The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

DECEMBER 22

“Tere õhtust, Katya.” A familiar deep, calm voice behind me. Words from the Old Country.

I straightened up slightly on my bar stool, and pushed my shoulders back into Best Display Position. I was well aware of the effect of my breasts, on men. I turned to face him and smiled.

“Good evening, Mister Talv.”

“Always nice to see you, Katya, and if I may say so, you are looking particularly alluring tonight.”

I nodded, coolly acknowledging the compliment, as butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

Mister Talv is a very attractive man, tall and athletic, dark haired, intensely charismatic, magnetic almost.

“Ah, lovely Katya. Always the professional. Don’t be so distant. I assume you are not taken?”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the seat beside me, and ordered drinks. The club behind the unmarked red door was quiet tonight, although all the booths were occupied; in the shadows, wealthy, powerful men and their exotic, beautiful, expensive escorts.

Not whores, of course—only the naïve would think that!—but players in a sophisticated and worldly entertainment. People like me. I had come here, years ago, with dreams to be an actress, and in many ways I had achieved that goal.

I sipped my Martini, savoured it, waited, wondering if he was planning to be with me tonight, in one of the rooms upstairs, and very much hoping so, although I would never dare to prompt him. Mister Talv was not a man who could ever be rushed.

“Katya. I do not believe you have ever been to my apartment, have you?”

I shook my head. Last time, as always, we had adjourned to Room Seven, which was the best of the club’s accommodation. The room was always available for Mister Talv when he visited. As was I.

“Indeed you have not. With good reason, for both of us.” A long sip on his scotch. “Perhaps I could persuade you, this evening.”

I was surprised and a little confused, but covered it well, I thought. “It would be my pleasure, of course,” I replied, cool as a cucumber. “What do you have in mind?”

Mister Talv pondered, before answering simply: “I have a proposition for you.”

Mister Talv’s apartment is cool and dark and tastefully appointed. He owns a whole warehouse building, at the top of the city. Everyone knows he is a very rich man. I have sometimes wondered at the sources of this lifestyle, this wealth, but the head spins, and the only image that comes to mind is of some subterranean network of corporate rabbit holes leading ever deeper into darkness, from which, once entered, one might never emerge.

“Tomorrow evening,” he explained, “I am hosting a winter party. There will be many guests, acquaintances, friends.”

I could not imagine Mister Talv had actual friends, in the way that you or I might, but I was not about to throw that into the conversation.

“I have been slightly let down at the last minute,” he continued. “And I had hoped that you might be able to help. Strictly in a professional capacity, of course. You will be well remunerated, as always.”

He paused, considering. “The assignment is in the nature of a performance, for my guests. Quite exotic entertainment, perhaps, but I dare say nothing you cannot handle. Let me show you.”

He led me through to a large living area, evidently designed as a space for entertaining.

At each corner of the room stood a wide, low, polished plinth, cleverly spotlit. Each plinth was padded, in leather upholstery, and on each plinth was a naked woman.

He led me to one of the plinths. A small label at the base said “Presence in Absence.” Clearly this was the title of this particular performance piece, but to be honest I was none the wiser. Below the title were some Cyrillic characters. “Loan from the collection of…” a name. Even in the Old Country, I had never been that good with Russian names.

On the plinth, a voluptuous redheaded woman, kneeling. She was highly decorated, from neckline to toes, in a swirling filigree pattern of red, gold, green. A complex and beautiful collar around her slender neck set off a riot of red curls. She was looking at me, wide grey eyes, sensual.

“Hello,” I said, automatically.

The red haired woman squeaked.

Mister Talv frowned slightly. “Please, Katya, do not disturb the, ah, performers. They are deeply immersed in their roles, and this evening is important. They have given much of themselves to this, and their commitment is absolute. I expect no less from you.”

He took my arm, gently but firmly, and led me to the next display.

On the second plinth lay another, younger, woman. She had a delicate but full-lipped face, and short brown hair. But this was not what caught my attention. Although slim, her breasts were huge, and gravity-defyingly firm. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but reminded myself with pride that my assets were all natural. The girl was pierced, at nipples and clit, and there was a heavy steel collar around her neck. She lay back on the plinth, arms stretched out behind her, back arched, with her knees raised and her legs spread wide.

Whereas the first performer had been as still as a statue, this one moved, bucked, writhed, thrashed, as if in the very act of congress.

I saw that her wrists and ankles seemed to be secured in position, with chains, attached to steel cuffs matching that collar. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open, panting, as if in the throes of striving for the release orgasm.

The label on the plinth simply said: “Work in Progress.”

On the third plinth, a vaguely oriental-looking girl, dancing, slowly and erotically. Her left hand stroked her breast. Her right hand was slowly working a large dildo as she gyrated. In, out, in, out, in a slow and insistent rhythm, turning, bending, bumping and grinding away. The dildo’s ribbed length was slick with her juices. As she writhed on the plinth, stroking herself, she seemed to face me, briefly, but it was as if she saw nothing. Her eyes were blank, but her expression was one of intense, carnal arousal, coupled with something I could not recognise.

The label said: “Sisyphus.”

I was getting a little confused, now, but I don’t know a lot about performance art, so I just kept my mouth shut.

As we approached the fourth plinth, I realised that what I had taken for a naked woman in the doggy position was in fact a mannequin, a dummy. It was dressed in stockings, suspenders, heels, and a fetching leather choker.

The label said “Good Girl”.

I turned to Mister Talv, questioning.

His face darkened, momentarily, a passing winter cloud.

“Yes, Katya, you may very well ask. Unfortunately, the final performer—her name is K- ah, no matter—turned out to be not at all fully committed.” He smiled, ruefully. “But that is just how life is. In my experience, you can never make a person do anything they don’t want to do.”

The girl was still dancing, beginning her routine from the beginning again. I was sure she was looking at me. That expression.

“Therefore, I have a vacancy. I am in need of another performer, to complete the line-up for tomorrow evening, or there will be an unsatisfying … asymmetry,” he said. And then, anticipating my question, he added: “Twenty thousand dollars.”

I didn’t even need to consider. I nodded, acting as if this was exactly what I had expected. Inside I was jubilant—this was four times what I could expect to earn on a busy night.

“Excellent. Let’s seal the deal, then,” said Mister Talv, taking my hand. “Some role play. It will be good practice.”

DECEMBER 23

I was a little sore by the time I got home in the early hours. Mister Talv was an exceptionally vigorous man. But a night with him always brought memories to cherish; the Full Girlfriend Experience, of a sort, although most Actual Girlfriends might run a mile from this. As every time, he had made me scream, long and hard, as I thrashed willingly in his service. By the fourth time I wasn’t sure whether I was screaming for more, or screaming for him to stop.

Sometimes the boundaries blur, with Mister Talv.

I slept very well, that morning.

Later that evening, I prepared to get into role. With the likely nature of the clientele, I decided High Class Ambiguity was the way to go. Silver blonde hair, but with that very slightly tousled bedroom look that seemed to take hours. Just a little makeup around the eyes, smudged dark around the lids, bringing out the blue. Deep red lipstick, of course, to draw attention where it was most effective. A little Chanel, but not too much, just to raise the tone.

Thinking through the Good Girl look, I selected a black satin suspender belt, and sheer black stockings. My highest stillettos; Louboutins, black, of course, but with the fuck-me red of the soles I’d always loved, and which men loved more.

The Good Girl mannequin had not been wearing panties, or a bra, but that was fine. I decided to add to the ensemble with a complicated strappy, stretchy harness that highlighted my curves perfectly, and matched the suspender belt. The black leather choker, with its suggestive dangling ring, completed the outfit.

I checked myself in the mirror. I practiced the position on the bed, and looked. No question, it was just right. I was hot, hot, hot.

A shiver of excitement, as I slinked my way into a serviceable little black number. Nothing special, but I wouldn’t be wearing it for long, anyway. Then into my long coat, and off I trotted to Mister Talv’s party, heels ticking like clockwork on the cold sidewalk.

About an hour into proceedings, I began to get a better idea of what was going on.

I had gotten myself into position on Good Girl’s plinth, on hands and knees. It was comfortable enough, and I’d spent enough time like this to relax into it. The stretchy harness framed my breasts perfectly, and the suspenders and stockings framed ... the rest, equally well.

Guests were milling around, all wearing elaborate Venetian style masks, glasses in hand, chattering and looking at the performers.

On her plinth, Sisyphus was dancing, the same routine as far as I could tell, sliding the ribbed shaft in and out of herself, in an endless hypnotic cycle. As the dance finished, it always went to back to the beginning and started again, exactly the same, building slowly back up to a dildo-driven climax. She had some discipline, that girl, I thought. A number of people were watching her, intently.

Presence in Absence was still kneeling, golden in her spotlight. She was stunning. I thought, and others seemed to agree—there was a large bouquet of guests around her, discussing, animated. I wondered how long it took to apply the intricate whole-body makeup. I’d never seen anything quite like it.

Work in Progress was still writhing, on her back, in her chains, to the fascination of a small crowd. I wondered why she didn’t moan. Perhaps silence was simply a part of the performance. Mister Talv had made it clear that I was not to speak to anybody, at all, and to avoid looking at people’s faces.

I admit I could feel myself getting slightly turned on by the dreamlike strangeness of the scene. Of course, I stayed in position, determined to deliver a professional performance.

Good Girl was attracting her fair share of admirers as well, by the way. They were talking about me, as if I wasn’t here. Part of the show, I thought. I was reminded slightly of my early films, especially that weird effort with the one way mirror and the dildo and the man who ‘just happens to drop by’. How I’d asked them for my character’s ‘motivation’, and they’d just laughed, ignoring me.

“An absolutely gorgeous piece,” said one man. “Look at those curves. The breasts are excellent.”

I was pleased with that. Wouldn’t you be? I smiled, a reflex, hoping to attract some more attention, but I didn’t look up.

The man and his friends were walking around me, pointing, observing. “Look at the fluid lines there, from cheeks to thigh. And so firm.”

I wiggled my ass slightly, enjoying the running commentary. I was getting wetter, hearing them, and my nipples were hard. Either the part demanded it, or that’s just what I’m like—I’ve never been quite sure about that.

“Why is it called ‘Good Girl’, though?” the other asked.

A sudden glassy coldness on my buttock. Someone was resting a drink on my ass! In role, I stayed perfectly still, and let the passing humiliation slide. After all, a Good Girl surely wouldn’t mind. From across the room, Mister Talv was watching me. He nodded, a small grace note of encouragement.

“Well …” said the voice behind me. “According to these notes, it’s about the merits of obedience. It represents a—ah—yes, it does say exactly this—‘the passive essence, happy, compliant, and always ready to serve’, hence the pose. Yes, ‘ready for anything’, it says here. Shall we see?”

I flushed at these words, and then started, as an unexpected cock slid straight into me with smooth authority. I felt myself clench around it. Always ready, indeed! Which one was it? I hadn’t even seen their faces, let alone had drinks and dinner and witty conversation. It wasn’t exactly the Full Girlfriend Experience.

“A tight one, too,” I heard the voice say.

The cock began to thrust, hard, and if I hadn’t been wet already, it might actually have hurt. In role, I decided a Good Girl would embrace this willingly, and take it as deep as she could. The cock pumped, harder, gratifyingly, and I felt myself loosen up a little, getting more and more into character.

From across the room, the dancing girl seemed to be looking at me again.

Then I couldn’t see her any more. A second man was suddenly in front of me.

“Do you mind?” he said, and I was about to answer when I realised that the question was aimed at the man behind me, who was still thrusting away.

“Sure,” said the voice behind me. “That what it’s there for.”

I opened my mouth and submitted, like a Good Girl.

In the moments when I could see what was going on, in between being otherwise occupied, I could tell the party was getting wild.

Work in Progress was being ridden by one man, or several, and then another, and from the snatches of conversation I overheard, the performance seemed to be about unending quest, towards an illusory, receding goal. She seemed always on the very edge of orgasm, no less, and no further, and God alone knows how she managed to stay so quiet. I had come, loudly, a few times myself—more than I could count—but Work in Progress seemed in a continual state of mute, craving, ecstasy ... never quite finished, I guessed.

Most of the guests seemed to have decided that Presence in Absence represented the ‘quintessence of becoming’, of losing oneself. It was a performance of singular purpose, selflessly devoid of any complex motivations. She must have taken five times the number men as me. Not once did she deviate from her kneeling position, and as soon as she had finished off one man, her mouth was in the air, open, in invitation, turning this way and that, searching hungrily for another. I was getting quite professionally jealous of her prowess. My mouth was starting to ache.

Sisyphus was the one I couldn’t quite figure out. I could see her, clearly, across the diagonal of the room. Her performance seemed to be like a thirty-minute routine, repeated, exactly, like a loop. Yes, it was hot, for sure, to see the girl plunging the shaft into herself, over and over, but repetitive.

What did it mean?

I had thoroughly gotten myself into role, and I found I was enjoying myself; it felt liberating. Liberating not to have to speak; liberating to be still and to take willingly what was offered; liberating not to have to concern myself with decisions, actions, consequences. I was a fucking Good Girl to the max, as good as you were going to get. From what I was hearing, my motivation was simple. Compliance meant happiness, an absence of the complications of choice.

There was no obligation or tedious social ritual here, just an anonymous man and a compliant woman. The fundamentals of life, right here in this room, in me.

I decided in my mental back story that my character must have been a Bad Girl, lost, wilful, uncertain, but that somewhere along the line she had given herself to embrace obedience, to submit to the control of others, to a simpler identity, and that she was far happier as a result. I realised I liked this story very much, and I embellished it further with every thrust and every lick.

There was yet another guy behind me, and I was wriggling as best I could to accommodate him, as Good Girl should. I’d lost count of the penetrations, now. Meanwhile, I could see Mister Talv over there, by Sisyphus’s plinth, talking, explaining. He said something to the girl, and she immediately stopped her dance and dropped into an all-fours position, just like me. At Mister Talv’s encouragement, one of his guests walked behind her, and took her, just like that.

Across the room, a sudden shock of symmetry, an unexpected mirror.

I looked at Sisyphus, who was being mounted enthusiastically and energetically, and as I bucked my own hips to yet another nameless, faceless cock, she looked right back, and I saw on her face an expression I could not name. It was hard to know, at a distance.

In any case, I was finding it hard to concentrate. The latest shaft was pushing deeper, urgent, questing, and I raised my buttocks, angling myself expertly, taking its full length. I had ceased to be curious about or interested in the identity of these men. Good Girl was their willing vessel, and she would take what was put into her. She had simple needs. I felt the cock swell further, the beginning of something interesting, and I moved harder, faster against him, wondering idly if I would ever know what any of them looked like. I hoped not. I was Good Girl, and she didn’t need to know such things.

Sispyhus. What was that twitch at the corner of her mouth?

With almost no warning, I came, hard, unexpectedly, surprising myself at the sudden intensity of it.

DECEMBER 24

As dawn broke the next day, and the last of the guests finally left, I was feeling a little tired, even after freshening up. I felt as if I’d done two weeks’ work in one night, and that Mister Talv had got exceptional value for money. All I could taste was cock. I grabbed a drink and tried to wash the taste away, but it was pervasive. Cock, cock, cock; Good Girl loved cock. The lips of my pussy felt slick. But somewhere deep inside I felt empty, disconnected, missing it.

I looked at Mister Talv, who seemed, as always, as fresh as a daisy.

“How did you enjoy the evening, Katya?” he asked.

I decided honesty was the best policy. It usually was, with Mister Talv.

“Very much. I’m a professional…” I began, and he shrugged, maybe agreeing, maybe not. “I enjoyed the role, the … performance … more than I thought I would. But it was hard work, too. I struggled to keep up. Those girls are something else.”

Again, he nodded. “Yes. This is their profession, and they are rather … special.”

“I hope I didn’t let you down, disappoint you in any way?”

“Not at all, Katya. You did well. You stayed in role. You were a very good girl. But what you don’t know is the hours and hours of training involved here. These women are … specialists. And in any case, some have … enhancements, which significantly assist in the focus and discipline required to perform.”

“Enhancements?” I asked.

“Technology. New, very. Enhancements.” He moved toward me, very close now.

“Tiny implants,” continued Mister Talv. He reached out and stroked my lips with one finger. My lips tingled at his touch and reflexively, my mouth opened to him. Still in character? I wasn’t sure. He touched my tongue. “Here.”

I felt the stir of renewed arousal. Mister Talv’s hand moved down to stroke my left breast. I felt my nipples spring into life again, stiffening at once. Tired as I was, I couldn’t help it. “Here,” he said, with a small smile. “And here.” He squeezed the other nipple, hard, and I gasped slightly. The irresistible throb of arousal, outside my control.

“And of course … here.”

With his other hand, a delicious, languid stroke, the full length of my pussy, labia to clit. Automatically, I pushed myself into his hand, and moaned, Good Girl responding. The role demanded it.

“Each implant delivers, ah, stimulation of different kinds, direct to that region of the body. The insertion procedure is completely painless. Once implanted, you would not even notice the devices are there, until they are activated. By a simple control system.”

He stroked me again, and I practically purred.

“Just imagine, how that might feel,” he said.

Mister Talv was looking at me with his cool green eyes.

I assembled my best professional face, but it didn’t feel right on me, somehow. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before. May I ask how did you come across this?” I asked.

“I have many connections, in Asia. I hired someone to find something, to bring me this technology, originally a very straightforward transaction. But they tried to … game me, as the Americans say. Steal. Deceive me. They didn’t think I’d know, but of course, I found out. I always like to keep an eye on my suppliers.”

He made a complex gesture, something untranslatable, from the Old Country. “There were consequences. But it all worked out well for everybody, in the end.”

For some reason I found myself looking again at the dancer. She was no longer dancing, but was now perfectly still, on her plinth.

I missed my plinth.

“Of course you have no need of any such enhancements, Katya. Although your abilities would become not merely excellent, as they are now, of course,”—I nodded politely, acknowledging—“But truly … extraordinary.”

I cocked an eyebrow, putting on my best ironic woman-of-the-world expression. Why was I even bothering? It was all an act, all for show. I wanted nothing more than to get down on my hands and knees again and raise my ass to him. I missed the calm certainty of the role.

Something had shifted, somewhere. Perhaps it was just the tiredness, but I suddenly felt like ‘Katya’ was just a fictitious character, a part played by someone else, someone more real.

“When you wish this,” he said, “I would consider it a gift. It is the festive season, after all.”

He paused.

“In any case, I have a further assignment for you.”

“Yes, Mister Talv?”

“On New Year’s Eve, I intend to hold another event. Another performance. You will be there, in role. I guarantee you will enjoy it, even more.”

Mister Talv was always very sure of himself. There was no uncertainty in his voice—the idea that I might not do as he asked clearly had not crossed his mind. It had not crossed my mind, either. It never did, with Mister Talv.

He smiled that smile of his, the one that always makes me wet.

“Good girl. And after that, who knows? This may even lead to a permanent position.”