The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Just freaking wonderful.

I lay in a pool of my own sweat listening to my air conditioner’s death rattle. I had just put it in a few hours ago when the heatwave had hit. It had been a creaky old soldier that I should have taken out behind the metaphorical barn years ago. But I had been too lazy and too cheap to get a new one. It would be hell to buy one now. Even Wal-Mart would be sold out of fans and air-conditioners when the horrible wave of humidity and heat had rolled over town this morning. So my forty-something potbellied self was doomed to spend at least half the weekend hunting down a piece of Chinese-built crap to relieve the sweltering hell that was my bedroom.

Then I heard the scratching as the air conditioner fell silent. Oh, hell. The subdivison I lived in had gone downhill over the years. The downturn had lead to a fair few foreclosures and job losses. The inevitable meth labs hadn’t rolled in yet. But there were a lot of sketchy sorts who had moved in at the edges of the neighborhood. Local police service had died out when the county government had downgraded this area into unincorporated territory. That meant I only had the sheriff’s department to call on. Response times were measured in eons. The flimsy door to my bedroom wouldn’t stop a ninety-pound Oxycontin addict. I really should have gotten a shotgun at the pawn shop on the main drag. Only I didn’t quite trust myself with firearms, so all I had was a baseball bat propped up in the corner.

Glass shattered. I hefted the bat with a sweaty fist. Oh-kay. Let’s not get out of the bedroom like a dumb blonde in a grade-Z slasher flick. I was sitting my ample ass down here to let whoever had broken in steal whatever they wanted. If they came in, I was going to cave in their skull with Monsieur Slugger here. Spiders marched up and down my spine as I listened to muted thumping from across the hall. My place was a tiny one floor bungalow on a concrete slab on a lot that could have qualified as an oversized funeral plot. A pair of small bedrooms in the back with a shared bathroom between them were separated by a narrow hallway leading to the living room and kitchen at the front. The guest bedroom was really where I stacked junk until I bothered myself with tossing it out.

Stupid. Call the cops already. Only I found myself opening the door of my bedroom with the bat in one hand and a hefty Maglite in the other for dual-wielding thumpage. Slowly, I eased out into the hallway. I fumbled with the flashlight when I tried to use the same hand gripping it to turn the knob of the guest bedroom. It had been a while since I’d been in there. The mechanism was pretty gritty. I should douse it with WD-40. Amazing how trivialities pop up when you’re so scared that your asshole could turn coal into diamond. I kicked open the door wih my intruder whacker at high ready. I snapped on the flashlight held away from my body in a way I’d once read you were supposed to on some mall-ninja forum.

Green eyes outlined in black make-up that was less sexy than stunned racoon blinked at me. The pupils were dilated so wide that you could drive a semi through them. White face paint streaked through by sweat had been caked on as if a zombie had been getting ready for a party. Streaks of eyeliner further ruined whatever look that she had been going for. The streaked black lipstick matched the splotch on the back of one hand. Auburn roots showed at the hairline of what had to be the cheapest black dye job I had ever seen. Through the shock and residual fear, my other bat tucked in my boxers stiffened at the curvy body dressed in nothing more than a skinhugging black-lace top that hid nothing of the skin beneath and a black-and-white kilt that ended where schoolgirl fantasies said they should. The gothette look was completed by a cheap pleather choker with an ankh hanging from a ring in front and knee, fishnets, and high-heeled mary janes.

“Is Mistress here?” the girl said in a sing-song voice.

“There’s no mistress here,” I said. Wait. “Hey, I’ve seen you around. Bethany?”

“Bethany is the mask this thrall wears,” the girl said again. She swayed to her feet. “Thrall has been shown the truth. Bethany is fear. Bethany is pain. Thrall is obedience. Thrall is submission.”

“Oooohkay.” I didn’t drop my bat. Because this girl was tripping balls on whatever she had had tonight. “You’re thrall. I get it. Maybe you should lie down for a bit.”

“I must find Mistress,” Bethany or Thrall or Queen of the Faeries said. “Mistress brings peace. Mistress brings trance. Mistress brings truth.”

“Not sure if that is such a good idea.” I flicked the flashlight beam to her shoulder. “Shit. You cut yourself on the broken window.”

“Thrall must seek Mistress,” the girl said. “If Thrall does not find Mistress then Thrall has failed and Thrall will feel pain and Thrall cannot do this and—”

Uh.

Shit. I’m watching her have a mental breakdown.

“You’re wrong, you’re not seeking Mistress,” I blurted out. “An easy mistake, you’re seeking Master.”

“Master?” Bethany cocked her head.

“Why else would you break into my house? You found Master,” I said, in a soothing voice. “And Master brings trance and peace and all that nice stuff. And what Thrall should do is calm down and listen to Master.”

“Master. I have found Master. Thrall will calm down and listen to Master.”

Bethany was pliant as I hustled her into the bathroom. She didn’t show any sign of pain when I peeled away the sodden fabric from her right upper arm. The cut there was messy but not enough to need a trip to Emergency for stitches. She sat on the toilet while I picked out the sliver of glass with tweezers. The old medical kit in the cabinet under the sink had hydrogen peroxide and bandages. I heard that using that stuff for disinfectant was bad. Needs must. The sting of it brought a tiny crease between her eyebrows. I would have been howling. Whatever she was on had her higher than a SpaceX launch. Taking drugs, gothing out—that wasn’t the Bethany I knew. Well, the geeky redhead I had seen riding her bike past me in the morning on the way to school. Obviously she had a secret life of weregothery with a BDSM streak.

I swallowed heavily. I was alone with a skimpily-dressed high school girl who I had convinced was her Master in a drug-induced haze. In one way, a very hot little fantasy for a guy who had been dating his right hand for the past few years. In the other, a direct route to living under a bridge with the NAMBLA social set. Even if she was eighteen and headed for twelfth grade, I was in serious trouble of bunking with Bubba in the top bunk if it got out I had funsies with someone under the influence like she was. So my hands stayed away from any bits I might have wanted to, uh, cup or stroke. Because the harsh light of the bathroom revealed that there wasn’t any bra under her lace top. They were a perky, full pair under there that made her look even more buxom on her petite frame. Bicycling had done her legs a world of good. Envisioning Bubbah kept my hands busy washing off the crap on her face. Beneath were the cute, rounded features of a girl next door with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

Whatever was running through her veins was running its course. Bethany sagged when I hefted her with one arm slung over my next. Grabbing something from the junk room, I lead her to the living room that took up the front of the house. The style of my decor was dictated by being a cheap bastard of a bachelor who didn’t have many friends over. Everything was second-hand plastic or metal lawn furniture I had gotten at garage sales or Craigslist. Don’t judge me. Bethany sprawled out on a deckchair while I inflated the old air mattress. A tire pump would have been nice. I was drenched when the damn thing was blown up. I eased her onto it. The girl stared up at the ceiling with the goofy expression of someone whose brain has just throttled up and soared into the stratosphere.

“Thrall, you’re going to sleep now,” I said. “When you wake up, I want to see Bethany in your place.”

“B-but Bethany is fear. She is pain.” The girl’s features twisted. “Thrall doesn’t like being Bethany at all.”

“You’re a secret, thrall,” I said in the calmest tone I could manage. “You have to be Bethany or else they will, uh, take you away from me.”

“Thrall will be Bethany. Thrall will serve. Thrall will obey.” Bethany paused. “Master will command Bethany. Bethany will be submission. Bethany will be obedience.”

I admit that I had quite the tent pole jutting out from my boxers.

“How will Master command Bethany so her thralldom is secret?” Bethany asked.

“I will—” What I knew about hypnosis could be written on the back of one hand. This was, um, some kind of trigger thing? “Uh. Any suggestions, thrall?”

Silence.

Right, hypnotic trances aren’t exactly great for independent thinking.

“’Scrumptious harlot’,” Bethany said, giggling. “What the woman who I thought was Master called Thrall. ‘My scrumptious harlot’.”

“There you go. When you hear me start a sentence with the words ‘scrumptious harlot’,” I said, “Bethany will obey without question. Now go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Master.”

Brew, damn you.

My bloodshot eyes glared at the moka pot that was refusing to release its caffeinated ambrosia. No air conditioning. Constant distraction of naughty dreams of doing naughty things to the girl sleeping near me. The sunlounger was great for napping in. As a bed, it lacked a little something in the comfort department. My state of mind after my brain had forced me awake at nine in the morning was somewhat south of Somalia. Finding the bathroom door locked when I craved an ice-cold shower to wash the funk off had not done my temper any favors. Bethany had obviously decided to take up permanent residence in my shower. So I was becoming more than a touch obsessive about getting some coffee in me before I started prancing down the street with my boxers as a hat in a sleep-deprived rampage.

I damn near wept when a hiss and a gurgle came from the stovetop espresso maker. Something the consistency of sludge oozed of of the top of the column in the center of the upper chamber. I might have packed in too much grounds. The wait was excrutiating. Finally. I whisked it off the range when the sludge became foamy at the very end of the brew cycle. The six-cup moka pot made about a mug’s worth of put-hair-on-your chest. I was about to pour it out when Bethany edged out of the hallway.

The sexy gothlette from last night was gone. She shuffled into the living room lost in a bathrobe meant for a man five inches taller and mumble pounds heavier. Bethany seemed even smaller with her shoulders hunched up. Auburn hair still streaked with black fell loose and wet down around her face and down her back to her shoulderblades. I wasn’t the only one here who had a shitty morning. Sighing, I tipped half the moka pot’s contents into another mug. Bethany took one sip before filling up the rest of her mug with milk.

“Morning. I won’t call it good,” I said. “That ship has sailed. Then was eaten by a kraken right outside the harbor.”

“I’ll pay for the window, sir,” Bethany said in a voice just above a whisper.

“Damn straight you will, either with cash or doing chores around here,” I said. “What I’m not going to do is yell at you. Pretty sure you realize the colossal fuck-up that was last night. Your parents will do what yelling needs to be done, anyway.”

“Don’t have parents. Just a cousin, who took me in.” Bethany’s face crumpled. “She said that if I didn’t watch out, I’d become a whore like my mom. And now I am.”

“I don’t know what else happened to you last night,” I lied. “But nothing happened between us.”

“Don’t worry, even if it did, I’m legal.” A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. “Turned eighteen last morning. I snuck out to celebrate. It was fun until—”

“Memories hazy?” I asked, when she rubbed her temples. “You do that kind of thing often?”

“Gothing out? No, that was like Halloween.” Bethany shrugged. “I didn’t want to be ‘Bethany’ last night. Heard there was a party, bought some stuff that fit at the mall. I wasn’t even going to drink much.”

“You must have been slipped something you didn’t expect,” I said. “Kid, I was a teenager once. I might have even once had substances that were less than legal. So, not going to judge. You’re free to hang out here until your head’s together.”

“Yeah. Um. Can I borrow some clothes?” Bethany shivered. “It’s going to be bad enough doing the walk of shame in a guy’s stuff. I show up in my goth gear, Miriam’s going to kill me right on the doorstep.”

“Tell you what, I’ll pick you up something when I head in today,” I said. “Need a new air-conditioner. I’ll pick up something cheap at Wal-Mart along the way. It’ll be added to your tab.”

“Yes, sir.” Bethany grimaced. “Um, I kind of used up all the hot water.”

“I was going to take a cold shower.” I chuckled. “Really need one with a hot teen girl right across the table from me.”

Bethany blushed bright-red. She also edged away from me a touch.

Right. Probably a little sensitive about that. Also, creepy older man vibes. There had been a tiny hope in the perv section of my brain wondering if Bethany would be so grateful for my understanding that she would spontaneously fling herself into my lap. The kid was dealing with a cruiser-ship load of humiliation, hangover, and fear over the ranking out she would get once she got back home. Still, it was hard to be near such a scrumptious—No, that was stupid. The deep trance you-are-my-master schtick had to be from whatever delusion the drugs had been inspiring in her last night. Even if there was a post-hypnotic trigger, it couldn’t make her do something as out of character as that.

I licked my lips. I pretended to read from an old section of newspaper.

“Scrumptious harlot—”

Bethany looked up. Not shocked. Not angry. Just expectant.

A minue passed.

Then another. It was as if she were waiting for an order.

“—will change out of the bathrobe into a towel worn around her to look as sexy as possible to me.”

Bethany stood up with mug still in hand. Sweat beaded on my brow as she headed back towards the bathroom. This couldn’t be happening. She had to be acting. What she was really going to do was panic-call the cops. I was so dead. Then pretty much all rational sense died out when she returned with a towel wrapped very tightly around her body. The top just covered her nipples. The bottom offered tantalizing glimpses of a bare, pink sex. There was no exclamation of shock when the look of distracted expectation fell away. The shy girl was just as downcast as before, even though she was “dressed” in something that made her more naked than naked.

It was true.

Bethany was Thrall.