The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Quinton had decided that the Puppet Girl was wicked in both the best and worst senses of the word. He’d once considered the possibility that she was “round the bend,” but quickly dismissed the idea. There was too much keen focus in her eyes and too much success with her intentions for her mind to be anything less than sharp. Although he’d heard some autistics could do incredible—even seemingly supernatural—feats.

All of this was mere speculation, of course—it was impossible to truly know the motives, sanity level, or moral leanings of someone who never spoke. There could only be an educated guess. Nobody had ever heard the Puppet Girl speak, nor did anyone know her name or what life she led when away from the mall.

All anyone knew was she was there every morning before the shopping center opened, and was the last person—save the old security guard—to leave at night. And that she was beautiful; everyone with sight knew that.

It seemed, to Quinton, that there were few people who were attractive to all. Even supermodels and actresses had people who “did not see the appeal.” He could honestly say he’d never heard anyone say they missed the appeal of the young and mysterious brunette woman in their midst. If a woman were to suggest such a thing it would have been dismissed as jealousy, and if a man would have suggested it... well, people might suspect he played for the other team. And children, perhaps the most judgmental group of all, flocked to her.

Reynolds, the mall manager, took credit for her being there—but then why wouldn’t he? Mall managers and PR people spend a lot of time and effort coming up with promotions which bring people in to fork over lots and lots of green-hued pictures of presidents. He now had a genuine attraction for which he could claim responsibility with no fear of contradiction. The people who’d been there when she’d first appeared knew the truth, though—including how Reynolds had tried to oust her until a sudden bout of appendicitis derailed him. By the time the despot had returned, the benefits to the mall were so obvious that he didn’t even object when she occasionally brought her dog.

The mall manager had trouble answering questions about the lovely woman, such as if she was genuinely mute. He just gave a smile which was meant to be charming (but looked ghoulish) and said you had to allow a lady some mystery. He’d also learned to avoid answering where she would “appear” next.

She didn’t have a certain spot in the mall which she called her own. As far as anyone could tell she picked out her spot the night before, because she was always prepared when she showed up the next day, often struggling with a big trunk until someone offered to help. And someone always offered to help—much to the dismay of the other women at the mall who often dealt with boxes and bags and folders and were grateful to have someone even hold the door for them.

Whoever helped her set up knew to report her location to Reynolds’ assistant, who then wrote up colorful boards at the main entrances asking, “Where in The Mall is Puppet Girl?” Underneath the query would be a list of clues. In the beginning the clues were easy, but as merchants suggested that they wouldn’t mind if people wandered through their stores in their search, the hints became trickier. Often the clues consisted of what Puppet Girl was wearing that day, as many times her costume directly related to her whereabouts.

Quinton’s personal favorite was the overalls with no shirt underneath, which gave tantalizing glimpses of the silken skin and tantalizing curves of their owner. Sears was thrilled with their sales of Craftsman Tools that day. It was odd how nobody at the store had known she was appearing, and yet by mutual decision they’d set up an area for her the night before. Of course, stories like that were not uncommon—she never seemed to worry about the stores making room for her.

Her marionettes were also appropriately dressed. Children marveled at the beautifully-dressed puppets as their parents admired the puppeteer. Most fathers and many mothers found themselves wondering if her skin could possibly be as soft as it appeared and what her hair would smell like if one could get close enough. Nobody had to ask this out loud—you could read the longing in their eyes.

Quinton was just another acolyte, following the clues like a treasure hunter and being rewarded when he found her. Many meals were skipped or sandwiches hastily consumed in order to spend his lunchtimes and breaks near her. Perhaps it was his diligence and enough fortuitously-timed lunches which allowed him to see what others had missed.

He’d followed the clues one December day (“Shhhhh, if you don’t ‘slip’ you just might find the ‘pLACE’ where Marionettes and Models mingle”) to Victoria’s Secret. His heart did flip-flops when he saw her at a distance and knew he had to reassess the overalls as his favorite. She was wearing what appeared to be a black ensemble comprised of a bra, tap pants, and stockings and garters. Even at a distance he could make out the dusky outlines that let him know the bra was at least semi-transparent. He didn’t even notice the well-dressed woman until he bumped into her.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole,” the blonde snapped before turning back to her husband. “You gave her fifty dollars! Fifty dollars! Were you tipping her or buying her?”

“What do you care, Grace? I promise there will be lots of goodies for you under the Christmas tree. We can afford fifty dollars to help out someone in need.” Quinton knew the man spoke the truth—they were both extremely well-dressed and the woman dripped with jewels.

“In need? You had to shove the money down to get it into the tip jar—it was absolutely overflowing!”

Quinton saw she was right; Puppet Girl’s marionette—a character he thought of as “Putting on The Ritz” because of his top hat and because that was often the song she played on the CD player she used for music—was walking on the bills which had spilled out of the plastic fishbowl she carried with her for tips. “Putting On The Ritz” seemed to be “arguing” with a female marionette wearing an elaborate dress of satin. Ritz turned from the other puppet as if to say he would hear no more.

“You know what? If it bothers you so much, Grace—if it’ll eat you up too much as you sit in our half-million dollar house and send the kids off to private school…why don’t you go get the money back?”

Quinton looked over to see the man storm off, leaving Grace to huff and puff, unaware she still had an audience. “I think I will!” she said in defiance to the man who could no longer hear her. She walked toward Victoria’s Secret and toward the tantalizing woman who wore a mischievous smile.

The mall employee found himself following the blonde, wanting to see if she would really have the audacity to remove the tip from the bowl. And why not, since he desired to be where the fair-haired woman was heading? He wondered what Puppet Girl would do if she knew the wealthy woman’s intent, but she seemed oblivious to the blonde’s approach.

In the few moments when Quinton turned his attention away from the brunette, she’d exchanged Ritz for a gypsy marionette which reminded Quinton of both Esmerelda from the Hugo novel and the Puppetress herself. The puppet in the expensive dress—a blonde—approached Esmerelda. The talent of the puppeteer imbued the marionette with a sense of false superiority. Something strange happened then—the blonde puppet paused before Esmerelda, falling to her knees after several seconds.

Grace had reached the money, then wavered. Instead of reaching into the bowl she knelt before it—and slowly removed every piece of jewelry she wore, adding each to the many bills. At last, Puppet Girl looked at Grace and nodded a brief thanks as the woman leapt to her feet and hurried off.

Quinton couldn’t believe what he’d witnessed. He looked around, hoping someone else had seen it too. He heard a couple people in the crowd whisper, “Did you see what that woman did?” Nobody seemed to associate what they’d witnessed with the puppet show. Nobody but Quinton.

He looked at the puppeteer, wanting to seek answers, and instead thinking, “God, how I love her!” He knew he needed to be logical, but all he could see was her incredible beauty as she knelt on a divan that he assumed came from the dressing room of the lingerie store. And then something new happened—at least new for him—she looked at him and winked.

He felt so many things at that moment, but mostly just grateful that she’d seen him—and that they now shared a secret. In the moment that their eyes met he knew for sure that she’d somehow manipulated the rich couple.

Quinton wanted to talk to her, but what could he say? He couldn’t make small talk with her—and not just because she apparently didn’t talk at all, but because they were beyond that point. And any question he could ask about what he’d witnessed couldn’t be answered and seemed inappropriate. He felt like they were suddenly both intimates and strangers.

He noticed Laura Stromski approaching the makeshift stage. Laura worked at the computer games store and she, like the men who worked there, favored a decidedly casual “uniform” of baggy jeans, a loose t-shirt, and a backward baseball cap.

Puppet Girl smiled at her and held up her index finger: “one moment.” She quickly produced a puppet which made Quinton think of a modern day Tom Sawyer and queued up a song on her CD player about wanting a hippopotamus for Christmas. She adroitly made the marionette do all sorts of boyish antics—seeming to play with imaginary marbles, strutting proudly, and climbing a pillar as if it was a tree. At the end of the song, the puppet reached up and removed the baseball cap. Quinton was just marveling at how the puppet never got tangled in its strings when he saw long honey-colored hair fall around its face. The audience laughed when they realized the puppet was more tomboy than true “snips and snails and puppydog tails”.

Laura reached up to absentmindedly play with a dark blonde curl which had escaped her hat.

The song changed to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” as the marionette began to dance in a decidedly “girly” way, her movements just as lively, but more feminine. The crowd laughed at the kinetic movements of what now appeared to be a teenaged girl with an abundance of energy. Quinton noticed Laura tapping a sneaker-covered foot.

After the song there were several seconds of silence as the puppet was stilled. The beautiful puppeteer held the strings with one hand and snapped her fingers and, suddenly, her dog—a schnauzer—appeared from behind the divan, looking at his mistress with slavish adoration. She pointed at the puppet and the dog happily bounced over to it, pulling on the clothing which soon gave way to reveal that the puppet wore a miniature version of the ensemble Puppet Girl wore. The same puppet that’d looked like a little boy, and then a teen girl, had “grown” into a beautiful woman.

Just then the music began again—“Santa Baby”—and the marionette began “flirting” with the people in the crowd, much to everyone’s delight. Quinton marveled at the charm of the woman who controlled the strings. Nobody complained about how she was dressed—or how her puppet was now dressed—even while there were children present.

Immediately after, he was not at all surprised to see Laura head into the store; nor was he surprised to see her leave with several bags and a new wiggle in her walk. He knew that the guys at ZoneOut would like the changes in their co-worker.

The puppetress merely looked at him with a mock sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth look. Quinton loved it—and he loved her, even if she was possibly insane or immoral. He’d dated worse. He imagined he wore a silly grin on his face at that moment.

He continued visiting her at every opportunity, hating when the holidays closed the mall. He began considering their meetings as dates, and thought of the games and tricks as her version of flirtation. She never approached him directly, but he believed she was acutely aware of him.

At last, one night while stationed next to the keys-while-u-wait stand, she pulled out a male marionette he’d never seen before. It wore a miniature version of his favorite tie and, while he felt himself to be a lot more handsome than the puppet, he knew it to be him. As his marionette approached the Esmerelda marionette he found himself pulled toward his love—and then drawn toward the tip bowl. He dropped his wallet and keys into the waiting receptacle.

His voice was choked with emotion as he spoke to her for the first time. “This is it? This is where it ends? This is all that you wanted?”

The beautiful woman’s ruby lips barely moved, but he could swear he heard a gentle, “Shhhhh.” He looked at the puppets just as Esmerelda kissed the puppet in the simple plain suit and colorful tie. He felt at peace all at once—confused, but reassured.

Returning to work, he came to the conclusion that being in love with a mute woman was even more difficult than dating a woman who never shut up. Ironic, after all the times he’d wished for silence in a possible mate.

There was soon a buzz that, for the first time ever, the beautiful woman had left the mall early. “I hope she’s okay,” said Laura Stromski, looking vibrant in a bright red dress and a shade of lipstick which matched it perfectly. “I hope the buses run late—and that the spare key is still under the doormat,” thought Quinton.

After the mall closed he wandered out to the parking lot, expecting to find an empty parking spot where his ‘89 Taurus used to be. Instead he found Puppet Girl waiting patiently in the passenger seat. He got into the driver’s seat and she held open his wallet to show that the two twenty-bills he’d had in the morning were missing. She gave him an apologetic look as she made a “poof” gesture.

“I see you are somewhat like other women after all,” he quipped.

She folded her arms and gave him a mock-angry look. Then she reached into the cushions of her seat and extracted his keys, which she dangled like mini-marionettes. Taking the keys from her, he queried, “Your place or mine?”

She pointed at herself with her left hand and him with her right one.

“That doesn’t help.”

The roll of the eyes was pure “female.”. She pointed just at him.

“My place? Oh, okay. It’s a little bit of a mess…I’ve been meaning to clean it, but I work a lot of hours. The sheets might not be the freshest—not that I’m implying that we’d…Nice night, isn’t it?”

Puppet Girl buckled her seatbelt, pushed play on the cd player: “When You Wish Upon a Star” began playing.

“The soundtrack to Pinnochio? That’s…” He paused and noticed her expectant look. “Appropriate.” She nodded, seemingly content, yet giving the impression that she knew that “appropriate” was not the word which had leapt to his mind.

She followed behind him to his front door as he continued to warn her about the state of his bachelor pad. “…and I’m not sure there aren’t a few dishes in the sink. No vermin though,” he offered, just as he opened the door and a black creature hurtled toward them.

His first thought, after What the f…?, was to protect Puppet Girl. He was somewhat thwarted in this goal by the fact that she moved in front of him and scooped up the wriggling beast, which began energetically licking her face.

“You brought your dog here earlier,” he said, and then added, in an effort to distract her from the obviousness of his comment, “Unless, of course, he took a taxi.”

Quinton saw her arch a slender eyebrow as she walked into the house and deposited the schnauzer on the rug. Because he’d exceeded his daily quota of statements of the obvious for the day, he opted not to mention that his house seemed somewhat cleaner and that her huge trunk was in the middle of the room.

The slender woman headed toward his bedroom and his heart entered his throat. He could have complained about the sheer presumption of commandeering his car and breaking and entering (well, entering) his home. He could have told her she had no right to steal his money, or told her that his lease didn’t allow pets. He could have handed her a pen and paper and demanded answers, but his cock would never forgive him, so he followed her into the bedroom instead.

She’d slipped off her dress and was lying across the bed—with its newly changed linens—wearing nothing but a pair of purple panties and matching heels. He took in her lovely face, firm breasts, slightly concave stomach, gently flaring hips, and the faultless shape of her legs, and he knew it would have been the most erotic sight ever—if not for the puppets sitting in the chair in the corner.

“I’m pretty overwhelmed here,” he said, sitting on the bed. “And I know you’re really into the whole puppetry thing, but if there is one thing which could give me performance anxiety right now it would be glass eyes staring at me. They really don’t serve a purpose right now, anyhow.”

She got and stood next to the bed, beginning to part her legs, and clearly attempting to do the splits. For her efforts, she was rewarded by making it well over halfway. Next she straightened up, grabbed the female puppet, and made her do what the live woman could not. When the topless gymnast-wannabe tried again, she was suddenly extra-limber, achieving the feat effortlessly. She did a little “tada” gesture at the end.

“Oh, well, okay, they could possibly serve a purpose. Could we just put them out of sight for now?”

Puppet Girl shrugged and carried them to the space between the wall and the bed. She then put her hands on the arc of her hips and gave a look which clearly said, “Any other suggestions, or can we have some fun?”

Quinton woke up to find her sitting cross-legged on the bed and staring at him. He imagined what looked like wonderfully-mussed mane on her translated into bedhead on him; he had no doubt which of them had the better view.

“Hello,” he offered, the syllables sounding muddled as he struggled with wakefulness.

She nodded and reached out to trail slender fingers down to where the sheet covered him. The look of intent on her face was clear.

He laughed. “Hold on, now. You’ve pretty much worn me out! I haven’t felt so drained since the time my parents were away for the weekend and I spent the whole time masturbating and reading Tolkien. I’m not sure I have anything left to give.”

The woman considered this and then rearranged herself to hang off the side of the bed—the part which remained on the mattress was delightful, and he considered that perhaps he was not as sapped as he’d thought initially. Besides, she was a keeper and he didn’t want to look like a wimp.

She pulled up the Quinton marionette, placing it next to them on the bed, and the namesake was a little alarmed. It occurred to him that it could get kinky. Too kinky. Instead, she reached for what must have been a hidden lever in the puppet’s back, and suddenly its pants were tenting—as was the sheet covering Quinton.

“Damn,” was the only comment he could muster before he pulled the slightly smug woman back into his arms.

When next he awoke, the aromas of coffee and bacon greeted him. He blearily wandered into the kitchen to see his new live-in girlfriend bopping around the kitchen with what seemed to be a boundless amount of energy.

She saw him and grinned, indicating he should be seated. She placed generous portions of bacon and eggs in front of both of them and then began to dig in with the gusto she gave to everything. Quinton noticed that there was also a small serving in the bejeweled dog dish now sitting on his floor.

Between bites of the appetizing breakfast—maybe his mother was right that using spices made a difference—he began to speak. “This is very strange,” he began, stopping for a moment to take in her surprised look. “You don’t find this odd?

“I don’t know your name. I only just found out for sure that you really can’t speak...” He paused again at the question on her face. “I meant that you didn’t moan or anything during...you clearly liked it so I know that…” Now the brunette was turning away and biting her lip. “I’m glad I could amuse you.” He knew he sounded hurt and sulky.

She kissed his cheek, then reached behind the radio sitting on the table to pull out two gift-wrapped packages, handing him one and setting the other one in front of herself.

“For me? Thank you. Um, did my forty dollars pay for this?”

Now it was her turn to look hurt…and insulted. He realized he was a moron. She pointed at his gift and then to herself. Next she pointed to the gift before her and then to him.

“Oh, I paid for yours!” In a convoluted way. He opened the package and found a mini-version of her marionette.

When she opened her own package she showed him it was a charm bracelet with a Pinnochio charm. She held out her wrist for him to put the gold chain around her wrist and, when he was finished, she held it up and examined it with a smile.

“That only cost forty dollars?” he asked. She looked at him, drew a rectangle in the air, and then made a swiping motion. “You used my charge? At the jewelry store in the mall? And nobody questioned it?” He looked at the beautiful woman wearing nothing but his t-shirt and laughed. “Okay, I wouldn’t have asked questions either. I hope you like your present.”

She nodded enthusiastically. He had to laugh again at her infectious enthusiasm. “I like my little you two—there’s so much detail,” he said, running his finger along the colorful paint of her dress. His breakfast mate began to squirm. He did it again and she squirmed more. He grinned—there was more here than met the eye.

“Thank you,” he said, marveling at the how much she must trust him already. “She’s almost as beautiful as the full-sized version, and it’s a nice change of pace.”

She gave him a questioning look.

“You see, I’ve already been in the palm of your hands for months now.”

The next thing he knew he had one enthusiastic hottie non-speaking puppetress in his lap...and her schnauzer.