The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dancing Slut had gone viral.

Takeshi had followed the trail from node to node, from link to referral to forward to tweet to proxy to a server farm on an actual farm in or around Dog’s Paw, Arkansas, which may or may not exist.

She congratulated herself on her cleverness in tracking the thing down. But content was key, at this point. Location would only become important later.

Takeshi watched, fascinated, as Dancing Slut writhed on the screen. Buck naked, pierced at nipples and clit, sporting a solid-looking shiny metal necklace, cuffs at ankles and wrists, and quite remarkable breasts, she seemed to have no inhibitions at all.

Eyes blank, she stared straight into the camera with the most thoroughgoing fuck-me expression Takeshi had ever seen. Her left hand stroked her breast. Her right hand was slowly working a large dildo as she gyrated. In, out, in, out, in a slow and insistent rhythm that left little to the imagination. It certainly looked as if she was enjoying herself.

It turned Takeshi on to see it, but that would have been … unprofessional.

All work and no play makes Tak a dull girl, she chanted under her breath.

The original ten-minute clip had been uploaded by someone in, by the looks of it, the Washington State area, just a few weeks ago, with little adornment except the quick tag “dirty slut dancing”.

Of course, it didn’t end there. Somebody in Germany had added a suitably filthy dance soundtrack, edited the best bits down to five hot minutes, with some artful cut-and-fade to give just the right momentum to the whole exercise. Another co-creator had topped and tailed the clip with the best of the money shots, and re-uploaded it with a new pithy tagline. A film student in Beirut had repurposed the clip to this so-far latest version, which included some interesting, albeit a little grainy, zooms at key moments. An out-of-work graphic artist in Melbourne was busy turning it into a comic strip, snippets of which were actually quite accurate.

Right now, Dancing Slut was being viewed, re-viewed, and shared all over the world. The hit count was already into the hundreds of thousands, memes swarming through the net.

On screen, Dancing Slut turned her back to the camera and bent, her round ass bumping and grinding away, and Takeshi paused the vid.

There. It was not exactly HD, but Takeshi could clearly make out a small square tattoo at the girl’s lower back, exactly as described by her Client. She could make out some writing there too—He hadn’t mentioned that, but in any case it was illegible at this resolution.

She wondered why this of all assignments was making her so horny.

She screengrabbed a few choice images and added them to the file.

Seventeen floors below, Tokyo thrummed.

She was Always On.

She woke to a familiar and urgent pulse of pain in her left nipple. Seven a.m. on the dot. Stretching, languid, she felt the uncompromising weight of the collar. The pain in her breast pulsed harder, and she automatically rolled into position on her hands and knees beside the User. The rings at her neck and wrists chinked softly. In the warmth of the bedroom she slowly pulled back the duvet without waking him, as specified.

A pulse of arousal rolled through her body as the stimulation units at her clit, nipples, and tongue throbbed in synch. Reward.

What had she expected? An hour of play, of experimentation? An entertaining, sexy little game?

Foolish, naïve girl.

The thought evaporated as the deep muscles of her pussy spasmed. She longed to touch herself, but on the current setting, this was not allowed, and just resulted in excruciating pain.

She knew the User had set her controls to an option that allowed rewards only through certain actions. It was immensely frustrating, and she had learned that if she was unlucky, the System could make her suck forever and still not get there, but she also knew that she would keep going anyway, working as hard as necessary to attain her goal. Sometimes she came quickly, and sometimes she stayed on the very edge for hours; it all depended on the setting. She had no control at all over the System. That was the whole point.

She had tried to fight it. But the System was stronger, and it always won.

How long had she been away, now? She didn’t know. She had lost track of time amid the cycles of the System.

And she didn’t want to go back in the Cage.

She bent her head, and a long slow lick with her tongue sent a delicious shiver of stimulation through her body. She took the User’s stiffening cock in her mouth, and mutely began his morning wake up call.

Takeshi stared at her screens, scanning images. Her eyes were tired, but she had a job to do. She had been at her workstation for some hours now. The project had been running for nearly three months and Dancing Slut was her first solid lead.

The Client had been very specific about what—who—He was looking for. This was an itch He couldn’t scratch. It had evidently become something of an ideé fixe for Him.

This was her seventh, hopefully lucrative, assignment, and she had never failed to deliver the goods yet. However, the data was sketchy. Last known location: a hotel in Seattle, and that had been a while ago. No address. No name, not even a first name.

Takeshi had little enough to go on. The Client had, of course, provided Takeshi with detailed descriptions and a very well worked-up artist’s impression of the person he sought, from several different angles, face and body, including as best he could remember, the distinctive piercings and tattoo.

She’d hard-coded her own upgraded variant of the facial recognition software currently being trialled by the US Government and set it free to roam the web in search of the quarry. It was a methodology she’d used before, to good effect. But in this instance, there were three specific problems, which she listed obsessively in some compartment of her mind while she scanned.

Problem One: there was no photo. While the Client was possessed of many marvellous attributes, he was still only human, and thus subject to the vagaries of memory and recall and reimagining. He was not a camera.

On the screen, Dancing Slut silently begged for her attention.

Problem Two: the sheer volume of data. She had to meticulously go through each lead classifying them into no or maybe, and then maybes into possibles. There were many more no’s than maybe’s.

The girl in the film cupped both breasts in her hands, and raised them to the camera.

Problem Three: faced with a promising-looking lead, she then had to dig ever deeper to winnow down the multiple maybes into a manageable number of possibles. Social media, emails, bank and credit card transactions, address histories, phone records, and so on and on. Very time consuming indeed.

The girl on the screen twisted and turned mesmerisingly, her firm butt cheeks a reflection of her breasts. As above, so below.

As Takeshi pondered the scale of the task, the monitor screens around her ticked and scrolled, the software searching indefatiguably on.

She did not know the name of the Client, beyond the codename, Winter. She had gleaned by implication that he was a man of fairly unlimited resources and deep reserves of patience, a keen aesthetic sense, and strong attention to detail.

Takeshi wanted to be able to give him at least something soon—it was a matter of reputation, of honour, of duty.

Remember that?