The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tommy Strasser couldn’t believe what had just happened. His beautiful but very arrogant boss, Ms. Monague, had shown up at the station wearing anything but her usual business outfit. That’s not to say that she didn’t look good in a short skirt, no stockings, and a sleeveless top; he thought she looked fantastic. It was just that she’d never bared her arms and legs on-air before; the last time Tommy had seen her show so much skin had been at the station’s last Christmas party.

But at that party—or, for that matter, yesterday—she hadn’t shown up sporting a new nose ring. Not to mention a delicate silver chain, running across her cheek to her left ear.

And was that another chain, visible underneath her half-open, see-through, button-up blouse!? What had happened to her since last night? Had she lost a bet, or something?

As Tommy finished cleaning up the break room, he thought about what she’d said to him after the broadcast. He’d brought her a cup of coffee—black, fresh, with one sugar, just the way she insisted upon it—and noticed her cream-colored lace choker for the first time. Hanging from it was a really small key, the kind that might fit a small padlock.

Figuring it was safer to comment on that, rather than the fact that he could sort of see her nipples, he’d said, “That’s a very nice necklace, Ms. Monague. What’s the key for?”

And she’d said something strange. Something really strange. She’d quietly replied, almost in a sing-song voice, “Whoever has my key, owns me.” And then a few seconds later, she’d tried to brush it off as if she were joking.

But Tommy had gotten the sense that maybe she wasn’t joking. And the wheels started to spin inside his head.

“Oh, my God!” was Kylie’s first thought. Her face had drained almost white, as she’d realized what she’d just told the kid. What she’d just realized herself. If anyone got a hold of that key; if anyone so much as asked her to see it—

She noticed that her hand had drifted under her skirt, and was playing with the key’s lock, hanging from a chain attached to four small rings piercing her outer lips. As she flipped it up and down, she noticed that the jiggling motion was actually arousing her, and she quickly stopped before her self-pleasure was noticed.

As she made her way to her dressing room, she thought about everything that had been happening to her, starting not quite six hours ago. She had just gotten out of the shower, when she’d felt something squeeze her butt.

No, not just something. A man’s hand. But when she’d turned around, she was alone in her bathroom. Except that there was something—a scent, maybe?—and the way that she’d been fondled, that reminded her of someone. Her boyfriend back in college, Todd Johanneson, the bad-boy tattoo artist. Which was funny, because she hadn’t thought about him in years; not since getting engaged to Stu.

For a moment, she’d flashed back to when she’d gotten the small tat on her lower back—a tribal that she’d gotten while in Mexico, and at the insistence of her new friend Jose Cuervo, in the summer before grad school. Todd had wanted to needle her, but she’d always turned him down; she’d been afraid that he would see the tattoo as some sort of commitment, when all she’d been looking for was one last wild fling.

Gently shaking her head, she’d cleared her thoughts and returned to the present. That had been years ago; she was twenty-seven now, a successful news anchor who was also less than a year from becoming Mrs. Stuart Nissenbaum. She’d smiled as she picked up a fresh towel, intending to finish drying her long hair before starting on her makeup. Part one of her investigative piece on the oppression of Middle Eastern woman was due up tonight; maybe, just maybe, she thought she could smell Pulitzer.

Unfortunately for her, right then, the bathroom poltergeist had insisted upon a change of plan.

It quickly became the freakiest, and most painful, fifteen minutes of her entire life. When it was over, she’d found herself with a new tongue stud, and piercings in practically every part of her body—tongue, nose, both nipples, and navel, not to mention the four in her labia. Her ass had felt like a pincushion, and she’d somehow acquired a graceful new tattoo.

Six words. In third-of-an-inch-high script. In a semicircle, around her close-cropped pussy.

Whoever has my key, owns me.

Kylie’s co-anchor was in his own dressing room, lost in thought. Specifically, the thought of how different, and how hot, his partner had looked tonight.

It was no secret, around the studio at least, that their on-air camaraderie was mostly fake. While Bart had always admired his co-anchor’s beauty and professionalism, he knew she was something of an ice queen. He still remembered their first meeting two years ago, just before the round-table discussion of what that day’s news would be:

“Hello, Miss—Minogue, is it? I’m Bart Conner.”

She hadn’t matched his smile, and she’d hesitated before accepting his extended hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Conner. But it’s Ms., please. And, Monague. Mon-ah-gyoo. I’m not Australian, and I am not related to that singer. Please remember that.”

Somehow, despite that less-than-auspicious beginning, they’d managed to develop a decent working relationship. It had helped that she’d never treated him, or anyone else at the studio, less than professionally. She could be a bit of a bitch, in fact.

Until tonight.

His first thought had been whether she’d known just how much she was showing. Not just the obvious: bare, smooth, and lightly-tanned arms and legs. Her blouse had been somewhat, hmm, semi-sheer; her areoles were easily dark enough to show through. And then there were the chains.

You couldn’t miss the first one. It went from the bottom of her nose to her ear. When he’d first seen her with it, he’d had to bite back his initial response. Instead, he’d ventured, “That’s an unusual accessory, Kylie. Was it painful?” and was rewarded with a withering glare.

The second one was a bit of a shock, coming as it did three minutes into the broadcast. He’d glanced over, and the top two buttons of her blouse had come undone. He hadn’t seen her hands move at all; it must have been some sort of fashion emergency.

But it had exposed the second silver chain, very obviously stretching from newly pierced nipple to newly pierced nipple. Not to mention the vertical extension, which dropped straight down the center of her chest, to parts unknown....

To top it all off, there’d been something with her voice. She was enunciating carefully, trying to disguise what might have been a lisp. Was she hiding a cold sore, or had she just gotten her tongue pierced, on top of everything else!?

Thank goodness for teleprompters. And pancake makeup to hide the sudden flush in his cheeks. And the anchor desk, to hide—well, something else.

It had been an interesting thirty-five minutes, to say the least.

It was almost half past midnight. Everything had been shut off or put away; the rest of the crew had gone home. Tommy was still there; he’d had a sneaking suspicion that Kylie was hiding in her dressing room, trying to out-wait everyone else.

Judging by the light showing underneath her door, he’d been right. He tapped on her door, styrofoam cup in hand; it was an important part of his ploy.

A muffled, “Who is it?”

“Ms. Monague? It’s Tommy. I thought you might like a fresh cup of coffee. May I come in?”

A moment later, the door opened. Kylie apparently hadn’t bothered to bring a change of clothes; Tommy was a little surprised at that. He also noticed that her face was flushed and her eyes were somewhat red and puffy. Had she been crying?

“You might as well. I need to ask you a favor, anyway.”

She sat back down, holding the cup in noticeably trembling hands. He watched her take a sip, and force herself to relax. Almost like she’d come to a decision.

He couldn’t know it, but Kylie had spent most of the last half hour trying to play with herself. As soon as the broadcast had ended, she’d tried to escape the studio; but for some reason, her car hadn’t been on the lot. Confused and horny, she’d retreated to her dressing room. At first, she’d tried to call a cab. But as she’d reached for the phone, her chains had tugged at her nipples and lower lips in just the right way. A sudden rush had gone through her, and she’d shed her inhibitions along with her thong panties, at least for a little while.

But her finger couldn’t penetrate beneath the locked rings, and just jiggling the chastity lock wasn’t, by itself, going to be enough to bring her off. On top of that, for some reason, she still couldn’t so much as touch the key dangling from her throat; her hands kept stopping just short. She’d cried a bit with frustration and pain, and had pretty much given up anyway, when she’d heard the tap at her door.

She’d quickly thrown her thong back on and let the kid in. While she sipped the coffee he’d brought, she considered her options. Stuart was away for a week, at some medical conference on the east coast. She could probably impose on Tommy to drive her over to her apartment; she knew he had a bit of a crush on her. She felt certain that he’d either forgotten, or wouldn’t have the courage to follow up on, her earlier confession about the key.

But Tommy most definitely hadn’t forgotten. And when she asked him, “Could you possibly take me home? My car is missing; I think it’s been stolen,” it was the opening he’d been hoping for.

“I’d be happy to,” he responded, his voice trying not to shake. “But, um, Ms. Monague, could I ask you a question?”

Her guard went back up. “About what?”

“Well, what did you mean before; I mean, that thing you said about the key?”

She struggled to not say anything at all; the best she could manage was to speak softly. “Whoever has my key, owns me.” Then, in a more normal tone, “I want you to forget I said that.”

“Yes ma’am.” He looked down at the floor. “So, uh, does it open anything?”

“Um, if you don’t mind, Tommy, I’d rather not say,” she stammered, not liking where this was going.

Then he finally said the words she’d been dreading. “Well, is it okay if I see it?”

Damn, damn, damn! At that point, she’d no longer had a choice. She craned her neck forward, obviously offering it to him. She mentally crossed her fingers, hoping he wouldn’t decide to unfasten it from its lace collar. Don’t take it, she tried to project. Please don’t. Please.

Her hopes were dashed when he reached up, fingering the cold metal. It was held on with a simple spring clip; it wouldn’t come off accidentally, but was easily removed with a quick pinch.

As soon as it was in his hand, he asked her, “Why’d you let me have this?”

His jeans tented almost instantly as he heard her response. “I couldn’t stop you, Tommy. You’d asked to see it.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t stop me?”

Her face scrunched up in shame and disgust. “As soon as you said those words, I had to offer it to you. And since you decided to take it, I have to obey you, for as long as you hold on to it.”

“And if I keep it? Then what? Forever?”

The tears in her eyes matched the sudden sparkle in his. “I suppose.”

“Well, couldn’t you just take it back, or something?”

“No. Don’t ask me how or why I know that, because I have no idea. But no.”

By now, his erection was painfully obvious. He knew that she’d seen it, and probably had some idea of what was coming next. “Since you have to obey me, Ms. Monague—can I call you Kylie?”

She shrugged. “I wish you wouldn’t, Tommy. But I can’t stop you.”

“You can’t stop me. I like that.” He let out a deep breath. “So... Kylie. Since you can’t stop me, I order you to tell me if this key opens anything else.”

A soft sigh of resignation. “Yes it does. There’s a lock.”

“Here? In this room?”

She nodded, knowing what was coming next. But there was no longer any way for her to stop him.

“Where? Show me.”

Exhaling loudly, she pulled her thong down, and then held her skirt up. As she stepped out of the soaked and useless strip of cloth, he stared at the exposed and hanging padlock. And the delicate silver chains. And the neatly trimmed, black-haired ‘landing strip’ between them.

Remarkably, especially considering his arousal, he was still able to think clearly. “Uhh, does anything special happen if I open the lock?”

“Only that I can finally climax, as far as I know. I was trying before you came in, but I couldn’t reach anything.” I’m already trapped, exposed, and under a horny high school kid’s total command, she mentally sighed. What’s the point of holding anything else back now?

Tommy paused, absorbing that information. He thought about how she’d treated him over the past two months; how she’d treated practically everyone, in fact. She was curt, arrogant, and often rude—never really mean, but never going out of her way to be nice, either. He didn’t know how this gift had fallen into his lap, but he’d decided that he wasn’t going to waste a perfect opportunity to give Ms. Monague a taste of her own medicine. And get his rocks off, too.

Bart had needed to do something he’d never done before—jerk off on studio property. Specifically, in the small private restroom attached to his dressing room.

It hadn’t taken all that long, either. Two minutes of thinking about the half-hour on-air tease he’d just endured: Kylie’s long hair. Kylie’s bare arms. Kylie’s multiple silver chains.

Kylie’s visible nipples.

That had pretty much done it. Not bad, for thirty-six, he’d thought with some pride, as he finished cleaning himself up. Now that his erection had subsided, he could change out of his suit and into his driving clothes—sweater, slacks and sneakers.

That done, he’d decided to relax a bit on the mini-couch before heading home. After all, he hadn’t been under so much tension, sexual or otherwise, in a long time. He sat down, taking a deep breath. Five minutes later, he was lightly snoring.

A half hour after that, he was startled awake by a mild thump from the other side of the wall. Kylie’s dressing room. What was she still doing there? It was almost a quarter to one.

He didn’t sneak, exactly; but his sneakers made no noise on the hallway carpet as he walked around to her dressing room door. He was just about to knock, when he overheard the one thing he’d never have expected to hear.

The intern. Telling, ‘Ms. Kylie Mon-ah-gyoo,’ what to do.

“That’s right, Kylie. If you relax your throat, you’ll fit it all in.”

Kylie was embarrassed beyond belief—and just as aroused. First, there was the fact that this kid—six inches taller than she was, but almost ten years younger—had total control over her every action. And, worse, he knew it. After all, she’d told him so herself.

Then there was the position she found herself in. Kneeling in front of him like a common whore, wearing no clothing other than her bra. Her faux-satin, front-closing, push-up, half-cup, not-her-own-choice bra. Which left her pert little B-cups totally exposed. Tommy had decided he liked the look, so he’d made her leave it on.

That’s not to say she was naked, exactly. After all, her brown hair hung down almost to her waist. And she still had several silver chains running along her front. In fact, Tommy was having a lot of fun playing with the one that ran between her newly-pierced (and still sore) erect nipples; and more especially, the one that ran down her front and through her belly button ring, connecting to the four rings in her swollen (and still sore) labia below. Which were still locked tight, by the way. Her new master had decided that his pleasure should come before hers; he’d rightly figured that it would increase her sense of helplessness. Her cheeks were indeed bright red—but she was dripping a river down below.

Which led to the third thing. She was sucking on—no, let’s face it, she was drooling over—his rampant erection, while he was slumped in her $400 custom ergonomic armchair. In her eagerness, she’d forced Tommy and the chair backward until they’d bumped, rather hard, up against the wall. She was trying her best to take him as deeply and fully as she could, like he’d just told her to do. She felt his thick glans pressing hard against the back of her throat, while her new (and also still sore) tongue stud rubbed against his frontal ridge. But she couldn’t gag, though she desperately wanted to; he’d had the foresight to forbid that.

She heard the catch in his breathing, just as his monster cock got a little thicker; she had just enough time to inhale before she was flooded by his adolescent torrent. She swallowed as fast as she could, so as not to choke on his stream of cum. Her reward was to have him thrust into her mouth, rewarding her with a few extra spurts, before pulling out so she could finally breathe.

They both spent the next minute gasping for air. Then Tommy said, “Stand up,” as he reached into his front jeans pocket. She heard a soft snick, and then felt the lack of weight as Tommy at last removed her chastity lock and tucked it away.

The relief lasted all of two seconds, until a rush of sensation flooded the area. She bent over double, trying not to moan at the combination of soreness and swelling; it was agony.

“You really enjoy that, huh?” Tommy asked, completely misinterpreting her reaction. Unfortunately, his careless words had an unintended effect. Suddenly, she relished the pain, craved it, was turned on by it. Her cramps unlinked, as her pussy spasmed with need and her clit throbbed with every heartbeat.

“Oooh,” she moaned, and this time it really was from pleasure. Within moments, she’d climaxed, hard, and without even touching herself. Seconds later, she was ready to go again.

Tommy was in heaven. He’d always had a crush on Ms. Mon—Kylie, despite the way she’d treated him. Hell, despite the way she’d treated everybody. His masturbation fantasies had included becoming her boy-toy; he’d never even dared to dream that the one in charge would be him!

And if what she’d said was true, she would remain under his thrall for as long as he kept that key. It shouldn’t be a problem; no one other than the two of them knew of its significance, and he was pretty sure that she wasn’t planning to tell anyone. There was time later to decide if he wanted to hide it away, or actually use it to lock his new lover’s pussy back up. Judging by her reaction, she’d really loved it when the lock had finally come off. He was pretty sure she’d actually come.

Just the thought was enough to get him going again. He finished unbuttoning his jeans and started to slip them off, before remembering he had someone to do that for him.

“Kylie? Help me get my clothes off. We’re gonna fuck.”

He watched her surprisingly strong hands, as they practically leapt to his denim waistband. With several quick, sure tugs, she managed to coax his pants and underwear down at the same time. Then, after removing his sneakers and socks, she finished the job by slipping his rock band tee shirt up and over his head, her silver chains dancing while her pert nipples swayed.

Before he could so much as grab her tits, she’d turned around and settled herself onto his lap, guiding his rock-hard seven inches—okay, fine, six and a half—all the way into her dripping wet pussy. He gasped; he wasn’t a blushing virgin by any means, but never before had he found himself lodged in a place so deep, so warm, so perfectly wet!

And then she lifted herself up, paused, and jammed herself back down. Tommy gasped in shock; she was fucking him! He was so caught up in the sudden rush of pleasure, it never even occurred to him that she’d taken, “We’re gonna fuck,” as a command.

How the hell can this be happening? The thought kept running through Bart’s brain. How the holy hell can this be happening?

He stood transfixed, his ear pressed against the door. He’d clearly heard the Strasser kid tell his cold fish co-anchor to strip him and fuck him. And from all the grunts and moans he was now hearing, she’d clearly done so. Just like that.

How the holy fucking hell can this be happening!

If Bitch-Queen Kylie were going to fuck anyone at work, it should have been him! He’d spent the last two years dreaming of the possibility. If she hadn’t already been with that doctor guy—what was his name? Stanley? Stuart?—before coming to work at the station, he would’ve made his move long ago.

And then there was the show she’d given him earlier, along with the entire metro-area viewing public. It could easily have drawn the station a fine; what the hell had made her do it? His slacks tented again at the memory of her new piercings, her less-than-opaque blouse. Incredible; he hadn’t gotten this hard, this soon after ejaculating, in at least a decade!

And the noises that were coming through the door, faster and louder—it was like listening to a porn flick! He’d actually had his zipper halfway down, intending to relieve himself again, when he had a better idea. What if he just barged in on them? They were obviously in a compromising position. He quietly tested the door handle; it wasn’t locked. In an instant, he’d made up his mind. He flung the door open; he wasn’t going to let this chance pass him by!

The two lovebirds were so wrapped up in themselves, he had twenty uninterrupted seconds to watch their rush toward a frantic climax. The intern’s back was arched right out of the chair, head hung back, as his tool thrust straight up and out of sight, in between the swollen dark red lips of Kylie’s black-haired gash. She was bent over double, eyes closed as she bounced fiercely on his lap, her mostly-bare tits flying, her chains clinking slightly against their attached rings.

Moments later, Kylie finally looked up, as she was jamming herself down onto the base of Tommy’s cock. Her eyes went wide as she registered Bart’s presence, just as the kid had grabbed her bra strap and jerked her backward, demanding, “Cum with me, Kylie! Here it comes!”

Bart’s jaw dropped at the sight. Despite being no stranger to adventure, he had never been this close to another couple climaxing together so blatantly, so forcefully, so—uninhibitedly! His own cock was trying to fight its way out of his half-open zipper; his gasping breaths were almost as fast as theirs.

It couldn’t last forever. Bart saw Tommy’s head come forward, and heard him moan, “Ahhhhhhh,” then, “AH!?” as the intern finally noticed him. It also occurred to him that Kylie wasn’t making any kind of a move to cover herself up. She looked flushed and exhausted. And completely defeated.

“Mr. Conner? What are you doing here?” Bart had expected the question; he hadn’t expected the self-confidence with which it was delivered. After all, he was twice Tommy’s age, and had just caught him in flagrante very delicto. The young man should have been afraid of losing his internship, and begging him to keep his secret. And what about Kylie, who had even more to lose?

“I might ask you the same thing, Mr. Strasser. What, exactly, is going on around here?” He forced a frown, trying to convince Tommy of his displeasure.

Sure, it was a cliché, but he’d figured the kid would fall for it. Then again, he’d also expected Kylie to have tumbled out of his lap by now, frantically grabbing for her clothes. When, after a long moment, neither happened, he let out a defeated sigh.

“All right. I give up. What’s really happening here, Tommy? Kylie?”

Tommy gave Kylie a quick smack on her right thigh; she practically flew off his lap. “Would you mind making a fresh pot coffee for all of us, Kylie? Mr. Conner and I need to talk.”

She gave them both a glare that would have been withering, if she’d had any fire left in her eyes. Then, grabbing her blouse and skirt, she hurried out of the room; both men watched her trim backside until she was completely out of view. “Don’t poison anything!” Tommy called out, loud enough for her to have heard. Bart glanced at the empty door again, wondering if the young man was joking.

When he turned back, he was relieved to see that Tommy had bothered to throw his briefs back on. But not the rest of his clothes; he clearly wasn’t expecting to be getting dressed any time soon.

“All right, sir; here’s how I see things. Let me know if you agree....”

Around four a.m., Kylie found herself curled up in a semi-fetal position, on the passenger side of Tommy’s sports car. They were headed back to her apartment, where he’d planned to spend the rest of the night. She was whimpering to herself; there wasn’t a single part of her body that wasn’t sore.

If she’d thought the way that Tommy had treated her was bad, it had gotten unimaginably worse once Bart had joined in. Every orifice in her body had been repeatedly violated. She’d never has so much as a playful finger in her ass before tonight; now she knew what a “double penetration” felt like. Worse, she’d been told to enjoy the pain—but that still hadn’t kept it from hurting.

She didn’t know how much Tommy had confided to Bart, but she was aware that they had come to some sort of gentleman’s agreement. And that she was part of the deal. The only guarantee she’d had, that her reputation might remain somewhat intact, was that neither of them wanted her—or Bart—to get fired.

Worse, when Bart had finally noticed the tattooed words above her clit, Tommy’d had to show him the little lock with its key. He’d promised to make Bart a copy; Kylie dreaded discovering whether or not Bart’s key would have the same power over her that Tommy’s did.

And she had a pretty good idea how Stu would react, once he came home and saw her new extreme body art. He’d believe she’d lost her mind, of course; and she wouldn’t even be able to tell him the truth. Their engagement was probably over. She’d have to move out, get her own place, start again.

And learn how to deal with having to sexually service two very different masters, each of whom pretty much had the power to make her do anything. Anytime. Anywhere. On any whim.

A tear silently rolled down her cheek. It was all too much; what had she done to deserve it?