The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

At the slavers’ headquarters, Rania and the other women they had purchased were isolated in cells and prepared for a life of sexual servitude. The women were forced to perform sex acts at random times of the day and night. Resistance was ignored if the slavers could overcome it, and punished with beatings if it became inconvenient.

For Rania, this crude, unpleasant program was like a walk in the park compared to her days and nights under Fouaz’s whip. The slavers were surprised to discover that there was nothing they could teach Rania about degradation, and no need to punish her: she performed every sexual service with an enthusiasm that was far beyond what they required. While the other women were adjusting to the life style of prostitution, Rania became a sort of household pet, a source of pleasure during the slavers’ leisure hours. Because she could not speak or make signs, she was taken for an idiot savant, a retarded girl with a genius for sex.

When they were sufficiently accustomed to their new life, the women were transported deeper into Africa, to be sold in the slave markets of Khartoum. Rania was deemed ready for sale almost immediately, and left the compound in the first shipment after her arrival. Her inability to speak detracted from her commercial value, but the slavers counted on her exceptional beauty and her lewd behavior to turn them a profit.

Along with the other women in her shipment, Ranya was gagged and chained to a bench in the back of a truck for the long journey to Khartoum. Once during the day and once at night, the truck wandered off the main road to an isolated spot, where the women were fed and watered and taken out to relieve themselves. Otherwise, the truck was on the road around the clock, and the women slept in their chains.

With no orders to follow, Ranya’s thoughts calmed and settled. She felt always as if she were encased in a suit of armor, with the remnants of her old self buried beneath layers of urgent, hyperfocused submission. Within this prison of her own nervous system, she was constantly prodded with sex twinges and aches. A shift in position that scraped her nipple across the cloth of her robe, or an involuntary tensing of the muscles between her legs, caused her to cloud over with unfulfilled desire. A hundred times a day, these sensations would snowball and drive all thought from her head. In a haze of erotic need, her body would find some kind of shadowy orgasm; then, slowly, her thoughts would creep back.

She looked around at the other women who were to be sold with her. During her time in the slave quarters—she did not know how long it was; she was no longer capable of marking time properly—she had heard these women’s entreaties, their screams, their quarrels. Most of them were from the lower classes. At least one was an educated girl: Rania had heard her speaking proper French with a Parisian accent, though she looked like an African black. How did she come to this, Rania wondered. Did she live a wild life with bad companions, with slavery as the last stop? Or was she an innocent who was kidnapped and degraded?

In her own case, Rania could not think of herself as trapped below her station—she knew full well that she was now fit only to serve. She remembered that she had been whip-smart, had gone to Princeton, had helped run a small government. But intelligence is a creative state, and when the ability to choose and decide is removed, intelligence goes with it. Rania could retrieve all her old memories, and she could act quickly when bidden, but she knew how little was left of her old self.

All Rania’s meditations blew away like smoke when the dark-skinned African girl chained next to her placed her bare foot on top of Rania’s. Who knows why the girl reached out—perhaps she was half-asleep, or merely looking for comfort. She certainly did not expect Rania to strain her body against her chains to try to offer herself, using her feet (the only part of her able to move freely) to caress her. The African girl recoiled in fear, screaming into her gag; soon all the captured women added their stifled voices to the hubbub. Rania continued to fondle the girl with her toes in a vain effort to arouse her, until the girl started kicking at her. Then she retreated, buzzing with anxiety and frustration. By the time her thoughts cleared, she was not sure how long ago the event had occurred.

The slave market in central Sudan was held in a series of bungalows on a remote country estate. Each bungalow contained one or more women, stripped naked and lightly chained, either to a piece of furniture or with a hobble between her ankles. A salesman waited in the room with the women, and presented them to potential buyers, who often came with a doctor to examine the merchandise. The rooms were rather more pleasant than what most of the women had experienced after their enslavement: there were beds, and carpets, and running water.

The buyers at the market were almost all Africans, and the women would be sold primarily to brothels in the central and south parts of the continent. But Rania was to be spared this fate. A tall 50-year-old South African named de Vries, wandered into Rania’s bungalow early in the day. He was not the first buyer to inspect the merchandise, but a woman who could not speak, even a beautiful one, was of limited use in the sex trade.

De Vries, however, dealt with the more discriminating upper-class slave trade, which had different needs altogether. He had been slumming at this market, on the off chance of finding something interesting amid the beaten-down orphans and drug addicts that were the standard fare here. But he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the lovely, big-breasted, curly-haired girl standing naked under a light fixture on the wall, to which she was collar-chained. She looked helplessly back at him as if waiting for his orders; her expression was nothing like the listless countenance of the other women for sale. Ignoring the two other slaves chained to Rania’s left, de Vries walked up for a closer look. The little girl seemed to be an Arab or an Israeli, and probably not more than 20.

“Yes, she is a great beauty,” said Rania’s salesman. “She is Egyptian, from a good family that fell on hard times.”

De Vries ignored this fiction. “What’s your name?” he said to Rania. Rania’s mouth opened a little, but nothing came out.

“She doesn’t speak,” said the salesman.

De Vries slapped Rania across the face, hard enough to get her attention. “What’s your name?” he said again. Rania looked at him wide-eyed.

“Believe me, she is unable to speak,” said the salesman. “She has been that way from birth.”

“Are you dumb?” asked de Vries. “Nod your head, yes or no.” But Ranya could no more nod in answer to a question than she could speak.

“She’s a bit simple-minded, I’m sorry to say,” said the salesman. “But she’s very eager to please.”

Somehow de Vries didn’t trust this verdict. He looked the girl over from head to foot. “She looks as if she’s half cow,” he said. “Look at those teats and nipples.”

“Yes, she’s in excellent health,” said the salesman.

Intrigued, de Vries reached out and fondled one of Ranya’s breasts. Instantly Ranya poured herself all over de Vries’ body, moaning at if his touch had brought her to the edge of orgasm.

“She has a voice,” said de Vries, as Ranya nibbled on the hair on his chest. What a strange girl.

“She uses her voice only for love,” said the salesman. “But she knows how to make a man happy in bed.”

De Vries suspected that the salesman had for once accidentally stumbled onto the truth. He gently pushed the whimpering girl back, then knelt down and put his finger between the lips of her sex. “Stay there!” he barked to Rania, who had started to descend upon him. His finger went into the girl as if she were made of butter. She stood unsteadily, moaning and shaking. Until now de Vries had thought Rania was just pretending to be aroused. But his hand was soaked with her juices.

Out of curiosity, de Vries removed his hand from Rania’s sex and placed a slick finger at the opening of her anus. He did not expect what happened: Rania leaned back and squatted, pushing her ass around de Vries’ finger until it was buried to the knuckle. Then she squeezed her sphincter as hard as she could until de Vries began to withdraw, when she relaxed and expelled him.

De Vries had never seen anything like this. He had entered many an ass in his time—it was a predilection of his—and had never witnessed anything other than a tense, profound passivity as the anus was breached. Who was this woman? “Get me a towel,” he muttered to the salesman. As he wiped Rania off his hand, he asked the salesman for his price, and waited impatiently through the inevitable account of constraining circumstances. Finally, a figure was produced: 500 Euros or 700 dollars. De Vries had no desire to haggle with this idiot. “Wrap her up,” he said.

That same morning, Rania was heavily drugged, packaged carefully in a padded crate, and loaded into the cargo hold of a small commercial plane. Later that same night, she was kneeling naked on the living room carpet of de Vries’ luxurious ranch house outside of Johannesberg, pushing her breasts out in the direction of her buyer, who sat across the room in his favorite chair, in his evening robe, drinking a whiskey, inspecting his new purchase.

“What is your story?” he said, more to himself than to her. “I don’t think you’re simple-minded at all. I can feel you reacting to everything I say.”

Rania just looked back and writhed a little. “Do you obey whatever you’re told?” he asked? Getting no answer, he finished his whiskey, got up, retrieved a pair of scissors from a desk, and dropped them on the carpet in front of Rania. “Cut off your hair,” he said.

Without the least hesitation, Rania lunged for the scissors, reached behind her to gather together her thick, waist-length hair, and started cutting it off, looking longingly at de Vries.

“All right, that’s enough,” said de Vries when she had cut clean across. It was as if the girl couldn’t help obeying. “Some bastard must have worked you over right proper,” he said.

A foot and a half of Rania’s hair was strewn on the expensive carpet. She resumed her pose of obeisance, but de Vries saw tears on her face.

“Here, give me those,” he said. Instinctively, Rania turned the scissors around for safety and handed them to de Vries handles first. De Vries chuckled. “You’re no more simple-minded than I am,” he said. “Sit still.” He knelt behind Rania and evened out the ragged cut. He had planned to get her a short, stylish haircut anyway: big-chested girls favored big hair to balance out their breasts, but it was good business to make this one look as titsy as possible.

After neatening Rania’s hair, de Vries said, “There—now you’re beautiful again. Clean this up, will you? There’s a waste can in the kitchen.” As he watched the naked girl bouncing around the house, disposing enthusiastically of ten years’ growth of her own hair, he began to feel quite ready for his evening’s work.

“All right, that’s good enough—Regina will clean in the morning,” he said to Rania, who would have searched for each individual hair without this order. “Off to the bedroom. It’s time to see what you can do.”

When de Vries undressed and got into his bed, the naked slave girl sucked him into her arms like quicksand. For two hours, de Vries gave Rania a thorough trial run, fucking her in as many styles and as many body locations as he could think of. He obliged her expend most of the effort, wanting to evaluate her skill. But he found the work very pleasant, and sometimes he could not resist taking charge of her curvaceous little body and plowing its moist furrows. Rania’s stamina was amazing: she must have trained for sex like an Olympic athlete, thought de Vries. As he felt the session coming to an end, he decided to indulge himself and produced 20 yards of soft rope, which he used to tie Rania into a small, fleshy ball. Then he picked her clear off of the bed (he was fully twice her size) and fucked her in mid-air until his orgasm. The entire experience was a delight.

Afterwards, de Vries lay exhausted in bed, with Rania by his side, still straining toward him. He had undone the rope that had bent her into a ball, but her legs were still frogtied, and her arms were fastened wrist-to-elbow behind her. She brushed his arm with her breasts and moaned.

“Do you actually want more?” said de Vries. “I can’t believe it.” He reached down and plunged his middle finger into Rania’s sex to check her readiness. She showed no signs of drying out. “You know, I could see you turning into a bit of a nuisance very quickly,” he said to the writhing girl. “We’re not all superhuman like you. Can’t you just bring yourself off without me? No, I guess you can’t when I’ve got you wrapped up like a parcel.”

Rania was actually unable to masturbate unless she was ordered to. Given the way that her sex urges had taken her over during her slave training, she would have masturbated almost constantly had the trainers not inhibited this behavior.

De Vries knew by now that it was entirely unnecessary to put Rania under restraint, but she looked so nice that way that he was sad to untie her. As he undid the knots, with the intention of letting her abuse herself, he thought of a way to test his suspicion that she was actually quite intelligent.

“All right, up on your knees,” de Vries said, lying back on his pillows. “You can bring yourself off, but here’s how we’ll do it. I’m going to say a line or two from a famous novel or poem. If the writer in English, rub yourself here”—he touched her clitoris. “No, stay back! Stay still. If the writer is American, finger your asshole. What’s wrong?”

Rania was visibly agitated. The idea of any obstacle to her obeying an order flooded her with terror.

“Don’t worry, I won’t punish you if you get it wrong. It’s just a game.” This didn’t allay Rania’s anxiety at all. Her fear was part of her brain chemistry now. De Vries went on: “If the writer is French—can you get your tit in your mouth? Show me.”

Rania had been able to do this since she was 13. She sucked passionately on her own nipple, moaning at the shivery sensation.

“If he’s French, go for the left tit, and if he’s...Russian, go for the right one. Got it? English, cunt; American, asshole; French, left tit; Russian, right tit.” Rania still looked terrified. “Here we go.” De Vries took pity on the shaking girl and tossed her an easy one: “’To be or not to be.’”

In a flash, Rania was frigging herself furiously. De Vries laughed and laughed as Rania gasped in ecstasy: here was proof positive. “Well done!” he said. “Well done.”

Now he wanted to see Rania do her nipples, which required a foreign quotation. “’Where are the snows of yesteryear?’” he said. Rania immediately pulled her sopping hand out of her sex, grabbed her left breast with both hands, thrust her own nipple into her mouth, and began moving her head up and down on it, making the oddest muffled noises. De Vries laughed again at the success of his strategem. He tried to think of some American culture. “’I sing the body electric!’” he said. Before the short sentence was finished, Rania had dropped her breast and had thrust a finger into her asshole. De Vries paused to enjoy the sight, and to think of his next quiz. He wished he could come up with something really obscure to test her, but he was a little rusty on the classics. And there was no time to dawdle—Rania sounded ready to go over the edge. “’Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins,’” he said. Ranya looked bewildered for a second, then kept working her finger in her asshole, which seemed to give her great pleasure. “I think you’ve slipped up, dear,” de Vries said pleasantly. Rania looked at him with absolute panic, though she kept diddling her ass and moaning. Wait a moment, thought de Vries. I gave her an American book by a Russian author—it’s an ambiguous case. “No, no, my mistake,” he said, trying to calm her. “You’re still flawless.” Now he needed a real Russian. “’All happy families are happy alike,’” he said, but didn’t bother completing the quotation: Rania was too fast for him, and was already doing delicious-looking things to her right nipple.

“Very, very good,” said de Vries. “You’ve earned a reward. Are you ready? ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’” Rania’s hands dove to her sex and rubbed feverishly; she gazed at de Vries through sex-swollen eyelids. To her surprise, the slaver reached out his hand and gently caressed her cheek. Rania reflexively leaned hard into the touch, and as she toppled forward, her orgasm surged and spread through her like a fire. De Vries held her on his chest as she convulsed and subsided. But she could not stop working her hands in her sex until he told her to stop.

De Vries’ feeling that Rania was no ordinary slave had been truer than he realized. “So you were a college girl once,” he said to himself. He felt Rania’s tears on his chest as her breathing slowly subsided. “There now,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

Rania did not want her secrets to be discovered. She preferred that people regard her as some brain-damaged trollop. To be seen for an intelligent person trapped inside an obedient, whorish body was too horrible....

Later that night, as de Vries slept and Rania’s mind cleared, she mourned the loss of her long hair, which had never been cut off before.

For a few days, de Vries kept Rania with him, trying to discover more of her hidden talents. He gave her menial work around the house, not because he needed it done, but because he wanted to see if she was accustomed to it. Whenever he was in the mood, he tried to think of new sexual auditions for her. One evening he asked her to dance for him, and was startled to discover yet another gift. She wasn’t enormously versatile, but when he found the right music, she was the most physical and the most lurid belly dancer he had ever seen. Rania had lost much of her athletic edge over the months, and she would never again attain the level of skill that she had acquired under the whip of Fouaz’s first wife. But, even out of shape, her dancing alone was worth twenty times what de Vries had paid for her. He briefly regretted ordering Rania to cut off her long hair, which would have given her the right look for exotic dance.

Each evening, de Vries would take Rania to his bed. He fell into the pattern of exploring Rania’s sexual abilities by day, and using her lovely body for his own pleasure by night.

Once, after the fucking was over, Rania lay on her back, with moonlight pouring through the glass doors onto the bed. De Vries lay on his stomach next to her, playing idly with her oversized breasts: taking one by its base, lifting it as high as it would go, then letting the flesh slowly slip through his hand until the nipple caught between his finger and thumb. Rania whimpered with longing whenever her turgid nipples were handled. But she had been ordered to lie still.

In the moonlight, de Vries saw something he hadn’t noticed before. “Your nipples have been pierced,” he said, turning one of them this way and that in the light. “Did you do that?”

Rania was breathing heavily from the attention. The piercings were the work of her brother Nasser, in her last days in the palace where she grew up. The holes in her nipples were nearly closed now.

De Vries resumed his slow palpation of Rania’s breasts, switching from one to the other, stretching them into cylinders, then watching them slide back into little mountains of flesh. If he did this a bit longer, he had discovered, she would come, without his ever touching her sex.

“If I cared about women,” he said, “I would keep you here with me. You are perfect in every way.” Rania looked sideways at him and let out a long, slow breath. “But I care only about money. And you are worth too much.”

Rania’s half-closed eyes were looking into his. Who knew what she was thinking?

Even in the moonlight, he could see her face flushing. Her climax was on the way. De Vries held onto her huge nipple and rubbed it repeatedly with his thumb and forefinger, as if milking it gently. Rania’s moan became gutteral, and the world went gray as she fell heavily into her orgasm.

It was time to find a buyer for Rania. De Vries began spending more time on the telephone. A woman friend of his arrived one morning with a blowdryer, and completed the haircut that Rania had been forced to begin herself. When the hairdresser was finished, Rania had a stylish, very short cut that was almost boyish except for the curls on her forehead. The effect was extreme, almost a little grotesque: not an improvement by conventional fashion standards. With long, billowy hair, Rania had looked like a very full-figured girl; with close-cropped hair, her breasts looked freakishly large, out of proportion. De Vries knew, though, that this sex-doll look was worth more to his clientele than good fashion sense.

Rania stared helplessly at her new self in the mirror, her face burning with humiliation. She could not bear looking like this. Seeing herself on display, she involuntarily pushed her chest out and made her hard nipples swing a little bit, horrified at how dramatic this looked now. The hairdresser, who found the little girl very amusing, laughed at this slutty behavior and scratched Rania behind the ears as if she were a dog. Rania pushed her head into the woman’s hand. “Sit still, girl,” said de Vries.

“This one is completely adorable,” said the hairdresser. “She’s like a little pet.”

“She’s smarter than you are, Doris,” said de Vries.

“Oh, is she?” said Doris, a little miffed. She reached down and tweaked Rania’s nipples playfully, making the slave wriggle like a fish. “Well, I was smart enough not to end up like her.”

“Don’t tease her, Doris,” said de Vries. “Be still, girl.”

The first client to visit de Vries, a slender, rather effete American, bought Rania on the spot. He examined his purchase only briefly: asking de Vries to leave them alone, he walked around Rania as she knelt naked on the carpet, following him with her eyes. He hefted her breasts in her hands, pushing her back roughly when she dove toward him. Then he reached tentatively between Rania’s legs and masturbated her, a little clumsily. She howled like a banshee anyway, and twisted vigorously on his hand. Then the man walked away abruptly, leaving Ranya on her knees, in a frenzied state. He spent most of his visit negotiating with de Vries behind closed doors.

De Vries made a small fortune on Rania. He gave the American a dossier of information on his new slave, with all the tips and tricks that he had accumulated. Because of her exceptional docility, it was possible for Rania to travel to New York on a plane, on the arm of the American, who bought her ticket, ordered her food, and even took her to the lavatory. Her traveling outfit was a tight red Mandarin dress that had to be let out considerably in the front, a pair of wooden sandals, and faux-diamond stud earrings. Walking through the airports in the slinky dress, Rania couldn’t have drawn more stares if she were naked.

And so Rania returned to America, only a hundred miles from where she had attended college....