The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Shriiiiiiiiiiek!”

I folded and put down my newspaper; finishing the day’s su doku puzzle would have to wait. “Oh good, you’re finally awake.”

My beautiful bare busty brunette victim’s only response to that was to scream even louder. “SHHRRRIIIIIIEEEEEK!”

I rolled my eyes. “And why are you yelling like that? Nobody screams out the actual word ‘shriek;’ they just, well, you know, shriek instead.”

“AAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!—That better?”

“Much. Now were you planning to keep going, or did you perhaps want to hold back some yelling in reserve?”

“Hmm. I guess I’m done for now.” She looked down at her exposed and spread-eagled body and added, “But do you mind if I struggle for a bit?”

I pretended to consider. “No no, struggle away, I suppose. In fact, may I suggest you try some gasping and moaning as well?” I patted the video camera, conveniently mounted upon a nearby tripod. “I am recording this for posterity, after all.”

And so, while she lay on my bed, pulling and tugging at her bonds—she believed she was tied down with unbreakable ropes; in reality, it was all in her (meaning of course, my) mind—causing her unrestrained and pendulous bosom to heave mightily (I might add), I hope you’ll permit me a paragraph or two of long, unbroken, and quite possibly unnecessary exposition:

My victim’s name is Anne O’Rexia—rather ironic, I’m sure you’ll agree, considering her bounteous and curvy charms. I’ve already mentioned her brown hair; permit me to add here that it has a lustrous sheen, and is long and flowing—or would be, were she not currently stretched out horizontally upon my bed. She is exactly five feet three-and-three-eighths inches in height, a delightful one hundred fifteen and one half pounds in weight, and prefers to wear either a 36DD or a 38D bra, depending on the cut. The left breast is about four percent larger than the right one, just enough to be noticeable without making her look like a freak. Her areolae are oval, and a fraction over an inch wide at their narrowest point. She also has a mole at the base of her spine, a smaller one on her left shoulder, a thin appendectomy scar (rather lower on her abdomen than one might expect), and a slight flatulence problem which probably wouldn’t matter so much if she wasn’t otherwise as sexually stimulating as she is.

Too much information, you say? Nonsense. Too much information would be me describing myself in similar depth. Suffice it to say that for the purposes of this piece I am older, male, heterosexual, and completely amoral. Well, maybe not amoral exactly; more like operating under a considerably different set of rules than is the public at lar—ah, but I digress.

So anyway, back to the setting. Miss O’Rexia was struggling rather prettily—and not too energetically; nobody enjoys (even imaginary) rope burns, after all—I availed myself of the opportunity to have a peek inside her delightfully open mind. I can read minds, after all—even yours. I can tell you don’t quite believe me; allow me to demonstrate.

Read minds? you’re thinking right now. Yea, verily, and control them as well. Smacks too much of deus ex machina to you, does it? Well, that just shows that you really don’t know what the term means after all; a deus ex machina is an improbable plot device brought in at the end of a tale, to resolve an impossible situation or untangle a plot. My ability to influence minds has been introduced far too early in this dramatization to fall into that category. Nyah.

And so once again we return to our story, already in progress. To a connoisseur of Schadenfreude such as myself, Miss O’Rexia’s mind was a cornucopia of absolutely delightful sensations: a wonderment at her current predicament, a puzzlement as to whether she’d been struggling long enough, a commitment to believing that the ropes tying her down were indeed real, an unexplained and growing excitement filling her loins, a compliment as to my rugged good looks—all right, I’ll admit I inserted that thought, and the two before it. You happy now?—even a touch of embarrassment at the little ‘pfft’ she’d just involuntarily released. (Must remember to have her work on that slight social problem; it’s distracting.)

She seemed to have lost her enthusiasm for struggling; it was time to tell her it was okay to stop. “It’s okay to stop,” I said. Told her. Mouthed. Breathed. Shouted. Whispered. Admitted. Insisted. (Aw, for Pete’s sake, just pick a verb already and be done with it!)

In any case, she stopped. Paused. Quieted dow—forget it. I am not playing this game again. She was done. And waiting for me to make my next move.

I didn’t want to disappoint her; so I bent down and started sucking on one of her breasts. Which brought forth an appreciative moan, and a further moistening of her exposed and suddenly hairless loins. “Mmm. Why are you doing this to me? And what’s your name?”

“My name is unimportant—and by keeping it from you, I am creating an artificial and undeserved aura of mystery. However, since you obviously need to call me something, I shall allow you to refer to me as Master.” I transferred my attention to her other breast; no sense in letting it become jealous.

“Ahh. You want me to call you master?”

“No.” I slapped her belly. “I want you to call me Master. Capitalize the M.”

“I see,” she replied contritely. “You want me to call you Master; all right, I will. But you still haven’t told me why you’re doing this to me.”

I stroked her belly where I’d just slapped her, and then continued to move my finger downward. “Why? Because you’re a librarian, of course.”

“What do you mean, because I’m a luuuuhhhhhhh?” That last moan was triggered by my fingers finally coming into contact with her clit; just like I’d convinced her she was tied down by unbreakable ropes, I’d altered her mind to believe that any contact from me onto her most intimate parts would feel incredibly sexy. It made her crave my touch, even though she really didn’t want to; I’m devious that way. No, really, I am.

“Because you’re a librarian? Well, that’s easy. Everyone knows librarians are sexually repressed.”

What followed was nearly a full minute of moans and screams, up to and including a sexual climax; I shan’t bore you with the mundane details, as you likely wouldn’t be interes—

What’s that you’re thinking? You do want the details? Well, I for one am relieved to see that you’re nearly as perverted as I am, after all! Well then, here goes:

“Ah, oh, oh fuck, yes—no—yes, fuck it, rub me, more, more, hah, hah, hah, ohmigod, my clit, ah, ha, Hah, Hah, suck my tits, yes, YES, HAH, HAH, HAH, shrie—I mean, ieeeeeeeee! I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m—huh, hunh, huh, hunh, thah, that, was, fan, tas, tic, huh, huh... What does being a librarian have to do with being sexually repressed?”

“Well, you turned me down when I asked you to have sex with me.”

“Well, of course I turned you down when you asked me to have sex with you, Master. I was at work, you were a total (and somewhat creepy) stranger who was hitting on me out of the blue, and most importantly, I’m engaged.”

“At work at a library. It’s a well-known fact that smoking-hot librarians, especially dark-haired ones, who dress to hide their bodies, are sexually repressed. It’s in every porn magazine I’ve ever read; so there.”

“Oh, for—” My unwilling subject rolled her eyes, then looked right at me. “Master. Darling. Light Of My Life. Listen to me carefully. I was not dressing to hide my body; I was wearing long sleeves because it’s the middle of fucking winter! And what part of ‘engaged’ don’t you understand? Saving myself for my fiancé is not the same thing as being sexually repressed.”

“It is to me.”

She shifted position on the bed, reminding me that she was naked and still horny. “For the record, I’m fucking my fiancé, nine ways to Sunday. Now will you please untie me so I can get up; I have a sudden, unexplained, and urgent need to undo your pants and swallow your cock.”

Now there’s a segue. I mentally released her from her (imaginary) bonds, and she physically released my cock from his. Its. Whatever. The point is, she started playing the mouth organ—and quite well, I might add. I guess she really did practice on her fiancé.

Between the velvet sensation of her lips on my shaft, and the visual delight of her shimmying tits as she bobbed up and down, it wasn’t long before I rewarded her with a full half a teaspoon of my (ahem) special fluid. I was delighted; that was the most I’d produced in ages. My little orphan Annie really was woman enough to wake the dead....

“Hmwuh?” She stopped sucking and swallowing. “Orphan? Where in hell did you get the idea that I’m a fucking orphan? Both of my parents are dong quite well, thank you very much; I swear, Master, there are times when I really don’t have a clue what the hell you’re thinking.”

Now that statement was ironic, since she’d obviously and unwittingly ‘heard’ my thought. I guess whenever I climax, I lose some control over my mental shields. I don’t know for sure, since it hasn’t happened all that oft—strike that. What I meant to say was, I’m a stud. I fuck women for pleasure. All the time. And if you repeat one word of anything else—one word—I will hunt you down and give you an irresistible urge to, to... marry a dolphin. I’m not bluffing.

Ahem. Anywhoo... back to the story.

I made sure that the video camera was still running—it was, but it never hurts to check; these damned digital things eat battery power the way Anne just ate me—and then turned it off for twent—I mean, two, two minutes, while I regained my erection. (Thank goodness for Cialis, or it might’ve taken me all day. And thank goodness even more that Miss O’Rexia didn’t hear me think that.)

I repositioned the camera and turned it back on—and made a mental note to mind control myself a stagehand next time. Preferably a cute one. Then it was my turn to lay down on my bed, so my new slave could mount me and do all the work. (What? My back cramps up if I’m on top for too long; it’s an old work injury, okay?) And do all the work she did, and with gusto; she pumped merrily away, moaning and sighing, and leaning over me so that those gorgeous melons would fall straight into my mouth. And she managed to have at least another three—I mean, seven—nah, no need to exaggerate this time, it really was three—more climaxes in the time it took me to have another one.

Just in time, too. I heard the video camera power down; it’d run out of juice. I mentally ordered her to get up and plug the battery into the recharger, and then put the rest of it away. She looked at me and said, “Sure. Where’s the recharger, and where’s the camera case?” So I wound up having to get up out of bed anyway, dammit.

Still grumbling, I got up and reached over to separate the camera from its tripod. And then it talked to me. I swear. The camera, I mean. Honest to God.

Which is ironic, again, because the first words it said to me were, “This is God.”

And the next words were, “You’ve been a bad boy. Again.” And then God sighed. Trust me; you do not ever want to hear God sigh.

“I didn’t mean to!” I cried out. And then, “Umm, what’d I do?”

God sighed once more. Trust me—oh, wait, I already said that. “You’ve refused to take your medication yet again, sir. That makes four times this week.” And the face of God swam out of focus, to be replaced by that of Godfrey, my doctor at the nuthou—um, I mean, rehabilitation clinic.

“Do I really have to start telling the nurses to force the pills down your throat? You know that whenever you stop taking them, you risk having another episode, sir.” He glanced at the small stain under the sheet, about a foot below my waist, and sighed. “And you’ve had another emission again, haven’t you?”

I quickly cupped the stain with both hands. “What emission?” I casually asked. Or perhaps yelped. Either or.

Well, to make a long story short, he had one of the nurses (either Gretchen or Helga; I always forget which one of them has the moustache) bathe me and change the sheets. And as I finally drifted off to sleep after my rather trying experience, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “See? Now that was a genuine deus ex machina. After all, its literal translation is God from the machine. So there. Nyah.”

Which I’m sure you’ll agree, Gentle Reader—and obvious Figment Of My Deranged Imagination—as a fellow connoisseur of Schadenfreude, the above can be the only fit and proper ending.

Or not. Whichever.

—The End. Finis. Done. 30. You’re still here? It’s over. Go home.