The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I Can’t Stop Myself

by Julien Sorel ()

Categories: mf, md, hm

I returned home one night to find a message on my answering machine from my girlfriend Kirstie. I listened eagerly—I hadn’t heard anything from her since I dropped her off at my friend Mike’s cabin a week ago.

“Hello, Johnny? This is Kirstie.” Her high-pitched, little-girl voice had lost all its musical qualities; she was stammering, hesitating. “I was calling to tell you...that...he won. He won the bet. Okay?” Her voice went high and shaky on that last word. It was weirdly exciting to hear Kirstie lose her perfect, flirtatious poise. Far from the mouthpiece, I heard Mike saying to Kirstie, “Tell him what...” and then something inaudible. Kirstie hesitated; Mike said something else I couldn’t make out. Finally Kirstie said, in a flat tone: “I’m coming...I come, and I can’t control it. He wins, okay? I don’t....” Mike interrupted, saying something in the background. I distinctly heard, “Who tells you?” and then some other garbled words. Then Kirstie again, trying to sound expressionless, but with a little wobble in her voice: “Mike tells me to come. I come when he tells me.” More background conversation, and what sounded like a little scuffle with the phone. Then Kirstie: “I’m coming now.” Dead silence for a while; Mike is murmuring something every few seconds, but I can’t hear a word of it. After what seems like forever, Kirstie, right next to the phone, gives a little high-pitched “Nnnf,” as if someone had hit her in the solar plexus. Then seconds of total silence. I start to make out Kirstie breathing through her nose really fast, then it fades away again. Then Mike grabs the phone. “She’s trying to stifle it, dude, but it happened. Come on up and take her home.” End of message. I hit the repeat button in a big hurry and started jerking off—I creamed before Kirstie got her first sentence out. Then I hopped in the car and drove up there.

So Mike had pulled it off. I never really thought he could do it. Kirstie had put up her body as the stakes in the bet, and Mike had no doubt gotten to know her inside and out by now. It didn’t bother me. I never felt that way about Kirstie, and anyway I’d never fooled myself for a second that I’d be the only one enjoying that top-heavy little body of hers.

I met Kirstie at a friend of a friend’s party, where she was the main attraction as soon as she walked into the room. The tits were the first thing you saw, of course, the more so because she kept them out where everyone could get a good look. But her face cinched the deal: round and doll-like, with big big innocent eyes that she always lined heavily with mascara, and corkscrew shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. And then, as if she didn’t draw enough attention just standing there, she was the most outrageous cock-teaser I’d ever seen—and this at a party where the other women weren’t really into that kind of behavior and didn’t take kindly to it. Thirty minutes after she arrived, I saw her sitting on a couch with some guy, giving him a scalp massage with her toes. She was laughing her head off, giving the room a good look up her skirt and not caring. I figured she was out of play for the night, but in a little while she was circulating again. When I got my chance to talk to her, I had no expectations and decided to be outrageous—I think I broke the ice by apologizing for staring at her chest. It worked, or at least it didn’t fail. A little while later she was sitting astride me on my lap, letting me nuzzle her neck. Not caring much what happened, I used my chin to try to pull her tits free of her shirt, and she just laughed crazily and pushed herself back into place, a job for both hands.

I was completely surprised when she actually went out with me. We fell into bed on the first date: she turned out to be nothing special in the sack, but it was a thrill to watch those amazing breasts of hers go flying when I pumped her, and to stare into those perfectly round eyes while she heated up. As we continued to hang out, I started wondering if she wasn’t actually interested in me a little. I was fascinated by her physical existence, but I never took her seriously. I didn’t even like her, really; looking back on those days, I think maybe I had some feeling for her, but back then I had funny storybook ideas about what love was, and.whatever I felt for her definitely didn’t match up.

She took me out one night on a dancing date with her friends, which was kind of educational. Her girl pals were all gorgeous, all exhibitionistic, all competitive—they chatted non-stop with each other, but you could tell that they were really focused on the men around them. I don’t think those friendships of hers tended to last very long—they were more like temporary strategic alliances. One of her friends, a truly beautiful brunette with a tiny bit of a Long Island accent, came on to me pretty strong, grabbing my arm all the time and holding on to it. I enjoyed the attention—in my head I was still a gawky teenager, and I was still getting used to the idea that I was mature enough and good-looking enough to play in this league. Kirstie made a big public fuss over me all night, displaying her affection as often and as physically as possible, calling me “Darling” and “Sweetie” at the top of her lungs, rubbing up against me lewdly on the dance floor. It was mostly for show, but with her even sincere feelings came out a little showy. Men were all over her whenever I got a few feet away, but she rebuffed them with a sweet smile. I hadn’t thought that she had it in her to turn a man away.

I took her out with my friends a few times too—it was a kick to be seen with something like that on my arm. My pals knew that I didn’t care much how they behaved around her; and when Kirstie saw that I was okay with whatever rude things they said to her, she reverted to full prick-teaser mode. This cycle spun out of control quickly, and some really outrageous things happened right in front of my eyes. I remember one night my friend Jack got us thrown out of a restaurant by putting Kirstie over his knee, pulling up her skirt and spanking her bethonged ass, hard enough that she was trying not to cry as we were shown the door. Another time, a drunken friend managed to get a finger inside Kirstie’s cunt while she was sitting on his lap, and she didn’t have an easy time getting away from him. I just sat there and smiled through all this shit—it sort of turned me on. Looking back on it, I think Kirstie was in a spot. She could probably tell that I liked sharing her, and it suited her personality to play the sex magnet, but going along with the game just confirmed her lowly status in my eyes.

This all led to a grandstand play by Mike, a bit of an upper-class twit with a flair for the dramatic, who nonetheless (or should I say “therefore”) managed to draw a series of impressive women over the years we’d known him. After too many beers to count, Mike started telling Kirstie that, by a simple application of behavioral psychology, he could train her so that within a week she would come at his command, without him ever touching her, either during the training or when she was coming. As usual, Kirstie laughed wildly at this suggestion and egged Mike on shamelessly; playing at being in Mike’s power, she wiggled over to him on her hands and knees and barked like a puppy, giving him a good look down her blouse in the process. But Mike persisted, in his usual arrogant way, and finally named the stakes: a new Lexus SC for Kirstie if she held out, and her body for Jack if she didn’t. Mike knew that the Lexus was Kirstie’s weak point, because I’d told him. Kirstie became quite perplexed, looking at me for help. I just shrugged and smiled, and said, “A Lexus SC, huh? We’re all here to hold you to that, dude.” I was no help at all for the girl. After a long drunken negotiation and a lot of wavering, Kirstie wound up in Mike’s car, on her way upstate to his cabin that same night. I assumed Mike was full of shit and couldn’t possibly accomplish anything like what he claimed, but I didn’t think he’d do anything too horrible to her. I also thought that she’d actually get the Lexus out of the rich bastard. And later on Mike did come across with the car, even though he’d won the bet—I guess he figured there was no harm in keeping everyone happy after his outrageous, probably-illegal-somehow stunt. Kirstie is still driving that car today.

Mike greeted me at the door of his cabin, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Is this shit for real?” I said.

“Absolutely,” says he.

“How did you do it?”

“With a fuck of a lot of drugs. And a lot of boring, repetitive work.”

“She’s drugged?”

“Not any more she isn’t. Maybe traces.” Then he yelled out, “Here, Kirstie.” A moment later Kirstie appeared in the doorway, looking at me like a lost child. The smell of sex came into the room with her. She was wearing a short blue cotton nightdress, with her very erect nipples casting shadows across the cloth. Except for her toe rings, she was naked from the thighs down. Her hair was in her face, and her mascara was mostly worn off, from crying or from neglect. Have I mentioned yet that Kirstie is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life? There’s just no getting around it.

“Johnny,” she said. She seemed very shaky.

“So do you really come on command now, Kirstie?” I said.

“And she does other tricks, too. Whatever I could think up in my spare time,” said Mike. Kirstie looked from one of us to the other. She was breathing irregularly. It occurred to me that what I had interpreted as shakiness was really arousal.

“I still think this is a practical joke,” I said. “I’m starting to wonder if you two are in on it together.”

“Speak, Kirstie,” said Mike. And Kirstie started barking like a dog before the sentence was out of his mouth, though still with her little-girl voice. She stopped in a second and looked down at the ground, tears forming in her eyes.

“Whoa,” I said. If this was an act, it was a good one.

“Speak, Kirstie,” said Mike again, and Kirstie barked again, with a crack in her voice. Then she stamped her bare foot on the ground and let out a sob. “I can’t stop it!” she said, breaking out in tears. “I can’t stop myself!”

“She obeys some other commands, too,” said Mike. “Whatever I could fit in. Try it.”

Kirstie looked at me briefly, crying quietly, and then looked down. My head was resisting, but my dick was telling me to do it.

“Go ahead,” said Mike. “Each order you give her gets her closer to an orgasm.”

“Any order?”

“Any order.”

There was no resisting. “Speak, Kirstie,” I said.

She looked up at me with tear-stained eyes and barked unsteadily. Then she kept looking at me pleadingly. I was going out of my head.

“Speak,” I said again. She held my gaze as she barked; her breathing was getting more irregular.

“Kneel, Kirstie,” said Mike. Kirstie dropped to all fours. “Now beg,” he said. Kirstie leaned back with her hands up like paws, her amazing chest straining against the cotton, and barked again. She was crying openly.

I was having trouble being original. “Speak, Kirstie,” I said. Her barking was getting hoarser and hard to make out under her breathing.

“Now come, Kirstie. Time to come,” said Mike. Still in begging position, Kirstie’s crying caught in her throat and went guttural; her body tensed up, and she spasmed a few times. If you were going to fake an orgasm, you wouldn’t do it that way. I didn’t have the faintest doubt that she had actually come.

Kirstie knelt there, sweat beading on her arms and thighs. “Shit, I can’t stand this anymore,” I said. I grabbed Kirstie and pulled her off the floor. “Where’s a bedroom?” I yelled at Mike.

“Right over there,” he said.

I pulled Kirstie into the bedroom, threw her on the bed so hard that she bounced, and practically ripped the dress off her. In a matter of seconds I was fucking her doggy-style, using those tits to pull her back and forth on my cock. Half crazy, I squeezed her tits hard and said, “Speak!” She barked obediently, though she was panting too hard to have much voice. I kept wringing her tits and making her bark until I exploded inside her, which didn’t take very long. Still, I think it was long enough for her to have come once or twice. As we lay there exhausted, I squeezed a breast hard, without thinking. Seemingly in a daze, Kirstie barked yet again. Had her response reattached itself to this new stimulus? I took the naked girl in my arms; she met my eyes with a heavy-lidded look that could have meant love, submission, or mere semiconsciousness. With my face an inch from her beautiful face, I squeezed a tit once more. Her dreamy, exhausted expression never changed: she barked, looking in my eyes. I kissed her.

As we were dressed and ready to leave, not sure what we were returning to, Kirstie said to Mike, “You have to change me back.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean?” She was audibly afraid.

“I have no idea how to do that, is what I mean.”

“But you can’t leave me like this! What will I do?”

“Well, one thing I suggest you do is not go around telling people that they can make you come at will. That just for starters. And I think you should avoid situations where people are likely to give you orders. Jobs might be tricky. Maybe Johnny can make enough to support you?”

And that was pretty much the way it turned out. Kirstie thought her life was over as we drove away from that cabin, but pretty soon we seemed to work around the orgasm problem with surprising ease. Our sex life was too good to give up, and I’ve resisted the temptation to make Kirstie act funny in public. (Well, I’ve almost always resisted it.) Gradually we started thinking of ourselves as a couple and not just a distraction. Years later, I realized that I’d needed some event like this to change the negative way I’d always thought about Kirstie, and to make me aware that I enjoyed having her around more than not having her around. Which is my current working definition of love.