The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Thing That I Miss The Most

This is how you are supposed to write these, isn’t it? ‘Dear Diary:’. Addressing the book, as if it were a person.

Well, better to address a book than a person. That’s why I’m writing this after all. Because I can’t tell a person about this, they wouldn’t understand.

I’m not sure I understand.

So, Dear Diary: I still miss Him.

I still think of Him that way, with the capitol ‘H’. It has been three years since they pulled me out of that bastard’s house. They still don’t know how He managed to hold me in it in the first place. I’m not much help: I can remember clearly how he took me, but it doesn’t make much sense.

There had been one of those ‘model auditions’ at the local mall, and I’d gone up and stood in line. They’d been interested, and given me a card. I think I probably would have called them (actually, I know I would have), but He saw me, and just walked up and said ‘Hi.’ I hadn’t been able to look away from Him, and I’d followed Him to His car and gotten in. Five hours later I entered His house, and I didn’t leave for six years.

And it had all seemed like the most wonderful, logical thing in the world at the time.

My parents finally found Him, or rather they found me, and alerted the FBI, who stormed the place. I was kneeling, naked, being used as a footstool, when they came in. It took the psychologists a day to get me out of that position, and more than a month for them to get me to recognize my name, or act on my own.

Six months before they let me even out of the psyche ward (and even then, just to the grounds, with supervision), and a full year before I was released to live on my own. I’m still seeing a therapist. I don’t tell her much, at this point. Which is why she suggested I create a diary, I think. She seems to feel I need some way to tell this.

Maybe I do.

I learned His name in the psyche ward, and I’m not calling Him ‘Master’ anymore, even in my thoughts, but...

‘I’ and ‘me’ still feel a little odd to say as well.

My parents are happy I’m back, and have been really great. Even when I was yelling at them for taking me from my Master, they held on, and smiled, and told me they loved me, and that I was a person.

I admit I’d needed to hear that then, although I didn’t appreciate it.

I have a job—modeling, what I’d always wanted to do—and it’s going good. I act a little odd at times, I think, based on the reactions of the other girls. I have no trouble taking direction or posing nude, so I always have work. And He didn’t harm my body: Far from it. I’ve actually let up on my daily workouts, I’m down to almost working out the same amount of time as the other girls do now. I can hold any position the shot needs, and hold it forever if I need to.

This is a real life. This is a life I’ve chosen, the life I wanted to choose, not one that was imposed on me. I have friends, family, a job. My own house, my own car. And I am grateful for all of it, and for all the work of all the people who’ve helped me get this far. I wouldn’t go back to Him, not for anything.

I just want that clear.

But I can’t forget Him either. He was my life, for six years, plus however much time you want to count of the psyche ward. I would have died at His word, if that was what He wanted.

There are physical marks: My fantastically toned body, the tongue-stud I’ve managed to keep, the hairlessness of my cunt. I could probably get fat just to spite Him, but why? I’d only be hurting myself.

I hope He has one of my posters in His jail cell. To remind Him of what He’s lost.

Deeper are the mental marks that still remain. My sex-drive, for instance. It wasn’t until after I’d gotten out of the psyche ward that I managed to redirect it from being exclusive to Him, but I remember what sex can feel like, and He made me crave it.

I’ve gotten it to the point where I don’t automatically come on to every man I see, but it is still way above normal.

And sex is always disappointing, these days. I mean, He could make me cum with a touch, and that was better than anything I’ve had since. And it’s not the lack of skill of my partners: I’ve stuck with a couple long enough to teach them. But... He did something, so with Him it was better. Probably better than it can ever be again, for me.

I miss sex with Him.

My partners don’t complain. In fact, they usually rave: If there is a sexual trick in the book, I know it. If it’s not in the book, I know it. I learned them all, and learned to enjoy them all. I give the best blow-jobs ever and I can fuck you until you pass out, and I will only be getting warmed up. And I don’t really care who knows it.

Boyfriends... My heart still isn’t ready for love. If I go out with a guy, it is about the sex, not the heart. As long as they are a good fuck and don’t abuse me, I’m fine.

If they abuse me... I’ll break their ass, and have. Then I’ll leave.

Would I like to be in love? Maybe. I’m not sure. Love right now... I remember how I felt about Him. I loved Him, adored Him, worshipped Him, desired Him, lusted for Him. I thought of nothing else but His pleasure, and His command.

That wasn’t love, but it felt like love on turbo. Falling in love... Would just feel like the same thing, to me. Bad associations. I stay away from any guys I think I could fall in love with.

With Him, I felt cared for, cherished, nurtured. It was a lie, but I still felt it. I distrust those feelings now, but I still miss them.

So, yeah, my head is still a little fucked up. I’m not quite a nymphomaniac, and I don’t like feeling loved. I’m likely to just do what I’m told a little too often, and I have pleasurable memories of being tortured.

I’m starting to trust my own instincts again, a bit. Boy-toys still need to check in with one of my girlfriends though. (Yes, I get some flack for the number of them. But my friends do try to understand, and they help me stay safe.)

I wouldn’t go back, not for anything. But there is a lot that I miss: I miss the sex, I miss being in love, I miss feeling loved, I miss not having to worry, as all my worries are handled by someone else. I miss being sure about my life’s direction, regardless of what came up.

But what I really miss—and I’m not sure this is going to make sense, Diary—is missing Him.

It used to be that every time He’d walk out of the house, I’d wait patiently and eagerly for Him to return, longing to see His face again. When I was told I was ‘free’ I didn’t understand, and I waited until He’d come back for me. Then I was told He wasn’t coming back, and I was destroyed, in anguish that I’d displeased Him, that I was no longer wanted. After that, I was told that He couldn’t come back, that He was in jail, and that He was being kept from me. I forgave Him, and concocted elaborate plans to get Him out, so we could be together again.

I gradually came to realize what He’d done to me, what He’d turned me into. Even more gradually, I came to despise Him for it. But still... All would have been forgiven if He’d just walked into the room and said He was sorry. I would have gladly done anything to serve Him, just for the asking. Just because I wanted His voice, His face, His touch.

Eventually, I grew past that. He became just a jerk, someone I never wanted to see again. But I still missed waking up with His arms around me. I still missed the lines of His face, the sound of His voice.

I don’t anymore, not really. He’s just... Well, He’s not ‘just’, but He’s the jerk in prison for the rest of His life. The one who I used to want, to desire more than life itself.

And I really miss that.