The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mind control is a funny thing. If the person controlling you is subtle enough, you won’t even know they have their hooks inside you. Not until they want you to know.

I only realized a week ago that I’ve whole groups of people controlling me. I thought many of them were my friends. I thought I understood the world around me. I never imagined my entire paradigm was a deliberate myth, created with loving care and exquisite detail... all for their own amusement. And after all the things that they’ve proven they can do, how do I know there aren’t a hundred faceless others doing the same thing to me? How many people out there privately or publicly call me their plaything, their perfectly trained little toy? How many hands have gripped my naked hips while I knelt with my forehead pressed to the floor, obediently waiting to be mounted and fucked?

But I’m getting ahead of myself, thinking so hard of what I’ve learned over this past week. I received my first clues well before then. Two or so years before.

His name was Booker, and I met him while walking home from my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend’s house. I was stewing inside, almost quivering with pent up frustration, and giving serious thought to crying. Or maybe screaming. I never saw Booker coming down the sidewalk until I’d almost run into him. One second it was Joel and his perfect grades and his perfect family and his perfect gentlemanly morals and his perfect little life... and then I was stopped short, calloused hands gripping my forearms to keep me from falling flat on my bottom.

“...whoa, girl, I’m sorry...didn’t mean to frighten you...look like you’re in a hurry.” And in the moment’s shock, my brain registered what was happening in rapid order. Black man, maybe fifty years old, grey hair neatly trimmed and a kind smile on a tired face. That vaguely unpleasant scent that only the homeless can manage. Already shuffling past me, avoiding eye contact to prove he meant no harm. I thought he looked like Morgan Freeman, only shorter and better built.

“It’s okay,” I impulsively said to his retreating back, and he turned at once to give me his polite attention. “I’m sorry... I should have been watching where I was going.”

“...my fault, my fault...say...you don’t think I could manage a cigarette off you? I’m sorry to ask, it’s just—”

“No, no, here! Take one for the road, too!” And then I did a very weird thing. As I fumbled in my purse for my cigarettes, I saw that a neatly packaged condom had happened to end up resting on top of the pack. I pretended not to see it and brought the pack out, “absently” letting the condom fall to the sidewalk. At least my blush was real; I could feel it burning across my entire face.

I didn’t know then that it was a programmed impulse. I didn’t know anything about how my “friends” had carefully booby-trapped my mind. And I didn’t have a very clear idea of what to do next.

Booker did. He leaned down, his gentle expression never changing, and picked up the condom. Maybe his smile was a little wider when stood back up, but it wasn’t remotely the leer that it could have been. Just the sad smile of an old man who knew he’d never be picked to wear that condom... but who could still take pleasure from imagining what it might feel like.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I heard myself stammer, and wondered where I was intending to take this explanation. “I thought I might use it tonight, but I probably never will now.”

“...awwww, come on...” A touch of warm hard fingertips against my palm as he handed it to me. “...pretty girl like you? You in college, ain’t you?”

“Yeah, I go to SCAD. Um,SavannahCollegeof Art and Design?” My blush abruptly blazed ten times hotter as, with a glance, his eyes told me that he knew what ‘SCAD’ meant. I’d just insulted his intelligence, but he was letting it slide. “Um... I’m gonna be a graphic designer.”

“...well, going to school like that, you gonna meet all kind of boys. You’ll be fine.” He accepted my cigarette and a light. I feared his next move would be to turn and walk away.

“I guess so, but that’s not gonna get me laid tonight.” I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly where I was trying to lead the conversation. But for the life of me I couldn’t imagine why. How could I even be contemplating—

“Aw, come on, now.” His voice was still calm, comforting, but his eyes had become very intent. I held his undivided attention. “Any man would wanna give you that, whenever you wanted it.”

“You’re sweet. My name’s Megan. What’s yours?”

“Booker.”

“Booker...?”

“Yeah, like Booker T. Washington. And Megan, I wasn’t trying to be sweet. It’s true. Any man would wanna get together with you.”

“Any man? What about yourself? Would you want to fuck a tiny little white girl like me?” I gave him a winsome smile, and continued listening in shock to my out-of-control mouth.

“Hell yeah I would, if I thought I had a chance to.”

“Where would you take me?” I glanced around the quiet neighborhood and vaguely wondered if anyone was listening to us through their window. Maybe watching us. “My place is just around the corner...”

“We could do that,” Booker said immediately. “If, uh, you don’t think we’d be bothering anybody.”

“Oh, no. I live alone.” I slid my hand into his. “Come on.”

He followed me home, all the time glancing around with a hunted look, as though he wondered what the catch might be. It was a strange thrill to let him know exactly where I lived, to know that he might visit me again whenever he wanted. If this night went as I planned for it to, he’d be wanting to visit me very often indeed. And I’d have to let him in, let him have me again and again... he’d know too much about me to dare make him mad.

But only if I went the distance then, on that first night. So as soon as we were inside I locked the door, turned, and sank to my knees before him. My hands fumbled at the fly of his trousers, and within seconds I had his warm cock hardening in my hands.

It was huge, even semi-flaccid. Nine or ten inches long and getting thicker each passing second. My brain yammered in semi-coherent alarm, trying to get my attention, to pull me back from this crazy thing that I was doing. I thought I might start listening to it at any second, so before I could back out, I leaned forward and took Booker’s cock into my mouth.

“...oh lord...” he breathed, and rested his fingertips on my head. I began to bob up and down, taking in as much of his enormous size as I could, letting my tongue caress the underside of his shaft with each stroke. Incredibly, it continued to swell in my mouth until it was finally rigid, my lips stretched taut around it. It was huge, with a head so thick that I couldn’t (yet) fit it into my throat no matter how badly I gagged myself trying.

His fingers put on a gentle pressure, encouraging me in my attempts to deep-throat him, urging me to go deeper and deeper. When I balked, gagging, he waited until I had my breath back and then pressured me forward again. My own hands began to move quickly, unbuttoning my blouse and jeans, stripping away my clothes as quickly as I could. When I was naked down to my socks, I took down his trousers for him. Never letting his cock out of my mouth, I let him rest his hands more firmly on my head for balance while I lifted one, then the other, of his legs. When I was finished, his trousers and shoes were in a pile on top of my own clothes.

Booker was very excited by this point. His thrusts were becoming harder, more aggressive, and I tasted pre-cum. He muttered steadily under his breath as he face-fucked me, things like “...suck that dick...yeah...naked on your knees...big dick in your mouth...suck it...”

I dug the condom out of my purse by feel, tore it open and tried to take my mouth off Booker’s cock so that I could put it on him... but he surprised me. His hands tightened, grabbing fistfuls of my hair and holding my head in place while his cock continued thrusting into my mouth. I knew at once that he wasn’t going to stop face-fucking me until he’d squirted right down my throat. Rather than fight it, I let my hands sink into my lap and relented, kneeling submissively while his cock slid in and out between my lips.

At last he thrust deeply enough to make me gag again, and didn’t relent. Ignoring my instinctive effort to pull back, he held me pressed there. And then he came, great hot gouts of fluid spurting into my throat. I had to swallow convulsively, several times, just to keep from choking. My brain was numb with shock; I was drinking this man’s come!

Booker’s legs went weak and for a moment his weight leaned in on my head, the head of his cock lodged all the more firmly in the back of my throat. Another squirt of his warm come into my belly, and he recovered himself and slowly withdrew his cock from my mouth.

“...damn, girl...damn...”

By this point you, the gentle reader, must believe that I’m just one of the nastier versions of sluts that exist out there. But I’ve learned that it wasn’t my fault. It was never my choice. Someone else was pulling the strings.

I’m instructed to amend that last paragraph. It was my fault. I made my choice when I decided to go through life as an uptight backstabbing bitch. And my Mistress has not yet begun to pull my strings.

I wasn’t done with Booker that night. It’s hard to explain the emotions that drove me, and that drive me still. On some passive level I was completely aware and completely stunned. I’d already done something unthinkable, unimaginable. Sick humiliation washed through me in cold green waves.

But there was no fear to go with it. Naked on my knees, alone with this stranger off the streets and preparing to give far more of myself to him, I wasn’t even worried. My Mistress has explained to me that they edited out my fear, replacing it with lust in equal quantities. It was, and remains, a very effective means of manipulating me.

That night, all I knew was that I needed more of Booker’s cock. I needed it now, I needed it regularly, and I especially needed it to never go away. Casting about for the best way to have all these things, I spotted my camcorder. Perfect.

“Booker...” Still on my knees, I turned my face up to give him puppydog eyes. “If I let you keep the tape, would you film us fucking?”

His eyes regained that intent look, fully alert to threat and opportunity. “Um... I keep the tape for you?”

“No, man, you keep it for you. Or for your friends, or for whomever you want to see it. As long as it doesn’t reach my mom.” I dimpled. “Want her address?”

“Um... well, I... Why, you want to give me your mama’s address?” Now he bore the guarded look of someone who wasn’t quite believing his luck. You’d think his cock in my mouth was convincing enough.

“Well, yeah. See, if you had that tape and her address, then I’d have to put out for you anytime you wanted it,” I explained. “You could invite your friends to use me. You could be my pimp, and I’d have to do everything you said, always. Or my mom might find out. See what I mean? I’d have to be your slave, Booker. What do you think?”

“You, ah... you want that?”

“Yeah. Do you?” I leaned forward, taking the slippery head of his enormous cock back into my mouth. At once it responded, beginning to swell between my lips.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I do. But can we start the tape with you, ah... maybe asking me for it? You know, so no one ever thinks...”

“You want me to beg you to fuck me on tape? That’s fair, coz I want something too.” I found the condom where it lay forgotten on the carpet, and gently pressed it into his palm. With my other hand I continued to stroke his quickly hardening cock. “You gotta wear protection, okay? Neither of us wants me pregnant yet, do we?”

“Oh. Oh, no...” His eyes told me otherwise, but he wasn’t about to quibble.

“Then we have a deal. Gimme just a second to set it up to film us.” I got up, turned the room light on, and scurried naked over to the camcorder. The awareness of his eyes on my bare flesh was enough to raise goosebumps. I put in a blank tape, then positioned the camcorder where it would catch a nice, open side view of the space in front of the couch. It would have been better with someone else to run the camera for us, but I imagined we’d have that soon. Enough for now to catch a good, identifying profile of myself taking it doggie-style from Booker.

To keep Booker entertained, I made small talk with him while I worked.

“So hey... whatcha gonna do to me when you own me?”

“...ah, well, what do you want me to do?”

“No, but that’s the thing... it won’t be about what I want. Once you own this tape, it’s only gonna be about what you want. Like... you gonna share me sometimes? Let your friends have me? Maybe charge them? Make a little money off me? Are you gonna be my pimp, Booker?”

“Well, ah, yeah... if you want me to, I mean. If you like dick, I know a lot of boys who’d wanna hang out with you.”

“Sweet! That’s too cool. Ever gonna tie me up? Spank me when I’m disobedient?”

“...I could do that...”

I had the camcorder positioned to my satisfaction by this point. All that was left was to turn it on and get busy. But then an inspiration hit me, and I had to go to my room for supplies.

“Make yourself at home, man,” I called over my shoulder. “There’s wine and orange juice in the fridge. I’ll be right back.”

In my bedroom I found what I wanted, a bottle of massage oil that I’d bought on a whim only the day before. I had this sudden image of oiled flesh in my mind, and had to know if it felt as good as I imagined it to.

Most prominent was the thought of that cock of his, that monstrous black battering ram, sliding frictionlessly in and out, in and out between pussy lips stretched taut to accommodate him. A hot, urgent spike of lust glowed between my thighs, hurrying me back out to where he waited nervously in my living room.

“Here,” I said breathlessly, handing him the bottle. He still absently held the condom in his other hand. I hesitated, knowing that I was about to dive into a dark abyss of repercussions. Then I switched on the camcorder, dropped to my knees in front of him, and got to work.