The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Casey Brock came in early that Valentine’s Day. He stopped by Brenda’s desk and set down the tiny little heart-shaped box of chocolates—Brenda couldn’t resist chocolate, but she was mindful enough of her figure to resist a big box.

This one held only four chocolate truffles in all, an assortment of tasty liqueurs with an alcohol content high enough to disguise the spicy bite of the special potion.

Little box of fancy chocolates with a swirly “Be Mine” in gold foil on the top: twelve dollars. Less than an ounce of love potion: seven thousand five hundred bucks. Chance of getting the Ice Queen in bed: invaluable.

The ramshackle little shop that Casey had stumbled across two years earlier was owned, as far as he could tell, by a little old man of indeterminate nationality and a face like a dried apple. It held curios by the dozen, including some darts in glass boxes with stern hand-lettered warnings: POISON! Dried creatures that looked as if they came from another world or another dimension. Glass amphorae with murky, multicolored liquids. Casey had just stepped in to get out of the rain, and wrinkling his nose against the sweetish fug of the shop, he was about to step out again when from behind his counter the old man said, “Love potions are the most expensive.” Of course, it had come out sounding like this: “Lurve possiones arr the mos’ spensi’.” Still, Casey had understood him.

“Really?” he had asked, squinting through the dimness at the scrawny old guy in a faded red Hawaiian shirt. He looked like a mummy on a beach vacation.

“Rilleh,” the old man had replied. “Takes ver’ little, though. Few drops. She will be yours forever. You will control her. Ver’ expensive, though. Seven t’ousan’ five hundred. Take you. . . two year to save that.”

Now how had the old guy known that? The consultancy for which Casey worked paid Christmas bonuses each year. Casey usually pulled a couple of thousand. If he could manage not to spend that . . . yes, he might be able to sock away three thousand five hundred from his regular salary. It would only be . . . somewhat less than a hundred and fifty a month….

Not that he had believed the old man.

Still…the Ice Queen….

Brenda Duane, though a couple of years younger than he, had rocketed up to the rank of Junior Consultant at the firm, the same as Casey. She was gorgeous, with a full bosom, midnight-black hair, and a face like an angel’s carved in ivory. She was also brusque, abrasive, and damned good at her job. She might unbend just enough at holiday time to wish Casey a merry Christmas, but that was it.

Phil, the writer-editor who put the consultant’s reports into a format that the customers could read and understand, had once told Casey that Brenda had suffered an early loss in love that had left her frigid. “I hear that she caught her boyfriend in bed with the girl who was supposed to be the maid of honor at her wedding…which was scheduled for the next day. Since then she hasn’t had any use for guys. She what do you call it, she sublimates all that into her work.”

It seemed to be that way. Casey had often tried to speak to her casually—“Nice job on the Leeds account,” or “That’s a great outfit, Brenda.” She usually gave him a cold silent stare or, if he were lucky, an icy “Thanks.” No encouragement there.

So why did he become so obsessed with the idea of bedding her? He couldn’t say. Nor could he say why he returned to the curio shop after a couple of weeks. “Love potion?” he had asked the old man.

“Seven thousand five hundred,” the old fellow had returned placidly.

“How does it work?”

The old man’s eyes glittered. “You have her swallow little bit. Few drops. Taste is strong, but you could hide it in alcohol. Then she go sleepy, few minutes. While she sleep, you kiss her. Like Prince Charming, hey? Use tongue. She taste your saliva, she bond to you. What you want her to do, she do. You tell her. She cannot stop herself.”

“She’ll want to—to love me?”

“Want, no. Have to. She give in, in time. She love you whether she want to or not. You in control, see. She have to do what you tell her.”

“Anything?”

“Everything.” One of the glittering eyes winked.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“You get money back, but it work. It always work.” Another possible wink. “Maybe you come back for other potions, hey? Maybe you want her to be different. Bigger boobies, tighter pussy? Got those potions too. Not as much as love potion. Love potion hard to make. Expensive ingredients.”

So maybe Casey wouldn’t have gone for it if Brenda hadn’t gotten the promotion to Senior Consultant ahead of him, ahead of everyone. She had been working for the firm for only three years, as opposed to his six and Michael’s eight. But she was the one who got the nod when the department expanded. She was the one who moved out of the cubicles and into an office opposite the copy room.

Somehow or other, that year Casey saved a thousand and socked away his two thousand dollar Christmas bonus. And the next year he saved fifteen hundred and got a Christmas bonus of . . . two thousand, same as the year before. While he knew for a fact that Brenda and the other Senior Consultants got bonuses in the five thousand range.

So on that Friday, that Valentine’s Day, he hovered anxiously until he saw her come in. She wore her usual business attire, a white silk blouse and a knee-length charcoal skirt, three-inch heels which she immediately kicked off, toeing her pair of office flats from beneath her desk. He headed to the copy room with a sheaf of reports and, as usual, found he had to wait in line. He leaned against the doorframe and glanced over. Brenda was unpacking her briefcase. “Hi,” he said.

She glanced at him—God, she had wonderful eyes, blue as sapphires—and nodded. He saw her slip into her chair and reach for a file. Her hand paused. She had seen the heart-shaped box. She picked it up.

Casey’s heart was pounding like crazy. Stupid, he told himself. It will never work.

But she picked up the candy box, turned it to see if there was a note, and then reached for her letter opener. Yes! She slit the shrink-wrap, opened the little box, and studied the four dark-chocolate truffles inside. Then, daintily, she picked one up and popped it into her mouth.

“All yours,” Diane said, and Casey went to copy his stack of reports.

That took all of two minutes. When he finished, he peeked into Brenda’s office again. She sat with her back toward him, apparently reading something on her computer screen. “Hey,” he said, “if you need to, uh, copy anything, the machine’s free.”

She did not respond. Didn’t even glance at him. He saw that her head sagged to the side.

Casey eased into her office and quietly closed the door behind him. It shut with a snick. He locked it.

“Bren?”

No response again. Casey approached her desk, put his stack of reports and copies on it, and picked up the candy box. One chocolate gone, three left.

He reached for the arm of her chair and swiveled her around.

Brenda was asleep, no question. Her eyes were closed, her breathing regular, her lips slightly parted.

Like Sleeping Beauty, he thought wildly.

Prince Charming the old guy had said.

Casey leaned over the sleeping girl, caught the chocolate scent of her breath. He swallowed hard and kissed her. His lips moved, forcing her lips wider. He explored her mouth with his tongue. She made a soft purring noise in her throat.

But she did not kiss him back.

He pulled away. “Brenda?” he asked.

“Mmm. . . yess?” Her voice was a breathy whisper.

“Brenda, this is Casey. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Listen. You’re going to sleep for a few minutes, and then wake up. I don’t want you to think about the chocolates you found. You’ll forget all about them. Listen. If you have any plans for lunch, cancel them. At twelve noon exactly, I want you to come to my cubicle and tell me you have a project you want my help on. You’ll suggest that we go to lunch together. Understand?”

“Yesss…”

“But before you come to my cubicle, you’ll go to the ladies’ room and take off your panties. You’ll hand them to me when you invite me to lunch. You’ll take care that no one else can see you do that. Now I’m going to leave. In a minute or two, I want you to wake up and do your job the same way you always do. You won’t remember any of this.”

She didn’t answer, and he stole away, the remaining three chocolates in his jacket pocket.

Casey could hardly keep his mind on work that morning, but he crunched some numbers, arranged a client report for the printers, and then did some routine data entry. He kept looking at the clock.

At precisely noon, she appeared at his cubicle. “Hi,” she said.

He turned in his chair. “Hi,” he said.

Brenda looked troubled, doubtful. “Uh, I have a project,” she said slowly. “I’d like you to help me with it, I—we should talk about it—talk about it over lunch.”

“Fine,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

Her face flamed, and she held out a flimsy pair of pink panties. He took them from her and put them in the same pocket as the box of chocolates. “How about the Chinese place on the corner?” he asked.

She stared at him, confusion in her blue eyes.

“You like Chinese,” he said, knowing that wasn’t true. “That will be just fine.”

“I . . . like Chinese,” Brenda said slowly. “That will be just fine.”

“Good,” Casey said, saving his data.

They rode down to the lobby in the elevator. Casey hung back, holding onto Brenda’s arm, until the lunch crowd had trailed off ahead. “On second thought, I think we should go to your car and have sex. Don’t you?”

“Unnhh,” Brenda groaned. Then, unwillingly, “Yes.”

Brenda’s car was a new BMW, smoke-gray. The rear windows were darkly tinted. They got into the back seat.

“It was nice of you to give me your panties,” he said. “Pull up your skirt now. Show me your pussy.”

Cool and dim in the car. He sat with his back against the passenger-side door. She sat across from him, her back against the driver-side door. She raised her butt from the seat and pulled the skirt up. He could see her black bush dark under her panty hose. “What are you doing to me?” she asked in a thin, frightened voice.

“Brenda, you know you love to show me your pussy,” he said in a voice of gentle reproach.

“Nnn. . . ahhh. . . .” She writhed, tugged her pantyhose down to her knees. She spread her legs as widely as the restrictive waistband of the garment would allow. Her pink slit opened like an exotic orchid. “What are you doing?” she moaned.

“Just what you want me to do,” Casey said. “You’d like to fuck me now, wouldn’t you?”

“I d—nnn—yess,” she groaned between clenched teeth.

“Undress. Take everything off.”

In the confines of the back seat it could have been a comedy act, but Brenda had a wonderful, supple body. Casey suggested to her that she loved to show herself off to him, and she agreed, though tears dipped down her face as she stripped. When Casey suggested that she was becoming excited, her pink nipples swelled. When he invited her to undress him, she did so with trembling fingers, kissing him, opening her mouth to his tongue.

He sat in the center of the seat and she straddled him, grasping his cock. He whispered to her, telling her she was getting wet, so wet, and telling her to get him ready.

She took her weight on her knees and rubbed his cock head up and down her slit, her juices flowing so freely that they dripped. She lubricated him with her pussy juice, and then at his command she thrust herself down on his rod. He murmured to her, telling her just how to find the right rhythm, and he assured her that she loved it, that she needed this, that she was his play-thing, his fuck toy. She groaned and wept and agreed.

Casey built her excitement, her arousal, to the point where she began to beg, “Let me come, please. I want to come.”

“All right,” he said at last, and she gasped in trembling release, her pussy clenching his cock, drawing his own orgasm on, and he felt his rod throb and pulsate as it shot its load inside her.

“That was wonderful,” he said.

“That . . . that was wonderful,” she agreed in a whisper, leaning against him, her beautiful tits pressing against his cheek.

“You’re going to invite me to your home for the weekend,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please. Stay with me this weekend.”

“You’re going to want me to fuck you.”

“F—fuck me all w-weekend.”

“You’ll suck my cock.”

“Y-yes.”

“You’ll swallow my cum.”

“I’ll s-swallow—swallow your cum.”

“You’ll de everything I tell you.”

“I will.”

“And you’ll love it.”

She was shaking now, and he embraced her, running his hands over her smooth back, over the swells of her buttocks. “You’ll love it,” he repeated.

“I’ll l-love it,” she sobbed.

“Good girl,” he soothed. “That’s my good sexy girl.”