The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Takeshi’s search programme was pinging with increasing, excited urgency. More data.

Trending now: #slutsuckscock. More links, more media. With a clear photographic target to work with, her programmes were bringing a host of new material to the party.

Look. Here is Dancing Slut again, in an upload unimaginatively, but accurately, labelled Suckathon. The camera is a slight distance from the scene, which appears to be a fairly large apartment, identical to any such apartment in any city in the world. The quality is good—and the girl herself is clearly recognisable from her steel accessories. There is no question in Takeshi’s mind. She is on her hands and knees on a large Ottoman, all of which raises her to the perfect height for what’s going on.

Which is, it appears in the first instance, some kind of party.

The camera has been positioned at just such a level that the girl is clear in dead centre shot, but no other faces are visible. Bodies, all male by the looks, circulate around the girl. She is perfectly, passively, still in position.

Takeshi watches two of the men approach the girl. One man appears to be the host, from what she can see from the way he is gesturing, open palmed, seemingly introducing the naked girl, who she is now completely sure is Dancing Slut herself. The girl makes no acknowledgement—her face is expressionless, and the collar and cuffs glint in the soft light.

Seemingly at his host’s invitation, the second man unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. The girl on the Ottoman is suddenly alert, and her lips open. She is staring with fierce intent at the cock.

Takeshi feels herself getting more and more aroused.

There is a single minded determination in this scene. As one cock is spent, another is immediately

available, and Dancing Slut doesn’t let up for a second.

She is like a machine. After the fourth or fifth blowjob a knot of spectators has begun to form around the Ottoman, and Takeshi can see less and less of the action. But as the clip finishes, with Dancing Slut in the middle of suck number twelve, and showing no sign of either fatigue or loss of interest, Takeshi clearly sees another man enter her from the opposite end.

Takeshi feels flushed and sweaty, and she’s breathing hard. She reaches to replay the clip.

In the Cage, another memory.

At first, she had tried to resist. She was a person. She had desires, thoughts, plans, a mind of her own. She was more than just an automaton in thrall to some program. But lately she had noticed she was struggling with concepts, with the logical process of problem solving.

Surely, in reality, she could get away any time she wanted. Right over there was the User’s laptop, and she could log onto her social media and—

aaah oh my God that felt so good, more please, more please—

—all she had to do was remember her password which was, which was, which was—

oh oh oh the heat—

—what had she been thinking? What had she got herself into? She pulled at the heavy collar as hard as she could, surely it would give, surely it couldn’t be that strong—

oooooh just let me come—

—but of course, it was.

The System hit the crescendo of its sixty-second cycle and she came, again, all thoughts of escape forgotten in the white blur of orgasm. As she lay there, panting hard, it began to build, unstoppable, relentless. She pressed on her throbbing nipples, but that only made things worse, or better, and momentarily she remembered that like the collar, and the cuffs, these elements of the system had been designed with great care to be permanent fixtures, unremovable, and in any case—

pleasepleaseplease too much—

—exactly sixty seconds later, she found herself screaming, silently, as the System drove her over the edge, and then began its inexorable climb all over again.

Minute by minute, she felt herself surrendering.

But it was better, by far, than the pain of Punishment.

Another match: #sufferingslut.

In this clip, the girl is writhing on a bed, alone. She looks to be in some kind of agony; her arms and legs spasming and her head thrown back in a rictus of pain. Takeshi is puzzled, and disturbed, and perversely aroused. Dancing Slut thrashes, mouth open in a silent scream, as if she is being tortured by the invisible man.

The whole thing seems weird, alien, to Takeshi. She can’t get a handle on what’s happening here.

Then suddenly, as if a switch has been thrown, the girl’s expression changes. She thrashes, still, but now in what looks to Takeshi like a kind of erotic ecstasy. It is as if somebody is fucking the girl, hard—her hips are bucking faster and faster, her head swinging from side to side as her mouth opens wider, clearly in pleasure, not pain and then, with a shudder Takeshi feels in her own belly, Dancing Slut comes.

But there is nobody else there.

Takeshi feels unaccountably trapped. It is all getting too strange. She needs a break. Some air.

She needs something new. She needs to get closer to the Target, to empathise, to come to know her. There is something here she has not seen before.

Takeshi grabs her jacket and heads for the door.

The apartment was at the very top of the city. The User owned the entire warehouse. The User had set up the Cage especially for her.

The Cage was constructed in a perfect square, in one corner of a larger room, and was approximately eight feet to a side. It was entirely secure. Certainly there was no prospect of breaking through its walls—she knew to her cost that even approaching its edges too closely could have painful consequences. The walls, as far as she could tell, extended right up to the ceiling.

She stood alone, naked, in the Cage, gazing out at the wide room. The familiar pulse in her breasts. The User was smart around the System, and imaginative in his use of its functions. And of course, there was the new stuff, the upgrades, to consider.

The Cage looked as intangible as air—but to her, it was as solid and inescapable as the steel around her neck.

The User had thoughtfully provided a bowl of water for her. The bowl was fixed to the floor, and to her humiliation she had to get down and lap at it like a dog, a pet. She supposed that was the point.

Through careful calibration of the System, each lap of her tongue sent a pulse of near orgasmic intensity through her pussy. Encouragement, he called it. The User didn’t want her getting dehydrated.

There was a word on the bowl—this was her name, he’d said. The name he had given her.

She knew the User would not let her out of the Cage until he wanted to. Sometimes the User kept her there for hours.

Burning with shame and arousal, she lapped obediently at her bowl.

As she demurely greeted her neighbours in passing, Takeshi knew she was sick of the rituals, the rules, the routines. Society’s expectations hung on her like a straitjacket, sometimes. She knew she was living a life of several versions.

Tak1: nice, clever dutiful Tokyo Takeshi, proud product of French father and Japanese mother, doing well at the University, always so polite. What a lovely girl.

Tak2: Takeshi the shadowy seeker; specialist hacker for hire, the Problem Solver, huge, anonymous, a myth, existing only in the wilds of the net, triangulated only by the game, the pattern, the Client the Target, the understanding, the victory.

Tak3: Takeshi of Macau, of the Epiphany.

Their relationship was not straightforward.

Tak1 thought Tak2 was a dishonourable, possibly imaginary, individual, living in an online looking glass world—although Tak2 was paying everyone’s university fees, rent, and a lot more besides, thank you very much. Anyway, Tak2 thought Tak1 had a poker up her ass and should join the modern world, so, like, whatever. Tak3 thought Tak1 was a stuck up frigid little bitch, and that Tak2 was a pathetic fantasist who needed to get real and start experiencing stuff properly.

Both the others thought Tak3 was the Whore of Babylon, and were both fascinated and appalled by her. Needless to say, Tak3 didn’t give a shit about that.

When Takeshi looked in the mirror, she sometimes wasn’t sure who she saw looking back.

Ah yes. For all its vulgarity, its lack of decorum, its absence of obligation and duty and honour, the West was different. There, Dancing Slut was free to be herself, to decompartmentalize, to do what she wanted, and if the girl wanted to disappear off the face of the earth, while behaving like a complete whore on social media, that was her choice. She was free to do as she wished, all the time—in real life.

How would that feel?

Free to be sexy, happy, outrageous. Free of responsibility, free of restriction, free of duty. Free to express herself. Just free of everything.

All work and no play makes Tak a dull girl.

Takeshi strode on down Shinjuku, unaccountably angry, frustrated. A slippery, invisible subject. Too much that was too alien to grasp. Foreign qualia.

How did it feel? What was it really like to be Dancing Slut?

The System kept her in the Cage.

It was simple, really—a geolocative radius beyond which she could not stray without activating the vicious shocks of Punishment. Invisible walls built of GPS and pain. There was a second, larger, boundary, essentially the whole apartment but no further. That was her default setting; the User had made it very clear that he didn’t want her wandering off, or getting any other independent thoughts.

She had tried that once, she vaguely recalled, although that motivation and memory and the pain of the terrible Punishment that had followed was now mostly overwritten by other, more distracting and tenacious programs.

Why had she not thought this through?

She had had a life, career, an identity. She briefly wondered how long she had been here, and whether she was missed, if she was now forgotten. But even that thought sank without trace beneath a breaking wave of stimulation, and she silently moaned in involuntary ecstasy. The thought, as was often the way with the System, did not resurface again.

The System kept her constantly in heat.

The large room which held the Cage had no windows, but there was a lot to look at. The walls were covered with the various things he liked to Use her with. Although they were often frightening at first look, she found she enjoyed most of them in the end. There was a large bed, in the centre of the room, which was where she was often Used.

She was suddenly conscious that the User had entered the room and was looking at her. Reflexively, she straightened her back.

“OK Toy,” he said. The System pulsed slightly, recognising and acknowledging the master command. “Cage off. Time to play.” His voice was deep and perfectly accentless.

The various upgrades, she thought in lucid moments, must have significantly improved the User Experience. Voice control, coupled with a new, enhanced proprioceptive positional function, offered a seamless interface and seemingly endless flexibility.

She knew the positional function worked simply by saving the orientation and distance between certain objects: tongue, breasts, groin, collar, and the four cuffs. Once this geometry was set, and a command recorded, that was that. It was elegant and effective.

“OK Toy, Position eight.”

At once she was in agony, as the System discharged shocks of increasing rapidity and intensity. She scrambled to get into position.

Position eight. Wrists together, ankles together, wrists no more than six inches from ankles, behind clit ring, all positioned well below collar height. She needed to be quick.

Hands behind her back, she knelt. Her body knew this was right because the pain stopped, and the System began to reward her for her obedience. She panted, obedient, savouring the reward, pleased in spite of herself.

The User grinned.

“Now, beg.”