The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Behind the Sierra Nevadas, in the highlands where the California mountains blend into the Nevada desert, is a land of cold winters, scenic vistas, ghost towns, and hot springs.

Lots of them are on maps; Keough, Whitmore, Benton, McGee. Their remoteness keeps them from being entirely overrun by tourists. But most of the best ones aren’t, and those are the ones I like to go to. Their character varies widely. Some of them are just pools in the ground, some are scalding trickles that blend delightfully into nearby streams, some are bottomless pits that release sulfurous bubbles beneath your toes.

‘Titania’s Bath’ was one of my favorites. It lay in a barren hollow between char-topped hills; if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it. There was a triad of vents—one dribbled cold water which sank into the desert and vanished, one seeped hot water that formed into a pair of tepid, VW bug-sized pools, and one pulsed warm water into a mudpit the size of a small kitchen. The mud was sticky-smooth and light grey; generations of bathers had left the hole lined with large smooth rocks. A few years ago, someone had left some oars in the pit, for stirring.

I lowered my neck into the gap between two rocks and wriggled my toes in delight. Everyone else had gone to Keough, where the hot water bubbled up in scalding bursts in the middle of a stream. It was a great spring, but it was on the maps and often crowded and I’d decided to stay here. A soak in the mud followed by a dip in one of the pools to clean myself off sounded perfect.

The boys were a little skittish about leaving me alone, so just behind my head was a little can of pepper spray. I’d never need it. Even in the unlikely event some other folks came by to use the spring, we were all of a kind. Eco-freaks, Hippies, neo-pagans, some wilderness-loving good-ol-boy sorts. Serial killers didn’t frequent hot springs. If they had, they wouldn’t have been uptight enough to kill. The most I had to fear was the appearance of some good-ol-boys, who would give me a thorough ogling as I washed off.

But there were none around. I luxuriated in the pool alone, stretching my limbs out, enjoying the gentle resistance of the mud.

“Mind if I join you?” asked a woman’s voice.

I opened my eyes.

It was Becca.

I didn’t know her very well; she was Linsey’s girlfriend. Yes, girlfriend. Apparently Linsey had recently discovered she swung that way, and Becca was her first shack-up. Linsey was my friend, so I’d invited her on the trips, and she’d brought her new girlfriend. The boys were all very excited.

Paul, bless his heart, pretended not to be.

“Not at all,” I said, lifting my arm from the mud and beckoning her forward. She smiled, and knelt down to dip a foot in.

“Mmm. Hot,” she said, then turned around to put in the other foot and lower herself into the mud.

I wasn’t sure what to make of Becca. She seemed nice enough, but had said little on the drive up from L.A. Someone, Linsey I think, had said that she was a witch, but when the boys pressed the issue she simply confirmed the fact and declined to get into it.

She turned around, up to her thighs in the mud, adjusting to the temperature. Her choice of religion didn’t quite jive with her looks—she looked more like one of us counterculture sorts, her blonde hair tied with ribbons into white-girl dreadlocks, her fair skin ornamented with a generous helping of tattoos. I was a bit surprised to see that not only was her sex totally shaven, but there was a colorful tattoo of a gryphon on her bare mons. That must have hurt.

The gryphon sank into the mud. She was looking at me with her sea-green eyes, and I realized I’d been caught staring at her sex.

I refused to be abashed. “Nice tattoo,” I said.

She smiled. “Thank you. If you like, I’ll give you a closer look when we wash off.”

She won. I smiled back, but couldn’t come up with a reply.

With a murmur of pleasure, she sank deeper into the mud, until her nipples were just visible above the surface. Her breasts had little pawprint tattoos on them, like that rap star’s, only these were Native American in style, teardrop shaped, with long claws.

I realized her nipples were hard—and of course they shouldn’t have been, they should have been soft and relaxed like mine were in the hot mud.

She was getting off on flirting with me.

I sighed, and leaned by head back, closing my eyes. Try to enjoy the mud, I told myself.

A few quiet moments went by.

“Your name’s Lyssa, isn’t it?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Yup,” I replied. “Why didn’t you go to the Keough hot springs with everyone else?”

“To be honest, I wanted to talk with you. I had the impression you didn’t like me.”

I opened my eyes. She was sitting close to me, but not so close as to be in my space. Her eyes were an unusual seafoam green; somehow, the pale grey of the mud really accented their exotic color.

“Well, you were wrong,” I said. “I don’t know you well enough to not like you.”

“Does the fact that I’m a lesbian bother you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not hardly. I’ve got no problems with lesbians. Look, Becca, I’m sorry if I seem like I’ve got a chip on my shoulder. It’s just that, well, places like this are sort of secret, and when Linsey showed up with a stranger in tow it kind of pissed me off. That’s all. Not your fault.”

“I see,” she said. I closed my eyes again.

“So, you like lesbians then?” she asked.

I sighed. “As people, Becca, not as lovers. I’m as het as het gets. Anyway, aren’t you with Linsey?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t mind,” she replied.

I cracked an eye open again. “Should I tell her that?” I asked, a bit peeved.

“Do,” she said, the corners of her mouth crooked up in a tiny smile. “She’ll be happy to confirm it.”

I didn’t believe that for a second, having nursed Linsey through two rancorous break-ups. But Becca was just her type—well, except for being female, that was new—hot as hell, naughty, arrogant, and absolutely the worst person to pick if you wanted commitment. Which Linsey did. How she always wound up with these people...

I thought of Paul, and smiled. How I ever landed him... there were advantages to being forward. The big dope had hardly dated before I got to him. Afraid of rejection. And he was sweet, and brave, and not afraid of commitment at all.

And hung like a horse, I had to add.

I realized Becca was speaking again. “...pleasant thoughts?” she asked.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I replied. I didn’t feel like getting into another conversation at the moment. The mud felt sooooo good, and I was thinking of Paul’s cock.

Becca was saying something else, but I ignored her. I stretched out my legs again, sliding them thickly around, flexing my hips. Mmm. That felt really good. I was thinking about sex, and I could push against the mud... Becca was there, but she was mumbling to herself, and anyway she couldn’t see my body underneath the mud. I let go of the rock I had been holding and slid my hand down along my slick body to my slit. The fur above it was clumped down, and I slid my fingers through it and right down along my pussy.

It felt great. God, was I horny. I cracked open an eye and snuck a look at Becca. She had scooted up in the mud a little, so that she was sitting only waist-deep; she had been in up to her neck, and now a crust of mud was drying on her upper body, like a pale grey catsuit.

She wasn’t paying any attention to me. In fact, she was playing in the mud—she had built up a little mud ball in front of her, and was kneading it with her fingers.

Mmm, kneading. Satisfied that Becca was distracted, I closed my eyes again and went back to stroking myself. Around, and along, gliding, gliding, and then I slid a finger inside myself. Oh God did that feel good. Wonderful. It must have been the mud—I enjoyed a good jill-off as much as the next girl, but this was incredible.

I started working the finger in and around—I’d have to wash out extra well later, a small part of my mind said, then went back to moaning—and let go of the rock with my other hand, plunging it down alongside the first so I could use it to stroke while the original hand was working two and now three fingers inside myself.

Belatedly I realized that I was now actually moaning out loud; that my sudden lunge with my second hand had splashed mud; that my nipples were cresting the mud as I arched my back in pleasure; and that Becca was watching me avidly.

The animal in me snarled a complaint as the rational took over and I pulled my hands away.

Becca was smiling as widely as she could with her lips still closed. She had slid out of the pool even further, sitting on a broad smooth rock, just her legs dangling in. Between her legs the mud ball she had been playing with was now the size of a football. Behind it I could see the outline of her slit under the thin slick of mud she wore. The gryphon, of course, was hidden.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, grinning.

“I, I,” I gasped. Something was wrong with me. I was SO horny. My hands started to move back down, of their own accord, and I snatched them up and forced them onto the rocks. “I have to go,” I blurted.

Her smile faded. “No, you don’t,” she said. Her hands, which had been resting on her thighs, went back to the mudball between her legs. As soon as she began to stroke it, a rush of erotic NEED rolled over me and I released the rocks, my hands diving back to my pussy with joyous abandon.

“What,” I gasped, as I plunged all of my right hand digits into my hungry snatch, “what are you doing to me?”

Becca was smiling again, licking her lips as she massaged the sticky grey object in front of her. “You see this?” she asked, sliding her hands over it. “You know what this is?”

“No,” I gasped again. My hips began the thousand tiny spasms that indicated the start of one of my orgasms.

“It’s your brain,” she said.

I stared at her as I came, unable to rein in the moans.

She had stopped stroking the object, and watched me come with a hungry look on her face.

As my pleasure receded, fear began to take its place. I turned to get out of the pool.

“Oh no,” she said, that damnable smile on her face, “you don’t.” Her hands went back to work, smoothing, stroking, and like a switch had been thrown I was HOT again, and with a groan of need my hands dived back to my snatch, rubbing, plucking, plunging.

“You’re not leaving this pit until you’re mine,” she said, her hands sliding smoothly over the ball of mud. “But don’t worry. You’ll love what I’m going to do to you. You’re going to come like this at the snap of my fingers. Mmm. Not that I’ll be using just my fingers. I’ve wanted to lick you all over since you picked us up.”

“Linnnnnsey,” I moaned, unable to keep my mouth under control for more than a single word.

She grinned. “My slave—just like you are about to be. I was perfectly honest when I said she wouldn’t mind if I fucked you. She won’t mind at all.”

I was lost in ecstasy, but I wasn’t peaking, couldn’t peak, not like I had a moment ago. Becca could doubtless see the need in my eyes as they swung towards her.

“No, not just yet, my lovely. I’m keeping you right on the edge of it.” Her hands swirled over my brain smoothly, methodically. “I’ve got some changes to make in you, first. Then you can have your come. Lots of them.”

I whined, and my eyes widened as she paused—and then her fingers dug into the glob of mud that I knew was my brain.

I could FEEL them. Feel her fingers in my brain.

And they felt so goooood....

“First,” she said, “we have to change that silly sexual orientation of yours. Boys are fun, but what you should”—press—“really”—squeeze—“want”—knead—“is PUSSY.”

And, suddenly, I did. I wanted it, wanted to see it, wanted to feel it, wanted to taste it. As Becca stroked and shaped my mind, I could feel my desires changing, conforming to the new pattern she was molding into me. For the first time, I wanted women. Wanted to be with women. To smell them, to watch the shape of their hips and their breasts and the dimples that sat so erotically above the curves of their ass.

As I thought of them, my masturbation continued; my mind was filled with breasts and lips and pussy and ass and fingers-

“Ah-ah-ah,” Becca said, and suddenly my heat receded. “I’m not done yet.”

I whined, but my stroking slowed to keep time with her hands.

“Now, I’m going to do some deep work,” she said, fingertips sliding across the lobes of my brain. “I’m going to put me in here—at the very center of your mind. I’m going to become your mistress, your love, your everything—the only reason you’ll exist will be to serve me. It’s the only thing you’ll ever want.” Her eyes bored into me. “Are you ready to become my slave, Lyssa?”

I whimpered.

And her fingers plunged in, pulling my mind open, spreading it, inverting it, and as I watched Becca stood up and lowered herself onto my open mind, pressing her pussy right into the core of my brain, and I could feel it as it molded my thoughts into its own shape, branding itself in my consciousness.

Becca groaned as she pressed herself into my mind.

I loved her.

Her hands were busy between her legs, shaping me around herself. I could feel the changes—and I wanted them, wanted to become what She wanted me to be, wanted to be Hers, Her slave, the best possible slave. Slavelyssa.

She was so beautiful.

Her head came up from her work to look at me and she shot me a conspiratorial smile—it broke open my heart and even through the moans of my pleasure I tried to pledge my love to her, tried to tell her how much I loved her, needed her, wanted to be hers.

Her nipples tightened and cracked their crust of mud—how I longed to suck on them—and she tossed her head back, and I realized she was coming, coming in my mind. Marking the core of my brain as hers, forever.

I came too.

Later, I knelt at Her feet by the pool and watched the mudball that had been my brain dissolve back into the pond.

“We shan’t need that any longer,” She said. “It served its purpose. Besides,” and I purred as She ran a muddy hand through my hair, “I like your mind just the way it is, now.”

“May I eat you, please, Mistress?” I asked, my need overcoming my fear of impertinence.

She smiled and petted me. “After we wash off, of course, my slave. Why do you think I claimed you? I’ve been wanting to suck on those breasts of yours for days. And the rest of you. I’m going to taste you all over.”

I shivered in joyous anticipation.

She led me to the pools of water, She walking, I crawling beside Her.

As I washed Her body—how glorious it was, touching Her all over, feeling every smooth inch of Her magnificent flesh—we discussed my future.

“Tell me, slave, what should we do about Paul? Would you like to tell him that you no longer love him? Or perhaps we could fuck long enough for him to catch us in the act? Would that please you?”

I thought of Paul with mixed emotion. He was a nice guy, but he was a male, and anyway I had to be rid of him to be with my Mistress. “Whatever you feel is best, my Mistress,” I replied. “I will do anything you desire. I could have a screaming match with him tonight, and storm off to your tent. Or I could wait until we got back and humiliate him in a restaurant. Or I could simple refuse to see him, and never return his calls.” I looked into her perfect green eyes. “I belong to you. Whatever you want me to do, I will do.”

She stroked my hair, and then we kissed for the very first time, Her hand bringing my head forward until I could taste Her breath, and then our lips met, and our tongues, and my hunger for Her was matched by a hunger of Her own, and then we were pressing into each other, flesh to flesh, and Her hands moved on me and my hands moved on Her, and then She pushed me down and I went eagerly until my face was at Her most wonderful spot and I tasted Her for the first time.

And as I stared into the coruscating colors of Her gryphon, I knew that I was her pet as surely as it was, and would be for all time.