The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I slept through the first alarm. And the second, and the third. (What can I say? I like to be punctual.) By noon I finally woke up, dripping wet, my hand between my legs, franticly stroking my freshly-shaven puss.

With a gasp, I leapt out of bed, and within 5 minutes I was out the door, glad that I kept a stick of deodorant in my schoolbag—I had already missed one lecture, but by skipping my shower, I could be there in time for the second.

And after the wild dreams I’d had, I needed it—I was drenched in sweat and my own juices.

I had never had much in the way of sex dreams before, or at least not ones that stuck around. But this was was…it was like it was burned into my memory. The sounds, the smells, the feel of the club. All those eyes on me, my wanton exhibitionism, the utter feeling of obedience.

As the bus approached my college, I could feel myself getting wet again.

I thought I’d been spacing out the day before, but that was nothing. I arrived just as the lecture was starting, and this time I knew I wasn’t imagining it—every eye was on me as I entered the hall, and even the lecturer stopped speaking to watch as I blushed my way to a seat in the back. Several of the guys actually turned right around to watch me sit down, and only turned back when the professor cleared his throat and began speaking again.

I genuinely have no idea what he was talking about—I spent the first half of the lecture casually running a finger up and down my leg, enjoying the smooth, freshly-shaven feel. During winter I don’t normally worry too much about the state of my leg-hair, but I was really enjoying the sensation. It was so easy to imagine that my hand was someone else’s, stroking my skin, sending tingles down my spine…

As the lecture ended and I got up to leave, everyone’s attention was suddenly on me again, and I felt myself going red. It was so much like the dream—so many eyes, staring hungrily, admiring my form…

Glancing down at my outfit, it suddenly struck me why I was getting so much more attention than normal. I usually wear a hoodie to school, or a drab sweater at best. In my hurry that morning, I’d grabbed some of my “party” clothes.

Honestly, I don’t have much opportunity to party, but on the rare occasion I have a night off and I don’t feel like catching up on sleep (or working out), I have an outfit that I’ll wear out to a bar—somewhere far from Marty’s, both geographically and in tone.

It’s pretty nice, if a little dated. It’s a small black dress—it’s got a bit of a v-line, but nothing too risque, and it ends far enough above my knees that if I twirl and you’re standing at the right angle, you can sometimes get a glimpse of my panties. Not that I ever twirl while I’m wearing the dress, of course.

For some bizarre reason, I’d decided to wear my party dress to school that day. The contrast to my usual outfit had attracted the eye of all the guys in class…and, I couldn’t help but notice, some of the girls.

Like I said, I don’t normally care much about attention (although the blood rushing to my face would suggest otherwise) but it was nice to know that even without doing my hair or makeup, my ‘night out’ getup still looked good.

I didn’t have time to make small-talk with any of the cute men crowding around me, so I pushed through them and headed to my next lecture. I’m not really sure why I bothered—I paid even less attention to that one.

I’d thought that sitting up the back would help, but it just meant that there were so many more guys to check out. I’d run out so quickly that morning that I hadn’t even had a chance to…”take care of business”, and so I was still riled up from my dream the previous night.

Not to mention the attention of all those boys.

So I didn’t take a single note in that lecture. I got my book out, but I found myself doodling doodles—hard, thick cocks, like the ones that surely surrounded me.

It’s not something you normally think about, but it’s true—every man you encounter, every dude you meet…between their legs they have a rod, a dick that grows uncontrollably hard and thick every time they’re turned on. A cock that grows at the sight of a pretty young lady, as they imagine all the pleasure that she can provide them, as they imagine what she looks like in the buff, as they mentally strip away her clothes and imagine her heaving breasts, bouncing up and down as they gyrate on top of their hardness, as they lower themselves onto the guy they’re into, guiding their hard cock into their wet, eager pussies…

I blinked twice as I realized how graphic my thoughts were getting. Wow. I really, really needed to get off…unfortunately, I wouldn’t have a chance until I got home after work. Perhaps I’d wear my original uniform tonight, see how many more guys I could distract from the dancers on-stage. Make my nipples nice and hard, make them visible through my shirt, bend over whenever possible and draw all the guy’s eyes to my butt, make them want me…make them hard…

Crap. I was doing it again. It felt like weeks since I’d last cum, and every thought was leading to sex. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gotten laid—it had been at least a couple of years; even then, it had just been a one-night stand with a guy I’d picked up from a bar.

He’d been checking me out all night, and his eyes on my body had quickly turned into my hands on his. I’d gone back to his place, pulled out his cock, put my mouth over it and pleasured him until he came down my throat, several spurts of his thick, salty cum…

Suddenly I noticed that someone was looking at me. No, not just one guy, but several. My entire row was staring at me—five guys and two girls, a range of emotions on their faces as they stared at me. With a start, I realized that I’d started fellating my pen, running my tongue around it as I got lost in the memories of whatever-that-guy’s-name-had-been.

My face burned redder than it had ever been as I realized what I’d been doing, and I hurriedly packed up my bag and fled the lecture theatre.

I needed to work off some steam, and fast.

I could have gone home. I had enough time before my shift to head across town, get myself off, and still be on time for work…but somehow, instinctively, I knew that once I started playing with myself I wouldn’t be able to stop. I couldn’t remember ever being this turned on…maybe lately I’d been neglecting my needs, ignoring my body’s wants and focusing too much on work, school, working out…

Working out.

Yes. That was exactly what I needed. Going home and getting off would almost definitely make me late for work, but I could hit up the gym and blow of some steam that way.

Twenty minutes later, I was dressed in gym pants and a tank top, ready to punch my frustration away.

The workout room was empty, which I was thankful for—no chance of distractions. I wrapped some cloth around my hands and went to work.

As well as martial arts, I’d had a boxing instructor for a year or two when I was younger. Ultimately I’d dropped it—I was frankly too good, and didn’t want to draw any attention to myself through an unbelievable streak of victories. I’d thrown a few matches and then quietly tried to fade away.

After all, I was going to be the Protector.

So many sacrifices made for a future that never came.

I still remembered the routines—once a month or so I’d come in and just wail on the poor punching bag, especially the day after a particularly rough shift at work. What better way to burn off all this extra energy I suddenly had?

To my horror, however, my rhythm was all over the place. As a 14-year old, I’d beaten champions, but here I was losing to a punching bag. I literally aimed so poorly at one point that I fell over.

Bested by a bag of sand. This really wasn’t my day.

With a sigh, I wandered into the weight room—there were a dozen men pumping iron, and none of them looked up as I entered. Lifting weights is another special skill of mine—the stuff I can lift is about twice as heavy as a girl of my size should be able to manage…but again, I’ve always made sure not to draw too much attention to myself.

I was relieved to discover that—unlike the punching bag and the katas of the night before—the weights didn’t betray me, and soon I had settled into a steady routine. Rep, rep, rep, rep. I chose believable weights for a girl my size, and soon the world around me fell away, and I lost myself in the rhythm of the exercise.

Rep, rep, rep, rep. My breathing and my workout combined in perfect harmony, and before long, I felt like myself again. I’d been working out for almost half an hour with my eyes closed, and when I reopened them, there was a broad smile on my face.

And then I noticed that half the room was staring at me.

Determined not to let my heart-rate spike again, I continued slowly working out, and it soon became obvious why I had drawn the gaze of the other men. My workout had somehow become less about form and more about presentation—with every rep, I was displaying my smooth skin, my long legs, my suddenly-hard nipples…I was flushed, breathing deeply, occasionally even licking my lips. With every exertion a slight pant or moan came from my mouth, and the longer I worked out, the less exercise everyone else was doing.

I looked like I was in heat.

My mind raced—what was wrong with me? I’d come here to calm myself down, but here I was, more turned on than ever. I was instantly aware of every man’s gaze, where his attention was, even which part of me he was checking out. All of my improved senses were at work to ensure that I turned each member of the gym on as much as possible, displaying my best parts to every man, desperately wanting to smell their musk, see their hard-ons, taste their sweat, feel their arousal…

Even as I mentally freaked out, I kept on working out. It was like I couldn’t stop, like I had no control of my body. I continued panting and grunting, the sounds of sex escaping my mouth as I did all that I could to turn the room on. Finally, just as I felt that the sexual tension was going to boil over and every man there was going to tear my clothes off and take me all at once (which simultaneously terrified me and turned me on even more), one man put down his weights and approached.

“Hey,” he grunted, a grin flashing across his face. No matter what he said, it’d work—he knew it, I knew it, the rest of the gym knew it. Without even meaning to, I’d clearly come here to fuck, and anything he said would be enough to seduce me. “Am I dead, angel? Cos you look like heaven.”

In response, I giggled.

I giggled.

Now, you may have already worked this out, but I have never giggled in my life. I am not a giggler. I am a warrior, a strong woman—I have the Potential.

I am not not some bimbo who parades herself in front of men and then giggles at their weak efforts to pick me up.

And yet, in that moment, I was.

“I have to go,” I yelped, afraid of what I’d become, afraid of what would happen if I stayed.

“Come on, baby,” the man said, and put one hand out to stop me.

“I said I have to go,” I repeated through gritted teeth. He didn’t move, and so in one fell swoop, I grabbed the dude’s arm, flipped him over my back, and didn’t even look back to see if he’d landed on any weights.

Half an hour later, I was slamming the door of my apartment shut. I didn’t care about being late for work—I had no intention of going to work, not until I’d sorted this out.

Something was going on, and I needed to work out what.

My mind was racing, and a thousand different theories were running through my head, but there was one thing I knew for sure was suss: the dreams.

Those dreams weren’t natural, and they were changing me. I couldn’t know what was causing them until I worked out what they were, so I quickly put together an omelette for dinner and headed to the library. Without a Mentor, I’d have to do the research myself—fortunately, researching demons with very little information was something that I was good at.

Before leaving, I’d made sure to change into something much less revealing. It felt genuinely weird—I kept itching to lift it up, to show off my skin underneath—but I fought the urges. That was what the curse (or whatever it was) wanted, and I was going to keep myself covered, no matter how hard it was.

Even with my clothes on, I felt like every man on the bus was staring at me. I was tempted to shut my eyes and focus but last time I’d done that I’d ended up attracting a gymful of men, and so I tried to stay alert. Glaring at the other passengers seemed to do the trick, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the bus arrived at Antioch’s Library of the Occult.

Building a city on the Gateway between realms leads to some odd buildings popping up, and the Library of the Occult was one of them. I don’t think it’s government-sponsored, and I have no idea how it makes money. Truth be told, I have no idea if anyone even runs it—I’ve never seen a librarian or caretaker, but every time I go in the books are in their place and the floors are clean.

If you were to tell me that it just grew out of nowhere one day, I would not be surprised.

Regardless of its origins, it’s always been helpful to me—I spent so many hours poring through books here as a teen, I still think of high school every time I cross the impeccably maintained threshold.

For the first time tonight, however, it failed me. I spent hours and hours searching through the demon library, but “dreams” is too broad—I found dozens, hundreds of potential causes. Had I defiled an unholy river? Had I angered a gypsy king? Had I eaten the spawn of Sandman? I tried to cross-reference it with everything that had happened to me lately, but even though I was more aware of what was happening, the spaciness had never left, and I was struggling to pinpoint the exact keywords that I should be checking.

Finally, it hit 11pm. I don’t know for sure that anything happens in the Library at midnight, but I know what an important hour it is to the profane realm, and so I’d decided long ago to never stay later than that.

The moment I got home, fatigue overwhelmed me, and I fell straight into bed—fully clothed—and immediately landed in another dream…