The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He was a nipple slut. You couldn’t tell by looking at him. He looked like a regular guy, well-built—very well built, lean, muscular, lithe, and graceful. He was on the basketball team and the swimming team. He was studying to be an architect. He was entirely masculine, all-male. Around Columbia, he dressed like a slob, baggy jeans, backwards baseball cap, floppy faded t-shirts, dirty sneakers.

Weekends, once it got warm, he went down to Greenwich Village. Coming up the steps from the Seventh Avenue IRT at Sheridan Square he pulled his black t-shirt off, stuffed it in his back pocket and walked slowly on Christopher Street and the surrounding streets in tight jeans without a shirt, bare-chested, bareheaded, leather boots. Sometimes when he pulled off his t, he wore a skin-tight sleeveless elastic black shirt cut low in the front to reveal his nipples. Head erect, eyes cast down, he was hot and proud and ready to burst.

He belongs to any man who handles him by the nipples. He does not have a permanent master. He gives himself promiscuously to every man who knows how to take him. After the scene he vanishes, doesn’t even make a pretense of exchanging phone numbers.

With each new guy, it’s a new experience. So he can do the same thing over and over because he knows how to keep it new.

He’s muscular and tough, lithe and lean, forbidding and unapproachable, unless you dare ignore the image and take hold of his nipples. Then his eyes lose focus; he swoons, and you can take him home all night long.

I met him at Crazy Benny’s on a Friday night around midnight. Place jammed. Juke box blaring:

It was August. It was hot. He wasn’t the only guy without a shirt. I saw him looking at my chest. He’d worship me before the night was gone.

I pushed up against him in the crowd and groped him, pressed my chest to his so that our nipples touched.

You’re my prisoner, I whispered in his ear.

I surrender, he said.

Without a struggle? I said.

Do you want me to struggle? he asked.

Not that it’ll do you any good, I answered. Let’s get out of here.

I led him to the exit holding the little chain that was clasped to his bare nipple.

The sky was heavy above us outside and the air was hot with electric charges. A storm was coming to break summer’s back. But not yet.

He had evil eyes and I couldn’t resist staring into them.

You’re making me crazy for you, you know.

I know. I want you to be. Keep gazing into my eyes and feel how much you want me, how much you want my hands all over your body, my tongue in your mouth, my cock all the way up inside you, gushing semen into you.

That’s exactly what I want, to have your seed inside me, to be yours, to be controlled by you.

Quiet now. Obey me. Keep gazing into my eyes. Touch my nipples. Worship my nipples.

I began to lick his nipples and then let my lips join my tongue, and licking became kissing, and kissing became devotion. I was swooning with joy. He threw his mouth upon mine and kissed me with frenzy and I was inflamed and responded just as frenziedly.

In the morning he didn’t jump at the idea of our seeing each other again. He was in a wife beater and jeans and I was only in a pair of black briefs.

Look, babe, he took hold of me by my nipples, gently and drew me to him and kissed me tenderly and then said with real affection, I’m into one night stands. You should understand that. It’s nothing personal.

I knew that once he was out that door with a sweet good-bye and a kiss that was just an invitation to yearning, I’d never meet him again or make love with him again. All my life to come became meaningless.

I kept his eyes in contact with mine and I reached through waves of tremulous desire and took hold of his nipples. My breathing was in tune with his, and I started to make the breaths in and out a little deeper, a little longer and in this way to tune his breathing to mine.

His breath followed mine.

It feels so good to follow me. It feels so good to have me lead. It feels so easy. It feels so friendly. It feels so warm. Follow me.

Follow me.

As I spoke I played with his nipples, with my fingers alternately caressing and pinching. He had dropped his hands to his sides. His neck was thrown back; his eyes, shut.

I maneuvered him gently to the couch and propped him up in a supine position.

Listen to me, I whispered. Can you hear me? Speak.

Yes, he said in a blur. I can hear you.

You are in a deep trance now. It is so easy to obey me. You want to obey me. It feels good to obey me. You want me to control you, to dominate you, to command you, to tell you what to do and how to be.

Now I want you to open your eyes. Good boy. Look into my eyes now.

I took hold of his nipples again and he swooned even though in a trance. Softly, I said, I am your master. You know that. I am your master. You are my slave. You exist in order to please me, to obey me and to serve me. You know that it is true. It is a comfort to know your place. It feels good to surrender, to do as you are told. You understand.

Yes.

Yes, sir. You will call me sir at all times. You understand.

Yes, sir, he said.

I increased the pressure with which I rubbed his nipples and brought his mouth to mine and forced it open. He offered no resistance but yielded by reciprocation. Our bodies pressed together and I felt the strength of his chest. Sliding my hand inside his jeans, I grasped his balls from underneath and his cock stood out hard when I tore down the zipper.

Slowly I rubbed the crown of his cock passing my thumb over his slit.

Slave, I said.

Yes, master, he said.

We spent the night worshipping each other’s nipples with kisses, with licking, with brushing and pinching. We gazed into each other’s eyes and exchanged our eternal substance.

Afterwards he slept. I watched him with pride: I had subdued such a lion and made him my captive and my slave, had taken command of his obedience.

He lay on his belly and the undulous form of a muscular body and velvet

bronze skin, of back and butt and head and neck and legs drew me forth. I straddled him and whispered in his ear, Turn over.

I stuck my fingers in his mouth and made him gag and with his saliva began to masturbate our cocks which I held in my fist against each other.

Lightening shattered me and I bit down hard on his nipple and felt the violence of his eruption as his electricity jumped beyond the wire and shook his entire body. Mine shook too and our mouths joined and our breaths became one current running through us both.

Naked but for a thong he placed an espresso in front of me and smiled.

Did what I think happened last night really happen…he paused and added slyly, Sir?

What do you think happened, slut?

He grinned.

I think you got all the way under my skin, sir, and made me your slave…sir.

My lover, not my slave, I said. Or, at least, I said, noticing how his face had just fallen, my lover and my slave.

I was sorry I said that. It was false. I felt myself turn dark, sad with a feeling of emptiness, aware that the irreparable loss had already occurred and could never be undone. And then I felt a sense of power flood me. It took the form of grim determination. My hands clenched into fists. I realized that domination was essential, that only those who possessed what they desired were alive. And I knew the only way to have him was to possess him. He did not want himself anyhow. And now I only wanted him to dispose of him.

Except that you are bound to me by my power over you, I said, telling him how it was, you are free in every other way. But you are mine—my nipple slave—because you can never stop being a nipple slut. Because all I have to do is touch your nipples, brush them ever so lightly and you go entirely into a trance, shaking with desire to serve me and please me. However far you stray, whoever else touches you, you’ll always return to me. And when I don’t touch you, no matter who else will, it will never be enough.