The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Master of Minds

A serial tale of mind-control erotica

Episode Two—The Corruption of Diana, part one

SYNOPSIS: A bookish girl is led down the path of sexual depravity.

Categories: MF, MC, HM, FT

This is the second in what may well be a long-running serial involving the sexual experiences of one man, and his ability to control the minds of others. The fetishistic quality will vary in each, but there will likely always be some element of it to each story. The fetishistic elements are light again here, but the next episode they will be much more emphasized.

Disclaimer: The events described in this story are amoral and illegal. Don’t try to recreate them. In any case, if you think you have mind control powers like what is described here, you should see a psychiatrist! This is a fictional story with sci-fi elements. It is a fantasy, and is nothing which can or should be done in real life. Prostitution and heroin are illegal! Don’t be a prostitute, or solicit the services of one! Heroin is bad! Don’t use it!

If you are of legal age in your state or territory and enjoy sex with mind control, enjoy!

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She was perfect.

I had been watching her for several weeks now, and she was exactly what I’d been looking for.

Diana Thompson is a 23 year old, short, nerdy girl who apparently spends every free moment at the Portland Public Library studying for her grad school classes. She has a small face and the biggest prettiest brown eyes behind large spectacles. She hides behind her long mousy brown hair, and hides her body in baggy overalls and loose shirts. She’s a bit on the dumpy side, and her face still has remnants of her pimply teen years.

For years I had fantasized about completely corrupting a perfectly innocent girl. I hadn’t run into any, though. The need got to me so badly that I once tried to trick myself. I took a girl who was nearly right, made her into my image of perfection, and then brought her to the lowest depths of depravity. It had been nice, but the truth had nagged in the back of my head, it hadn’t been true.

Diana isn’t just a virgin, she literally has never been kissed. Raised in a strict Christian home, her mother had instilled heavy propaganda about the diseases boys carried. Consequently, she’d always been afraid of boys. It didn’t help that the one boy who ever showed interest in her had been an overly-hormonal moron. She had gone on one date with him to a dance, but his constant awkward propositioning and socially-maladjusted ways had turned her off from boys. Now she only allowed herself to fantasize of fictional characters. Tom Paris from Star Trek Voyager was her crush.

Further twisted by her mother’s holy-rolling rhetoric and fear-mongering, the girl had shunned sexuality altogether, she had never masturbated, and stayed far away from the erotic fan fiction of the internet. In her mind, she longed for a purely mental and completely asexual relationship. She was prepared to do the sex act only for means of procreation.

I smile, gazing upon her. I know all these things about her because of my incredible ability to read and control minds. I’ve been able to watch her all these weeks undisturbed because no one notices or bothers me unless I want them to. My name is Jackson Montoya, and I can make anyone do or be anything I want.

And I know more. Things have been very rough for Diana, that’s why she’s studying so hard. The truth is she was always bright and hard-working, but a sudden illness in her junior year of college destroyed her work until nearly halfway through her senior year. Because of this she wasn’t able to get the grants and scholarships her great mind deserved. Now she’s stuck working her ass off not only on her grad school work, but also trying to make money to pay for her tuition.

And Diana is very worried about her financial situation. But luckily she has a guardian angel who is going to fix all of her problems. Diana has me.

She sighs and stands up, closing her books and putting them away in her huge backpack. Hefting it onto her shoulders, she humps her way across the library floor to the exit. I follow her closely behind, watching her hair swing with her movements. It could be very beautiful hair if it was treated right, but now it has tangles and split-ends, and is suffering from lack of conditioner. She walks down the corridor at the entrance of the library in her simple sneakers. I thrill in delight, knowing what she will become, knowing that before long I will see those feet in fishnets and high heels.

But no, don’t rush. When will I ever find a specimen like this again? I have to savor every moment of this.

I have been following Diana home ever since I first laid eyes on her. She has never noticed me, and never seen me. I have destroyed even a half-remembered glance that she had of me. She has no knowledge of my existence or my influence, and she will never know that anything has been done to her.

I follow her home to her tiny one bedroom apartment. It’s a real economy place. Everything is tiny, the bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. It doesn’t even have a serious living room, just an area connected to the kitchen that doubles dining area and living room. Accoutrements are sparse and fairly Spartan. There are a few sci-fi posters around and a poster of Tom Paris, her treasure.

Diana sighs as she drops her backpack, and I watch her make her supper. She throws some noodles together with a cheese sauce and some green beans. There is a little TV by the wall, and she sits on her secondhand couch and turns the tube on.

I sit closely to her, pressing my side to hers, with my arm around her, nuzzling my nose into the crook behind her ear, smelling her hair. She doesn’t feel it at all, has no idea anyone else is in the room. Usually she watches PBS or local TV, but today she channel surfs through her basic cable package. She does this because I make her.

I have been watching her for weeks studying her mind deeply, I know everything about Diana Thompson. I have seen the pain from her scraped knee the first time she rode a bike. I have seen her feeling of accomplishment when she completed a science project for sixth grade. Her disappointment when she didn’t get into Yale. Her horror and confusion during her first period. The shame when she was caught touching her pussy as a child.

I could go on, but you see what I’m telling you.

I had to make sure that she was exactly what I had yearned for. Any less wouldn’t do, I had already learned that. Last week, when I felt certain of it, I began my plan.

That night Diana had dreamt of herself as a prostitute, fucking men for money. She had felt excitement and pleasure during her dream. When she awoke, the half-remembered dream scared and frightened her, her mother’s screams and exclamations about the pain of eternity in hell coming to her.

The next night she dreamt again. She dreamt of short vinyl skirts and tight bustiers and high heeled boots with fishnets. She dreamt of many men in a room fucking her, enjoying the total degradation as they came on her face. Savoring a cigarette as she lies afterwards in their pooled sweat. Awaking from this dream, Diana experience d a mixture of terror and fascination, with the sensation of forbidden pleasures still echoing in her mind

Over the next few nights I continued this trend, two nights ago she dreamt of being shit on. Last night I had brought her to the depths of depraved fantasy, as she enjoyed a dream of being a heroin-addicted whore, fucking large groups of men for drugs. In the daytimes, Diana experienced strong ambivalence toward these nighttime fantasies, her mind preoccupied, torn between the ultimate pleasure of sexual degradation and fear of eternal damnation. But as every night passed, she found herself less and less held back, and she was enjoying these dreams more and more, lying in her bed in the mornings, enjoying the afterglow of such abject sinfulness.

Christian morality is so great. I love it because nothing is more tempting than the forbidden, and Christianity forbids all the shit I love.

All of this has lead to tonight, where I am going to take my next step.

Diana sits next to me, flipping through channels, and I take over. She doesn’t think twice about landing on MTV, a channel she doesn’t have. In fact, she isn’t watching it at all. I am controlling her sensory input, and I have cut off the actual television altogether, which is showing some game show or other. In Diana’s mind, she has stopped channel surfing, and is watching a program about the lives of prostitutes.

I feel the thrill pulse in her body as she sees her dreams of the past week come onscreen.

She watches with rapt attention as prostitutes are interviewed, and I show her women who are very happy. They are sexually and financially free. One especially sexy whore shows off a fur jacket she was able to buy yesterday, and then shows off her collection of shoes; all possible because of her profession. Diana envied exactly the sort of girl that this one seems to be, she knew them in high school and college, and they all ignored her except to laugh at her. A secret part of her wanted to belong and enjoy life, wanted to shuck her existence of the burden of schoolwork and religious piety. I know this, and I’m using it against her.

Blood is flowing into her pussy now, she is excited, and her engrossed attention prevents her from fighting it. I smile evilly.

The gears are turning in her head, and they are moving just the way I want them to. Of course I could transform her in a moment into a completely degenerate slut, but I’ve done that to death.... A chance like this comes rarely.

After watching the entire and long-running program which I projected directly into her mind, Diana is exhausted and retreats to her bed. She undresses and puts on her very plain cotton nightgown, looking at it for a moment with distaste she never felt before I entered her life, and she crawls into bed, openly eager for her dark dreams to take over.

I slide into the bed, holding her close, and ensure that those dreams are everything she has grown to desire.

-

The next morning, Diana crawls out of bed, feeling the remnants of her wickedly erotic dream still pulsing in her body and allowing herself to enjoy them. She paws through her clothes, unhappy with most everything she sees, and settles for an older pair of jeans that fit her tightly. None of her shirts are any good, so she picks out her fluffiest sweater, one which I particularly like.

She goes to her class and has a hard time paying attention, her thighs rubbing together as the fantasies of prostitution run through her mind.

I leave early, knowing she will head to the library when class is over, and I prepare. I scour around the area of the library, and it doesn’t take long, the homeless shelter isn’t that far away. I find a dirty drunk bum who actually doesn’t have any horrific STDs and I put fifty dollars in his pocket which he won’t notice until he uses it for my purpose.

I busy myself with eating and other distractions to keep me busy until later at night, when I make my way back to the front of the library. The bum is hanging around outside, panhandling for cigarettes. In a moment, Diana walks out, and the bum approaches her on the sidewalk.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, getting her attention. As she looks at his dirty deformed face, pious charity filling her mind, expecting to be asked for help, he tells her, “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you blow me.”

Diana looks at him silently for a moment, shocked, her years of puritan upbringing leaving her in a gut reaction of disgust. But with a little prodding from myself, the money takes a forefront place in her mind. Then the forbidden thrills of her dreams come back to her, and she looks at him, disgusting dirty vagrant he is, and a little apprehensively she says, “o-okay. Sure.”

I grin widely as I follow them. I am unnoticed, as always. They find an alleyway, and now no one notices them either, I insure. I light a cigarette and enjoy the smoke filling my lungs as I watch. The bum pulls out the $50 I slipped into his jeans earlier and he lays it on an overhanging concrete ledge next to them. Diana licks her lips expectantly, her mind racing. She can’t believe she is about to do this. Her mother’s voice screams in her head, and I see in her mind as she tells her mother off. “Shut the fuck up!” I smile, and ensure that her wish is granted.

I am her guardian angel, after all. It would be bad of me to ignore my charge’s wishes for sexual depravity free of externally imposed moral qualms.

The bum drops his pants and pulls out his rancid half-hard cock. Sweet, virginal, pure, chaste Diana gets on her knees, the tight jeans crinkling as she bends, and she leans in. Her soft and inexperienced hands find his cock and begin to stroke it.

“Yeah,” the bum groans, his voice cracked from years of smoking rollie cigarettes, “just like that you little slut.” Diana blushes while thrills of her succumbing to this sinfulness spike through her body.

His dirty smelly cock has gotten fully erect, and Diana is stroking it with fervor now, the bum looks down at her, grunting, and tells her “I’m not paying for a handjob, whore.”

Diana’s lower lip quivers and she thinks to herself, “this is the moment. Fuck you, Mother. ... Fuck you, God.” And with relish she parts her lips and takes his smelly cock into her mouth.

The taste is overwhelming and she is taken aback, but he groans out loud and tells her to use her tongue. Lost in the incredible nowness of her actions, she only obeys.

The bum’s vocal exclamations grow stronger and louder, he cusses her out and insults her, grabs her head and holds her firmly as she begins to bob up and down on his veined cock. Diana happily loses herself in the hypnotic rhythm of fellatio.

“Fucking right, bitch. I haven’t had a good cock-sucking in so long... unnngh I’m going to fucking blow.”

Diana is suddenly snapped back into reality, and struggles to pull off of him as she feels his cock pulse, not wanting his fetid spunk in her mouth. She manages to pull away just in time for his cock to shoot jets of come all over her face. She cries out as some gets in her eye and on her glasses, and she scrambles away. The bum grabs his cock and jerks it a few more times, laughing at her. She cries out in disgust, grabbing the money, she runs down the alley, wiping the potent spunk off her face with the sleeve of her sweater. But the smell won’t go away.

I follow her to her home where she collapses onto her bed crying. She’s sorry, sorry. She’s wicked and needs to be forgiven. She doesn’t know that I am holding her, stroking her hair through her rocking convulsive sobs. She holds the fifty dollar bill she received for her descent into sexual sinfulness. It has become a symbol of the stain on her soul. She wants to rip it up, burn it, throw it away. She can’t. She looks at it, holding it in trembling hands, her tears falling onto the crumpled greasy green paper, and she realizes that she has become a whore. She has taken the first step on a path she can’t turn away from. Her purity is gone and can never be recovered. God will never want her.

She cries herself to sleep, clutching the symbol of her new life, and I kiss her brow.

“It’s alright, my sweetest,” I say to her, knowing she has simply cried away the last of her inhibitions. Knowing she has merely cleansed herself for her new life.

“Don’t worry...” I whisper into her ear. “This is only the beginning.”

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