The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday Casey kept Brenda out sick. In the mornings he told her to stay in bed and sleep, and of course she obeyed. In the evenings he woke her when he returned to her apartment and she was all over him, eager to carry out his every lascivious command, begging for his orders, offering herself in every imaginable position and style. He happened to glance at the calendar on the refrigerator Thursday night and gave a little start of surprise. “Brenda!”

“Want to fuck me?” she asked impishly from the doorway. She was stripped, as usual.

“This says Cara’s due back tomorrow!”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“’Bout five P.M. She and Dave are flying back from Colorado—”

“Listen,” Casey said desperately, “we’ve got to do something. She’s bound to notice how different you are.”

“How am I different?” Brenda asked, pouting a little, her face showing a kind of childish puzzlement. She didn’t seem to notice that she was stark naked, stroking her tits with her left hand and fingering her slit with her right.

“Trust me on this,” Casey said. “Okay, listen. Sit down here. Here’s some paper. Here’s a pen. You’re going to write a note to Cara, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell her you’ve met a guy and fallen in love with him. Uh, tell her that the two of you are off for a while and, and you’ll call her. Tell her—what are you writing?”

He read over her naked shoulder and groaned. Brenda had jotted down a bright little note, all right: Dear Cara, I’ve met a guy and fallen in love with him. He sticks his cock in my pussy and makes me swallow his cum when I suck his dick. . . .

“No!” Casey said. He crumpled up that sheet and said, “Write just what I tell you, okay? ‘Dear Cara, I’ve met a guy named Casey Brock at work. I’ve fallen in love with him, and—and he loves me—”

He cleared his throat. Why had it clenched like that? Why did he have the absurd urge to weep? He had just wanted to get hot Brenda in the sack, that was all. He didn’t love her. Though it was hard not to feel something toward her, the same kind of indulgent fondness a person might feel toward an absolutely loyal pet. Still, it would be more convincing to have Brenda write it. “Uh, okay, he loves me. We’re spending some time together, so don’t worry about me. I’ll call you and make sure you got home okay. Love, Brenda.”

Obediently, Brenda copied out his message.

“Okay,” Casey said, running a hand through his hair. “Now let’s get you packed. You’re going to have to move in with me for a while.”

“All right,” Brenda said. “But first, please, fuck me?”

Friday, because he didn’t know what else to do, Casey let Brenda come back to work, but he carefully coached her to behave as though she were recovering from a bad case of flu. She acted the part splendidly, and old man Tesson readily agreed to let Casey continue to help her. “He’s wonderful,” Brenda said to Tesson, just as Casey had ordered her to do. “In fact, I’d like to have him as my permanent assistant.”

Tesson frowned. “Brock? I’ve never thought of him as a very motivated worker, but I have to admit he’s done a good job covering for you. Okay, we’ll try it. I’ll tell him.”

And so a few minutes later Casey moved his desk into Brenda’s office. She was delighted, and while he went online to gather some statistics for an upcoming project, she slithered across the carpet on hands and knees, came up beneath his desk, and gave him a hell of a good blow job. He groaned.

That afternoon, as soon as they were off work, Casey led her back to the little curio shop. Today seemed to be green Hawaiian shirt day for the wizened little shop owner. They found him deep in conversation with a burly young cop. A nervous Casey pretended to browse among the mandrakes and the hands of glory until the policeman finished his business and turned and left the store.

“Here you are again,” the shop owner said. “Forgive intrusion of police. Protection money.”

“Huh?” Casey asked.

“Hundred dollars a month.”

Casey darted a glance toward the front door, but the officer was long gone. “You have to pay the cops a hundred dollars a month for protection?”

“Shit no!” exploded the old man. “He pay me! What you think, I crazy?”

“Oh,” Casey said. “He gives you a hundred a month, and you—what? Give him a potion?”

“Ruck,” the old man said.

“What’s—”

“Good ruck,” the old guy explained impatiently. “Like, punk have gun on him? It jam. Drunk driver try to run over him? Driver go blind, miss. I give him good ruck.”

“Ooh, Casey, I really, really like this,” Brenda said. “Buy it for me?”

Casey looked at her. She was holding an ivory carving in the shape of an erect penis. A very large erect penis.

“You have good taste,” the old man said. “That bring comfort to whole generations of Empresses and their daughters.”

“Put it back!” Casey said, and Brenda did.

“He that big?” the old man asked her with a wink.

“Oh, no!” Brenda held her fingers about six inches apart. “Casey is only—”

“Shut up!” he yelled.

“Hee, hee, heee!” the old man creaked. “You want him that big, I got a potion—”

“Listen!” Casey interrupted desperately. “There must be something I can do, some way to, to bring Brenda back, to make her—herself.”

“You think?” the old man asked with an evil leer. “Why you want?”

“Because I—I don’t want her to be this way!” Casey said angrily. “I feel guilty, okay?”

“Hmm.”

“I do,” he said in a quieter voice. “I didn’t at first. I just wanted to—to take her. And she’s a fantastic lover, I’d like to keep that, but, but—but I want her back, dammit. There has to be something you can do.”

“No,” the old man said. “In sober, objective fact, there is nothing at all I am capable of doing to change Brenda, Mr. Brock. I am not saying, mind, that there is nothing that can be done, only that I cannot do it. Perhaps there is a possibility, though I must admit that in many years of experience, I have never heard of anyone overcoming the effects of the potion. Still, there are all sorts of exotic liquids in the world, and it is barely possible that you may find the one that will restore her sense of herself. But ask yourself, sir, is the trouble, after all, with Brenda, and not with yourself? Consider: You have made a choice without pausing to consider all of the consequences, and that is always a mistake. Is it not written, ‘Any path may be crooked or straight, depending on him who walks it?’”

“Wait a minute,” Casey said. “How come you’re talking like that?”

“Talk like what? You crazy fellow! Think about what I say! If you truly feel guilt, you truly think deep on what I say, huh? Then maybe you learn to feel something else in time.”

That evening the lessons began. # They were lessons in a course Casey designed, one that he might have called “Brenda 101.”

He was trying desperately to teach her to be herself.

Brenda was, all in all, a wonderful student, willing, eager, happy to be corrected, rapturous when praised, absolutely devoted to pleasing her teacher. Early on, Casey could see that she was not going to be her old self ever, not completely. She’d never be the Ice Queen again, not when she melted at his every kind look or word. And she adored cock now. In fact, her reward for making progress in the ‘how to be normal’ lessons always involved a good fuck or—something that absolutely made her weep and then scream with ecstasy—a long, lazy session of cunnilingus. Casey discovered how sensitive she was down there, how the delicate folds of her labia would inflame her whole being at the slow tease of his tongue. She tasted, well, wonderful, fresh and faintly salty. When he gave her an orgasm that way, he reduced her to quivering gratitude, and then she was fervent in her desire to do anything—anything—to please him in return.

Evening after evening he re-trained her, and by the first of March he was convinced that people in the office no longer thought she was acting strangely. They attributed whatever little oddness they saw to the lingering effects of her illness. Bad bug, they told each other.

Several times that week Brenda had called Cara for long phone conversations. Casey pumped Brenda for information about Cara and about how the two of them spoke to each other, and he discovered that Cara was a considerably freer spirit than Brenda. Cara Tauhiti was of exotic descent—her grandfather had been a Tahitian sailor who had wound up marrying an American girl in Hawaii—and she worked as a researcher for a law firm. She had a boyfriend, Dave, but their relationship had been a little rocky lately, because Cara suspected Dave of cheating on her. Hence their Valentine’s make-up trip to Colorado. And one other thing: Cara loved to talk.

That was fortunate. Especially during the first phone conversations, with Casey listening in on an extension and giving Brenda cues on how to react, Cara had carried the weight, telling Brenda not only how she had gone skiing for the first time in her life but also how Dave, with some medical help from a little blue pill, had fucked her four times during the vacation.

“Four isn’t very much,” Brenda had burst out. “Why, I—”

Casey shook his head frantically, and she changed gears smoothly: “I know that when you guys first started dating, it was more like four times a night.”

As days went by, Cara began to ask when Brenda planned on coming home again, and she grew increasingly critical of Brenda’s evasive replies. Casey gnashed his teeth and gave it. They’d have to prove to Cara that her roommate was happy with her new boyfriend, not being held under duress. Although, come to think of it—no, Casey preferred not to think of it.

That Saturday night, Casey, hoping for the best, took Brenda back to her apartment, where Dave and Cara were joining them for dinner. Cara took a man’s breath away: dusky, dark-eyed, black-haired, full-lipped, her face promised wicked intimacy. She was full-breasted, a little shorter than Brenda but a lot bustier. Her dark brown eyes gleamed as she inspected the man who had finally made an impression on her coy roommate. “Hi, Casey,” she said when Brenda had introduced them. “You must really be something. I thought Brenda was going to turn out to be like a nun or something.”

“We just clicked,” Casey said.

David showed up not long afterward, a jock type, built like a linebacker, solid and wide. He tried to crush Casey’s hand when they shook. “What’s to eat, Babes?” he asked.

“Steaks,” Cara said shortly, and Casey glimpsed the disenchantment she was starting to feel with Dave. “You and Casey sit down and watch TV or something. We’ll get the meal ready.”

They turned on the TV and Dave, without asking, found a sports channel. “All right.” He turned it up too loud, Casey thought. But a second later he found out why. Under the cover of the blaring sound, Dave said, “So you’re nailin’ old tight-ass Brenda? Man, you could do better than that!”

Casey said, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Now Cara, she’s a real fuckbunny,” Dave leered. “Hell, we were in Colorado last week, and we musta done it fifteen times in one week, no lie. She loves it!”

“Really? Well—I think I’ll see if I can help set the table,” Casey told him.

The steak was good, juicy and tender, but Casey found the meal a strain. For one thing, Cara obviously was angry at Dave for some reason, and their conversation had that maddening elliptical quality of an argument being carried on just beneath the surface. For another, Brenda kept reaching beneath the table to stroke his cock through his jeans. Once when Cara and David were wrangling over whether or not steak sauce was required, Brenda leaned close and whispered, “Do me right now.”

Cara’s head flicked toward them. “Did you say something?”

Casey reached for the bread. “Uh, she wanted another roll,” he said. “Here you are, darling.”

After dinner, Dave suggested a movie, Cara pled a headache, and Dave left, grumbling. Casey helped the girls clear the table. “Sorry it wasn’t more of a fun evening,” Cara said. “The bastard’s cheating on me again. Or still.” She poured herself a glass of white wine, held it in her right hand, and held her left arm across her chest, just under her breasts. “So this is the real thing with you guys, huh?”

Casey smiled and shrugged. “Can’t get enough of Bren,” he said.

“We fuck a lot,” Brenda confided, giggling.

Casey felt his face turn red, but Cara just chuckled. “Enjoy it! Casey, I warn you: You mistreat Brenda and I’ll nail you somehow. You’d better not let me hear about you running around on her.”

“No,” he said.

She drank her wine, then sighed. “I really do have a headache. I’m going to bed. Have fun, you two.”

Brenda wanted to make love, as she always did, this time doggie-style, with her bent forward over her bed, him standing behind her. She whimpered with pleasure as he gripped her hips—she had a really gorgeous ass, springy and round—and pounded into her tight, hot, wet slit. He told her she could come, forgetting how much she yelled. He closed his eyes, knowing that Cara, whose bedroom shared a wall with Brenda’s, must be hearing it.

He stayed until well after midnight, drilling Brenda—no, not that kind of drilling, coaching her—on how to behave all the next day. On Monday she would come back to his apartment, but he felt it would be just too weird not to let her stay at her own place with her roommate now and then. Obedient Brenda promised she would be a good girl and that she would stick to the conversational subjects Casey prescribed.

He went home alone, hoping that she would remember. # Odd how empty his apartment felt all the rest of that night, all the next day, all Sunday night. He had become so used to romping, randy Brenda that her absence was like a hole in his heart, an ache he couldn’t ease.

He called her Sunday afternoon to reinforce his training, and she fingered herself to orgasm while talking to him. He groaned, wondering what life was going to be like from now on. It was as if he had been saddled with a toddler in a lush, grown-up, demanding body. Everything was new, and Brenda had to learn it all from scratch.

Monday came, they were reunited at work—literally, fifteen hot minutes on the floor of their office—and at the staff meeting at ten they received a very challenging project. It was a far more complex job than anything Casey had ever handled, requiring counseling an old and stodgy firm that wanted a complete redesign of their business model. He hoped he could handle it. These days he felt light-headed from loss of sleep, and low on energy. Well, no wonder.

But Brenda could help now, a little, and together they spent the rest of the day putting together a plan for tackling the project.

That night they made love three times, like newlyweds, and finally Brenda fell asleep still joined to Casey. She lay sprawled on top of him, her head nestled against his throat, her soft breasts flattened on his chest, his flaccid cock still barely contained in her pussy. He could smell her sweet breath, could feel the long heat of her. His throat ached again from guilt and regret.

What had the little guy said? “There are all sorts of exotic liquids in the world, and it is barely possible that you may find the one that will restore her sense of herself.” But, damn it, he was no alchemist, no magician.

“I’ll have to go back to the shop,” he told himself. And he would have to offer money, as much as it took. He’d get it somehow or other.

As long as he could restore Brenda in some way.

As long as he didn’t have to give her up.

If both could be managed.

He stroked her bare, smooth back and, cursing his own thoughtlessness, he drifted into sleep.