The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dieter Jaeger looked up and smiled slightly as his assistant Michaela Grunwald entered his modest office in Kiel. He had four reasons for smiling: he liked her; she was highly competent and helpful; with her white-blonde hair, sensitive and pretty face, proud breasts and pert bottom she was undeniably attractive; and she was bringing him a cup of tea, his favourite Earl Grey. One of Dieter’s eccentricities was to prefer tea, traditional English style, to coffee, though he often pointed out to those who said he was virtually an Englishman that the Poles drank a lot of tea too, and also that he had not so far managed to understand cricket (which was untrue). Dieter was a fit man approaching forty, a good age and appearance for a private detective. It was also useful in that profession that he looked superficially quite ordinary – average height for a German or a trifle below, a lived-in sort of face, pale blue eyes, dark brown, slightly curly hair somewhat receding in a crescent. Only the slight flatness of his face, the high cheekbones that might have been Czech or Polish, the easily missed narrowness of those blue eyes, pointed to his troubled family origin – that in 1945 in Berlin, his grandmother, then nineteen, had been raped by a Soviet soldier from Central Asia. It could have been worse: the man did not kill her and even gave her some sweets. The offspring of that event was Dieter’s mother.

Michaela, sitting down, watched him as he operated his laptop, checking occasionally from a paper file. She knew him well and was fond of him, but sometimes he could be distant, reserved, inscrutable. She had come bit by bit to realise that she loved him, but she could see no credible way to expressing that without endangering their professional relationship – and she hugely admired his work. He had his special gift, of course, but he used it sparingly and responsibly. That was the kind of man he was. He could have been richer, more famous, high in some hierarchy, but such things did not interest him. Helping people and finding out the truth interested him. The last thing she wanted to do was to undermine his dedication to his work, because she had worked out that he was not quite some sort of Sherlock Holmes: he had been hurt by a relationship breakdown. An old colleague of his, chatting to her, had mentioned “that woman from England” as a reason why he was unattached, and later Dieter, waxing quite lyrical in Michaela’s presence but not exactly talking to her, about the flat fields, marshes, mudflats and sands of the North German coast, had said that if he ever moved it would have to be to somewhere similar – the Netherlands or North Poland, of course, or the New England coast or the East coast of England.

“That should be O.K., the East coast, except London. Avoid the West,” he mused, and then looked at her as if he’d just noticed her presence and had shut up.

He apologised for ignoring her and showed her the screen.

“I am looking at these apparently very different cases and finding a pattern,” he said. “A bank robbery in the USA in which staff acted very strangely, also in the USA a police officer rapes and kills his male colleague and shoots himself, a young man goes mad and kills his family and wrecks their yacht in Ecuador, a senior police officer goes mad, rapes and kills his daughter and shoots several of his colleagues in Mexico, a double suicide in Bulgaria, an athlete on a skiing holiday in Switzerland skis straight off a cliff; and two female German students hiking in the Pyrenees who had disappeared on a stage of their walk, in broad daylight, while a young Spaniard who had been walking with them that day had been found dead, apparently having crushed his own skull with a big rock. Two common factors – at least one of them appears in every case and in most cases, both. People suddenly went mad or dishonest without any warning; and an attractive, slim, quite young Latin-type woman was seen in the area, sometimes clearly involved, sometimes less obviously, for example seen talking to the young man in Ecuador just before he went berserk.”

“Dieter, that’s just weird! Well, some of them weirder than others. Horrible! What got you looking at it?”

“The parents of one of the German girls came to me. You were visiting your parents in Koln that day. Micky, I have suspicions about these cases that worry me.” She leant forward.

“What is it? Not…”

“Yes. I fear someone, this dark woman, is using hypnotism of a very unusual sort. These people who appear to go mad are being controlled. That is my idea. I hope it’s wrong.”

“Can it be just one woman? In all those different places?”

“Why not? With air travel and plenty of money, no problem – and if one person is behind all these cases, she has certainly made big money.”

“Whereas you…”

“Have what I need. But in this business now, I may stretch my resources if I have to travel to Latin America several times.”

“Dieter, be careful. She must be dangerous. Anyway, if your suspicions are right, how will you catch her?”

“Difficult. But maybe I can find a pattern, signs that she returns to some safe base, evidence of an accomplice, a weak point like she needs some kind of medical care. I have pictures from a security camera and a photofit, but neither in the USA nor in Mexico have the police been helpful. So I do it my way. You follow, you watch, you wait and in the end maybe your chance comes. As for the danger, I didn’t choose a safe profession.”

“Let me look at the data. Maybe I can spot something you missed,” she suggested. He was happy to agree. It had happened before.

When she reported back, though, he could tell by her face she was disappointed.

“All I could find were two possible further cases – a Peruvian businessman who retired and almost immediately strangled his second wife, shot his son and drowned himself in the bath, and a really horrible incident connected to the Mexico affair. The body of one of the police officers disappeared from a morgue and two morgue staff and a police guard were found frozen to death there.”

“Was the body that disappeared one of a female officer?”

“Yes. How…”

“Pattern! Pattern, Micky! There is twisted sex here and most of it is with women.”

“Dieter, is there any way you could…you know…if she is a hypnotist…?”

“Good question. I can try hypnotising witnesses, of course, but only with their agreement. So I do not have to sell my house and my dog, I should start with one of the European cases. But just possibly there is another option…”

“What, Dieter?”

“If she has hypnotised some people to forget or to do things they would not normally do, it is just possible I can liberate them from her control.”

“COULD you?” asked Michaela admiringly.

“I don’t know. I would have to try.”

“Could she hypnotise you? Be careful!”

“Several people have tried to hypnotise me, but all failed. It is not like the usual failure: I seem to go under, apparently, but when they tell me to do something I do the opposite or refuse. I am not quite myself in this state, though, because I told one quite nice Slovene academic, in English, to fuck off. In my normal state, I use such words only when driving.”

Three months later Dieter had to admit he had made hardly any progress with the case that threatened to obsess him. He had obtained a description of a woman who had visited the Bulgarian couple just before their death, and it sounded like the same woman. She had used a few words of Bulgarian, but they were ones she could have got from a phrase-book, and she had a foreign accent. Someone similar had been seen chatting to the German student girls in Spain, but in Spain there were maybe a million women who fitted the description.

Then one day Michaela took the morning newspaper to him, open at the second page, and silently laid it in front of him. The article and dramatic pictures concerned a major disaster in England, but it was not so much the main disaster that alerted him as a strange aftermath.

The flight from Gatwick to Lisbon had taken off normally with 83 passengers and was approaching the West Sussex coast when the pilot veered off course, lost height and ignored messages from the control. Emergency services and military had been alerted to a possible hi-jack, which seemed the most likely explanation as any illness or irrational behaviour by the pilot should have led to the co-pilot and flight engineer intervening or at least communicating with control. Within minutes, though, the plane had slammed into a college full of young people, killing all on board and many on the ground.

Yasmin Iqbal had been out cycling on a warm, beautiful late-May day when it had happened. She was off-duty but due in to the hospital by the evening, and she was happy to take her sleep in short, intense snatches. The svelte, leggy daughter of Pakistani parents was not dressed as many preachers would have wished (but privately, exactly as many would have wished, except some would have considered her overdressed), for her superb long, smooth brown legs stuck out of short and rather tight pale blue shorts and her bright, stripy yellow-and-blue t-shirt clung round her quite small but perfectly–formed breasts: but this was convenient dress for cycling on a warm, dry day and her loving parents, who were in any case liberal Sufis and not buttoned-up Sunnis (their way of looking at it) were not inclined to restrict her, her individualistic father having even said that “all this covering up preaching is for farmers and their daughters in villages in Pakistan”. Actually, she rather liked showing off her body within reason.

She was just returning to the town from a spin round country lanes when the plane struck the college. She saw it go down and the shock of the explosion had hardly faded when she was on her mobile phone to emergency services. Then, a doctor in the right place at the right time, she cycled into the devastated college.

Police Constable Stephanie Shepherd had been in the job just sixteen months, but she had always known she might be called to the scene of a disaster, a bomb explosion, a major traffic pile-up, a fatal fire or even a plane or train crash. She knew what the people actually on site had to do, and it wasn’t all rescuing survivors. Of course, when called out, she’d wanted to help all she could, but she was just a little relieved her responsibility was to guard the entrance to the college and keep out people who weren’t needed on site. One or two journos, seeing her youth and good looks, had tried charming her into letting them past, but with great politeness and patience she had turned them back. Dealing with parents and others close to the possible victims was harder, but necessary.

The rising young “Observer” and “Guardian” journalist Chrissie Ojukwu drove towards the college as fast as the speed limit allowed, trusting to her advanced driver skills on the corners. She stuck to the speed limit not only because she was basically a law-abiding citizen, but also because there were plenty of police about. Beside her was the ambitious young New Zealander who’d recently joined as a photographer. She liked Kieran well enough, but she did not make conversation. Like him, she was strictly focussed on the job. That would help when they encountered the horrors that were ahead.

Lena Lopez’s helicopter landed in a field near the stricken college, which was on the edge of town. She walked briskly towards the scene of the disaster, first over rutted earth and then along a road. Hearing a car approaching behind her, she turned, looked, and waved it down. She looked inside. The car had two occupants: in the front passenger seat, a young, pale-faced, yellow-haired man was fiddling with his impressive photographic equipment. The driver was a young black woman with extravagant curves, her dark skin and broad features suggesting direct origin from West Africa rather than the Caribbean. Lena looked into the photographer’s blue eyes.

“Wait for orders. Do nothing until you get them,” she told him. He nodded.

“What the…” the black girl interrupted. Lena caught her eyes and stared hungrily into them. Something there resisted for a second or two and was crushed.

“Give me your press passes, both of you. The one with a cunt – turn the car round and pull it off the road next to that yellow and black helicopter you can see. Then both of you sit and wait for me,” she instructed. Unfortunately anyone who examined her pass would see, depending on which she’d shown, that she was not a man or that she was not black – but anyone who got that close would have to look into her eyes.

Lena marched towards the scene, looking out for suitable subjects. From a distance she could see that the entrance was guarded by a policewoman. As she got closer she began to smile. Even in the baggy yellow fluorescent jacket the girl was clearly pretty and shapely, with full breasts pushing the jacket out and a swell of trousered upper thighs that promised a fine ass. Her girlish face was nice too. Lena smiled at her and waved one of the press I.D.s.

“Sorry,” said Stephanie politely, “at the moment we can’t allow anyone but emergency workers beyond this point. I hope you understand.”

“Of course I understand,” Lena replied, smiling, “and it’s completely irrelevant. Hmm, you have rather nice eyes.” It was always a wonderful sensation staring into their eyes when they’re all unsuspecting and realise too late what’s happening. If anything, it was better than sex and better than getting one of them to kill herself or himself. This one resisted a bit more than she expected, which was good. She felt herself reach deep into the slavegirl and grip the thing that was resisting, a tiny version of a naked, defenceless policewoman, in strong and cruel fingers. Then as it struggled she squeezed, squeezed, squeezed, until its delicious juices oozed out and it stopped kicking.

The cop girl’s eyes were blank, defeated.

“Take off that stupid, ugly yellow jacket,” Lena instructed. Her new slave obeyed, confirming that she had big, firm, mouth-wateringly delicious tits in the crisp white shirt. “Walk to that helicopter over there and stand by it until I give you further instructions. If anyone questions what you’re doing, say you’ve been ordered to guard the helicopter, and give the name of some senior officer you know isn’t here. Oh, and call me Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said the policewoman, walking off as ordered, showing to Lena’s delight that she had a large, deeply-parted, curvy, wide-wobbling pear-shaped ass in nice tight uniform trousers. She was ideal.

Lena hung around at the entrance impersonating a reporter, waiting to see if any other suitable catches appeared. She was about to call it a day when a magnificent vision appeared: a long-legged, slim, athletic Indian type in delightfully short cycling shorts, carrying an injured girl. She avoided eye contact and let the magnificent prey walk past towards an ambulance, but followed briskly, her eyes fixed on the doomed Asian girl’s high-prancing, pert, round, provocative rump rolling and swaying in those magnetic tight shorts. Despite being encumbered by an injured girl, the prey was walking with smooth, athletic grace, her long, glossy black hair rippling across her back.

Lena judged her moment carefully.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, lady in blue shorts!” she called. The prey halted and turned round.

“Yes?” she asked. Lena held her big brown eyes – held, dived in, took, defeated, savoured.

“Drop that girl in the ditch. Walk to that helicopter, punch the policewoman in the face, kiss the black girl’s ass and wait for further orders.”

Unhurried, Lena strolled back to the helicopter. The big-titted black girl and the Indian type in those remarkable shorts stood like sentries waiting for a command. The curvy policewoman was nursing a bust lip and a spot of blood had dropped on her neat white shirt. Lena ordered them all into the helicopter, took the pilot’s seat and lifted off. At such a scene, the coming or going of a helicopter was ordinary enough and no-one on the ground questioned it.

Lena ordered the brown slave to sit beside her. She slipped her free hand inside the shorts at the back and ran her fingers down the line of the arsecrack, pushing in as she went. The slut was wearing no panties. She burrowed with more force and found damp, clinging lips. Her index finger quested up the tunnel and teased the girl’s clit. The girl writhed and moaned with pleasure. Lena withdrew her hand and ordered the black girl to replace her. The cop bitch could wait till last.

Again with one hand, she popped a button and rummaged into the reporter’s top, finding and stroking her big breasts, pinching them cruelly, slipping three fingers inside her bra and clamping on her nipple. The girl stiffened but did not resist. She called on the policewoman.

Lena’s dextrous hand opened the girl’s shirt easily enough, undoing some buttons and popping others, revealing generous, smooth-skinned breasts in a bra which she pulled off and twanged back below the treasures it was meant to protect. Her fingers explored nipple and aureole, stroking, tickling, pinching and finally, as she purred with pleasure, scratching. The policewoman did not resist, but made a series of ridiculous, girly “Oh!” and “Ow!” sounds. Lena felt the roundness and plumpness of her rump, but the uniform trousers presented a serious challenge.

“You – the black piece – look in my shoulder-bag and take out the knife you find there. Slice through this bitch’s belt and then cut her trousers down the line of her asscrack,” Lena instructed. The journalist found that even the murderously sharp knife struggled to cut through the thick belt, but she persisted, sawing away until it split in two. The policewoman’s trousers resisted for far less time. Now Lena could slip her hand inside the pretty, pale yellow panties, on to the ass-cheeks and into the tight crack.

“Pull those panties down, lie back and open your legs,” she ordered. The policewoman obeyed. Lena leant over and stuck her hand between the lips, slowly, lovingly, ruthlessly, before sniffing, first delicately and then strongly. The cunt was tight and juicy, and its bouquet was delicate but magnetic. She would do.

Lena was already planning how to dispose of the brown and black slaves. There were clients in Byelorussia and the Central African Republic who would be very interested in the leggy brown one, while the big-titted black was surely destined for one of Davis Hurst’s ranches, either the Texan or the Argentinian one. The white man would interest a certain client in Saudi Arabia. The white girl’s fate would be different. Lena had, after all, promised her dear Ernesto the cunt of an English policewoman.

When the helicopter landed at a clearing in pine forest, Ernesto was waiting.

“Hello, darling! Such a catch I’ve got from England! Put the ropes round their necks, there’s a good boy, and then we’ll take them inside for some fun,” Lena trilled.

“You are superb, brilliant, my queen!” cried Ernesto. “To the gym?”

“The gym, my pet!” she confirmed.

The four captives stood waiting for orders. Lena found it a little irksome that she had to deliver orders one by one, staring into one set of eyes at a time: to make a complete slave of someone, like Ernesto, took time and effort. To each of the women she gave the same instruction – to strip the photographer and to make him a sex toy. To the photographer she gave instructions to be horrified by being violated by women, and to resist with all his strength.

The resulting fight was amusing. The man was stronger than any one of his eager assailants, and clearly knew more about fighting than any of them except the policewoman, but it was three against one. The journalist got a cruel blow to her left breast and the doctor a black eye, but in the end he was laid low and the journalist sat her huge bottom on his head while the other two stripped him. The bewitched women examined his equipment with fascination, the leggy doctor stroking it so it rose and stiffened. Suddenly it shot cum into both her face and the policewoman’s. The journalist giggled and ground her huge arse down more on his face.

It was time for Lena to step in and instruct the women to stand back. Watched by an admiring Ernesto, she lifted her skirt and lowered herself on to the captive man.

“See how kind I am to him?” she asked Ernesto as she raised herself off him. “When he goes to my friend in Saudi, he won’t get his cock in a woman again, only the Prince’s cock in him! I suppose I could bewitch him to be gay from now on, but the Prince prefers them unwilling. But of course, I forgot – there are three more bitches here right now!”

Now she ordered the black journalist to strip, to bend and to touch her toes. The first two she managed easily, but her chunky build made the last command almost impossible and her big breasts got in the way of her arms. Lena waited patiently till she concluded the creature could not do any better; then Ernesto bound each wrist to its ankle with rough rope. The huge, fatty, wobbly rump with its yawning canyon of a crack was bent tight and pushed out invitingly, while between the tops of her thighs, under her quivering undercheeks, her big cunt-lips peeped out.

“Who should have which implement, my queen?” asked Ernesto.

“The bullwhip for you, my darling: your muscles are suitable to make the best of it,” she replied. “The riding crop for myself and the cane for our pallid friend here. The other two I choose to be merely cheerleaders.” She completed their individual instructions. Then she ordered the black captive to walk to the other side of the gym.

As she lumbered off, walking stiff-legged and arse-high, unable to see where she was going, Ernesto flexed the vicious bullwhip and eyed the massive target – but he did not strike until his queen had darted in to cut the riding crop into one fat black buttock, or until the New Zealander, eyes blank, had sliced the cane in on the other. Their victim wailed, stumbled, but kept going. Ernesto waited till Lena gave him a nod. Then he struck. The great whip whistled through the air and cracked into the presented meat. The journalist screamed, stumbled and fell. As she tried vainly to get up, the great whip sizzled in between her massive cheeks and she screamed. Tut-tutting, Lena marched forward and yanked her upright. She carried on and blundered into a gymnastics horse, receiving the crop and the cane as she tried to correct. The route to the far side was long and painful: twice more she fell and as she neared the end, on Lena’s instructions Ernesto ran to the side of her and bullwhipped her right tit.

Chrissie, released from her physical bonds, was a jumbled mess of wobbling flesh and tears.

“The leggy brown one now,” said Lena. To her strict instructions, Yasmin stripped; but she was not ordered to bend to touch her toes, or bound with rope. Instead, she was ordered to the trampoline. Obeying their orders, Ernesto, the New Zealander and the policewoman stood close to the trampoline on three sides, this time all bearing canes. Lena joined them with a long but thin whip. Given her orders, Yasmin clambered up on to the structure and leapt. As she came down they struck, aiming at her thighs, her rump, her groin and her tits. She kept her balance and bounced up higher, giving her a little more respite before she descended. Stung, she bounced up again. Finally a particularly cruel blow to her lower belly from Ernesto caused her to stumble and fall awkwardly, while the blows continued to slice in. Lena called a halt and she half slid, half stumbled off.

Stephanie the policewoman was next.

For the second time since the crash, her pretty pale yellow panties came down and her plump, round ass and tits were exposed to eager eyes.

“On to your hands and knees!” Lena barked. She obeyed. “Put your hat back on! If it drops off, you MUST put it back!” She had to scrabble for the famous chequered hat. “Stick your ass out more! That’s ‘arse’ to you, bitch!” She obeyed. “Now shuffle round and rub your tits and cunt up against every item of equipment in this gym while everyone else thrashes you! Go on, GO!”

She obeyed.

Ernesto had redistributed the implements – canes for Lena and the New Zealander, a doubled-up leather belt for himself, table tennis bats for her two fellow-captives. She did not stand a chance. Her hat fell off several times – or was knocked off – and Lena in particular took pleasure in slicing into her arse just as she was pressing up against some equipment. She had not been ordered to sob, but she had not been ordered not to – and finally she collapsed in a broken, quivering heap of untidy flesh, sobbing and moaning. From there Ernesto and the photographer mounted her under orders before Lena took the photographer aside, ordered him to his knees and presented her muff to him for his attentions. When that was over and her strength had nearly gone, Lena rammed her hard, narrow baton up her arsehole and kept ramming till it had almost disappeared.

“Help me put them in their cages, darling. Then we can enjoy a little drink,” said Lena.

Over a large glass or red wine, she made calls to clients and had soon directed the fates of Chrissie, Yasmin and the photographer, who were to be shipped to a Far Right American rancher, an African chief and a Saudi prince respectively. Stephanie the policewoman, of course, was staying where she was.

With the body language of a proud queen and the clipped clarity of a military briefing, Lena addressed each of the three sold slaves individually, but with the same instructions except in one respect:

“You are going to a new master. Obey him. At first, you must resist and show resentment and resistance, but after he thrashes you soundly, you will resist and complain no more, but will meet his every wish. You will make no attempts to escape.” She told Chrissie that if any official or journalist came asking her questions, she should say that she was a prostitute from Burkina Faso who had entered willingly into this new life for the better food and fucking. For Yasmin the story was the same except that she was to be an Indian prostitute, while the New Zealander was an English call-boy.

“I’ve told our rancher friend the big-titted black piece worked for two liberal papers,” Lena told Ernesto. “She is going to have a VERY hard time. As for our leggy brown bit, the Chief said he wanted her as company for his dog, his goat, his wives and his sons who needed to be taught to fuck properly. She’s going to be kept busy and I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up where out little English piggy is going. I’d say the albino boy will have the best time, except I rather fancy he doesn’t enjoy being buggered. I could have instructed him to enjoy it but I didn’t.”

“Quite right, my queen,” he replied.

“Now we’re going to have an absolutely splendid meal and I need to start the preparations. Miss English piggy – come over here!”

Dutifully, Stephanie came, with difficulty because the baton rammed up her bottom made walking painful. Lena looked her up and down, professionally, appreciatively, hungrily.

“Now, Miss Piggy – what I’m going to tell you is going to make you very, very grateful. You are going to struggle for words to express your gratitude to me. You’ve been selected for a great honour and you’ll be profoundly honoured. I am going to cook you and Ernesto and I are going to eat you with a very good wine and only fresh ground pepper. Anything left over that’s edible but we don’t fancy eating will be lapped up by the other slaves. Now thank me.” The forthcoming meal looked into her eyes without reserve, without struggle.

“Oh, thankyou, thankyou, Mistress! You’re so…so KIND! I’m so grateful! I can’t think I’ve ever done, well, er, anything to justify this honour! My dear parents WILL be happy when they hear! Um, please, PLEASE enjoy your meal and I DO hope there isn’t anything about me you find unpleasant!” The policewoman would have continued in this vein, but Lena was happy with what she had heard.

“Good! Now I must get going because my Ernesto has a HUGE appetite!” And Police Constable Stephanie Shepherd was led willingly to the gradual slaughter.

The table Lena and Ernesto sat round was covered by a sparkling white tablecloth. A bottle of white wine and another of spring water stood among long-stemmed glasses and condiments – sea salt, black peppercorns in a grinder, select Dijon mustard, balsamic vinegar. Ernesto belched and patted his stomach.

“Good boy!” said Lena. “I do like to see you enjoy yourself. Which bit of her did you like best, my darling?”

“Her cunt, my queen.”

“Oh, of COURSE! Yes, that was the one thing we didn’t share because I’d promised it all to you. Her ass was a tad fatty, I thought.”

“Quite right, my queen. But it was very juicy.”

“I AM glad you enjoyed it. Really she wasn’t any use for anything else, so she was quite right to be grateful to me. Now, it really is time to call the other three to eat up the leftovers.”

Before Yasmin, Chrissie and the photographer Kieran were allowed to finish the meal off, though, Lena had something to ask Ernesto. She put her arm around his shoulder.

“My darling, I think I’d like to make a display, a sort of shrine, to a wonderful meal. That little shelf I got you to make will be ideal. I can put her skull on it – such a nice, neat, pretty little skull, don’t you think? Pity about the hole in the crown, but I can plonk her funny hat down on top and hide it. Then I thought we could display her I.D. with that lovely smiling photo, and a few little bits left over. What do you think of that, Treasure?”

“You could include her engagement ring, my queen?”

“Quite right! How observant of you, Ernesto. I did put it aside as inedible, but hardly noticed it. So valuable to have a man’s opinion.”

At this point Lena had no idea pursuers were closing on her – but she was soon to learn.