The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I didn’t run that last red light, not exactly; but if any cops had been watching, I might’ve been hard pressed to prove otherwise. Without slowing, I tore down the Manhattan side street to the next corner; my boyfriend was already late for his noon meeting, and another minute might make all the difference.

As I not-quite screeched to a halt, he pushed open the car door and leaned over to peck my pale cheek. “Ciao, Maryanne. I will meet you later at the studio.” A moment later he was striding toward the glass entrance, Armani briefcase in hand.

I made ready to pull away; I was double-parked, after all. But when I turned to check for traffic, a silver glint from the back seat caught my eye. I twisted back around, shouting, “Camilo, wait! You....”

But it was too late; the revolving door had already cut us off.

“...forgot your camera case,” I finished lamely to myself. Oh, well; in his mad rush he’d probably just decided to leave it behind. If his new clients insisted on seeing the Hasselblad—assuming, of course, that they were still waiting for him at all—he could always invite them downtown. Speaking of which....

I pulled out and headed toward Tribeca. Ten minutes later I parked my Nissan in the Leonard Street lot, grabbed the contents-worth-more-than-my-job aluminum case, and carried it with both hands the last block to the studio.

The case was definitely heavier than usual; by the time I got there, I was almost out of breath—and there was a dark vee of sweat on my blouse, between my ample cleavage. Good; maybe Camilo had finally splurged on one or two of the new Zeiss lenses he’d been eyeing for the past six months.

I went inside; Sylvia was on the phone, speaking perfect French. Montréal, most likely; it’d be the middle of the night in Paris and Cannes. I smiled and she waved, as I marched into Camilo’s office and shut the door. One’s boyfriend owning the company does allow a girl some privileges, after all. I lay the silver case on his mahogany desk and eagerly propped it open, curious as to what it was he’d just bought.

To say the least, it wasn’t what I’d expected.

First off, the book was old, with an embossed leather cover—and written in English rather than Italian. Second, the accompanying printed invoice told me that Camilo had bought it online two weeks ago, from a book dealer at Half.com. And third, there was the title of the book itself.

“The Secrets Of Sexual Mind Control.”

It took me a minute to realize that my mouth was hanging open; a few more to wrap my mind around the idea that my boyfriend—a reasonably handsome, fairly wealthy, somewhat famous photographer—had bought this particular book for reasons yet unknown. And, once I did so, mere seconds to figure out how to handle the information.

I made myself comfortable and began to read.

I didn’t stop until I heard muffled laughter through the thick door; Camilo had finally arrived, and was as usual flirting with Sylvia in Italian. I fought down a sudden pang of jealousy; it was silly to begrudge them their fun. After all, she spoke seven languages to my one—which was why she was his assistant in the first place.

That’s not to say that I had no talent of my own; give me the right cosmetics and some brushes, and I could make Tammy Faye Bakker into an international sex symbol. But let’s face it: being a makeup artist is mostly behind-the-scenes work, appreciated by the models and the photographer, but not always by the public. Still, it was how Camilo and I had met, so I shouldn’t come down too hard on my chosen profession.

And speaking of choices, I knew it would only be moments before my boyfriend, the Head Of The Studio, decided it was time to burst into his own office. (He always burst, never knocked; like most artists, he had quite the flair for the dramatic.) So I did with the book what any respectable American woman would, in the same situation.

I put it on the desk in plain sight, and kept reading.

Sure enough, not thirty seconds later, the door flew open. I looked up to see Camilo’s silhouette framed in the doorway, both hands pressed against the doorjambs at about head height; and mouth half open, as if he’d just been about to say something. He saw the open camera case, and the musty old book in my hands—and blanched.

Have you ever seen a Latin gentleman blanch? Let me tell you: it’s not pretty.

I knew that ignoring the obvious would make him squirm—so that, of course, was exactly what I did. “Hello, sweetheart. I assume things went well with Mr. Yamanouchi?”

It took him a few moments to parse the question, a sure sign of just how much he’d been thrown for a loop. “Ah, sì, yes.... Mr. Yamanouchi has agreed to a four-day shoot in the Caribbean next month, for six of his top models.... Maryanne, mia cara, why do you have this book?”

I looked him square in the eye. “Don’t you mean, Camilo my darling, why do you have this book?”

He had no answer to that; so I picked up the damn thing and marched past him, stopping just long enough to pass Sylvia a Significant Look (complete with a brief eye-roll in his direction) that said, “I’m mad at him, so I’m leaving; if he has any plans this evening, feel free to take my place and make him even more miserable.”

We women can be such bitches when we want to.

I left my car in the lot, and caught the subway home; it took longer, but gave me a chance to continue my reading. I grabbed something quick from the noodle shop on the corner and headed straight up to my apartment, all set to spend the evening in. I couldn’t put the book down; it was almost ten by the time I turned the last page. And as soon as I was done, all my pent-up sexual energy demanded to be released. So I fingered myself to a quick but sharp climax, cleaned myself up, and went straight to bed; I had to be back at the studio by five-thirty a.m., to begin prepping the models for a seven o’clock shoot.

My dreams that night were particularly vivid, intensely arousing—and completely impossible to recall upon waking. I disposed of the evidence (soiled sheets and sweat-slicked undergarments) into the hamper, to be dealt with at some later time. After a brief and lukewarm shower, I started to get dressed, but all of my regular bras seemed a little too confining. So I threw on something comfortable over a sports bra, grabbed my handbag and the book, and headed back downtown.

The subway wasn’t yet crowded at that early hour, so I sat undisturbed, thinking about both everything and nothing. The book sat in my lap, my fingertips absently tracing its embossed cover. I didn’t open it again; I didn’t need to. Yesterday’s marathon reading session seemed to have been enough for me to absorb its contents.

I sat there simmering. My nipples were visibly erect, and perfectly matched my mood: tense and angry. Why had my boyfriend bought the book in the first place? Why had he hidden it from me? Had he been planning to take over my mind? Or worse, had he decided I wasn’t good enough for him anymore? I felt a thrumming—almost a throbbing—in the back of my head. It felt like it was coming from the book, though that was clearly impossible.

But by the time I got to Canal Street, a plan had worked its way to the front of my mind. A fiendishly clever plan, as to how I could best wreak my revenge on my wayward boyfriend, while at the same time enjoying myself.

It went like this: Camilo was bored, perhaps greedy, certainly a bastard. He’d obviously bought the book in order to use its secrets to seduce his models, and probably to make me okay with the idea as well.

Fine. He wanted to be a bastard; well then, I would become a bitch. I’d use the book’s secrets to seduce his models instead. Starting with Nadja and Oksana, the two Russian bimbettes scheduled for this morning’s shoot.

For some reason, the fact that I was thinking of Noddy and Oxa, both nineteen years old and absolute sweethearts, as bimbettes didn’t bother me. Neither did the idea that I was contemplating my first lesbian encounter since my sophomore year of college, almost ten years ago.

And as to the whole idea that I might very well have been jumping to some rather precarious conclusions about Camilo’s reasons for having the book—it quite literally never crossed my mind.

I let myself in as the sky was first beginning to brighten. Sylvia wouldn’t be there for at least another hour; Camilo, an hour and a half. Twenty minutes later, the girls arrived by limo, right on time—by which time I was ready for them, in more ways than one.

I locked the door after letting them in; this was New York, after all. They’d both worked with me before, so they knew where to go and what to expect.

Or so they thought.

We had a satellite sound system; I’d selected a soft classical music channel, rather than the usual upbeat show tunes. Both models chatted away excitedly in Russian; when we got to the changing room, they dropped their outfits as casually as if they’d been on a nude beach. Which, in retrospect, they probably had, more times than I cared to count.

The blonde, Nadja, was (by about an inch and a half) the taller of the two; while her auburn-haired friend was a bit heavier on top—though nowhere near as top-heavy as I was, of course. Oksana had also gotten a full Brazilian, while Noddy had chosen to maintain a thin yellow ‘landing strip’ below—perhaps to prove that the color of her hair hadn’t come from a bottle.

And in the coolness of the early morning, both sets of nipples were as perky as their personalities—though, ironically, Oxa’s weren’t quite as dark as her fairer-skinned friend’s. I could see why that bastard Camilo wanted to seduce—I mean, photograph—them together; they complemented each other perfectly.

They each grabbed a silk robe from the rack, and settled themselves into my makeup chairs. Neither of them bothered to close their robe; we were all girls here. Though, to be honest, I don’t think a man’s presence would’ve made a difference to these two; the catty part of me wondered if they even knew the meaning of the word ‘inhibited’—in English, or in Russian.

Anyway, I had these two right where I wanted them—and, I silently gloated, they didn’t even know it. I grabbed a brush and palette, and started applying a foundation to Nadja’s face, while also laying the foundation for taking over both of their minds....

I won’t bore you with the details; suffice it to say that the book had not only taught me the skills I used to entrance my hapless beauties, it had also somehow given me the confidence and charisma I needed to pull it off. Not quite half an hour later, I laid down my tools; the girls’ faces were only half-finished, but their minds were now completely mine.

I looked at the clock; we still had at least thirty minutes of privacy before Sylvia arrived. I told my subjects to open their eyes and disrobe, then gather some of the various pillows and other soft props scattered around the studio.

While they did so, building up a makeshift bed in the middle of the changing room, I quickly doffed my own outfit. Compared to the bimbettes I now controlled, my own much larger breasts were just starting to lose the battle with gravity and time—though for some reason, oddly enough, that didn’t seem quite so obvious today. And my pubic bush was a thick black curly mess, nothing at all like the simple but stylish bob cut I styled above. Further proof, as if any more were needed, as to why I’d so obviously fallen out of my photographer boyfriend’s favor.

Lying on my back in the middle of the pillows, I called my bimbettes to me. And let me tell you: contrary to what some of you may have heard, revenge is a dish best served warm. And soft. And oh-so-wet.

It’s easy to lose track of time, especially when one is surrounded by a pair of nubile young women with supermodel bodies, both of whom are willing and eager to lick, suck, and rub every part of one’s anatomy (and have every part of theirs licked, sucked, and rubbed in return). So I could perhaps be forgiven for having forgotten all about Sylvia until she walked in on us forty minutes later.

If I’d been listening, I almost certainly would’ve heard her knocking, or calling my name—or, at the very least, her heels tapping on the lacquered wooden floor as she entered the room. As it was, I was recovering from my third climax (the most blissful one yet) by biting and suckling on one of Oxa’s angry nipples, while Noddy blissfully returned the favor on one of mine.

However, it’d probably be fair to say that she was even more surprised at the discovery than I was. Given the volume of her shriek, I’d say that was a no-brainer.

And speaking of no-brainers....

I turned to my bimbettes, and whispered, “Grab her, hold her, and cover her mouth.”

Wonderful thing about total control: before she even knew what was happening, Sylvia found herself trapped and helpless, held fast by two pairs of gorgeous (yet surprisingly strong) arms.

And ten or twelve minutes after that, she officially became the latest member of my ever-expanding lesbian harem.

Once she was most of the way under, I’d had my bimbettes start undressing her; so that by the time she was completely mine, she was also already gloriously naked. She was easily the shortest of the four of us, though it only had the effect of making her seem even curvier. Her breasts were close to mine in size, but didn’t sag at all; I could just make out the tell-tale surgical scars around each nipple. And, as I’d always suspected (and unlike Nadja), she was obviously a bottle blonde as well: her light brown bush didn’t come close to matching the platinum on her head.

Knowing that she’d needed to resort to tricks to maintain her desirability just made it all the sweeter, I thought, as I ordered my latest conquest to grab a pillow and drop to her knees. She complied immediately, and even while we were both busy enjoying her discovery of what her new mistress tasted like, a part of me was already plotting and planning for my erstwhile boyfriend’s imminent arrival....

“Cara mia, I don’t understand. Why do you treat me like this?”

I laughed; I couldn’t help myself. The question itself was funny, especially considering its source: a thirty-something Italian gentleman, tied down to a makeup chair and stripped of his pants and shorts, his rigid shaft obviously enjoying the attention it was receiving from Sylvia’s well-practiced mouth.

“What’s the matter, Camilo my love? Isn’t this what you had in mind when you ordered that book? Be honest.”

It took him a few moments to work out a response to that; whenever he’s excited or aroused, his English is the first thing to go. “Il fatto è che—I mean, the truth is, Maryanne mia ciccina, that I purchased the book at the insistence of my family. It had been ... taken? stolen? ... da nostra biblioteca—from our library—around the time of my birth.”

I shook my head, chuckling softly. Men were not to be trusted, never to be trusted—and doubly so for the man who’d tried to hide the book’s very existence from me. I’d read that in the book—somewhere—and I knew it to be the Truth.

My chuckling turned into a low moan. Oxa and Noddy were obviously still aroused, probably from watching Sylvia at work; their hands were pretty much wandering my body at will, as well as each other’s. “Y-you really expect me to believe that this book used to be a part of your family’s private library? C’mon, Camilo; it was written in English!”

He shuddered; his own climax was fast approaching. “For you, it was in inglese. When I look at it, the words are in, in, italiaaaaaah!” With that, he arched his back as much as the ropes would allow, and exploded straight into Sylvia’s mouth, three or four times over the course of twenty seconds. Good girl that she was, she swallowed every drop—then, at my nod, quickly frigged herself to her own screaming orgasm, while the bimbettes did the same favor for me.

The delay gave him time to recover; when our climaxes ended, he was already speaking. “Listen to me, amore per mio cuore. You may not believe me, but the book has magic—is magic?—is magic. Whoever reads all of it gains a power over women, a power that grows with each woman taken. On top of that, the book makes its reader desire women, desire the conquering of women. Look at you, Maryanne; would you have acted this way yesterday, with Sylvia and these signorinas?”

He paused, looking me up and down as best he could from his near-horizontal position. “One last thing. If the one who reads is a woman, the book has an additional effect, which I am thinking you are starting to notice. You are feeling like more of a woman, sì? Breasts are tighter, and maybe a bit fuller? Skin is maybe softer, wrinkles are less?”

“Yeah; I’ve noticed some changes. So?”

“So, the book is making you into a donna fine, an ideal woman, one that every other woman cannot help but be attracted to. It is to make your next conquests easier—which is why you have to release these women now, and stop yourself before it is too late.”

During his speech, we four ladies had been getting dressed; more accurately, my girls had first dressed me, followed by each other. By the time Camilo finished his plea, he was the only one still unclothed, and I was ready with my answer.

I walked over, bent down, and gave him the best and deepest kiss of his life; more of a tongue-fucking, actually. I’m sure it raised his hopes; I know it raised something else.

Then, petting his newly-erect cock, I dropped the bomb. “Sweetheart, it was already too late by the time you showed up. But thanks so much for the explanation; I really do appreciate it.” I snapped my fingers and Nadja stepped forward, a bottled water in hand, followed by Oksana with my discarded sports bra.

After they gave him water and gagged his mouth, I added, “Don’t worry, Camilo my love; I’m not going to harm you—I promise. But I am going to leave you here alone for a bit. I just need a couple of hours head start, to pack some clothes, close out our bank accounts, that sort of thing.

“I’ve already had Sylvia call Noddy and Oxa’s agency, clearing them for the rest of the day; as well as setting the ‘called away on emergency’ message on your voice mail. And sometime this evening, an anonymous tip will bring the police here to free you—by which time, I assure you, we will have completely disappeared.”

Satisfied that I’d covered all the bases, I turned to my three acquisitions. “Come along, ladies; we need to get a move on if we’re going to conquer the world.”

Dutifully, they headed toward the exit—but I couldn’t resist turning back and delivering one final zinger to my ex. “By the way, Camilo darling, you may want to work on your English some more. For starters, do you know how to finish this sentence?

“Payback is a....”