The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Two little packages, wrapped neatly in brown kraft paper and tied with a bit of twine, were waiting on Janet’s doorstep when she returned home. She scooped them up without so much as a thought and stepped into her home, the heel of one palm pressed against her forehead in an attempt to ward off the headache which had been nagging her since early afternoon. Her body whined for something the way it used to whine for coffee, years ago. Back then, the moment she recognized any kind of chemical dependence, she went cold turkey?—switched to the healthier, less caffeinated green tea. But that was a Janet from previous days. This one wanted to find the source of her yearning and take control of it. Grab it by the horns, whatever that meant.

It was probably sleep she craved, anyway. Sleep and a good fucking.

Owen had been busy while she was away at work. She’d been clear with him upon departing, that morning. “When I get home this place will be spotless.” She’d tugged him by the collar, extending her jaw and spitting orders through her teeth: “No stains. No smell. Respect the living space.” He’d nodded.

Still, though, she was surprised to enter the foyer and find her orders completed to the tee. No smell, already, but she further noticed that things had been tidied up, here and there, which had been off kilter since before Owen’s descent into Cuddyhood. “Owen?” she called through the darkened kitchen. “You home?”

Nothing. The kitchen itself was spick and span, put together just the way the Janet or yore would have appreciated. This Janet, though, was less excited by the state of her countertops and moreso by the prospect of someone following her orders without hesitation?—by the prospect of getting what she wants.

“Hello?” She padded down the hall toward the bedroom, half expecting (and not exactly dreading) a repeat of yesterday’s primal revelation. “Are you jerking off to?—”

Nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. An open window and steady breeze ensured the bedroom presented fresh and clean, the mattress having been stripped of its sheets and evidently scrubbed down (judging by the lemon-pledge which lingered in the air). Janet now noticed the distant chug of the washer and dryer?—they must’ve been running all day. What caught her eye, though, was what Owen had laid out dutifully at the foot of the bed: organized by size, small to large, was the collection of “marital aids” Janet had purchased on her way home from work, yesterday. She’d completely forgotten about them, having left the bag on the kitchen counter before discovering the state of her husband’s degradation and succumbing to a frenzied overnight encounter.

A leash. A ball-gag. Two vibrators. A prostate massager. Six buttplugs of various sizes, colours, materials. A strap-on dildo. Four “realistic” dildos, only one of which looked like an attempt at a human phallus. And last, two fleshlights. One item missing, she noted: the “Cuddy” collar.

The upright wife was embarrassed to have made such an impulsive, needlessly large purchase. Embarrassed that Owen had stumbled upon this stash without giving her a chance to justify or downplay its variety?—it felt like she was revealing a newfound vulnerability.

Shuffling from outside, behind the screen door leading to their fenced-in backyard. “Owen?” She exited the bedroom, eyes lingering for an extended second on the smaller of two fleshlights.

Janet stepped out onto the back deck to find that it was empty, though there was definitely evidence here that something had been up while she was away at work. The entire contents of their 10′×12′ shed?—a lawnmower, a stack of rakes, various baskets and an old, empty rainbucket?—had been tossed out on the lawn. The shed itself was closed, but its lock hung loose, clicked open, and there was the persistent sound of movement shuffling out from inside. Confused, she descended the steps and crossed the yard, kicking aside the large paper yard-waste bag which blocked her entrance, swung open the door without knocking.

Light streamed in, and the woody smells of a barn wafted out?—straw, dirt, and sharp ammonia. Owen was plopped unashamedly upon a six inch deep layer of grass clippings, miscellaneous dry organics (gathered over a year of weeding the garden), hands and knees, naked as the day he was born. He raised his eyes, adjusting to the light, grinding half-masticated grass lazily between his molars. “Hey honey,” he spoke through the greenery, “how was work?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Owen had, apparently, more energy to spend even after following his keeper’s orders. Through some instinctual or creative impulse, he’d emptied the shed and turned it into a little barn?—Lord knows for what purpose. There’d been enough yard waste to line the whole 120 square feet with soft, organic clippings. And from the smell rising from the soft floor, it seemed he hadn’t hesitated to use them the way they’d been intended. His darkened penis hung heavy between his thighs?—hairier than they’d been before. It dripped something, but from here where she stood, she couldn’t tell what.

Janet somehow felt she should be angry. Was that an appropriate reaction to this kind of surprise? What “kind” of surprise was this, anyway? Was there a word for it?

“Owe?—” she stopped herself. “Cuddy.”

His eyes brightened at his new name, and what her tone intuited. There was more than one way of dealing with anger, aggression, and Janet’s headache made the prospect of yelling more of a punishment for her than it would have been for her husband.

She dropped her work pants to her ankles but left the rest of her disheveled self unstripped. Stepped in and closed the barn door behind her. “Don’t you dare cum before me.”