The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I steal a furtive glance at my wrist, already aware that if I don’t ‘put a wiggle on’ I’m not going to get there in time. Seconds tick by with monotonous regularity; each one brings me closer and closer. I burst through the door, nearly knocking an innocent bystander flying. I ignore her startled cry and hurl myself into the cubicle, my skirt already at half-mast before I slam the door shut.

It only takes three swift strokes to bring myself off, the effects leaving me stunned and shaky. I don’t want to leave; I know what’s going to happen. I’ve seen it all too often, the shocked expressions, silent disapproval and stern glances. I’m safe here. I could just stay here, waiting for the next countdown.

I banish that thought with some difficulty. I can’t live out my days in a lady’s lavatory. I have to get home, but more than that, I have to work out how to stop this.

Actually, now I come to think about it, perhaps it would be better if I explained how I ended up here in the first place. After all, I’ve got some time. At the moment, the one thing I’m almost overburdened with, is time.

I can remember staring through the glass, nose pressed against the window as I gazed at the glory within. Gadgets, techie toys, an Aladdin’s cave of consumer electronics. All the things that you never knew you needed, until now. But I only had eyes for one thing that day. It called out to me, it was shiny, and so naturally I wanted it.

Just a watch? Oh good heavens no. That’s like saying an Aston Martin is just a car, or that Lagavulin is just a whisky. It was the pinnacle of the horologist’s art. It was, quite simply, the best and did I mention that I wanted it?

Elegant, subtle, not ostentatious at all. There was no price tag. If you had to ask, well, never mind then. I circled it slowly, sizing it up. To all the world I was a predator stalking my prey, although now, well now I see things in a different light.

The assistant was very helpful, answered all my questions. If he saw through my attempts to prolong the conversation, if he recognised that I was wary of getting down to the tawdry detail of money, then he was good enough not to show it.

It didn’t have any fancy gimmicks, what you saw was quite literally what you got. Or so I thought. Smooth Swiss engineering. Say what you like about those guys, they can certainly make clocks (and chocolate but I digress). Solar-powered, eco-friendly, shiny, oh so very shiny, in fact everything a girl could want.

“I’ll take it,” I declared, irrationally, not bothering to even ask what I would end up paying.

The transaction passed with silky smoothness, card swiped, buttons tapped. We smiled happily at one another, old friends sharing some private joke. In a haze of abject capitalism I stumbled back onto the street, clutching my prize to my chest.

Which leads me back here, well not directly, but I’ll get back to that. I have another four hours now, more or less (and the “less” is very important as I’ll explain later). By then I need to be safely back home. Public transport isn’t what it used to be, as I just discovered, nearly getting caught short. But that should be enough time, barring any other distractions.

It is time to brave the audience. Reluctantly I push open the door, bracing myself for the reaction. I start breathing again after a moment, seeing that the room is empty. A lucky escape, more than I deserve. It takes only a few precious seconds to spruce myself up, splash some water on my face. When did I last sleep properly? Without the threat hanging over me? I search, but come up blank, I really cannot remember.

I thought about giving up work, but it just isn’t practical. I have to live, and although my needs have reduced somewhat recently, a girl still needs money. Maybe I could find employment closer to home? Avoid running this gauntlet? I dismiss the idea, I’m running out of time. The thought makes me laugh, voice cracking, on the edge of breakdown. I don’t recognise the face in the mirror. Who is this mad person, why is she wearing my clothes?

I already have my path mapped out, only to find myself stymied again by the vagaries of the rail system. There’s nothing else for it, I’ll have to take the bus. Cramped, slow, juddering, everything that I loathe about the city. Then, as if to exaggerate my distress, the relentless ticking begins to affect me again, earlier than ever.

Tick, tock. Tickling somewhere deep in my brain, tockling somewhere far more intimate. Tick, tock. Each beat throbbing through me, smooth Swiss strokes, clockwork precision beating at my clit. Tick, tock, don’t stop. I sway with the motion of the bus, clinging tightly to the strap. I fight the urge to rub myself, embarrassment still enough of a motivation. But for how much longer? How much longer can I last?

Tick, tock.

Back home, safe and sound. Except of course I’m not. I’m still on that bus, desperately trying not to frig myself to distraction. But there was a time. It always comes back to time. There was a time, just as this all started. A focal point if you will, the nexus, where I started on this path. One decision, one choice and everything else led to this. To the bus, the train station, the shop. Oh, I’ve not mentioned going back to the shop yet have I? I’m sure I shall, or that I have.

I’ve always loved presents. Obviously it’s better when you receive them from others, but in extremis any present will do. Unwrapping the watch was like a minor miracle. Superlatives flashed through my brain, none quite managing to describe how the simple item made me feel.

I spare one quick glance at the slender manual, just to check that I wasn’t tossing anything of import, and it ended up in the bin. I’ve read so many instruction leaflets and they are all the same, all useless. “Thank you for buying the Versklaven 2007 … yadda, yadda, yadda … bin”. Much easier to just try it and figure out the details later. The strap was smooth, warm and sturdy. It slipped easily onto my wrist and actually gave me a little tingle.

Half an hour, thirty glorious minutes of playing. It wasn’t complicated, wasn’t built with the gadget-freak in mind. Instead it did everything you wanted a watch to do. Told the time, accurately, precisely. Had a quiet alarm, a stopwatch and that was about it. But it was, quite simply, the best damn watch anyone could own.

It didn’t strike me as odd when I decided to have a ‘comfort break’. After all, I had my shiny new watch, I felt pretty special and all was right with the world. Even when the watch chirped happily to itself at the precise moment that I came, that didn’t seem anything to be worried about. A strange coincidence maybe, but somehow that just made me love it even more.

Not that I love it now. Now I’d like nothing better than to just rip the damn thing off and throw it out the window. Except, I can’t. Well that’s not true. I could do exactly that, but it would be bad. Very bad. Mind-meltingly bad, truth be told. See, when I finally got around to reading that instruction book, some very key facts were brought to my attention.

The most significant of which was that the purchaser had never been the one intended to use it. I felt that this was something that the sale’s assistant might have mentioned, although with the benefit of hindsight, it might be why he didn’t suggest that I try it on. But no, this watch had instead been designed to be worn by the object of the buyer’s affections.

You see, the watch attunes itself to one’s bio-etheric energy, or something like that. That’s what powers it, and that’s why it’s a really bad idea to just take it off. Even better, once it’s been activated (something you can apparently manage by randomly fiddling with the buttons), it gradually builds up a charge of sexual energy in the wearer. Ticking and tocking them into an orgasmic fervour.

All the buyer need do, is release that tension and wham bam thank you Master/Mistress/delete as appropriate, the wearer is enslaved. Sounds ridiculous I know, but I also know that I believe it. Don’t ask me why, I’m coming to that. In fact, to a certain extent, that is the route of my problem.

I also learnt, during my belated investigation, that the watch can be formatted. What I think that means, in very simple terms, is that if left unfulfilled, the energy will eventually be released anyway, binding the wearer to whomever it was attuned to. By lucky happenstance, a similar thing happens, if the wearer just takes it off. Nice twist that, I’d really like to meet the clever person who dreamt that up.

Apparently the whole formatting process is also something the casual user can manage by pressing buttons while trying to discover how they work. Even better, as a ‘safety feature’, the watch can only be formatted once. Now I have no idea who I’ve managed to attune it to. I do know that it is formatted though, and that means that I can never just let it happen, I am forced to always help myself on the way. Perhaps now you have some understanding of why I am behaving like this?

I’ve enslaved myself so many times now, that I have lost count. Being that I have been enslaving myself to … myself … life has become complicated. But the only other option is a lifetime of servitude to some random stranger. I believe they call this Hobson’s choice. But I was trapped on the bus and growing desperate wasn’t I? So we should probably leave the explanations for later.

It is definitely happening more frequently. At first I thought it might be my imagination, but I’ve got the damn watch and I’ve timed it. It’s barely been two hours since the last time. The bus bumps over a pothole and I cannot suppress my groan. Fortunately my fellow passengers are too distracted or perhaps polite to notice. I’m not going to make it to the end of the line. I have to get off, before I … get off.

My finger hammers the bell as I make my way somewhat unsteadily towards the exit. The crowd parts before me, relieving some of my desire to rub myself against them. I glimpse an upright metal pole and it is all I can do not to grind my body against it. Soon my composure is going to crack and woe betides anyone who gets in my way.

The bus stops with a hiss of airbrakes, the door concertinaing open. I leap out onto the street, eyes scanning hopefully. It is going to have to be a pub again, nowhere else will tolerate me. I dive headlong into the “Shovette Inn”, gagging slightly at the heady aroma of cigarettes, cheap perfume and stale beer. Fortunately, no one gives me a second glance as I rush for the ladies.

Beggars can’t be choosers I know, but the interior of the toilet defies description. I admit that I paused for a moment, considering my options. But the steady play of the second hand, slowly circling, makes my decision for me. I reach down, hitching up my skirt and allowing my fingers free rein. The speed and strength of my reaction surprises me, driving away all concerns about my environment. My cry drowns out the quiet beeping and I have to fight to remain standing.

I salve my conscious by ordering a drink from the bar. I cannot taste it, but it soothes my dry throat and for that I am grateful. But the reality of my situation is beginning to hit home. I still have a long journey ahead of me, and at this rate I’m going to get there just in time to turn around and come back to work again.

It’s at this point that I remember where I am, at least I think it is. Time and me, well, we’re not on the best of terms anymore. I’ve been putting it off for too long, especially after the disastrous experience with the helpline number. Did I mention that yet?

As soon as I realised the pickle I’d gotten myself into, I did the only thing I could think of, then after that, I phoned the helpdesk. Every fibre of my being screamed out against it, nerds do not phone the helpdesk, we know more than they ever will. How would I cope with “have you tried turning it off and on again” or “it must be a driver problem”? But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Fortunately her English was better than my French, my German or my Italian. Unfortunately she was about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. Apparently they got a lot of calls from angry significant others who wanted to find an escape from their fate. So, company policy was to give out no information. I ranted and raved, then she told me that she was going to activate my watch. I don’t know if she hung up or if I simply knocked the phone while I was trashing about. In the end I decided not to phone again.

But perhaps the shop itself might have an answer. They sold it to me after all, so they would know that I wasn’t the intended victim. It seemed reasonable, and that was pretty impressive given how frazzled my brain must be by now. I even managed to get there before the ticking had begun to take its toll.

The assistant managed to look smug, shocked and sympathetic all at the same time, which, if I hadn’t been looking around for something to bang at the time, would have really impressed me. He apologised for not realising my error before, and with a decidedly convincing blush, pointed out that he had assumed I was buying it for someone special.

But then the other shoe dropped and he told me what I had been dreading to hear. The process was irreversible once started. He knew of no way to stop it, primarily because that’s what his customers demanded. They didn’t want to risk the object of their affections suddenly breaking free. He was kind enough to direct me to the little girl’s room and discrete enough that I have no idea if he stayed to listen.

Flushed, dejected and tired, I bade him farewell. He wished me good luck, with what I took to be aplomb and we left it at that. I can see that you are struggling to follow, and to be honest the ticking and tocking has got to such a point that I can barely concentrate on anything else.

Let’s go back, to when I first realised that something was wrong. That’ll explain how I ended up in the dumpster, searching for my discarded instruction manual. Like I said, the periodic horniness didn’t strike me as odd. Who doesn’t feel the need for a rummage in the downstairs department, every now and again? I could even ignore how it felt as if the watch was responsible; denial isn’t just a river in Africa you know?

But when it happens in the middle of the world’s most boring meeting, we’ll then you know something is wrong. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a card-carrying, dyed-in-the-wool technofetishist, but even I don’t get hot and sweaty when I’m hearing about widgets.

I remember the moment. Jones was droning, in full flood and with no end in sight. Then suddenly, wonderfully, I noticed how the slow procession of gears was making me feel. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Teeth biting gently into me, cold metal meeting hot flesh. A tiny gasp escaping, even as I try to stifle it. I suddenly had to get out of there. Everywhere I looked were thinly veiled promises or opportunities.

The sprint to the executive bathroom was ungainly and risky. But for the moment my luck held and stupidly I allowed myself to relish this small victory. Still the ticking continued, lifting me helplessly, even without assistance. I couldn’t help it, tearing at my panties, embarrassed at their dampness.

Tick, tock. Flick, stroke. I moaned, leaning heavily against the cubicle wall. Tick, tock. Rub, grind. It was all over so quickly, although looking back I relish the long, drawn out struggle. Tiny touches shaping me into a mewling puddle of barely suppressed desire. The orgasm a sudden explosion, clearing my mind for an instant before I collapse. It takes an age before I recover and as it happens it is clear that everything has changed.

I am bound, my heart, my mind, perhaps even my soul. I can’t understand. The world has shifted and it makes no sense. I feel different, weak somehow, submissive. Owned is the word that pops into my mind and for the first time I’m not thinking about the Halo 3 beta.

Dizzy and confused, I drag myself to my feet. The staggering woman who leaves the cubicle is barely recognisable. I see the image of myself in the mirror and have to fight not to drop to my knees. What the hell is wrong with me? My day ends early, I am in no state to do any work. But by the time I get home, I have finally allowed myself to recognise at least some of what is going on.

But now the watch is ticking its evil rhythm again, sending tiny shivers through me with each movement. It’s getting so hard to concentrate. But in the end it is all about time. It jumps and leaps, not linear but circular. I’ve been here before and I’m going to come back again, but even as I tell you, I find that I no longer understand what I mean. I can’t really remember where I’d got to in the story anymore, so why don’t I just skip to the end?

The hands of a clock trace a perfect circle, spinning around and around, but always coming back to where they started. I think I understand what that means now. You see, I remember your interest, remember how you helped me, pointed me in the right direction. Guiding, leading, giving me just enough information to intrigue me, but never quite letting me cotton on.

So, here I am, it’s the middle of the night and I’ve had a hell of a time getting here. The taxi driver will need paying, but given the show I’ve just given him I think he’ll accept a discount. But really I was always coming here. I just didn’t realise until I missed the train, or maybe when I got off the bus, or it might have been when I went back to the shop?

You were the one who told me about the shop, you were the one who knew that I would have to buy the watch and you are the one too whom it is formatted. I don’t care anymore, I can’t keep this up. You win, I lose. It’s tick, tick, tocking again and I just don’t have the strength. But I wanted you to be here, wanted you to help me. I know that I could just lie back and think of England, but somehow that wouldn’t be right.

So, please, just take me, right now, right here, the cabby won’t mind, he’s seen it all before. Screw what’s left of my free will away, enslave me, make me yours. It’s what you wanted and now, at this precise moment in time, it’s what I want as well.

Tick, tock.