The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Olivia struggled to pay attention. Mrs. Drummond was telling her important things about childcare, the baby, and so on. But all she could concentrate on was the woman’s voice.

It came out just a hair above a whisper, with a kittenish quality that was almost impossibly feminine. It was a voice made for muttering on a phone sex line, or tittering to some man in a strip club. A silly voice.

Mrs. Drummond’s outfit wasn’t helping her conclusion. Yes, the Drummonds were preparing for an evening out. But where was it appropriate to wear a skintight black dress that glittered even under fluorescent lights? It didn’t even have proper straps, just bound itself halfway down a big pair of tits.

“Here’s the number of the restaurant, and my cell number, and I want you to call this number if anything goes wrong,” Mrs. Drummond insisted. She pushed a piece of paper on Olivia. The girl glanced at it. It read “911.”

Mr. Drummond picked that moment to walk down the stairs. They had a big house, the two of them, with marble floors and expensive, brand-new wood furniture. It was by far the biggest in the neighborhood, with a pool and a large lawn, in a neighborhood of big houses. Most of the residents were wealthy couples pushing fifty, with children in college.

Mr. Drummond was barely in his late twenties, if that. He was reedy, with thick panes of glass in his heavy spectacles. He was also self-assured and expensively dressed. An enigma.

Olivia’s Mom hadn’t TOLD her to spy on the strange new neighbors. She had told Olivia to earn money over the summer for her Sophomore year at college. But it clearly wouldn’t hurt.

“The baby’s already asleep and fed, so I wouldn’t worry,” he said, nodding to Olivia. His stacked wife simpered over to his side. She was a little taller than he was, in her heels, but the look she gave firmly established the issue of dominance in the relationship. It was almost embarrassing. “We’ll be out... late...”

His wife—there was no other word for it—whined.

“Maybe not THAT late,” he conceded.

Then he guided his wife out the door, one hand on a perfect ass.

Olivia did a short but extensive survey of the bottom half of the house.

It didn’t look all that lived in. The kitchen had the usual volcano of expensive granite and marble, but was also spotlessly clean and looked hardly used. There was a white, frilly apron on the back of the door, which she would’ve taken as decoration, except that Mrs. Drummond really did seem like the type.

No alcohol anywhere, even in the fridge. That shot down Olivia’s early “repressed and alcoholic” theory.

The family room, on the other hand, was massive. One corner held Baby Stuff—mounds of pricey toys, a crib, and a small stand with some diaper-cleaning material. Another coffee table held a half-knitted blanket and a few Soap Opera magazines, well-thumbed.

The TV was enormous. It hung on the wall like an art display, lit on both sides by track lighting. Even turned off, the huge black matte commanded the room. That explained, at least in part, the sizable satellite dish on the roof.

Next, she remembered to check on the Baby. It was upstairs, in a dedicated nursery, sound asleep in another well-appointed crib. The Drummonds had decorated the walls with a friendly looking clock, a series of anthropomorphic kittens playing with yarn, and a bookcase.

Olivia realized that she didn’t even know if the kid was a boy or a girl. Either way, it was sound asleep, and downright angelic.

Finally, with nothing else to do, Olivia resolved to turn on the TV. It flickered on, filling the entire darkened room with light. The channel indicator read, unbelievably, “4002,” which was showing early season Beverly Hills 90210.

“4002?” Olivia said, to herself. She knew people with satellite. There weren’t four-thousand-plus channels. She scrolled through channel displays, and then, on impulse, opened up the DVR.

Taped episodes of Soap Operas and Lost weren’t too surprising.

What was surprising was the porn.

The Drummonds had scads of it, stored up. All of it from the same channel: Channel 493. “Slut Television.”

Olivia had seen a little porn. Every girl skipped to Redtube to see what the boys were so excited about. And got a little depressed at what they saw. Apparently the Drummonds dark little secret was a mutual addiction to the channel.

She sank into the couch, crossed her legs next to the knitting. Why not take a look? It beat the paperback of Jane Austen she had brought along.

The slight, brown-haired girl flipped to “Tim’s Night Out,” and turned it on.