The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The first thing I noticed when I walked into my apartment was the smell.

Takeout, embarrassingly enough, is my main source of sustenance—when you study full-time and work part-time, it’s hard to put the effort into cooking…especially since no matter what I eat, I never gain an inch of fat.

It’s a perk of having the Potential.

But I don’t have a fridge, and so sometimes I play the game of roulette known as “will this last long enough to be my dinner tomorrow?”

Tonight I lost.

Throwing it out, I was surprised to find an egg in the cupboard—it didn’t seem like it was going to kill me, and so I put it on to boil (exciting dinner, I know) and counted up my pay for the night.

That son of a bitch.

Marty’s always been sketchy, but he’s at least been reliably sketchy. Like I can 100% rely on the fact that as soon as we get a new dancer, he’s going to hit on her. I can depend on him firing her if she doesn’t sleep with him within a few weeks, and I can always count on the fact that if she goes through with that repulsive act, he’ll dump her for the next pretty face.

And hell, I can practically set my watch on the knowledge that he’ll hit on me, each and every time he sees me.

But one of those reliable aspects has always been my pay. I don’t make much, as a waitress, and I especially don’t make much if you take into account my bodyguard duties as well. But it’s enough to live on, enough to buy take-out and apparently the occasional egg, and I get the added bonus of knowing I’m making the world a slightly better place.

Not that Marty’s strip club could be a much worse place.

So yeah. Finding Marty suddenly short-changing me, that took me by surprise. I knew that tomorrow, I’d have to kick his ass for it, but I didn’t much feel like trekking back over town to deal with it tonight, and I didn’t want to go to sleep angry.

Back when I thought I was going to be the Protector, I convinced my parents to sign me up for some martial art classes. Antioch isn’t exactly a cultural hub, but there were still a few options—turns out white folk love their kids learning Asian fighting styles.

Thanks to my (super)natural abilities, I mastered them all pretty quickly. Nowadays I barely even use them on the rare occasion I get into a scuffle, but I find them pretty relaxing. Most nights I’ll run through a few katas before bed—if I’m particularly worked up, I can spend up to an hour just doing them over and over, the repetitive exactness relaxing me until I can just fall into bed and have a mostly-dreamless sleep.

That night, I was so riled up from the fight (and Marty’s cheapness) that after eating one lonely egg, I spent a full 90-minutes doing routines, going through every form I could remember over and over until I finally felt like my mind was clear and my anger was…well, not gone, but definitely postponed.

But when I stripped off and collapsed into my bed, it wasn’t a dreamless night that met me.

Quite the opposite.

I was on a stage.

I don’t think it was the stage at the club—it was too clean, for one. But there were definitely elements of it—I could smell the cigar smoke that’s always present at Marty’s, the lights looked like they were arranged in the same way, and the whole room had this weird sense of familiarity.

But, unlike Marty’s, it was packed.

There were people everywhere. Men, most of them, but peering into the crowd, I could see the occasional woman as well. Some of them were dancers, some of them were old high school friends, but most of them were strangers.

And they were all looking at me.

Stage fright has never really been a factor in my life—I’ve never really had any interest in performing, but on the few occasions I’ve had to stand in front of a crowd, I’ve always been too busy looking out for something suspicious to be nervous.

But standing in front of all those strangers, I was suddenly shy. They were all looking so…expectant. They were here to see me, and I couldn’t for the life of me work out why.

And then…I looked down.

I was wearing a tight black top, barely enough to cover my boobs yet somehow managing to push them up. It had a strap on either side, connecting to the collar I suddenly realized I was wearing. My panties were equally revealing—a tiny scrap of fabric, only just preventing me from being completely naked.

My hands were encased in gloves, and my feet were adorned with something similar—black, shiny boots which ended just above my knee, making them by far the part of my outfit that covered the most skin.

I was standing in front of an enormous crowd, almost entirely naked.

And they were waiting for me to start.

A spotlight suddenly hit me, proving without a doubt that I wasn’t in Marty’s club—he didn’t have the setup for a spotlight, let alone the budget to pay someone to operate it. I opened my mouth to try to explain to the impatient crowd that something had gone wrong, that I wasn’t meant to be up here…when someone started hissing.

“Hssssss.”

It was such a simple, disappointed sound. I squinted, trying to see through the light and through the haze who was voicing their dissent, but I could only see an outline, a silhouette. Whoever it was, they were clearly a male, and there was something strangely familiar about them, but I couldn’t make out a face, and soon their hissing was being echoed by the rest of the crowd.

“Hssssss.”

“No,” I tried to feebly protest, but before I could continue, it was as though someone yanked an invisible leash, and my collar jerked forward. Suddenly I was on my knees, tears welling up in my eyes, looking at the huge crowd, silently begging them not to put me through this…

And then the music started.

It was a song I’d heard a thousand times, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what it was. One of the top 40 hits, it’s probably played at the club every night. It had a strong, sticky beat, and without even meaning to, I found my body moving to the music.

Before I knew it, I wasn’t kneeling any more, I was standing. My hips were swaying from side to side, my shoulders were pushed back, and the crowd was going wild. They were cheering, begging for more, begging for the dance to get bigger and more wild, more provocative.

Sexier.

They wanted me to take my clothes off, but I couldn’t. Looking through the crowd, I desperately searched for the hissing man, the one who had set me off in the first place. I couldn’t take my clothes off, not without his permission, this I knew.

He wouldn’t be cheering. I couldn’t find him, but I knew this as surely as I’d ever known anything. He wasn’t excited that I was stripping—he was expecting it.

The collar around my neck—he’d placed it there, and when I’d fallen forward, it had been because he’d yanked it. These clothes I was wearing—he’d picked them out. He’d told me what to wear, and I was dressed exactly as he wanted—exactly as he’d fantasized.

I was completely under his control. I danced because he wanted me to dance, and I would strip when he wanted me to strip.

He owned me.

I woke up with a gasp, dripping wet. There was something so powerfully erotic about the dream; the feeling…no, the knowledge that I was owned. I couldn’t remember the last time that I was this turned on—one hand was slowly drifting down to my soaked panties when my bedside clock caught my eye.

Damn it. If I didn’t get a move on now, I was going to be late.

Before I got dressed, I took a moment to pause and check myself out in the mirror. My body was toned and athletic. I slept in a pair of panties, and I could see stray hairs poking out the sides.

In the dream, I knew that I’d been clean-shaven.

For some reason, my pubic hair was bothering me, but I shook it off. Had to get to class.

The day seemed to drag for some reason. My first few classes were fine—I hadn’t really bonded with anyone in the course I was doing, and so normally I just came in, sat by myself at the back, and left as soon as the class was over.

Today, for whatever reason, I decided to sit right down the front. As I did, I couldn’t help but wonder—was I imagining the sudden silence, followed by hushed whispers? Were people talking about my unusual decision?

Was everyone…looking at me?

The thought plagued me all through the lecture, but I was determined not to turn around. Instead, I just let my imagination run wild, thinking about all those eyes on my back, on my hair.

It made it really hard to concentrate, and before I knew it, the class was over and I was on my way to the next one.

This time I didn’t want to let myself get distracted—taking my usual spot at the back of the class, I opened my notepad, and tried my hardest to focus.

Instead, my mind kept returning to the dream. What on earth had inspired such a specific, erotic dream? Had it been that long since I got laid? (It had.) Was Marty starting to get in my head, with his constant pushes for me to get up on-stage?

When I glanced down at my notepad, I was shocked to discover that I hadn’t been writing down what the lecturer had been saying—I’d been doodling, and somehow my notes had ended up surrounded by little pictures of tits.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I went bright red, and glanced around, for the second time that day convinced that everyone was looking at me, that I had somehow drawn attention to myself and that they all knew what I’d been drawing, what I’d clearly been thinking about.

Noticing the phallus I’d drawn at the bottom corner of the page, shooting its stuff all over the hastily-sketched boobs, I audibly choked in shock, and that time I knew I wasn’t imagining the people turning to face me.

Unable to trust myself to even sit at the back for the rest of the lecture, I quickly packed up my books and left. I’d never left a lecture before, but I just couldn’t stay any longer—I was so mortified, even a little scared.

Escaping from the lecture theatre, I sat outside against the wall for a few minutes, catching my breath, calming myself down.

So I was having a spacey day. So I’d drawn some tits and a cock. So I’d had a weird dream.

For a hobby, I hunted demons. That was what I did for fun. If one nightmare, a lack of sleep, and a bit of sexual frustration was enough to take me down, well damn—it was a good thing I hadn’t become the Protector!

I was better than that. I just needed a few minutes and some fresh air to remind me of the fact.

It wasn’t long before I felt well enough to wander back in. A few heads glanced my way as I did, but it wasn’t the undivided attention of the whole room I’d been dreading…

Or was that anticipating?

The rest of the day went without incident. I took notes, managed to avoid drawing any genitalia, and by the time it was time for my shift at Marty’s, I was feeling good.

And then, the moment I entered the bar, I saw him.

The blond.

He was back.