The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

So here I am, on I-10 headed out to Scottsdale. It’s a gorgeous April morning, not a cloud in the sky, and I’m taking a long-overdue break from my hectic L.A. lifestyle. It’s damn hard breaking into Hollywood; no matter what you have in the way of looks and talent, they always come in second to luck. Maybe even third, behind hard work; doubly so if, like me, you’re half Mexican.

The modeling agencies all say I’m too voluptuous; the casting agencies claim I don’t have enough of a portfolio. In practically any other line of work, women would kill for the kind of body I have: blessed with nature’s bounty on top and bottom, kept from drooping or sagging through religious bra-wearing and a steady diet of yoga and Pilates. I could probably make it in the adult film industry, if I ever choose to go that route; I might have to, if I still haven’t broken into the mainstream by Thanksgiving or so.

The miles are melting under my tires. It’s still early enough in the year that I have the windows down instead of the a/c on; my normally sleek long black hair is being blown into a tumbled mess. Even satellite reception is come-and-go, this far in the middle of nowhere; which is why I have my CD player blarin—

Flashing lights. In my rear-view mirror. Dammit!

I slow down and move over, on the off-chance the officer just wants to pass. No dice. As we pull off, I’m a little surprised: seventy-one in a 65 zone is hardly worth bothering over, not when some people do one-twenty along the same deserted stretch.

I open my purse and remove my wallet; I know the drill. As the officer exits the cruiser, I’m relieved to see it’s a he, and that he appears to be decent-looking. I undo the top button of my blouse; like I said, I know the drill.

When he comes up to my window, I’m surprised again. He’s not Arizona state police, as I expected; instead, his arm patch says he’s with the Maricopa county force. Well, at least that explains why he’s stopped me; he’s a local cop trying to generate some local income. I smile to myself; maybe he’ll still be willing to deal.

“License and registration.” His voice is businesslike, but also warm and confident; a pleasure to listen to. Better and better.

“Here you go, officer. I hope I wasn’t speeding?” I put on my worried look; no sense in letting five years of acting lessons go to waste.

He takes his time, examining both sides. “You are Miranda Gutierrez?”

“Yes sir, though I also go by Miranda Nelson.”

“Actress?” He looks me over; I inhale deeply before answering.

“Prospective.”

“And why would a... prospective actress,” he says it like he hadn’t expected a California starlet to use such a word, “be racing toward Phoenix at one hundred and thirteen miles per hour?”

“Scottsdale, actually. And with all due respect, officer, I couldn’t have been going above seventy. For one thing, I had the cruise control on; for another, this car would vibrate itself to pieces if I tried pushing it much faster.”

Is that a smirk on his face? “Are you attempting to sway the testimony of a police officer, Miss Gutierrez? That’s a misdemeanor, punishable by up to sixty days in a county jail.”

“Wait, no! I’m just telling you the truth, officer. I was doing seventy; seventy-two tops.” There’s no need to fake worry anymore. Or desperation. Impulsively I add, “Perhaps there’s some way to work this out? I’ll do anything.” I inhale again. “Anything.”

Now why did I just go and do that?

It seems that the officer, whose name I still don’t know, has been expecting my reaction. At any rate, his smirk turns into a tight smile as he steps to the side. “Please leave your purse on the seat and step out of the car, young lady.”

I sigh; I’ve really backed myself into a corner this time. Following his directions, I place my hands palm-down on the roof of my car; it’s a little hot in the late morning sun. “But—”

He cuts me off. “You have the right to remain silent. Give me your right hand, then your left.” I comply in silence; I feel like I’ve lost the will to speak. My hands cuffed behind my back, he guides me to the back of his cruiser, then leaves me sitting there while he rolls up my windows and grabs my purse and keys.

When he gets back, I want to ask him what will happen to my car. But I can’t form the words. Any words. Not even a grunt to get his attention. I start to panic.

“Don’t worry,” he says as he puts the car into drive. “Your car will be taken care of.”

We drive in silence for about ten minutes, until we reach a dirt road barely visible from the interstate. It’s not a marked exit, but he takes it anyway; it leads to a low cabin hidden from the highway. A small sign on the door proclaims it as a police substation.

He grabs my arm and leads me around to the back door, to a comfortable if sparse room. There’s a fridge, a small table, a small sofa. A television and a stereo. And against one wall, a futon.

He uncuffs me; he doesn’t seem to be worried about the possibility of me running away. And I still can’t talk.

“I haven’t finished reading you your rights, Miss Gutierrez. Miranda. Anything you say will be used against you.” He pauses for a moment, taking out a small recorder. He pushes a button, and I hear my own voice from earlier: “Perhaps there’s some way to work this out? I’ll do anything. Anything.”

My heart sinks. I’m going to jail, I just know it. And I haven’t even done anything wrong!

He puts the recorder away. “You have the right to a Master. If you don’t already have one, one will be appointed for you.”

I jerk my head around to stare directly at him; my expression says, What!?

“Not quite how you remembered that going, hmm? Too bad, and too late. Ironic that they’re called your Miranda rights; since you, my dear Miranda, no longer have any.”

He removes his gun belt, locking it away; then he takes off his jacket and shirt, revealing a fairly decent set of muscles covered by a white sleeveless t-shirt. The kind they call a wifebeater. I hope that’s not an omen.

He grabs a beer and sits on the sofa, apparently not in the least concerned about leaving me alone and unhandcuffed in the middle of the room. There’s a long moment where he doesn’t say anything, just looks me up and down: from windswept hair, past the curve-hugging blue jeans, and down to my chunky open-toed sandals.

Then: “You have the right to speak again. But I’d suggest you carefully consider what you have to say, or you might find yourself silent again for a good long while.”

I nod, then try a whisper. “This is a nightmare.”

Fortunately that doesn’t set him off. “It can be. Or it can be an adventure. That’s up to you, Miranda. Or as I think I prefer to call you, Slave.”

I want to protest—but I remember his warning, just in time. He laughs; apparently that was some sort of test. “Very good, Slave. Now I want to see just what it is I’ve lucked into today.” He picks up the remote and turns on the stereo; soft jazz fills the room. “Entertain me. And I don’t mean sing.”

Even without that lascivious look in his eye, I know very well what he means. I start out by gently swaying as I turn around, buying myself some time to consider my options. Fortunately, I’m a pretty good dancer; you never know what skills a director might be looking for.

Despite the burble of panic simmering just below my consciousness, threatening to boil over at any moment—or maybe because of it—I quickly analyze my situation. This guy, police officer or not, (and I’m inclined for the moment to believe he actually is) has some sort of hold over me. Some sort of paranormal power.

Never mind that it sounds like I’m trapped in a bad Outer Limits episode. Stay with that thought, Miranda, and go from there.

His ability, whatever it is, seems to work best when he gives his instructions out loud. So far, I’ve been made to remain silent, not worry (which could be why I’m being so rational), and give him a show. However, there was also my bribe attempt, which he seemed to be expecting; and the fact that I’m not trying to get away.

I dance around to face him again, playing with my blouse’s collar, unbuttoning the next button to expose a bit more cleavage. It seems pretty obvious that my so-called Master could’ve probably just ordered me to strip down and crawl onto that mattress. That he hasn’t tells me two important things: one, that he intends to take his time, which means that he’s not worried about getting caught; he’s probably done this with any number of women. And two, that he enjoys giving me the illusion of having some say in the matter; hell, that fake free will might even be part of what gets him off.

And in a flash, I realize what I’ll have to do, in order to keep my sanity through the end of this ordeal. I’m going to have to step outside myself, treating this as just another audition. After all, I’ve never been morally opposed to being naked or having sex, even on-camera. I’ll just have to play along, and pretend to enjoy myself.

Never has that line about rape being inevitable seemed more appropriate. Or more ironic.

I pop another button and squeeze my breasts together with my arms, letting my expression soften into something resembling arousal. It has an immediate effect on my unnamed captor; he leans slightly forward, squirming a little. And no wonder; his slacks have become a bit more cramped for space.

I dance toward him, then turn and sit on his lap for just a moment, teasing; then I lift up my hips so they’re almost in line with his face. While he’s staring at my denim-covered ass, I unbutton the rest of my blouse and pull it halfway down my arms, exposing my naturally-tanned shoulders—and thick, supportive bra straps. I’m working with what I have; after all, this morning I’d dressed for comfort, not seduction.

He doesn’t seem to mind. A strange look crosses his face as he says, “You’re enjoying this.”

And I am. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s just given me another psychic command, or because of my own pride in my body and my craft. Either way, I find myself drawn even more into the spirit of the moment; what moments ago was imitation arousal is now the real thing.

I set myself back down upon his lap, this time sliding all the way back until I can feel his bulge, even through two layers of thick fabric. A moment later, I feel his hands on my arms, dragging my blouse down and away.

Then his hands latch onto my expansive bra cups; it’s uncomfortable, both because of the underwire and the urgency of his grip. I lean forward, still grinding myself against his bulge, and hurriedly undo the back strap. For a few more seconds, his grasping hands actually preserve my modesty; then he allows the cotton body armor to drop before enthusiastically flinging it across the room.

I lean back, letting him entertain himself, a bit surprised by how much I’m enjoying it as well. For a mind-controlling rapist, he’s pretty knowledgeable about what makes a woman feel good; or maybe that’s also part of his power. My nipples don’t quite stiffen up—that almost never happens with tatas as bodacious as mine, except in stories—but both areolas swell noticeably. As does my captor’s package.

So it’s not much of a surprise when he lets go and says, “Stop; stand up.” I hear the expected zzzt sound, followed by, “Turn around, Slave, and kneel.”

He hasn’t even bothered to undo the rest of his pants; normally I’d be offended, but right at this moment I’m way too turned on. His manhood is of average length, but quite a bit thicker than most, with a visibly throbbing vein running down along the shaft.

He doesn’t say anything; just looks me in the eye. Ah yes, of course: the ‘illusion of free will’ thing. I don’t disappoint; scooting forward, I eagerly lick all around it, and even remember to say, “It’s beautiful,” before leaning in and plunging it down my throat.

Somewhat surprisingly, he blasts his load almost right away. Even more surprisingly, I swallow. Oddly, I’m flattered that I’ve managed to bring him off so quickly; it’s like an instant validation of my sex appeal.

Still playing the scene, I clean him up with my tongue; tucking him away is impossible, as he’s barely gotten any softer. Again he waits to see what I’ll do next; again, consummate actress that I am, I aim to not disappoint. It’s becoming easier to think of him as the director who also happens to be my costar; my new goal is to show him I need as little direction as possible.

With one last loving kiss to the tip, I stand up and turn away. I kick off my shoes and wriggle out of my jeans at last, conscious of every bump and grind, responding only to his murmured, “Leave the thong.” I move over to the futon and lie down, still mindful of both my arousal and the need to give him a show.

I’m relieved; the bedsheet smells and feels freshly-laundered. Not that it would’ve mattered much, not now. I start by caressing my arms and rubbing the tops of my double-Ds. I pinch both nipples and close my eyes, luxuriating in the sensation. I can feel my lower half twisting and shifting. I certainly don’t try to suppress the motion; if anything, I carry it even further. I moan, and let my hands glide down and over my toned round belly.

“Bring yourself off without rubbing your thong, or anything underneath it.”

“Yes, Master.” My hands, suddenly thwarted, skip over the thin material instead and begin pinching my inner thighs. I thrust my hips off the mattress, grabbing my own ass cheeks, before returning to my breasts. After another minute of fondling and pulling, I bring one nipple, then the other, up to be suckled by my own waiting mouth.

These assorted ministrations actually work, which just goes to show how close to the edge I already am. The oh-so-pleasant pressure builds to a peak; looking over at my captor, I feel myself starting to pump my hips in earnest....

“Freeze right there, Slave. Maintain your position and the sensation.”

His timing is dead on; he’s caught me riding both a physical and metaphorical crest. I can’t move, can’t even acknowledge his command except by following it to the letter. I’m stuck with my hips in the air, my PC muscles just about to clench for the start of my climax. Helpless to do anything else, I wait for him to release me.

Releasing me seems to be the furthest thing from his mind. He stands up, stretching and yawning, taking his sweet time. His manhood, if it ever went down at all, is back at full strength. He removes his wifebeater and undoes his slacks.

Under different circumstances, I might’ve done him anyway. He certainly has the physique one expects of a young and fit officer of the law, before the donuts set in. And I’ve already been introduced to his lovely cock.

We’re obviously about to get reacquainted.

He positions himself in front of me, making no attempt to remove my thong; he just kind of shoves the material to the side. My head is still frozen, turned to where he’d been, so I can only just see him out of the corner of my eye. I feel more than see him position himself at the entrance to my womb. Then he slides all the way in.

My tensed muscles provide something akin to the resistance of a virgin, which I’m pretty sure is what he was going for. It feels pretty damned good to me as well; I’d never be able to hold this level of tension for this long on my own. Even now, I can feel it in my neck and thighs; I only hope that he’ll release me soon, before this overwhelming pleasure gives way to overwhelming pain.

Meanwhile, I revel in the pleasure; he’s not the only one who hasn’t felt this kind of friction in a while. The only movements I can make are involuntary: breathing, blinking, a slight quiver here and there.

He starts to thrust faster, with breathy little grunts. My pre-climax, if anything, gets even stronger; frozen or otherwise, it won’t be long now.

It’s not. And he surprises me yet again; I’ve been figuring he’ll have his way with me and withdraw before letting me off the hook. “Slave, unfreeze!”

It’s what I’ve been waiting to hear. I grind into him; my walls clench his shaft. He spurts. I splurt back. One of us screams. I’m pretty sure it’s me.

I collapse onto the futon, pulling my anonymous master on top of me. I find myself hoping he can stay hard a little while longer; one climax, no matter how intense, isn’t anywhere near enough in this situation....

I blink, and almost immediately squint. How’d the sun get so high in the sky?

Oh yeah. I was tired, despite a good night’s sleep; so I decided to pull over and catch a quick nap. I look at my watch. A three-hour nap; wow. Must’ve been more tired than I thought.

I raise the driver’s seat back to vertical, then get out of the car to stretch. And to go around to the other side and quickly readjust my thong, after first making sure that this stretch of road is still as deserted as it was this morning. I can’t believe how sore my crotch and legs feel; must have something to do with sleeping so long.

As I’m walking, I notice an unusual bobbling in my torso; I stop and cop a quick feel. No bra? Where the hell’s my bra? I’m sure I put one on this morning; I put one on every morning. With a chest as large as mine, I have to.

I shrug. Guess today’s the exception that proves the rule; I must’ve been way more out of it than I thought. Maybe my roommate spiked my milk or something; I’ll have to have a word with her when I get back home. In the meantime, there should be a rest stop or a gas station coming up within the next hour or two. I’ll get a spare bra out of my luggage and slip it on then.

Well, I’ve wasted enough time; the day’s already half gone. I rebutton my jeans and get back in the car. Within another minute, I’m once again on my way to my parents.

A mile down the road, I pass a police cruiser with a radar gun. I look down at the speedometer and smile to myself. I’m safe; thank goodness this car can’t go much above seventy.