The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bliss. I think that nails it. Bliss. If there was a thesaurus handy, and I had the ability to actually use it, perhaps I might be able to find another word that better fit what I’m feeling—but since there isn’t and I don’t, I’ll make do with that one. Bliss.

My name is Jennifer Hansen, and right now, all I’m feeling is bliss. I’m swimming in bliss, floating in what David Lynch would probably call that vast ocean of consciousness that my friend from film school back in college who was simply crazy about the guy kept going on and on about. I’m submerged in bliss, always two seconds away from drowning in the stuff.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m not complaining at all. The fact is, it’s probably the only thing that’s keeping me sane right now.

I’ve been here for a while now. I’m not sure exactly where here is. I’m not sure exactly how long I’ve been here either, because I’m drugged up much of the time. I’m as high as a kite that’s been blown skyward by gale-storm winds. I’m not even hyperbolical about it. I’m fucking floating in the air. As well as swimming in bliss. I’m so happy I don’t care about mixing my metaphors.

I don’t know what they got me on, but it’s knocked out my body pretty thoroughly. I can’t move. I can’t open my eyes. I’m still aware of everything, and I can still feel, but I just can’t move. And whatever signals I get from my body come as if through a thick layer of isolating foam. My body and my mind are disconnected, and my body is shut off, and my mind is awash in happy juice.

And that suits me fine. Because the alternative is worse. The alternative is so much worse. The alternative is what got me here.

You know when sometimes you feel like your body has a mind of its own, like your body just wants to do its own thing and you’re just a passenger along for the ride? Like when you’re drunk, or when you’re so turned on that your pussy’s doing all the thinking? Yeah, well, that’s me. A drunken passenger in my own body, with my pussy driving.

All of that because of Biff. Just thinking of the name almost makes me angry, which is pretty impressive because right now, all I’m feeling is bliss. I’m floating, isolated not only from the needs of my body, but also from the cries of my own mind. I should be suicidal. I was, until recently. But I’m not anymore. Right now, all I feel is bliss. Unending bliss.

Biff. The man who did something to me. What exactly, I don’t know. I can’t be sure. There’s a hole in my head, in my memory. I am—was?—a student. Darnell University. Finishing up a degree in English. Also studying law. I wanted to write. And work at the Supreme Court. I had a fiancé—Daniel—and I was crazy in love with him. Still am. But then, Biff happened. My body tensed at the thought of my fiancé, anxiety gripping it, and I let the thought go, with my usual sadness.

Biff cornered me after class on day—it was in January. How long ago January was, I can’t say. And then it’s all a blur, until it’s not anymore, and I found myself unable to resist obeying whatever Biff tells me to do. It’s like my body was connected to Biff’s mind, and my own mind kept screaming to be heard, but to no avail. A passenger in my own body. With Biff deciding what was what.

And Biff knew exactly what he wanted. A fuck toy. That’s what he called me. A pretty doll that he could dress up however he wanted, positioned however he wanted, treated however he wanted. The bastard enjoyed humiliating me and fucking me. And humiliate me he did, and fuck me he did, and he made me crave both the humiliation, and the fucking. I spent so many nights on my knees dressed as a stupid sexpot, with his dick down my throat, doing my best to give him the best blow job I could, because he told me to. I dressed like a slut because he told me to. I went to any guy he pointed at and begging for a fuck because he told me to. I got on a stage and stripped in front of complete strangers because he told me, and they loved it and it made me dripping wet because Biff told me to.

I screamed myself hoarse inside, trying to get him to stop, trying to maintain some kind of dignity. I screamed loudest—inside, always inside, because on the outside, I was all smiles and flirty winks and come-on gestures—when he made me confront my fiancé, Daniel. From that first time, at the diner, when he had me try to seduce him, try to get him to fuck me one last time—I wanted so much for Daniel to grab me and take me away and save me that I was an incoherent mess inside for days afterward, unable to even react to the worst things Biff did to me—to that last fateful party at Biff’s frat house, DIK-Bash, where everything just went to shit.

Lots of stuff happening that night. Most of which I don’t really understand. Biff had captured Daniel and a bunch of guys from his own frat. I knew he wanted to take over the frat—he talked about little else when he was pounding into me, forcing me to moan like a little bimbo and beg him to fuck him harder. But that night, he just went nuts. He killed the frat president, his own cousin, with a baseball bat. He also forced me to grab a knife and would have had me cut off Daniel’s dick if not for the fact that I managed to resist—the one time I managed to resist an order he gave me, and I so much wanted to take that knife and stab the bastard in the balls and open him up like a Thanksgiving turkey, but resisting him had caused such a killer headache that I was seeing stars everywhere and every movement was pain.

Then the lights went out, and we were running, Biff pulling me by the hand, down darkened hallways and staircases and there was fighting and screaming and eventually he found a quiet corner in the basement and he looked me in the eyes and he told me those fateful words that sealed my fate. I never saw Daniel again.

Biff was on the ground, grimacing, his face contorted in pain. His right leg was broken and twisted at an unnatural angle. He had bitten his lip, and a thin string of blood was sneaking its way down his chin. Jenn stood before him, waiting for his instructions; in the privacy of her own head, unable to voice her feelings, she hoped against all hopes that he would croak right there, cradling his broken leg. She still wore part of the sexy Boba Fett costume Biff had told her to wear to the party, a tiny metallic blue bra and short metallic blue skirt, neither of which hid much of her toned dancer’s body. Biff had made her ditch her shoes to help in their escape, and her feet hurt on the grime of the old bootlegging tunnel Biff had led them to.

Biff looked at her for a beat before telling her to lean down near him, that he had something to tell her. He stared at her breasts half spilling out of her skimpy bra, and he groaned.

“I can’t go much further,” he said, his voice still strong despite the pain. “Those fuckers busted me up. I don’t know what happened to your dickhead ex-fiancé, but whatever happens, I don’t want him to put his fucking hands on you again. You got that, doll? I want you to go down this tunnel, get out of here, and go to Cleveland. Find a friend of mine.” He handed her a folded piece of paper he pulled out of his pocket with difficulty. “Read this and memorize it, and then eat it. When you see my friend, tell him that you’re now his, and that you’ll do anything he wants you to do until I show up. Make it convincing, doll—I know you know how to do that. And indeed, you’ll obey him like you obey me, you got that, doll?”

Jenn, her heart sinking, nodded. “Jennie got it, big guy. Jennie finds your friend, and offers herself to him, body and soul. Jennie will be the best fuck doll he’s ever had.” She had no choice.

Biff snorted. “Like he’s ever had a fuck doll,” he muttered to himself. Then he shook himself up. “Listen: nothing the bastard can tell you will ever change the fact that I am your real master, that when you see me again, you will be mine again, to obey only me, my lovely doll.”

“Jennie is yours forever, big guy,” Jenn responded, despairing further. “No one else can make Jennie come like you do.” Die, you piece of shit, she thought.

Biff grinned. “You always know just what to say.” He shifted, and pain made him bite down a scream. “Now, you will not try to contact your dickhead ex-fiancé—you will avoid him at all costs. Look at me. Deep down inside, you’re afraid of him, scared for your life—he wants to rape you, crush you, mutilate you. Whatever sick twisted thing you can imagine, he wants to do to you, laughing the whole time. Got it? He’ll break you, then kill you.”

Jenn shivered inside. Her mind screamed. None of it was true—Daniel loved her, or at least, he used to, who knew now given what Biff had told him and shown him. Daniel would never hurt her. But what her mind knew was irrelevant, for her body soaked up all that Biff was saying, and she felt in her bones the fear that was gripping her body at the thought of Daniel finding her.

“Fact is,” continued Biff, unaware or uncaring of Jenn’s internal distress, and with a mean grin on his face, “if you ever are in his presence, I want you to claw his eyes out.”

Bastard! she thought. Fucking cowardly bastard! I hope you choke on your own shit!

“Now go, doll. Run.”

And Jenn, without hesitating, despite her mind screaming to stay put and find Daniel and throw herself into his arms where she would be safe—though her body seized in panic as an image of her fiancé flashed through her head—ran, her body grasping the urgency of Biff’s words. She ran, away from this place, from Daniel, away to find this friend of Biff and offer herself to him.

“So, how are we doing today, sweetie?”

The voice is cheerful, happy, with just a hint of an accent that you only really pick up on the harsh consonants of English. The smell of Jasmine wafts about me just a moment afterward. Doctor Agnieska has arrived for her twice-a-week visit.

I figured out that I’m in a hospital pretty early on during my stay—and that I’ve been here at least two months. It’s pretty tough to tell with all the drugs running in my system, but this place works on a schedule, and I have little to do but think and try to pick up patterns. Day shifts. Night shifts. Different attitudes, different people. I can’t see them, but I can hear them, and I can smell them. So I know I’ve been here for a few months already, but I have no idea when I got here. The time since DIK-Bash has been a blur of weeks and maybe months with no rational basis on which to hang a timeframe that I have any chance of trusting.

They call this place the Institute. At least, that’s what they call it when they’re trying to sound official, or when they’re talking to people in charge. The rest of the time, they refer to it as the Gallery. It took me a while to work out why, but it gave me something to do. This is a mental hospital, or at least, the section I’m in is a mental hospital. Mental hospital. Nut house. Nuts. Peanuts. Peanut gallery. Hence, the Gallery. That’s the best I could come up with.

Doctor Agnieska follows her usual routine, examining my chart, then checking the various intravenous solutions that are attached to my arm, before turning to me. I can tell because of the sounds and the position and movements of her body. I get ready because, also as usual, she starts by opening my eyelids and shining a bright light directly into my eyes that has me seeing spots for minutes afterwards.

I have half a second to sneak a look at her before I’m blinded, and as usual I see a friendly Japanese face framed with straight black hair. Agnieska is a bit of an odd name for a Japanese woman, but once I saw a wedding ring flash on her hand from the corner of my eye, and I figure that she must have taken her husband’s last name when she married. She’s more handsome than beautiful, and reminds me a lot of Tannaka, a friend of mine from back at Darnell. From back in my previous life, as I call it. I’m amazed, as I often am, that I’m not breaking down when I think of it. The drugs. Bliss. Darnell feels so long ago, and sometimes I imagine that my life as a student, that Daniel and my friends, all of that was a dream, and that this is my real life. That I’m crazy, and that I’ve always been institutionalized.

I spend my days in bed, in a room all by myself, utterly unable to move a muscle even if I had the will to do so, which I don’t. Nurses and doctors drop by once in a while—I can always recognize them now,, they sound different, they smell different, they whistle different songs while they work. They wash me, change me and my bedding, move me about, talk to me, give me my drugs, the usual things nurses and doctors do. I get fed intravenously, for obvious reasons. I got over my stomach pangs pretty quickly. Doctor Agnieska sounds like my dedicated physician, and she shows up twice a week. Once in a while a doctor I do not recognize shows up, but does nothing, simply observes. Or at least, that’s what I think, because I can’t hear anything. It’s a bit creepy.

A long time ago or so it feels, there was a nurse from Alabama—she had the most delicious voice—that would take me out into a main area with other patients every day, but she disappeared after a while, and ever since I’ve been stuck here day in and day out. Not that I did much when I was out of my room—I was in a wheelchair, my eyes closed, my head resting on a neck pillow—but I was in the company of other patients, and it broke the monotony of the days. All the patients were girls, I noted, and they were not knocked out by their drugs, and they moved about and talked and acted crazy. I couldn’t join in, but that didn’t matter. Their presence was enough. I tried to picture what the girls were like, based on their voices and on the sounds they made when they moved, and pretty soon I had these mental images inside my head of what the world out there looked like. I couldn’t talk and ask questions, so I made up stories about their lives, based on what I overheard. It passed the time.

I’m distracted by Doctor Agnieska’s hands on my body, gently grasping my limbs and bending them. She checks every major joint, and I can feel her looking up at something—a monitor?—every time she does so. I suspect I’m connected to some kind of EEG and that she’s checking whether I react to the movements, and I wonder if she’s able to read off discomfort or pain from the displays. My body, despite the drugs, reacts the way it always does when someone touches it these days—I feel myself get wet. I don’t know if Doctor Agnieska ever notices. If she does, she’s never had a reaction.

“Time to refill your meds, sweetie.”

The way she says it makes me shiver. She sounds almost apologetic, as if she’s ask me forgiveness. Here we go, I think. The Pig is planning another little party. I would groan if I could. Of course, it’s an intellectual groan—bliss prevents it to be emotional in any way. But I know now that bliss won’t last and my pussy will be driving again. As if it knows as well, I can feel my juices drip down between my cheeks.

I hear Doctor Agnieska messing with the intravenous drip that’s fed directly in my forearm, and replacing the bag of drugs. Despite the hint I have just received that I’m going to dive back into my own personal hell before the night is through, I can’t help but feel gratitude for the drugs. I don’t know what I’d do without them. No, I’m lying—I know exactly what I’d do without them—I’d degrade myself, the way I’ve done before making it here. Degrade myself, debase myself, humiliate myself. The drugs make it possible for me to ignore the pull of my body, the unholy drives of my body. With the drugs, my body is a lump of flesh on a bed in some hospital, and my mind is free.

I miss reading. Bliss is nice, and compared to the misery that was Biff, there is no comparison. But the mind forgets, and craves stimulation after a while. And so much of my stimulation used to come from reading, and writing, I realize. Even before I was writing, I was journaling. But now, it’s all gone. To pass the time, I’ve started going over the stories I knew in my head, getting to the essence of the books I read. Remembering the classics, the Homeric poems, the Aeneid, and the stuff I read in high school and freshman year—Waugh, Woolf, Hemingway, Faulkner. Remembering the stuff I used to read on my own—Hugo, Dickens, Dostoyevsky, and the moderns that I discovered later, Lethem, Miéville, Auster. He, Auster, is especially on my mind these days, because to be honest I feel like I’m in an Auster novel. Which doesn’t bode well for me.

Doctor Agnieska is done with me, and I can feel her looking me for a long moment before pulling up the covers up to my chin, gently, like a mother would to a child. I think she’s going to make a great mother, really, if she ever decides to have a kid. My gut feeling is that she doesn’t have one now, but would like one. At least, in my head, that’s the character I’ve developed for her. Up to and including that strange impulse that makes her adjust my medication whenever the Pig intends to have a party. Aristotle calls it hamartia, the tragic flaw, that aspect of a character in a tragedy that forecasts how their downfall will occur. Am I in a tragedy? I cannot tell. I try hard to approach it as a comedy, but the humor rarely comes to pass. When it does, it is dark and thick and drips down like molasses.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Doctor Agnieska quips, and her gaiety is forced. I can only imagine the expression that mars her face.

Atypically, she hesitates before leaving my side, and eventually leans down to give me a gentle kiss on the forehead. The contact of her lips on my skin makes my pussy twitch. My body wants to shiver, wants to grab that woman and pull her down onto me and suck on her tits and spread her legs and rub myself on her pussy until we both explode. Some of the nurses take liberties with me from time to time, squeezing my breasts, or rubbing a finger between my things. It should piss me off, I know, but my body unnaturally craves sexual touches, despite the drugs that knock it out as much as possible. I’m just glad that the drugs make me able to resist the calls of my body. For being touched is pleasure. Superb pleasure. Mind-bending pleasure. Just as Biff intended.

Jenn was at a truck stop in Southern New Hampshire when the first pangs of lust hit her. She had been dreading it ever since she ran away from the frat house the night of DIK-Bash, nearly a week earlier.

Biff had made her liquidate her bank accounts and get rid of her credit cards. He had confiscated the money, wanting her as dependent as possible. So she had had to find some money to eat and to clothes herself for her trip to Cleveland. And there were only a few sure-fire ways to earn money without revealing one’s name or where one was from, or what had happened to her, instructions that Biff had pounded into her since their first day together. She was a pretty girl. Hating herself, but also unable to override her body’s drive to run away from North Alexandria towards Cleveland, she had haggled her way with men that were willing to offer her rides, letting them see her breasts, touch them, suck on them. A few had wanted blow jobs, and she had obliged, for the right price, putting to good use the constant practice that Biff, who had loved to feel her worship his cock with her mouth, had imposed upon her. Most of the men wanted her to swallow, and she did.

And here she was, in Southern New Hampshire, looking for a long-haul semi that was headed west. She had a backpack containing the bare minimum for the trip. No identification. No wallet. Only a pocketful of dwindling cash.

At the diner inside the stop, truck drivers were sprawled around, drinking coffee, eating, catching up with each other. She looked around, trying to ascertain which of the men would be the most likely to accept taking her on as a passenger without assaulting her and leaving her for dead on the side of the highway.

Her pussy, which had been getting hotter and hotter for the past several hours, twitched in frenzy as her eyes crossed those of a man sitting alone at a booth in the far corner. She headed towards him with a decided step, her hips swaying slightly more than they strictly needed to, her boots clacking on the tiled floor. He looked at her and his eyes dropped down to her white blouse that was unbuttoned to the middle of her chest, baring the top of her breasts, and then further down to her skin tight jeans. When he looked back up, he was smiling, and that smile went directly to her crotch and she almost stumbled at the shock of the arousal that ran through her. She knew what was happening—she had been waiting for it.

Biff had told her, at some point, that if she was away from him for too long—for a week was what he said—she would start craving cocks: craving the feel of a cock in her mouth, in her pussy, in her ass, craving the feel of cocks spurting inside her, and those cravings would get worse and worse until she felt Biff’s cock in one of her holes. He had grinned like mad at his little insurance policy, as he called it. She would even start craving pussy, he had added, almost as an afterthought. Nothing was too good for his favorite fuck doll, he had said.

And now it was a week since the last time she had seen Biff, and her pussy was starting to beg for some attention. And her pussy had decided that the man in front of her, who at least was young and attractive, would fit the bill perfectly.

Two hours later, she was sitting in the cab of the tractor, on the turnpike headed towards Albany, the night closing in around them. Her pussy was on fire, her mouth was watering, and she was having problems concentrating. Mick, the truck driver, was recounting a tale of jackknifing on the ice in the middle of winter, but she was hardly paying any attention. Her breasts felt sensitive and heavy, and it was only when she noticed that Mick had stopped talking and was swinging his eyes back and forth between her and the road that she realized that she was caressing her breasts through her blouse.

She flushed red and stammered something, but Mick merely smiled a smile that made her melt and told her that she should keep going if she felt like it, that he did not mind. The way he looked at her made her head spin, and she sighed and sank in her seat and soon her hands were opening her blouse and kneading her breasts without impediment, twisting her nipples, imagining Mick’s lips on them while her slipped a hand into her jeans and down her panties and sinking deep into her pussy and she must have moaned his name out loud because the semi jerked as it swung into a rest area and before too long Mick’s hands were replacing hers on her breasts and she was sliding off his pants and she wanted his cock inside her so bad that she was whimpering into his mouth as he kissed her to strip her and fuck her like the little slut she was.

And he did.