The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Despite my constantly professional appearance and performance, I can tell by the way that Chris Druthers looks at me that he has little regard for women. His name is up there with the partners of Dewey, Howe, Druthers, and Mayfield. He made partner at an obscenely young age. I should probably be ecstatic to have the opportunity to give him his daily coffee, but I’m just left feeling like an untapped resource. I’m a post-grad intern. Post-grad means I know my stuff. It means I’m capable of so much more. I could be a real asset to the company if they’d just take me off the leash and give me some actual work instead of the constant grunt work.

“Angela!” He bellows and I swiftly stand from my desk to duck my head into his office.

“Yes, Mr. Druthers?” I say with a smile, stamping down as much of my pride as humanly possible.

“I’ve noticed you.”

My eyebrows furrow. His deliberate pause sends my mind spinning. What does he mean that he’s “noticed me?” Is that a good thing?

“Your wheels are constantly spinning. You’re sharp. You pay attention.”

“Thank you, sir.” I say and tell myself not to blush at this, the first compliment the man has paid me after two months of groveling subservience.

“I want to trust you with something. It’s a copyright infringement case.”

I feel my eyes go wide. This is it. This is my break. Finally. My heart beats double time, but I try to, demurely as possible, nod for him to go on.

He continues, “I’m going to send you an email link. Why don’t you grab yourself some dinner, head home, and see if you can compile some notes for review with me tomorrow?”

I’m actually smiling, widely, and wonder how he’d feel if I rushed up to shake his hand. Is that too much? Is that too eager? “I look forward to presenting you with my findings tomorrow.”

“Me too.” He says. There’s something off in his delivery. Maybe it’s just that he thinks I’ll fail this little test, that it will prove too much for me. Well, Chris Druthers, you’re about to learn just what Angela Hamilton is capable of. Not coffee girl Angela Hamilton, but the full Angela Hamilton.

I snag a grab-and-go salad and a Coke after getting off the train. I should forego the Coke and avoid those empty calories, but I’ll have time to work them off when I make partner. Mind first, then body. Eventually body. I’m, unfortunately, what a lot of people would call a “Plain Jane.” It’s not like I’m appearance obsessed, so let them call me that. I think there’s someone for everyone and eventually, I will meet someone who will love me for my wit and not the fact that I’m otherwise curve-less and nondescript. One might say mousy, even, and it’s not like I would argue that point. Even a post-grad legal intern knows what fights you can win and which you’ll lose. Reality is reality. You can’t just change reality.

My apartment is about ten feet wide. It’s all I can afford currently and live in the city without a roommate. I have work to keep me company and tonight, I have to focus.

I flip open the salad container and my laptop at the same time and find Druthers’ email.

SUBJECT: Does this look familiar?

Angel,

Be a sweetheart and check out this website. A friend of mine brought it to my attention. He’s a fan and wants to be sure that it’s not in violation of anything. Pick a story and let me know how everything turns out in the morning.

—CD

Other than the fact that he called me “Angel” and “sweetheart,” both of which I can just hear in his demeaning tone of voice, seems like a pretty straightforward assignment. Read. A little bit of research. Copious notes. Present to him in the morning.

I click the link and wind up on some Choose Your Own Adventure story side hosted by The Weaver.

I cross-reference the stories with all existing Choose Your Own Adventure books I can find on the interwebs. No matches for any of them. They fit the building blocks of the titles to a T, but skew their own way.

The Cave of Remaking

Mystery of the Grand Tetons

The Secret of the Box

Slice of Heaven

Journey to Uranus

The Lost Canal

Prisoner of the Master

The Curse of the Pink Cookie

Treasure Trove of Wonder Untold

Invaders of the Nether Realm

Inflation!

I’ll need to read one and take notes. I do my own form of eenie meenie and land on The Cave of Remaking. I click the link and my screen starts to flash weirdly. I wonder if there’s a power surge in the building, but the flickering is short-lived.

The first screen asks for my name. I type in Angela Hamilton and click to move on before even considering using a fake name. Oh well.

From here on out, all of the sections will end with two options to continue.

Do you understand, Angela?

Yes.

No.

I select—Yes, ready to begin the story and take copious notes.

To which gender do you identify:

Female

Male

I select—Female and off we go.

This discovery has really put your archeology skills to the test. In your excitement to push further and your curiosity to delve deeper into this mysterious cave, the rest of your team has fallen behind. You could turn around, but you’ve always wanted to get there first. You look above at an outcropping with carvings.

Angela, can you decipher these carvings:

Yes, even though they’re ancient, you’ve seen their like before

No, this cave is unique and beyond anything you’ve ever studied

Hey. If I’m going to be an archeologist, I’m going to be a badass, well-read archeologist. Lara Croft has nothing on me. Well, her body, sure, but no one has dimensions like that in real life, especially not with a functional brain in their head. In the universal tradeoff, I got blessed with brains, not breasts. I’m okay with that. My brains got me through grad school. Breasts might have gotten me through high school at best.

I select—Yes, even though they’re ancient, you’ve seen their like before.

After the click, I feel something inside my head tingle. Maybe I drank that Coke too fast. Riding the sugar rush, I continue reading.

The symbols swim and start to form in your head so that you can make sense of them.

They read: Beware the transformative properties of the Cave of Remaking. None who enter exit the same.

You laugh, having been “warned off” from many a find in the past. That may work on the less adventurous, but not you.

You press on.

The cave splits into two paths. You shine your light to the carvings atop each of them.

The description above the left cave reads “front.”

The description above the right cave reads “back.”

Angela, which path do you choose:

Front

Back

Why in the world would I want to go back? I just got started and, if that puts me at the end, I won’t have nearly enough information to report back to Druthers with.

I select—Front.

I force myself to sit up straight. Must stop slouching. I know the gravitational pull of my huge boobs can often pull me forward. I guess I’ve always had a couple of things in common with Lara Croft. At least a pair, I think, off the top of my head.

The cool cave air causes your nipples to tent the thin white t-shirt you’re wearing.

The path curves up, a bit, and around a bend. You find yourself at another crossroad.

The description above the left cave reads “decoration.”

The description above the right cave reads “painting.”

Angela, which path do you choose:

Decoration

Painting

Ooh. I shiver as if the cool cave air was actually blowing across me and, sure enough, my own nipples poke through my shirt. Not entirely sure what either of these paths mean, but, if my character is anything like me, she took a painting class in college to relax. When not studying archeology.

I select—Painting.

I tuck some hair behind my ear and my finger dwells on the tattoo I have there. It’s just a series of interlocking rings tucked behind my ear. I have a mirrored one on the opposite side. They’re just a taste of what I have hidden beneath my clothes. My breasts sit above floral shelves of green and red which curve to match their shape, trailing intricate vines down my sides to the top of my hips. Ornate wings cover my back. I like that my tattoos are my little secret. I added one after each year of college, venturing deeper and deeper into an illustrated self. What can I say? I was warned that once I started with my first, I’d keep adding. They were right. I wonder what I’ll get next. I leave my arms alone for professional reasons, but my legs are still a blank canvass, ready to be adorned. Deep breath. Brain, where are you taking me? I’m trying to read and work, not come up with my next tattoo. Though running the vines down the outside of my legs seems like a good idea…

You reach the end of a path and two tunnels which veer off in completely opposite directions.

With no markings at this crossroad, you face a choice fueled only by what you hear. Closing your eyes and straining, you make out two separate sounds—that of flowing water and blowing wind—on either side.

Angela, which path do you choose:

Head toward the sound of water

Head toward the sound of air

Air sounds like an exit, which sounds like an end. I’m not ready for my character to stop exploring quite yet. I feel like it’s just about to get good.

I select—Head toward the sound of water.

Gah! A rush of arousal flows through me. I don’t know what specifically spurred it on but, my god, just shifting my legs back and forth a bit, I feel how wet I am. Warm, wet, and tingly. Any and all stray sex thoughts put me into this state. This is the reason why I keep a couple sets of spare panties on me whenever I’m going to be away from home for longer than an hour. Right now, though, I’m wearing way too much clothes to take care of this situation, so I strip down to just my panties and bra to lightly stroke myself and ride the wave. Might as well explore my own cave while this character explores hers.

Following the path to the water, you discover a crystal-clear pool in a large, spacious cavern. The water looks cool and inviting, especially considering both how warm and how thirsty you are. You could easily slip in to cool down or cup your hands and drink deep.

Angela, what do you do:

Skinny dip

Take a sip

Despite having just stripped down to a near nude state in just my bra and underwear, I find myself equally as hot and thirsty as my adventurous double. Getting a cool drink would be easy enough, if I felt compelled to leave my chair and leave this delightful story, so I think a nice refreshing skinny dip embraces the daring vibe of the story.

I select—Skinny dip.

I’m so glad I always shuck my clothes the moment I get home. The more skin I’m showing, the happier I am. Naked being my natural state, every moment I’m not naked, I’m at least a little bit uncomfortable. Fidgety, even. It’s a shame the law firm I work at has a dress code. Obviously, I try to find new and exciting ways around it. Bra-free Mondays. Blouse-free Tuesdays. Skin-tight Wednesdays. I once spent an entire week getting the same tailor to hike up my skirt an inch each successive day after work. Friday was quite daring, indeed. At that point, it barely qualified as a belt. If someone took count, more people saw my wet panties than didn’t.

You exit the pool calm and refreshed, feeling more like yourself than you ever have before. In this relaxed and open state, a glimmer of something catches your eye. You get your boots on and run towards the source. There, in that specific cave, you’ve found what you were searching for—the golden idol of the cave. Like most idols of significance, this one looks quite phallic and a good two inches in diameter and eight in length. Now that you’ve found it, you can easily retrace your steps backward and out of the cave. The only question left to you is whether you decide to honor the tradition of kissing the idol for luck or simply taking it and returning to the outside world.

Angela, what do you do:

Grab it and go

Kiss it for luck

An eight-inch phallus sounds like a great idea right now and the perfect remedy to the problem of my achingly wet and ready pussy. It seems like the story is wrapping up, though. I should honor traditions because, you know, when in Rome…

I select—Kiss it for luck.

As much as a dick in my pussy sounds delightful right now, one in my mouth sounds even more delicious. Much more than a want, it’s a need. This is, of course, to be expected from someone with a diagnosed oral fixation. I sucked my thumb well through my tweens. Eventually, my parents weened me off of my thumb and onto lollipops. The constant lollipop in my mouth definitely gave boys “ideas,” and once one of them convinced me to go down on him, I was hooked. The classy tattoo just above my ass actually reads “Open mouth, insert dick” in Latin, or at least as close a proximity to it as my artist was able to render grammatically. (Apparently, “dick” doesn’t have a translation, but penis did.) I like to go to the beach in the skimpiest bikini I can find and then let the first guy who asks me for a translation fuck my face. It’s the high point of any vacation. Or Saturday.

Distracted, I realize I haven’t quite finished my story.

I see my final selection before me.

Angela, do you accept this as your story:

Yes

No

Such a fun story and a momentary distraction from my needy mouth, how could I not?

I select—Yes.

I shudder as the story screen goes away and look down to my note pad.

I can’t believe I didn’t take any notes.

I think that maybe, for a moment on Monday morning, Mr. Druthers will be mad, but then he’ll look down and see my bra-free tits shaking violently, hard nips and all, as I bob back and forth on his dick, taking it all the way down, circling it with my tongue… I think he’ll let it slide. I just hope he’ll also let me finger my wet and needy slit while I’m down there.