to handle it.

My diet altered, too. It was as though I’d been issued with a new set of taste buds, ones with their own opinions about nutrition. Foods I’d once considered delicious, I now found I could literally not bear to put in my mouth. I could no more eat a potato chip than a poker chip, and ice cream made me gag. But I threw myself into learning to eat right, because healthy foods tasted so good.

I gradually lost about forty pounds (and bought several new leotards!), and naturally people at work started notice that something was up. So did Cathy, my best friend, who couldn’t figure out what had come over me. Neither could I, but I knew that I had to keep at it. Cathy and I became less close after a while, since I never seemed to have time to hang out with her any more.

I slowly became aware that I was aiming for something, though I couldn’t have articulated what it was. I was constantly inspecting my body, judging it, and trying to improve it. My legs should look more like this, my abs should be like that, my butt needs to be just so. I targeted each part in turn, and kept returning to it, always honing, refining, working away at myself like a sculptor at a block of marble.

Men started to hang around me, both at work and at the gym. I’d occasionally go out for a drink (fruit juice, of course, alcohol’s too unhealthy), but that was all. They’d always drift away once they realized that I had no interest in getting physical with them. I hadn’t had sex a single time since my, um, change of focus. On some level, I knew that it was vitally important that I save myself for . . . what? Or who? I wasn’t sure.

A few days ago, I looked at my body, and couldn’t find a single thing that struck me as requiring alteration. After all the sweat, strain, and relentless sculpting and toning, I was . . . finished? Finished what? I asked myself. What project had I been engaged in?

A thought jumped into my head: shopping. I needed to go shopping. I left my apartment and spent some time looking browsing through clothing stores, wondering idly what I was looking for . . . ah! There it was. I bought the item and returned home to hang it up in my closet.

As soon as I got back, I headed straight for the phone, and dialled a number I didn’t recognize. An answering machine picked up after three rings, and a man’s voice said, “Please leave your message after the tone.” The sound of the voice sent a shiver through me, and I said, “Wendy Johnson, 117 West Vermont Street, apartment 605. Ready for inspection.”

Then I waited. I called in sick the next day, and the day after that, so I wouldn’t need to leave the apartment. I spent the time working out (I had a large collection of home equipment by this point), and waiting for . . . something. Each time the phone rang, I raced for it, and each time got rid of the caller as quickly as possible, with a vague sense of disappointment.

Until, two days after I’d called that unknown number, I picked up the phone to hear just two words: “One hour.” I hastened into the shower and cleaned myself up, brushed my hair, applied just the smallest hint of makeup, then padded naked to the closet and donned the item I’d bought. It was a black bodysuit, made of some shiny, clingy material, as skintight as I’d been able to find. It encased me from the soles of my feet to my neck; a silver zipper ran from navel to throat. I slowly zipped it up and inspected myself in the mirror . . .

My hair was cut medium-long, framing my face, with its high cheekbones and graceful jaw. My shoulders and arms were toned, without being lumpy with muscle mass. My breasts were high and firm, my abs almost flat, with just a hint of rippling. My legs were rock solid and exquisitely shaped, and my each cheek of my butt was perfectly defined, outlined in the close-hugging black fabric.

This was it, I knew. The end of whatever it was that had begun over two years before. I moved out to the main room of my apartment and sat on the couch, fidgeting, waiting.

A knock came at the door: tap-tap, pause, tap-tap. That was right. I moved to the door and unlocked it, then turned and walked to the centre of the room, turning my back to the door. Closing my eyes, I stood motionless, waiting, arms at my sides, feet slightly apart. In a few moments, the door opened, then closed. I heard the locks being reengaged.

Footsteps across the carpet. The faint sound of breathing. I heard my “guest” walk in a full circle around me, then come to rest directly behind my right shoulder. I felt a pair of hands reach out and touch my shoulder blades, and I shuddered with a sudden rush of pleasure. The hands began to run down my back—there, feel how well I’ve worked on the muscles, I thought. He caressed my buttocks gently, slid around and over the curves of my hips, and continued downward, squeezing the muscles of my thighs and calves.

A pause, as the footsteps moved to the front. The hands took up their work again, following the line of my jaw, then feeling their way down my arms, testing, probing, assessing. They rose again to cup my breasts, then drifted down my stomach—I’ve worked so hard on my tummy, I thought, do you like . . . ooh. The hands glided with casual familiarity between my legs, and I let out a soft moan. For that, I got a soft, reproving “Shh.” For some time, those invisible hands explored me, and it took all my concentration to avoid making sounds, as waves of pleasure cascaded over me.

“Open your eyes.”

I did so, and saw a man standing in front of me. No, not a man, an angel, perhaps a god. He was the most handsome, desirable figure I had ever seen.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“But you know what I am?”

I nodded. “Yes, Master.”

“Very good. You have done very well, Wendy. I am pleased.”

I orgasmed. A peep escaped from me, and I frowned, afraid that I might have displeased him by making noise again.

He just smiled. “Don’t worry, I understand the effect that pleasing me has on you.” He walked to the couch and sat down, lounging idly. “How long have you been preparing, Wendy?”

“About two years.”

He smiled again. “Pretty much par for the course. I wonder where I saw you? Frankly, I don’t remember. Probably on the bus, the subway, something like that. Doesn’t matter.” He leaned forward.

“You really are beautiful, Wendy,” he went on. “I’m something of a connoisseur of beauty. I have, ah, access to a great deal of it, you see. Virtually anyone I might fancy, in fact. But over the years I’ve come to realize that the greatest pleasure lies in creating beauty. So when I see a young woman in whom I detect potential, I’ll often give her a little set of instructions to carry out, a goal of perfection towards which she is to strive. It takes time, but I’m a patient man. And of course I have many little projects on the go at any given time.”

He stood up and looked me up and down once again. “I really am tremendously pleased.” (Another stifled moan on my part.) “Come over here.” He led me to a full-length mirror in the living room. “Do you like your new body, Wendy?”

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly I was . . . Wendy. The old Wendy, the one who, I now realized, had not really existed for the past two years. She’d been swallowed, buried by the relentless machine I’d become. I should probably be angry about that, I thought vaguely. I felt detached, as though I were in shock. He had turned me into one of those spandex-clad airheads, obsessed with their looks. I was dressed like a tramp, I was trapped by whatever bizarre power this man wielded, and I was . . . gorgeous. I was, I suddenly realized, absolutely gorgeous! For a moment I forgot my predicament as the stunning thought sank home: that woman in the mirror was me. That was my body.

Did I like it? “Yes,” I whispered.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad. You’ll get to, ha, keep it. When I’m done.” He snapped his fingers again, and all thoughts save those of pleasing him vanished from my mind. He pushed open the door to my bedroom and walked inside. “Let’s explore that new body together, shall we?”

“Yes, Master.” The bodysuit’s zipper purred downwards as I hurried after him.