The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ah, satiation. Well, it’s not my favorite feeling. My favorite feeling is just before I come, not after. But this feels pretty good too. I don’t even look over at Sarah’s door when I walk through mine,

even though I know both of them are in there, ripe for f.. err, plucking.

I sit at my computer, wondering what to do. My mind is as alert as it’s ever been, but I don’t exactly feel like working. Sure, I like my job, but what’s the use of programming a computer when you can program people?

Lisa is online. Lisa’s my Internet friend. I met her on a writing site where I used to post short stories, anonymously. She would post notes of encouragement to me, and I befriended her, mostly so I could fantasize about having an Internet writing groupie: Someone who thinks I’m the greatest writer in the world. I’ve known her for three years and she’s now 19, just finished with her first year of college. I’ve seen a picture of her, and though it’s low-res, it shows enough to feed my fantasies. I expected her to be plain, but actually she’s quite a cutie. She has this Tori Amos thing going. And she really does think I’m a good writer.

[Hi :—)] she sends, seeing my login.

[hey nerd,] I respond. She knows I’m kidding; I’m the biggest nerd in the world. But she knows I think she’s smart (for a teenager) and she likes that, so I’m paying her a compliment, really.

She doesn’t say anything after that; we don’t always talk, even when we say hi. I drum my fingers by the keyboard, wondering what I could possibly do that would be better than walking around fucking everything in sight. Really, there’s nothing. But given that I just spent myself in Audrey’s willing mouth, you can understand that I’m not really in the mood.

I decide I’m going to find out what happened to me. Whatever it is, I doubt it’s in the DSM or any medical manual. I decide to approach it like a hard programming problem; search for an exact match on what you want to do, and see if anyone else has already written the code. If that doesn’t pan out, break it up into pieces and find out what pieces exist, how they can be adapted to my particular problem.

First I need a statement of the problem. “haircut causes superhero powers” is probably both too broad and too specific. How about, “How can a head injury lead to hypnotism triggered by eye contact?” This is still too specific, I’m sure, and Google doesn’t turn up anything useful on this statement of the problem.

I next try “head injury paranormal power” and come up with a flood of hits. Too broad again. There’s hits there on people who thought their spouse’s car accident gave them ESP, doctors who studied skull-fracture patients and found no evidence of paranormal abilities, people whose head injury just augmented their natural crazy and made them think they had powers they didn’t have before. Including, apparently, the ability to put up shitty web pages about themselves and their unrecognized-by-society talents. There’s a lot of crazy on the Internet anyway, I’m gonna have to narrow this down a lot, break it up.

• Effects of head injuries.
• Causes of paranormal powers.
• Verified paranormal powers.
• Non-deliberate hypnotism.
• Post-hypnotic suggestion.
• Role of eye contact in reported paranormal powers.

I spend hours on this problem, trying different variations of each query, reading reputable-looking scientific papers whenever they turn up (and they do), filtering for summaries of the problem space that can give me better keywords for my searches. Remembering a few hours after my stomach starts rumbling that I need to eat.

I’m reminded of this by the fact that I hear Sarah and Isabel open their front door and walk out, talking to each other. I can hear their voices clearly because I’ve deliberately left my window open just a crack. Isabel, I see, is wearing a gray blouse and her usual denim shorts that showcase her firm ass. The bright red lipstick and red triangle earrings are gone, replaced by no lipstick and a pair of simple studs. Sarah is wearing loose white clothing, a skirt and a blouse.

“Do we need to get you some lipstick after dinner, mom?” Sarah is giggling. I can’t clearly hear Isabel’s reply because they’re already rounding the corner, but she sounds annoyed. I can imagine she took a lot of flak for the outfit she put on this morning. Good.

I’m about to take advantage of the opportunity and go grab a bite myself, when I notice that my latest search, “cuts temple region unconsciousness” has turned up only a few hits, and the top one looks like a published paper. I open it up.

Twenty minutes later I’m on the phone, leaving a message with Dr. Jeremy Rift, Ph.D.

Isabel’s blue sedan slides by, looking for a parking spot. She’s returning from dinner. I’m up, grabbing the trash bag out of the can in the kitchen. I’ve opened the window a little wider so I can hear better, and I stand by my door, waiting to her their footsteps on the walk. The moment I do, I open the door, trash bag in hand, ready with a friendly word. I have my shades with me, tucked into my shirt pocket. My excuse for needing to walk outside at that instant is the garbage, which needed taking out anyway.

I glance casually at Isabel, who is 15 feet from her front door and an equal distance from me. Sarah’s not with her; disappointing. Must have gotten dropped off; at a friend’s, at a job, doesn’t matter. Isabel stops and stares at me.

“Hello, Isabel.” I’m cautious; I’ve tested this once successfully, but it’s still almost completely an unknown quantity, my recent research notwithstanding. How long will it last? How long will the effect keep the same potency? Does it even work the same on everyone? I don’t know.

“Hello,” she says. I’m starting to like that glazed look.

Another neighbor couple walks by, heading from their car to their front door. I’m careful not to look over.

“Isabel, are you expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“Where’s Sarah?”

“At work.”

“Isabel, you want to invite me in. Take my trash to the trash can. When you come back, I’ll be standing here. Invite me into your house.”

She nods. I hand her the trash bag. She walks off toward the garbage bins, glancing frequently over her shoulder at me. She has to round the corner to do this, and as soon as she does, I put the shades back on. I start to hum the bass riff to ZZ Top’s “Cheap Sunglasses”.

Spied a little thing and I followed her all night

In her funky-fine Levis and her sweater’s kinda tight

She had a West Coast Strut that was sweet as molasses

Now what really knocked me out was the cheap sunglasses

A minute later, Isabel comes walking back, looking puzzled and troubled, but without the trash bag in her hand. “Hi, Grant,” she says. No, my name’s not really Jack. “Want to come in?”

“Sure,” I say, and give her back a sly grin as she unlocks her door and goes inside. She glances over her shoulder with a smile and makes sure I follow. I walk inside and take off the shades, looking around.

I’ve been in the place before. Isabel and Sarah moved in after I did, and there was a brief period—about two days—when the previous tenants had left the place empty. Being naturally curious I went in through the unlocked door and looked around, finding the duplex to be a mirror image of my own, no surprise.

So I’m pretty much at home here, and I’m going to make myself even more at home. Isabel asks me if I want anything. Oh, yes, I think. I do. I turn around and face her.

“Isabel.”

Stare.

“The reason you’ve invited me in is to fuck. We’re going to go upstairs to your bedroom. You desperately want me to like you. You want me to have my way with you. You are outrageously turned on. You are willing to do anything I say.” With each statement, she nods.

“You are going to be my fuck slave, now and from now on. You won’t talk about, you won’t even think about it until you see me, but you are willing—in fact, dying—to do anything and everything I want, above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Yes,” she says. I put the shades back on.

Isabel blinks, and starts blushing, looking at me. She’s still holding her purse.

“Isabel, put that down.”

She puts the purse down on the ground then walks over to me slowly, wiggling her ass to the left and to the right with each step. Why do all these bitches think I want to be teased? As she gets near me, she turns around, arching her back, placing her head against my shoulder, rubbing her denim-covered ass against my crotch, up and down, up and down. Her eyes close. She sighs, still rubbing.

“All right, my dear,” I say. I put my hands on the rubbing ass cheeks, giving my straining erection a break. She bends forward. Her hair drapes over her face as she looks back at me, and then she puts her hands on her knees, now rubbing her ass against my hands.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” she says. I nod, caressing that tight ass. Then I put my hands up under her blouse, around her back to her stomach. I push them under her bra, getting handfuls of her smallish breasts. She opens her mouth, leans back into me. A moment later she starts walking, dragging me upstairs.

“Isabel, do you have any rope? Or maybe some sturdy scarves?” Isabel is bent over the queen-sized bed, her back arched, resting her weight on her elbows as she looks through a curtain of her blonde hair at me. Her shorts are now unbuttoned, but still covering those firm ass cheeks.

“Uh, no, why?” she says, pretending innocence.

“Because I want to tie your legs apart so I can fuck you harder.”

She gulps loudly, then stands up to look around the room. Finally she pulls out a couple of womens’ belts from a drawer and hands them to me, with a nervous glance that quickly turns into a playful succubus’s sultry smile. She wants this. She bends back over the bed, then slides her knees onto it after a moment, presenting me with a woman in the perfect posture of obedience.

I grab her ankles. She’s not wearing the red stockings any more, but I notice them on top of the laundry basket. I throw them at her. “Shorts off, stockings on,” I say.

Immediately she flips herself around onto her back and reaches down, dragging the shorts off in such a hurry I think she must be expecting me to cum any second and she can’t wait to have it all inside of her. She’d be almost right; I’m so turned on by this situation, this power, that I don’t even really need her here to cum; just the idea that I can do this is enough.

She has kicked the shorts off onto the floor, and now it’s the panties she’s pulling off. She lies on her back and swings her legs into the air so her arms can reach her ankles. This gives me a view of her pussy. She wasn’t lying about not dyeing her hair, that much I know. The panties are tossed into the hamper, and now she’s scrambling with the stockings. She glances up at me now, and her face is bright red, and I know it’s not from the exertion. She’s just starting to realize what she’s getting into, maybe. Or she’s incredibly turned on.

Or both. Yeah, both.

Now that the stockings have successfully been rolled onto her fine, somewhat pale ivory) legs, I’m ready, and she senses this. She rolls over onto her stomach, then turns herself so her legs, spread apart, reach the lower bedframe. She’s still wearing her gray blouse, but I like this touch, and her tits aren’t much to look at anyway. Maybe I’ll cum on that blouse. Make her suck it out of the fabric.

I reach under it, though, and unhook her bra. I’m shaking with need now, and it takes me four tries to get the bra undone, but I do. She obligingly leans up, slips it out through an armhole, and tosses it onto the panties in the hamper. She goes to unbutton the blouse but I stop her, winking. She grins back then settles herself onto her elbows, looking straight ahead, waiting for whatever I have to deliver next.

What I deliver next is a hard lash from about 12 inches of the belt in my hand, across her perfect ass. She squeals and looks back at me in shock, but I motion her with a finger to turn back around. She closes her eyes, grips the bedsheet with her hands, takes in a deep breath.

Crack. Another red mark. I’m not hitting her near hard enough to leave welts, but I know she’s expecting me to. I’m not into that, and in my experience it’s never really necessary. It’s what they imagine the next lash will be that makes them wet, and I can see that she’s wet. Her pussy is literally glistening. I move back and wrap the belt I just hit her with around her left ankle. She moans. I cinch it tight around the wooden frame and her leg, and she sighs. I buckle it. Then I do the right one with the other belt she gave me. This one is red leather, a little too broad; I wrap it around as tight as it will go but I can see that with any effort she’ll slip right out of it. But that’s not the point. Again, it’s all about what she imagines is happening to her.

Her breathing is audible, hard. She looks back at me again, and sweat is running off her face, which is still bright red. Now I know that means she’s turned on. “Are you going to screw me?” she asks. I just look at her, through my shades. I wonder why she hasn’t said anything about them yet.

Then I nod. “Eventually.” She sighs, turns back around, and waits for me. I slide off the bed, and start to take my clothes off.

“When does Sarah get home?” I ask as my underwear hits the floor.

“Uh,” she isn’t expecting this question. “Late, 11 o’ clock. I have to pick her up.”

“Too bad that she won’t walk in on us,” I say without thinking about it.

“WHAT?” she practically screams, whipping the upper half of her body around to glare at me. Whoops.

Immediately I yank the shades off, and she subsides, Stunned. “Isabel, you secretly want me to fuck your daughter. You want me to use her the way I’m using you. You want me to teach her about sex.”

“She already knows about sex,” Isabel says robotically. Damn.

“Well you want me to teach her about proper sex,” I respond lamely. Not that it matters. Isabel nods as if this is a proper conversation. I put the shades back on.

Isabel blushes, squirms back around to wait for my next move. My next move is to climb on the bed in front of her head. She’s still lying no her belly, nominally restrained by the belts around her ankles, so my erect cock is positioned inches in front of her face. I open my mouth to tell her what to do, but obviously I don’t have to. Isabel’s tongue flicks the head, then she looks up at me and begins to lick down the shaft. Oh, very apt pupil.

Our right hands move; mine goes through her hair, giving me some control over her head if I want it (and I know I will). Hers slides down my slick shaft to cup my balls. She continues to look straight into my eyes as she licks and now, begins to suck. I groan and let her.

The fellatio is good, better in fact than Audrey’s. For one thing, she never breaks eye contact, which I love. I wonder how she does that when I’m still wearing the shades. She uses a lot of saliva, which is how it should be; nothing finer than seeing your meat fill a sloppy mouth. And she’s rhythmic, sucking with constant gentle pressure. Occasionally she takes me out and licks the shaft up and down, not stopping until her tongue has soaked every inch of balls, before she shoves the head back into her mouth.

I want to show her I’m in charge, so as she does this one last time I use my grip in her hair to shove her mouth down a little bit. Immediately she freezes, letting me control her. Her eyes look worried; I say, “Don’t worry,” and then I shove my cock toward the back of her throat. I hear her gag, but I keep the constant pressure up. She starts to panic, and I say, “Don’t worry,” again, but this time I’m just being a little sadistic. It’s the worrying I like; but then, I also want my cockhead in her throat, and I’m going to accomplish this.

Millimeter by millimeter I continue to shove, and she’s both gagging and gasping now, so I tell her not to try to breathe. She nods. I wonder for a second whether a hypnotic suggestion would keep her from gagging, but the feeling of her gagging is bringing me closer to cumming, so I decide it doesn’t matter.

Finally, I’m deep enough, and she’s visibly restraining herself from ripping her head away from my crotch, so instead of pushing her head, I start to pull on her hair, separating her from my groin. Lovely.

She gasps, sucking air greedily. I let her recover for a minute, then I swing my feet off the bed, walk behind her, roll back onto the bed, and slide myself into her soaking pussy.

“OH, GOD,” she cries. I chuckle. Then I begin to thrust, positioning my hips between her legs, which are still bound apart as far as they can stretch, positioning my hands under her armpits so I get leverage. And I begin to pump her.

She’s sweating from the exertion of the blowjob and the panic of being forced to deep throat, so her back is slick and it makes the blouse stick to her. She ripples under me, groaning and grunting as I push myself into her. This angle isn’t ideal, but psychologically I love having her legs tied apart and I think she does too. I figure after that stellar blowjob I’m going to blow quickly, so I ask her, “Can you get pregnant?”

She gasps, “Yes.”

“Do you care where I shoot?” I ask.

“Wherever you want, please, just keep ... uhhh... fucking...”

I oblige, but I know I’m done for. Fuck it, if she doesn’t care neither do I. Here it cooooomes... and I’m gushing inside her. She starts to slap her hands on the mattress in front of her over and over, and her eyes are pinched shut. I realize she’s close herself, and I see no reason not to let her finish. I can stay hard after cumming sometimes, when I’m turned on enough, and god damn am I turned on right now. I stay inside her, straining her against the belts on her ankles, making her body suffer for the orgasm that’s going to come, and then it does, and she gasps “Ahhhhunf,” and the hands stop slapping, now they just slide out to the side and her face falls to the mattress. She is shivering slightly, like she’s cold. Everyone comes differently.

I slip out of her gasping body and twist around so I can undo the belts. She’s going to have leather burns on her ankles, but I suspect she won’t mind them. I say, “Isabel, I’m going to sleep here,” and she just keeps gasping for air. Finally she nods. I slip under the covers and close my eyes without removing my cheap sunglasses.

Before I fall asleep, I tell her, “Isabel, we’re going to go on a trip.”

“We are? Okay.”