The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I cried like a big god damned baby. I was blind, it was most likely very broken, and somewhere deep in my head I could still hear my mothers warning about if I played with it I was going to go blind, echoing, endlessly, tauntingly. Where ever my mother was at that exact moment she had suddenly stopped what she was doing, shook her head sadly, and with that sixth sense all mothers possess she KNEW and muttered to herself something about warning that stupid child, and something more sarcastic and reproachful about having to learn for themselves.

I felt my way slowly through the darkness (on my knee’s mostly) toward the bathroom door, desperate not to bump into anything else with my fully extended but very bent (no auto shop could bang that dent out) part. I especially wasn’t interested in finding ANY more open drawers, one had been enough. More than enough. Past enough and into too much. Way too much. God please let me slip into a coma and quietly die so it’s over too much. Merciful heavens don’t let someone come in here later and find “it” (part of me) in that draw enough. The pain left me too damned afraid to explore that last particularly gruesome possibility. And it was a possibility. A very realistic one under the circumstances. Cold sweats, dizziness, numbness followed by fire. Maybe it was a phantom pain like when they cut your leg off but you swear you can still feel it. It was funny in a sadistic sort of way that I could still think or feel at all, funnier I had remained conscious. A true sado-masochist would have been reveling in this, the greatest most memorable moment of their life. I simply continued to softly whimper like a beaten/ hit by an eighteen wheeler dog and groped like a spineless blob in the darkness towards the sounds of life beyond the unseen door somewhere in the darkness. Through a sea of invisible but omnipresent pain, through a thick stew-like haze, towards... the light. I crawled, no longer even evolved enough to manage all fours or fives. Toward the faint light, the elusive pale (fading?) light at the edge of my almost non-existent vision. Was this what it was like to be dead? Had I actually done myself in? Oh the humanity! The light, find the light. Go towards the light at the end of my tunnel vision. Was I going toward “THAT” light? Or was I simply/ mercifully hallucinating away my last moments? Why were there no naked large breasted girls shaved bare and painted gold throwing sweet pickles at me?

I imagined someone breaking into the bathroom and finding me that way. My part in a drawer, my left hand sticky, my right shriveled into a partially retracted claw, still vainly reaching up for the door knob, My mother, checking on me because I hadn’t called her that week, or worse my girlfriend Veronica. Hands on her hips, anger in her face: I could almost hear her. “Sure, right. I just wasn’t enough for you. You finally got what you had coming. Wait’ll I tell your mother! I bet you even went blind!” I actually laughed. No doubt the beginnings of full blown hysterics. Not that I wouldn’t have welcomed hysterics. Anything was better than calmly cooly (dare I say analytically) observing my current dilemma objectively like a scientist running an experiment. Just how f@#*in high was my damned pain threshold? Shouldn’t I have shut down or collapsed or died or SOMETHING like slipped into a coma by now?

Again a faint glimmer of light and a distant sound almost like giggling. Was somebody watching? Oh please god anything but that.

Veronica might actually find this mildly entertaining. She was still pretty pissed with me for creaming on her in her sleep the other night. She had a real streak. And this WOULD be my right handed “just deserts”. I continued to drag myself along. I felt something between my legs dragging behind, wet, possibly in my mind even bloody. But if I still had it and could pack it in ice, wrap it up and save it for the paramedics... I was reminded of that childhood Halloween game where gross things were passed around in the dark. This is the witches heart. This is her...liver! Ewww, Ick, Yuk

And this?

This is the dumb bastard’s manhood he whacked off in a drawer... again something like a hysterical giggle. It could have come from me being (soprano’d?) But it sounded farther off. I went towards it. Things couldn’t get worse. At least if someone was there they could help. The door. I’d found it!

The knob spun in my sticky hand. I cursed myself. What had I been doing in the bathroom when I had a very aggressive beautiful girlfriend who always left me...exhausted to say the least. I’d even jokingly called her a nympho earlier this afternoon. She had to feign displeasure and do her little pouty thing. She really took it as a damned compliment! Yet here I was spinning the knob in one well greased paw that just couldn’t quite get the traction to open the damned bathroom door because lefty felt lonely and out of practice.

Finally using both hands and my shirt the knob turned.

Freedom! Shhhhh... quiet.

Must find a phone, or that giggle, or maybe ice.

People leaping like grasshoppers from everywhere. Camera’s flash. A sea of faces. “Happy birthday to...” surreal Kodak moment in slow-mo. Women pointing, then screaming like in a fifties horror flick, fainting. Men laughing, coughing, suffering sympathy pains, crossing their legs, looking away. All my closest, dearest friends sharing in my glorious dick bending moment, preserving it for posterity on video that no one (understandably) remembers to shut off.

Still no unconsciousness???

How much can a man bare? The fickle fates enjoy a good pun. They do not enjoy being dared. “It can’t get any worse...” “Oh really?!”

I grab the nearest person to cover myself, spare myself any further indignity, though I can’t imagine any way it could be even a little worse. My mother screams when something wet: blood, semen, shower water, (does it matter?) soaks the back of her best party dress as I clutch at her like she was a life preserver. The fates are on th ball today. Hitting the lottery for a gazillion dollars wouldn’t buy me enough therapy now. I babble like I am insane. No two words fit together. I am a jigsaw puzzle of incoherence. Parts are... missing. Minimally... metaphorically. I turn to run. Where doesn’t matter. Under an eighteen wheeler would be nice. There is no embarrassment left in showing the world the deformed mole shaped like a raised cherry titty on my ass now.

“Here stick it in the ice cream to preserve it,” someone thinking medically tells me. I take one step toward the strawberry ripple before I am commanded to stop and turn around. I stop. And turn. “And while you’re at it hop on one leg, hum Yankme doodle, and stroke that sad excuse for a crank until it’s properly straightened out,” the voice orders. The twisted celery sound my manhood makes on the first stroke is what I have been waiting for. The world fades mercifully to red, blue, purple then black. The pitch of my screams coordinate perfectly with the progressive color scheme. A rainbow of pain. The pot of gold at it’s end is unconscious oblivion, which I embrace. This is a prize far richer than mere gold. And better still there are no leprechauns here to watch or video tape the proceedings. God I hope I really am dead.

There’s got to be a morning after

Black, purple, blue, red, daylight. Morning comes slowly to me. I resist the idea that there could be more. It would be too cruel.

3—2—1 ... awake NOW!.

My eyes snap obediently open. The terror in them is apparent. My wife/ mistress drinks this in, sadistically savors it. The moment passes. “So...” she purrs, “Now you truly see what we have spent all these years working towards. Are you as pleased with the results as I am?” My eyes widen in a new unspeakable terror. Yes I was pleased. Not IN words. No words. Not “allowed”. Speak ONLY when spoken to... But she can SEE my unrestrained pleasure. I don’t need to speak, SHE completes the thought: “You have given yourself so completely to me that my thoughts, my beautiful hypnotic words ARE your only reality. Serve me well or there will be many nights like that one, serve me well and you may... at my discretion have moments where you might even be mistaken for a man...”

I knew it was true. And knew also that I would never know for sure if or how much of any of it had happened. Years of hypnosis had left me completely vulnerable and open to her every whim real or imagined. Every dream, every fantasy. I lived exclusively in a world of HER making 24/7. IF 24/7 was even a real measure of “real time” at all...

It HAD been our game once, but now, from here on it was hers alone. I trembled. She stood over me for a moment considering. “Now that you have been punished...” she began, " We can play.” I started to relax. “Get me the two headed dildo and the candles.” The mental screams started before the first searing drops coagulated on my skin.

Whether she had always planned it this way or she had changed her mind over time no longer mattered. In the end there was only now.

For hypnosis to work there has to be implicit trust, I had told her once upon a time in another life, And I had trusted her implicitly too.