The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Everyone in the lesbian community knew about the Backdoor Program. It was run, they said, by a closeted lesbian high up in the military, and it aimed to promote representation of gay women in the military by getting them cushy top-secret jobs through a back door in the hiring process.

Tiffany needed a job, so she contact the Backdoor Program’s anonymous benefactor through an email address she was given on a forum.

“I can help you,” came the reply. “Step one, show up for an interview at the time and place below. You will be interviewed by one man. Dress sexily—he’s a necessary part of the process. He agrees to push through the necessary paperwork to get you hired, providing he gets to look at some pretty girls. He’ll ask you only three questions. They’ll be embarrassing, but answer truthfully—if he thinks you’re lying, he won’t sign off on you.”

Tiffany turned up to the interview as instructed, wearing high heels and a dress more appropriate for a romantic date than a job interview. It was in a hotel room downtown, and the door of the hotel room was answered by a stern-looking man in his fifties in military uniform. Tiffany supposed he might be attractive, if she were at all attracted to men.

“Come in,” he said, and led her to a seat near the bed. Tiffany felt uncomfortable, dressed so sexily for a strange man, being so near to a bed, but the man showed no signs of doing anything threatening.

“You’re a hot piece of ass,” he told her frankly. “I get three questions, and then if I like the answers I approve you, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, blushing.

“Number one,” he said. “What are your living arrangements?”

“I live alone,” she said, thinking the question odd but answering honestly. “In a free-standing house. I really can’t afford to keep paying the rent unless I get this job.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Number two, what’s the sluttiest thing you’ve ever put in your pussy?”

Tiffany blushed, startled. She couldn’t believe he would ask her that. But the Backdoor Program benefactor had said the questions would be embarrassing.

”A rolling pin from the kitchen,” she said. “When I was 18. I was living with my mother still, and she had been baking and left it out, and I wondered what it would feel like, so I pushed it up into my pussy. Except then my mother came downstairs, and I realised if I pulled it out it would be visibly wet from being inside me, so instead I just pulled down my skirt to hide that it was in my cunt, and she didn’t notice, but then she had a million chores to do because guests were coming over. I spent all night with the rolling pin stuffed in my pussy, trying to pretend nothing was unusual as I did chores, and then welcomed the guests, and then sat at the dinner table talking to them.”

The man guffawed with pleasure at her story. “I like you,” he said. “Last question—what’s the most humiliating sexual act you can imagine performing?”

Tiffany blushed again. “Honestly?” she said.

“Of course honestly,” said the man.

“I’m a lesbian, sir, so having sex with a man is about the most humiliating thing. I suppose it would be even worse if it made me cum, or if everyone knew I had done it. Or—I’m a feminist, too, so being made to be a man’s housewife, or be domestic for him, or subservient...”

“Good girl,” said the man for a third time. “Okay, you’re in. You’ll get instructions by email. You can go.”

She couldn’t believe the interview had been so short and strange, but she departed, baffled.

The same day, an email arrived. “You’ve done well,” said the benefactor. “We’ve got you cleared to do very classified work. You’ll only be required one day a week—each Sunday—but you’ll be paid as if you’re working full time. However, the work is so secret that you will need to perform a hypnotic induction to forget what you’ve done each Sunday after it occurs. If you agree, click the following link and watch the induction presentation.”

It sounded ideal—work one day, and be paid for a full week? The hypnosis thing was strange, but she knew that the defence department was a strange place to work. She clicked the link. Her screen filled with white static, and she watched, and soon she had forgotten she had even watched it.

Of course, the Backdoor Program had nothing to do with employment in the defence department. It was a program set up by high ranking male members of the armed forces to use cutting edge military subliminal conditioning technologies to allow them to fulfil their fetish for raping lesbians.

Every Sunday, Tiffany found herself rising and dressing sexily, putting on lipstick and high heels, and shortly thereafter the man who had interviewed her in the hotel would arrive at her house. She would know—know, deep down, that this man was her husband, and that she was his trophy wife, and that that was as much as she ever aspired to be in life. And she would know that a trophy wife has four duties, and four duties only—to look pretty, to sexually service her husband, to cook and clean for him, and to bear his babies.

She would spend each Sunday morning cooking her “husband” a meal, and then she would strip naked and suck his cock while he ate it. After he had cum in her mouth, she would tell him all the ways she had been a bad girl over the week—all the slutty lesbian thoughts she had had, and all the times she had argued with a man or failed to be submissive. And then he would spank her tits or ass, or whip them with a belt, until he felt she was adequately punished, and she would thank him adoringly for correcting her.

Then she would spend the afternoon trying to get him to impregnate her. Sometimes they would just fuck like rabbits on her queen-sized bed. Other times she would have to cocktease him and degrade herself until he deigned to fill her slutty womb with his cum.

Finally, at the end of the day, she would regain her knowledge of who she normally was, what she normally believed, exactly how she normally felt about men, and what had just been done to her. The light of comprehension would come on in her eyes, but she would still be unable to resist or disobey her “husband”. At this point, he would take her for a final time, violently raping her as she struggled.

When he was done, he would say to her, “Hush, little slutkitten,” and the trigger phrase would make her go blank. She would lie where she was until he had left the house, then she would, in a trance, tidy away all evidence of how she had spent the day, and once that was done she would come to full consciousness, her memories of what had just happened replaced with vague ideas about having gone to a defence base and done classified work. She would sit, satisfied with her productivity, and wonder why her tits and pussy hurt so much.

As time went on, and the weekly rapings continued, the hypnosis introduced other memories for Tiffany. An entire fiction took shape in her head—the thought that she was going out at night to nightclubs, and fucking anonymous men and letting them cum in her. The thought revolted her, and she couldn’t understand why she was doing it. She would cry when she thought about it, and punish herself for being a slut by pinching her nipples or clitoris.

Finally, after two months of fucking her “husband” and forgetting it had happened, Tiffany took a pregnancy test and found that she was pregnant. She immediately knew that the father must be one of the anonymous men she had so inexplicably seduced, and knew that this was all her own fault for being a whore. She cried all day.

The next day was a Sunday, so her mind blanked and she became a good little wife. When her husband arrived, she said happily, “I’m having a baby!”

Her husband laughed. “Good girl,” he said. He spent the day enthusiastically fucking her, and when it was over he said, “Now that you’re pregnant, I’m going to get a new wife, Tiffany.”

Her eyes went big and round and plaintive. “Why?” she asked.

“Because you’re a stupid little whore,” he said, “and because I want to leave you like this and move on and knock up a new lesbian.”

She wanted to cry, but this explanation made sense. Of course her husband deserved to have a new lesbian slut now that she was full of baby.

“You’re going to carry that baby to term, Tiffany,” he told her. “And when anyone asks you how you got pregnant, you’re going to say that you fuck a lot of men, because you’re not really a lesbian, you’re just a slut.”

Tiffany nodded. It made sense. It was probably true.

“You’re going to need money to be a single mother,” he told her. “But the only way you’re going to allow yourself to be supported is from being a prostitute who fucks men, a stripper who strips for men, or by letting a man who sexually degrades and abuses you pay your bills.”

Tiffany nodded again. She was so glad her husband had a plan for her finances.

“And lastly, you’re going to milk your tits every day until they hurt, to help your milk come in faster, and once you start lactating you’re never going to let yourself stop. From now on you will only ever refer to your breasts as your slut-udders. If you see any man looking at them, you will ask him if he’d like to play with them, and let him do whatever he wants with them if he says yes.”

That was only fair, Tiffany thought. Men deserved to play with her slut-udders.

“Oh, and after I leave, this wife persona will go away,” her husband finished. “You’ll remember you’re a lesbian, and you’ll know what’s been done to you, and you’ll be aware even as you’re unable to disobey these suggestions. But you’ll never be able to tell anyone that any of this wasn’t wholly your own choice, and you’ll behave as though the things you’re doing are things you want to do because you’re a slut. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Good girl,” he said. And he stuck his cock into her pussy one last time, and then said, “Wife Tiffany can go away now. Lesbian Tiffany, wake up.”

And as her eyes went wide with comprehension and horror, he pushed his cock deep inside her and enjoyed ejaculating in her lesbian cunt one final time.

(END)