The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Shayla’s heart was practically choking her. After a more proper introduction, the design student scrambled to make herself look busy while Nick took Emmie, the chipper Temple freshman, all around the espresso bar. He was showing her the nooks and gadgets required to sustain the operation. She was showing off some jolly cleavage and feigned determination.

“This nozzle here, you should always use that towel to clean it off whenever you’re done steaming milk. If you’re not careful, it can crust over and it just, well it looks gross.” Emmie crinkled her nose and giggled as if the supervisor had just complimented her. Shayla sighed as she put honey into an extra large cup of Ugandan Priestess, squeezing the bottle like a stress ball. They both saw her doing it.

“Whoa, don’t take it out on the honey!” Nick teased, and Emmie positively cracked up. The two of them joined her at the condiment island. The new girl peeked into the cup of coffee, standing on her tiptoes. This was certainly no big deal, as she was already wearing sour apple green heels. It was entirely an excuse to shove her pert ass in Nick’s face, and to prove she could buddy up with her superior.

Shayla could feel the electricity from his doubly concentrated gaze, and though she was confident her butt was bigger and nicer, she wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need to compete. She needed to relax and figure all this stuff out, the stuff that was making her body rush and her head feel all goopy. She wouldn’t be able to get anything of the sort until about midnight. A clock struck in her brain. Midnight.. midnight.. of course, free drink time!

“Why do you put honey in your coffee, Shawna?” Emmie snickered, as if it was an idea way too low and dispicable for her constitution. Normally, Shayla would fire right back, but she had other things to worry about. Like why she had kissed her manager or when she would even get him one-on-one. To.. talk about it. “My name is Shayla,” she said, stirring the coffee wildly, “and if you don’t like honey, that’s your own thing. I don’t like your shoes!” She lied. They were certainly randy, if a bit overwhelming, especially compared to her own ratty Pumas. But they complemented her tight aqua shorts tremendously. Why didn’t Nick make her put on a uniform?

“Well, that’s just mean! Why do you have to be such a meanie?” The blonde girl pouted, her glossy lips gently falling together, kissable despite all sense. Shayla saw that tears were welling in her eyes. Come off it, you bitch, she thought. “A very nice boy bought me these shoes,” Emmie pressed on, trying to soldier through the hurt, “and I wear them all the time. When I’m out walking my little Reeby, when I’m shopping, sometimes even when I’m fuh—”

Nick laid a gentle slap on Emmie’s shoulder and loudly interjected, “Agree to disagree, girls, we have work to do! Shayla, I want you at the register while Emmie and I clean up that grout.” He motioned toward the sink. “Emmie, go get a rag and meet me over there. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.” Shayla briskly wiped down the front counter case and cleared the readout on the cash register, happy that Nick had given the new girl the dirty work. She hadn’t had a second’s pause after restocking the straws before three scruffy, tubby businessmen in their forties, real cigar smoking types, came in. Without hesitation, one with a soulpatch and trying-to-be-hip nerd glasses, to avert any eyes from his ponderous belly, began yammering away his order.

“Three medium cappucinos, please, and go a bit easy on the foam, sweetmeat,” he demanded, and instead of firing back or grabbing Nick, she just smiled, pretended she didn’t hear anything, and turned around to start the espresso drip. Shayla reasoned that if Royce wanted to show that Café Prosperosa that it could be more like a nightclub, she ought to just placate her clientele. Plus, she could have heard wrong. The Miami bass music felt like it was moving in time with her heartbeat, and she just knew that the men were talking about her with her back turned, but she couldn’t hear a thing except for “You’re my dreamboy / you show me your love in every way / you’re faithful to me everyday / Now I know that dreams come true.” She wondered why she couldn’t plug her iPod in like any other day. It was okay, though. She didn’t mind the songs. They were silly and fun and sort of reminded her of writing naive love letters and decorating her Trapper Keeper.

Bending down to retrieve the milk from the cooler underneath the espresso machine, she was met with a blast of cold air that belied the growing heat of the music in her. It felt amazing and she wasn’t prepared for the feeling. She had to grab hold of the fridge to keep from toppling backwards because of it. It was too good. Maybe if these burly businessmen saw her piqued nubs, they’d shut up. They had been saying all sorts of things about her, hadn’t they? Shayla could feel ghost cackles as she started to heat the milk. She gently let the foam fall down into the cups, and was happy that her nipples managed to remain erect, her whole breasts seeming a tad bloated even. She was stressed out and it showed! Nice. If these guys were wanting to play, Shayla’d show them she was the star of the show.

“That’ll be $10.88, please,” the barista demurred, discreetly thrusting her chest forward. The man with the soulpatch held his wallet in his hand obliviously, without opening it for a half a minute while his eyes were locked on Shayla’s pointy protrusions.

“What can I get for thirty?” he asked, and his two buddies giggled. The brunette ran her fingers through her hair and put it behind her elfin ears. She didn’t get the joke. She started to look the menu up and down, thinking of things to sell the man without seeming like she was shilling.

“Well, if you’re in the mood for something light to eat, we—” Shayla was startled to see she was being shushed by one of the friends. The touch of this man’s finger on her lips sent her spirit to spin. She didn’t even think twice when his finger roamed down her neck and hefted what little breast she had. She let out a tiny coo and raised her head to meet him. He had a double chin vaguely hid by a fetid goatee, but that didn’t stop her from lunging for his tongue and retreating, teasing back.

You don’t need to do this, you just want to do this, she tried telling herself, but failed to convince her body. In the back of her mind, she considered the possiblity of being fired by what she was about to do, but that measly notion was smothered by her need to kiss. She licked her lips and tasted the light coat of honey on them before going to town and landing a sloppy kiss on this likely pervert. It was sopping and juicy and lasted for over a minute. The sink was still going, Emmie and Nick hard at work, none the wiser.

Wii-style fireworks went off in her brain, and her heart felt like it was bearing down to the balls of her feet. She was aching for more, but was sure these men would ultimately come back. Just keeping the customer happy, she barely thought, and said breathily, smacking a teensy dollop of saliva away from her teeth, “You know, I’m a café girl, I can’t make a habit of this.” Shayla’s eyes caught the crotch of the man and let a weak hand flounder over the counter for his zipper.

Now, she couldn’t even hear what was going on in her mind, if it was telling her to slow down, if there was anything bubbling around in it at all besides images of pink canopy beds and prancing unicorns. The ever-loudening Italodisco track pounded into her like.. well, like a sleek, tough horsey-cock: “Hot girl, hot girl / I’m satisfaction, baby / Hot girl, hot girl / I’m dynamite / Hot girl, hot girl / I’m satisfaction crazy / Hot girl, hot girl / Take me tonight.” Sure, it wasn’t anything like a Clinic or Broken Social Scene song, but when did any of those indie albums she vainly purchased on vinyl record ever make her feel anything like this? She made a note to start writing down the artists of the songs. She didn’t want to be without this music!

While locked in another vulgar super space-kiss, she put her free hand on the man’s hip and, with the other, almost managed to fish his dick out of his Brooks Brothers. Shayla was on absolute cruise control when she heard a boisterous, lispy voice resounding from the other end of the coffeehouse. It was Royce! She scrambled to hide her hands back behind the register, like she had been caught rifling through his financial records.

“Hey, Brian!” the café owner called out sunnily to Soulpatch. The grubby guy just hurriedly winked at Shayla with the implicit knowledge to remain hugh-hush, and handed her a fifty. “Keep the change, you’re a growing girl.” As she humbly blushed at the vaguely mysterious comment and attempted to give back some forty-odd dollars, the friend that she had very nearly stroked placed a business card in her hand and clasped it shut around the money. His touch flowed over her closed fist like a sexy summer breeze. As the men each exchanged handshakes, she ran, crumpled papers in hand, to the bathroom.

Shayla locked the door behind her and her body heaved in half-humps against it. She had never felt this good, this playful, this horny in her whole young life! Sure, she had dated graphic arts majors and college radio DJs, and her friends agreed that they were all cute catches, but for how handsome and cool they were, they had never shown the audacity to just simply grab a tit in public (to be honest, though, she didn’t have anything to grab. Or did she? The fat man certainly squeezed something.) Not to mention they wouldn’t have the cash to lay down forty bucks for a tip, which brought her to wondering why they were treating her like she was some toy.

Not that she took offense, really, she simply never received attention like that before. And that hot little nymphet that strolled in earlier to steal her thunder after smooching Nick! What a fucked up shift! Shayla snuck two fingers underneath her buttoned jeans and past a pair of oatmeal-grey cotton panties. She bucked her hips up and collapsed against the bathroom door, landing on her cushy Central American butt. Shayla wasn’t surprised at how wet she was, not in the least. She rubbed and teased until finally, unconscious of how they wound up there, her pants and underwear were laying lazily on the floor.

She daydreamed Nick bending her over the ice cream chest, hammering into her while she drooled all over the treats. Between pokes, she was fixing herself a cone of lemon sorbet, which morphed into a big black cock once she took her first lick. It was undoubtedly Randall’s, the Big Bouncers bartender. For someone who only performed oral only about a half dozen times in her life, her fantasy gag reflex was good enough to enter into the world of competitive throating. It was the most pleasantly earned agony, to have her holes filled to the brim like this. Her ass shivered. There was something missing. Who was there to inject some love into her apple bot—

A knock. A stupid knock that broke her. Shayla scrambled to throw her clothes back on, forehead burning with pink sweat before she reasoned a withered, “Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Emmie!”

Shayla wiped her face. “I’m almost done.” She held up a boob and inspected it in the mirror. While she wasn’t as adequately equipped as the ditzy co-ed calling for her, she had to admit she had a teensy bit more jiggle than she had come into work with. She still didn’t even look like a college freshman, but now she looked like a slight high school frosh and not a sixth grader. What on earth was happening to her? “What’s up?”

“Royce wants to see you, like, immediately!” said a worried Emmie. Shayla could almost feel her vapid face eagerly pressing against the other side of the door. Her excited heart immediately sank, fearing the worst. Fearing certain termination. How could she be so careless as to be gunning for a guy’s dick at the cash register? That wouldn’t even be comfortable!

“Okay, tell him I’ll be right there.”

“I think it’s about those guys you just served,” the blonde said through the crack before backing away from the door. Serving was her job, though, wasn’t it? Surely her top boss hadn’t seen all that happened, had he? And if he had, there weren’t any other customers currently at Café Prosperosa. For all he knew, that guy could have been her dad. Wait, Shayla cloudily quizzed her rationale, how would that make any sense at all? Her brain couldn’t manage much else, though: it was tired and frantic, trying to keep up with her smoldering and overactive body. Her nipples just couldn’t stay down. She giggled and headed back into the coffeehouse.

“Shayla!” her boss Royce exclaimed from behind a laptop, with the sort of smile steeped in fakery that only a gay bodybuilder who ran a Center City coffeeshop could emit. “Do you know who those men were?”

The stunned girl could only dimly venture a stunned guess. “City councilmen?” She thoughtlessly picked a wedgie out from her corpulent crack and laughed softly to herself. Even that was unbearably arousing!

“No, Shayla, darling, sweetie!” He let out an exasperated harrumph. “Those are friends of mine, they’re very important investors from a local nightclub. I’m about to sign a deal with them and I can’t have you screwing it up. Where is the money?”

The barista’s head was swimming so much that she genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. He continued on, “Brian said you walked away with about forty dollars worth of change.” He threw his hands up. “Did you honestly think you wouldn’t get caught?” Nick and Emmie were still scrubbing the sink. Emmie was looking in her direction and tittering with an annoying clipped chirp of a laugh.

“They said that was my tip!” Shayla argued meekly. She looked over at Emmie, who was using her favorite t-shirt, that she wore into work, that was her only change of clothes from this ridiculously exposing tank top, that was a vintage eBay find for almost sixty dollars, to clean kitchen mucus and afterbirth from the putrid sink! She could already see stains smearing across it. That stupid fucking bitch, she thought.. She had no time to worry about it now. Royce was as livid as a beaming grin could be.

“Well, they’re waiting in a limo on the corner of 17th. It was an honest mistake, I know, and I’m not mad at you, but they asked respectfully if they could have it back. So, could you?” After giving his veiled order, he returned his gaze to his laptop. He seemed really into whatever he was looking at. When did he get an iPod? He was always against that. One of the pitfalls of paying top dollar for a substandard satellite radio feed for your café was the feeling of superiority to all other music devices. Having said that, whoever picked out these songs knew what the most blazing dance tracks entailed: corny, smoldering sensuality. She was sure she was born after any of them charted, but it didn’t matter. It was like unlocking a door made of flesh. Luckily Shayla noticed her mouth was ajar before Royce did.

Without any further hesitation, she bounded out of the store and rounded the corner in what seemed like four seconds. She felt unstoppable. And there it was, a stretch limo, beeping at her. She stopped dead in her tracks. Something didn’t feel right to her. Then the window lowered, if barely. A nondescript hand motioned for her to get inside. Shayla looked around to see if anyone was looking, then, despite her better judgement, which popped up briefly for the first time in what felt like weeks, she opened the car door and met the gazes of the three businessmen. They were seated with their hands either folded on their laps or mildly expectant, cupping their knees. Soulpatch was sitting by himself while his two friends occupied the seat across from him.

Shayla felt uneasy as she took the seat next to him. These men didn’t do anything to ease her concern. They just sat there motionless and expressionless. She reached into her pockets for the money.

“Don’t!” interjected Soulpatch. “Don’t bother, that’s your tip.” The business card flew out and dropped to the floor of the car. It was another one from Big Bouncers. A little tinge of something began to broil in the girl. For the first time she tried to fight it with all the reserve she had. “Don’t lose that, either.” She put the card back in her pocket even though she felt a bit sour that this jerk was ordering her around.

“Who are you?” Shayla asked. The man she kissed earlier chuckled across from her. All of her body heat was concentrated in her T-and-A. She wished it would just stop. This wasn’t like her. She motioned to get up, resigned to forget what had happened, ashamed of her roving limbs. She was immediately forced back down by a strong hand. It was difficult to see what was going on now that the overhead light had dimmed. There was no seeing out into the street. The car picked up and started. Shayla was beginning to get more than a little afraid.

“We’re recording specialists,” someone in front of her pitched. “We remix songs in accordance with specialty club guidlelines. You look like a girl who likes music,” he placated.

“I do, actually,” Shayla offered, “but I have to ask. If you’re an independent firm, why did you hand me a Big Bouncers card?” She felt proud that she could put these dudes on the spot. She tugged at the tanktop where it pulled against her ribcage.

“In this city,” Soulpatch began his sale, “we all work together. From the barback to the street sweeper to the upstart Wi-Fi company, everyone is indebted to Philadelphia and Philadelphia is indebted to everyone. They are merely a client of ours, sure, but Big Bouncers happens to be the first nightclub to utilize our music technology.” Shayla could only sarcastically guess what this meant. Just thinking of the music set her to twisting in her seat. “Your café is trying it out and.. well, let’s just say you are opening up to the audio advances more than we have ever seen in test subjects. Coffee?” The bear of a man held open a freshly uncapped thermos. The hot smell of Ugandan Priestess pierced through Shayla and gave her a rushing feeling in the arch of her feet. “Here, have some.”

The girl grabbed it with both hands and took generous gulps, letting the stuff dribble onto her tight top. She couldn’t help it, she hadn’t had any in like twenty-five minutes! She had to remember to take some home. “So,” she eased, her wet mouth bubbling a bit, “What are these ‘audio advances’ you speak of?” She didn’t mind these guys really. Even if they were creepy, they still addressed her in formalities that let her know she was appreciated. On the same tip, she had to let them know she wasn’t stupid. “Four on the floor fuck control?”

At this point, the cigarette that one of the men across from her was smoking flicked out of his mouth from an abrupt guffaw that couldn’t be held in. Sparks flew onto his seat and he brushed them off in wild crushing pursuit. It was the first time any of the men had broken the mood. Soulpatch laughed haughtily in artificial admiration of the girl’s sense of humor.

“It’s true, we do want our clients to host people who keep dancing and want to do so, but we try to concentrate on synth bass and drum kicks that are scientifically modulated to make people feel good.” He put his hand on Shayla’s jean-clad thigh. She took it off. He tickled her and she squirmed away from him. “It’s not your fault you’re, what we call in the business, ‘supersonorous’.”

She took another big gulp, choking the delightful drink down. “It makes me horny if that’s what you mean,” she admitted, though she sort of wished she hadn’t. She wondered how she could be mad at these guys. Sure, the car was speeding through what felt like the interstate at an alarming clip and she couldn’t see a damn thing, but at least they were kind enough to give her a mug of coffee. And they let her keep her tip! She could afford a new pair of shoes. Maybe ones like Emmie had! she thought.

“Well,” Soulpatch conceited, “I wouldn’t really say that our sonic product makes those who listen to it.. excited.” He looked straight ahead as if to look for some help from his buddies, who could not be seen. “While it’s true we are always in search of that perfect rhythm that makes people crave drink and act out amorous impulses, I don’t really think we necessarily put anything in people that isn’t already there.” Shayla burped. It sounded good to her. He put his hand back down on her thigh. She put her hand on top of his.

He put the window to the driver’s seat down. “Roger, if you could put on the third track please.” The window rolled up without any recognition from the chauffeur. The bass and sampled voices exploding from the speakers made Shayla liquefy. Some woman with a rather loose handle on the English language sang about something fun. This was the same song that was just playing in the coffee club! It felt like there were fourteen different speakers blasting the song. With such proximity, Shayla could detect subtle things in the way the woman was singing. She was definitely singing about wanting to get fucked by some hot boy, but it just sounded like she already had a dick in her. She could imagine grinding to some hunky guy with this music playing. She felt she should definitely show some love.

As the first verse started, the light in the limo started to gently slide on in increments. In the dimly lit backseat, she could plainly see that all eyes were on her. This thrilled her. Even if she was some weird experiment to them, their attention could not come unglued. The singer sang, “Boy, I’m looking for a good time / Love whatever’s on your mind / Play my game, no hesitation / Feel your body close to mine.”

“What is this music?” Shayla asked.

“This is Sabrina, an Italian pop star from the 80s,” offered the man who kissed her at the coffeeshop. “It’s a little cheesy, but we feel it’s a.. crowd pleaser.” She laughed, recognizing she had good taste to smooch this funny guy. She was getting into him all over again now, goatee or not. She stood up and was relived that Soulpatch had let her do so. These guys were so nice! And the music they remixed was UNBELIEVABLE! She had been taught to look down on strippers, but here she was, unzipping her fly and shimmying off her jeans, doing a booty dance.

“Sabrina,” she muttered sultrily, “Sabrina.. I’ll have to make a mental—ooh!” She giggled in a hyper-consciously girlish way. Someone had taken her tank top off. Thank God. Now her little boobies would start to get some relief!

“This music’s amazing!” She couldn’t stop dancing. The lights dimmed again, and Shayla could feel the men closing in on her. Ooh, look at them, they’re giving me such nice protection! Anonymous hands greedily grabbed and prodded until the electricity in the girl was enough to power an entire continent. She was waiting for someone’s dick to come out. The wait made the music feel better somehow.

10:48 p.m.

Shayla slowly started to pick up her heavy head. A cigarette was burning and almost finished in her right hand. The music men, whose company name she hadn’t caught, had dropped her off outside Café Prosperosa about ten minutes beforehand and now her head was beginning to pound. The funny thing was, she felt exhausted and even a bit achey, though she couldn’t remember doing much besides sitting and jawing about recording and sound mastering techniques. Jawing.. jawing.. She worked her jaw. It hurt to open her mouth too much. Oh, well.

An even more disconcerting fact was the absence of her jeans. How in the world did it take her so long to realize she wasn’t wearing any pants? And wasn’t she wearing her grey panties before? Where did these silken boyshorts come from, anyway? She ran a finger or two along the width of them, admiring the way the flattering cut emphasized her legs. She brushed against the chill of her pussy, which was oddly submerged in all manner of some soaked stickiness. Those men were cool, but yeesh, mused Shayla.

Still, she stuck her middle finger in her, disregarding downtown. Shayla looked up from her throes of passion to find a homeless man brown-bagging it across the street on the church stoop. He was smiling blankly and had a visible tent in his sweatpants. God, she thought, I must look like more of a tramp than he does! She considered the fact that she was sitting outside a city café fingering herself in hot pink panties and a coffee-stained tank. She quickly reasoned she didn’t need to give this poor guy the wrong impression (though it looked like he packed some serious weaponry), and headed toward the door of Prosperosa, silly and half-naked with a saucy smirk that was painted on.

However late she was from her impromptu break, and however half-naked she was, she considered how worse it would look if she simply didn’t return at all. She picked up her step when she heard some guttural sounds coming from the bum. Her ass was swaying back and forth and she felt like it was made out of some gelatinous light. Man, it’s hard to run in these heels! She paused, letting a buttock jiggle to its descent. I have heels! So cool!