The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I love the New York in high summer. The heat, the humidity, the stench of civilized society, everything. The trees are green, the subways are crowded, and everyone streaks from one air-conditioned zone to another as fast as they can, sometimes stopping to shed heat in a coffee shop or a diner.

In the morning, a few hours before my shift, I like to find a shaded spot near a lot of foot traffic and squat with my sketchpad. I do detail studies of the buildings, and draw in hints of the people I see walking past. I try to catch a sense of the speed and movement of the human river, never quite the same twice.

I have no illusions about making money with my art, but I’m young, and I don’t have any ties or responsibilities to anyone else beyond a semi-casual fling I’ve been having with a barista-slash-performance artist who lives in my building. I just like to draw, and I love people watching.

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been setting up in various corners of the East Village, which definitely has a different flow than my normal spots in Brooklyn. Most of the people who move through Manhattan during the day don’t live there, of course. A month’s rent at one of the apartments around here is probably more than my net worth. So most of the people I’m drawing are probably here to work, or tourists. I’ve spotted some locals, of course, coming and going out of their buildings. Most of them dress down, but money is money, and it’s pretty apparent who has it on this street and who doesn’t.

I’ve spent the last few days here doing a detail of a particularly intricate facade. The bottom floor is some sort of office that opens onto the street, no sign. The upper floors are clearly apartments or condos and I’ve come to recognize a few of the residents as the come and go, moving about on business of their own. The facade itself is weathered grey stone, in contrast to the newer buildings abutting it on either side. Large, regular blocks, clearly shaped and placed by a master mason some time early last century. Weathered geometric patterns are carved across the lower rows, transitioning to varied ledges and crenelations and even a decorative gargoyle or two as you move up the floors.

It’s a neat old building, and I’ve just about finished rendering it. I started putting the people in yesterday, mostly blurs with hints of detail as I watch them pass and look for interesting bits of them to draw. The swirl of a patterned dress here, an immaculate suit collar with a bright lapel pin there, et cetera. As a result, I end up paying pretty close attention to people, and to what they’re wearing. Which is why I notice when I see a woman walk out of the ground floor office wearing precisely the same outfit she was wearing yesterday.

Generally not really a big deal, just someone doing the walk of shame after a late night, right? Not so much. The clothes this woman is wearing are easily worth high four figures. The bag alone is probably a couple grand. She’s white, maybe early 30’s. She moves like she’s got money, rather than moving like she’s spent money. She’s not one of the residents of the building, I think I’ve seen them all by now. So why would she spend the night in a ground floor office? I’ve seen a few people move in and out of it, including a girl I’m pretty sure is a receptionist of some flavor and a guy in a reasonably expensive suit who is probably the principle of the place. I figured him for a lawyer or an accountant. I saw both of them arrive today, and more, I remember the receptionist unlocking the door, which means the woman in the expensive clothes was in there the whole time, ever since yesterday.

She disappears around the far block corner in the direction of Union Square, and I turn back to the building. I don’t know why the woman bothers me so much, but she does. Oh well.

I begin watching the flow of people again when I spot a pretty young latina in jeans and a tshirt with big, chunky bracelets walking by. Her look is interesting, so I begin sketching her into the drawing, focusing on those clanking bracelets. She passes by the front of the building, on her way to wherever, and moves perhaps another twenty feet before she abruptly stops. She turns around, expressionless, walks back to the front of the building and lets herself into the office.

At this point I’m a little bit too invested to not find out what the story here is. I pack up my supplies and squeeze between the cars parked on the side of the street to make my way across. Approaching the door, it’s fairly nondescript frosted glass with a ‘No Soliciting’ sign, just as it appeared across the street. It opens at a push, and I don’t hear any sort of a chime announcing me as a visitor.

I step into a tastefully decorated reception area. Presiding over a large mahogany desk is the receptionist herself, just as I’d assumed. She’s reading what looks like a trashy romance novel which she puts down when she sees me. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, ah, yeah.” I put on my friendliest smile. “Can you tell me what you guys do here?”

She looks at me for a moment with a bland, if pleasant, expression on her face, and says “Why do you ask?”

That makes me pause for a minute, as I’d expected her to simply tell me and thus solve the mystery. “Oh, um, well, I’ve been doing some drawing,” I pause to pull out the latest draft of the building and show her, “and I kinda pay attention to people and stuff, and I saw some of your... uh, customers, I guess, as they were coming and going. I just got curious because I couldn’t figure out what you guys do.”

“Please have a seat.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble, if you can’t say, it’s cool, I’ll leave you alone...” was what I intended to say. Instead, I quietly walked over to a couch running along one wall and sat down.

The receptionist gets up and walks through a door leading further back into the building. After a moment, she returns to her desk and picks up her book without saying anything.

For some reason, neither do I. I am content simply to stare at the wall opposite as the time passes. A lot of time. There is no clock on the wall, and I couldn’t bring myself to check the time on my phone, but the slant of the sunlight through the windows tells me that hours are passing. I knew I should be bothered, or at least just get up and leave, but I can’t motivate myself to do either. Thinking in general seems difficult, beyond simple observations about the office.

For instance, not only were there no clocks, there didn’t seem to be any outlets. The receptionist desk had no computer, nor even a phone. Watching the sunbeams streaming in convinces me there was no dust, either. In a detached sort of way, I realized I am terrified. I manage, with a monumental effort of will, to turn my head so I could watch the receptionist, but she just reads her book. Well, looks at her book. She never turns any of the pages. I’m not sure she blinks.

The door through which she’d disappeared earlier opens, and a short black woman emerges. She looks fairly young, wearing a sort of business ensemble with a skirt, and has her hair pulled back into a sort of bun. She acknowledges neither myself nor the receptionist, and the receptionist doesn’t even look up from the novel. The black woman closes the door, walks across the room, and lets herself out of the entrance back onto the street. After a moment the front door finishes pulling itself closed with a thunk.

Suddenly, I get to my feet. The receptionist continues to ignore me as I made my way over to the door she’d used earlier and let myself through into an enormous office that must consume the rest of the floor. The decor is very masculine, a lot of dark wood and leather, a sideboard with a crystal decanter of amber liquid sitting next to what appeared to be a very nice humidor. There were bulbs here, set in brass sconces on the wall, and a hardwood floor mostly covered by an enormous rug stitched with stylized hunting scenes.

The man I’d taken for a lawyer is sitting in a chair next to a small table, upon which rest two glasses, each holding a finger of dark liquid.

“Have a seat.” He waves towards the twin to his chair, on the other side of the table, and I move to join him, and take one of the drinks. He takes the other, and with a lift of our glasses and a bob of our heads, we each drink.

Resting his half-emptied glass back on the table, he asks “Have you mentioned your curiosity about this office to anyone else?”

“No.”

“When did you first notice something odd?”

“Today, just before I came in.”

“What was it?”

“The rich woman was here before you were. She got here yesterday. She was wearing the same clothes.”

He nods, as though that is the answer he was expecting.

I stand and walk across the carpet to a large wooden wardrobe situated near the rear of the room. It is at least seven feet tall, intricately carved. Three drawers of equal width and about a foot deep are set next to one another at its base, with the remainder of the front taken up by the large doors, which I open.

Inside are two women, standing and facing the rear of the wardrobe, so that their backs are to me, as well as enough room for another between them. They are nude except for footwear and some jewelry. I recognize the large bracelets and hi-tops of the latina who’d entered the office just before I had.

I close the door on them and return to my seat.

The man observes me for a few moments, taking a sip of his drink. “They only come here once.”

On the heels of that cryptic statement, the door through which I’d entered the room opens and another woman walks in from the reception area. She approaches and stands in front of us, a vacant look on her face. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacked with metal studs, and her head has one side shaved with her hair draped over it, occasionally offering a peek. It’s dyed a shocking purple, and she has numerous piercings.

The man regards her for a moment. “How long can you stay?”

Her voice is surprisingly soft. “I live with my parents, but they won’t notice I’m missing unless they don’t see me for a couple of nights.”

He nods, and she makes her way back to the wardrobe, where she removes all of her clothing, revealing pale, surprisingly unmarked skin, free of blemish or tattoo. She puts her boots back on over her socks, and then places her folded clothing into one of the drawers below the wardrobe, before opening it to slip inside and closing it behind her.

We sit in silence for a time as the man regards me, occasionally taking sips.

The wardrobe opens, and one of the women comes out, closing it, and begins to make her way over to us. She’s white, tall with smallish breasts tipped with rose colored nipples. Her hair is in the kind of ponytail favored by joggers, and is a light brown.

The man addresses her. “How much longer do I have you?”

Her voice is low. “The excuse I gave my fiancee will work for another two hours.”

He nods. She moves in front of me and lowers herself to her knees. Her hands move to my pants, and she unzips them and pulls out my penis with businesslike dispatch. Pressing against my chest to lean me backwards in my chair, she rests her hands on my legs, lowers her head to my lap and with a little fumbling of her tongue, catches the head of my soft member and pulls it inside her mouth. A ring set with a large diamond winks on her left hand.

She stays there, unmoving, gently sucking on me as I harden. The man watches us.

When my penis is erect enough that she can no longer comfortably hold it inside her mouth, her head begins to move. She starts a short bobbing motion, such that I can feel the tip gently bump her throat with each stroke. Her tongue is also moving, drawing itself along the underside gently in a counter-rhythm to her head.

The man speaks, “You’ll remember all of this, but it won’t feel like a story you need to tell.”

He stands up, and at the same time the latina with the chunky bracelets lets herself out of the wardrobe. She walks across the room and bends over the plush arm of his chair, spreading her legs so she’s splayed wide. She’s facing me and her eyes are on mine, although her expression is unreadable. I think she’s very pretty.

He addresses her as he pulls his leather belt out of his pants. “Will anyone notice if I mark you?”

Without taking her eyes off mine, she replies in a thick Bronx accent, “Nah, don’t got a boyfriend right now.”

I begin to cum at the same moment I hear the first crack of the belt against her ass.