The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Carol sat in front of the expensive dressing table, gazing at her image in the mirror. She could almost imagine someone else looking at her, thinking there was nothing strange about the scene. She was brushing her hair. It was long, brunette. It almost shone.

One hundred strokes, twice a day.

ninety-seven

Carol knew how to look after her body. It was the most important thing she had.

Not that it was really hers. She’d been bought and sold. Bought by Colin Patrick. She was his.

She was owned.

Patrick didn’t have to tell her to take care of her looks. Carol knew that it was part of the deal. He gave her money for clothes. Gave her a nice place to live.

Nice?

It was better than nice. It was a mansion. Once, she’d told herself she’d never live anywhere like this. Her room was bigger than the apartment she’d shared with Janice.

ninety-eight

She hadn’t seen Janice in weeks, not since that last night at their apartment. Hadn’t spoken to her. That was part of the deal too. Patrick hadn’t had to tell her. Carol just knew.

But she had this room, and wonderful clothes. And expensive jewellery.

And in return all she had to do was keep herself looking beautiful and let Patrick fuck her whenever he wanted.

It was a whore’s dream come true.

I want to be a prostitute.

She was a prostitute.

Carol watched her reflection as she pulled the brush through her hair again.

ninety-nine

I’m a whore.

Carol knew it wasn’t only whores that brushed their hair. That would be ridiculous. Or even only whores that took care of their appearance. That would be ridiculous too. But she knew what she was. So, she imagined, would someone who was watching. The see-through negligee, white and frilly, the skimpy underwear clearly visible underneath. Who sat and combed their hair dressed like that? The makeup. Not overdone. Patrick didn’t like it when she had too much. But obvious just the same. Ruby red lipstick, the eyeshadow, the mascara highlighting her cheeks. Who would look like that to comb their hair?

A whore.

Carol knew that she was a whore. It was what she wanted.

One hundred.

Carefully Carol placed the brush on the dressing table. Like everything else in the room it was expensive. The furnishings. The decorations.

Her.

Carol didn’t know how much Patrick had paid Mrs Bowen for her, but she knew the madam wouldn’t have let her go cheap.

I’m an expensive whore.

That still made her a whore.

Carol looked around the room. Four white walls. Its basic shape was about all it shared with the cell she’d occupied on Copeland’s boat. It was so much bigger, its contents so different. Yet in some ways it was the same. She was trapped here. Maybe more trapped than she’d been on the boat. Then she’d wanted to get out. She’d schemed and planned how to escape. She didn’t need to scheme here. Didn’t want to make any plans. The door was unlocked. She could walk out that door any time she wanted to. Go down the stairs. Walk out the front door of the mansion, never return, never look back.

Carol didn’t want to leave. Not in any way that mattered.

She wasn’t that strong anymore.

Maybe she never had been.

As when she’d been in the cell on the boat here Carol did what she was told. There it had been repeat the words Copeland had given her. The words that had warped her life. Warped her mind. Here it was whatever Patrick told her to do. Keep herself pretty. Appear when he wanted her. Disappear when he didn’t. Let herself be fucked by him when he wanted to.

Like a whore.

She was Patrick’s whore. Only his. Maybe she was his mistress, but that was just a pretty name for a private whore.

I used to be a policewoman. Carol knew it was true, but the idea was odd, foreign. She could hardly remember how she’d felt then. She’d been strong, driven. Hadn’t been desperate to be fucked.

The opposite of what she was now.

Patrick had fucked her on her bed last night. Hardly for the first time. Carol had cum, her back arching, hands clawing at the sheets as she cried out his name. It wasn’t the only place in the mansion that Patrick fucked her. It didn’t matter where they fucked. She came, screaming, every time. She’d taught Patrick how to make that happen.

Carol smiled at the memories of the night before as she turned back to the mirror. She loved it when Patrick fucked her. She was his whore.

There was a slight smudge to her mascara. She picked up a brush, corrected it. She always had to look her best.

That was part of her role.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Carol said.

“Are you finished with your breakfast Miss Chambers?” the maid, Maria, asked, her face professionally blank. Carol knew what the servants thought of her. They thought she was a whore. Carol didn’t object. They were right. But Patrick insisted that they call her Miss Chambers. It almost made her smile.

If she was his mistress he would make the servants call her Miss Chambers. But she was still a whore.

“Yes, thank you,” Carol replied, the woman taking the tray and departing. Not that Carol had eaten all that much. She knew she had to watch her figure. Sometimes she ate breakfast downstairs. With Patrick, and Patrick’s daughter Ellen. Ellen thought Carol was a whore.

I want to be a prostitute.

But this morning Patrick had left Carol’s bed early. Sometimes he did that. Even so she needed to be ready whenever Patrick might want her. Carol knew it wasn’t likely, not in the middle of the morning. Patrick would be out running his empire. Once Carol would have wanted to know what he did. Would have been thinking about how to discover his secrets.

It didn’t matter now.

She wasn’t a policewoman. That wasn’t her role, not any more. Now her role was to be Patrick’s pretty, compliant, whore.

Carol was good at playing her roles.

Maybe it’s the only thing I am good at.

That, and being a whore.

She’d already showered. As she did every day she’d shaved her legs, her arms, under her arms. Everywhere else Patrick wanted her to. He was precise about that. Made sure she knew exactly what to do. Before her shower she’d done her stretches and exercises. She needed to take care of herself. That was part of her role too.

And Patrick owned her body, so he could tell her what to do with it.

He had paid for her after all.

My body belongs to the man who pays me.

I’ll let any man who pays me do anything he wants.

The words were just memories. But their meanings were part of her.

After her shower Carol had slipped back into her underwear and negligee while she was getting ready. She’d imagined that maybe Patrick might come back. Wanting to fuck her. Carol would have liked that. But it hadn’t happened.

Carol lifted the negligee over her head and off. Stepped into a skirt that was lying on her bed. It wasn’t too short, the weather was cool now. But it was tight. Then a top, cut low and revealing. She checked her makeup and hair again. Nothing was out of place. Being able to put on clothes and take them off without touching your makeup or hair was a good skill for a whore to know.

Carol was a good whore.

She was ready now. She opened the door of her room. She was allowed to do that. She didn’t spend that much time in her room, not really. Although in some ways she never left it.

“Is the car ready?” she asked the man standing outside. He wasn’t there to keep her in. There were very few places in the mansion that were denied to her.

“Yes Miss Chambers,” the man replied. Even Patrick’s bodyguards called her Miss Chambers. Carol almost thought that was funny too. They knew what she was.

The man, Micky, held open the door of the limousine as she stepped in. Then closed it after her and headed for the front passenger seat. She didn’t have to tell the driver where to go. He knew. It was Wednesday. Wednesday meant manicure and trim. She wondered if the women that fussed over at the salon knew what she was. A pretty, pampered, whore. Or the attendants at the spa. That was Fridays. Or the women at the boutiques where she shopped.

Did they knew they were dealing with a whore?

Carol didn’t think much about it. Even when she was back at the mansion she didn’t think about it. Even with most of her days filled with primping and pampering and caring for her body and shopping for clothes she had some time to herself. She could have read a book or watched television. No-one would stop her. But she didn’t. Those things would have required thinking. Whores didn’t need to think. Whores just needed to make themselves look pretty.

A mistress was just a whore in more expensive clothes.

If Carol thought it was about what clothes she might buy the next time she was allowed to go shopping. Or when Patrick would fuck her next. That was easy to think about. Carol liked thinking about that. It made her feel good. Almost as good as when Patrick did fuck her.

After she returned from the salon Carol simply waited for Patrick to want her again. To fuck her.

She never had to wait very long.

He’d fuck her again tonight.

Carol was sure of that.

The thought made her smile.

“Whore.”

The word wasn’t spoken aloud, but Carol could recognise it from the shape of the lips.

She’d seen those lips form the word often enough.

“I hate you.”

Carol knew the shape of those words as well. She could understand why the girl would feel that way. What thirteen year old wouldn’t? When their father installed a whore in their house. A pretty, made-up, whore. Even with the girl’s youth Ellen had to know what was going on between Carol and her father.

If Patrick had brought home a girlfriend she’d have probably received the same reaction from the girl. Carol didn’t know when Ellen’s mother had died. Wainwright had never mentioned Patrick’s wife, so Carol assumed it wasn’t too recently. But even so Ellen had to be missing her.

A whore was far worse than a girlfriend. A mistress was just as bad. A mistress was owned, paid for. Carol knew what she was.

“Whore.”

Carol almost heard the word that time.

“What was that Ellen?” Patrick demanded, his face a thundercloud. Carol knew what that look meant. He’d only hit her once, but it was enough.

“Nothing,” the girl replied sullenly.

It could have been any family breakfast. A man, a woman, a sulky teenager. Seated at a table. Eating. But it wasn’t. Not many families had a servant waiting quietly in the corner or ate in the opulent surroundings the room boasted. It wasn’t the dining room. But even the mansion’s breakfast room was large, its glass doors overlooking the sweep of lawn at the back of the mansions. The lawn that had hosted Patrick’s garden party. Where Patrick had first flaunted his possession of Carol.

Carol smiled thinking of that.

“It sounded like something to me,” Patrick grumbled. “Be nice to Stephanie. I want you two to get along. Is that so hard?”

Carol didn’t know what to think about that. What father wanted his daughter to get along with his whore?

“Maybe she can take you along next time she gets her hair done,” Patrick suggested. “You could use a trim.”

“She’s not my mother!” Ellen cried springing to her feet. “She’s just a…” Ellen stopped herself, glared at her father before storming out of the room.

“You’ll have to forgive her,” Patrick said. “She misses her mother. I’ll talk to her later.”

Carol would have forgiven Ellen anyway. Living with a whore couldn’t be easy for the girl. But Carol couldn’t understand why Patrick wanted his daughter to have anything to do with her. Even if she was Patrick’s mistress it made no sense to her.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her place to question. Not her role.

It didn’t look like it was Ellen’s either, the girl waiting resentfully the next time Carol was due at the salon. The appointment had had to be changed to a Saturday so it didn’t interfere with the girl’s school attendance. Ellen didn’t say a word to Carol the entire trip, either staring out the limousine’s window or glaring at her, her mouth forming the word.

“Whore.”

Carol could only agree.

Patrick fucked her that night too. He fucked her every night. Carol wanted it. She was a whore. She was his. She wanted to be fucked.

And Patrick was paying her, or close enough as made no difference.

Carol loved being fucked by someone who was paying her. It was what she wanted.

“Thanks for taking her with you,” Patrick said.

Carol hadn’t expected that.

“I liked her hair cut,” the mobster continued. “Was that your choice baby doll?”

It had been, the girl refusing to co-operate, the salon staff turning to Carol in despair.

Carol had no idea why Patrick was thanking her.

She just wanted him to fuck her again.

The last thing Ellen had said to her after they arrived back at the mansion had been “Whore.” She’d hadn’t mouthed it that time. She’d waited until everyone else was out of earshot and then just said it, before turning and running to her room.

As Patrick started up again, her own body singing in response, Carol couldn’t disagree.

Despite Ellen’s opinion, as the weeks rolled into months Carol was beginning to think that whore wasn’t exactly her role. Maybe she was something more. She hadn’t really believed that was possible.

Mistress.

Carol knew that better described how Patrick was treating her. She also knew there wasn’t much difference between mistress and whore, not to a man like Patrick. She’d been bought and paid for. Patrick fucked her whenever he wanted. But a whore was something you used and disposed of.

A mistress was something you kept around.

She was definitely being kept.

It didn’t matter much. Her role was to do what she was told. Keep herself beautiful. Be ready to fuck.

The sort of mistress Patrick wanted was just another name for a whore.

Carol wanted to be a whore. Patrick was giving her money. In return she was letting him fuck her. She was still a whore.

Carol wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

I’m a whore.

But if Patrick wanted a special type of whore Carol could do that. She’d play her role.

She was always so good at playing her role.

At first he’d kept her hidden away when anyone visited the mansion. But then that changed. She’d be commanded to appear. Carol knew what he wanted. She was so good at judging that. She would hang on to his arm. Smile when he kissed the top of her head. Lean against him. Little touches. Maybe subtly rub herself against him. To show how much she wanted him. To show how dependent this beautiful woman was on him.

It wasn’t an act. Even if it was part of her role. Carol did want him. She wanted Patrick inside her. Needed it. She wanted Patrick to fuck her.

But if she had to play the role he wanted, then that was what she’d do.

Like tonight.

She needed to get dressed. Patrick expected her downstairs soon. Carol always did what Patrick told her. That was her role.

She’d been given a beautiful blue dress to wear, one of Patrick’s bodyguards delivering it that morning after the mobster himself had left. Of course Patrick had fucked her last night. What else was he going to do to her?

But now she had to put on the dress. Sometimes Carol got to choose what she wore. Although even then it was the type of things Patrick wanted to see her in. Always clothes that showed off her figure. But sometimes, like tonight, he chose. Carol wiggled into the dress, put on her high heels, checked her makeup and hair again. Nothing was out of place.

She almost didn’t look like a whore now. Not with the dress on. It was stylish and expensive. Something someone who lived in a mansion like this might wear. It reached more than halfway to her knees. And while it was tight around her body its neckline was no lower than someone going to an exclusive party might wear. The makeup looked right with it. Even the heels weren’t out of place. Carol didn’t look like a whore.

But she knew that she was. Maybe that was all that mattered.

Patrick was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Carol knew how to walk down those stairs. One hand on the bannister, the other casually by her side. Each step considered, but graceful, almost languid. Each one designed to draw the eye to her legs, to her body.

Carol knew what was expected of her.

Patrick smiled up at her. “Hello baby doll.” He rarely called her Stephanie. Carol didn’t mind. She still had trouble not laughing when the staff at the mansion called her ‘Miss Chambers’. She knew what they said behind her back. Caught the looks they sometimes gave her. She didn’t say anything. Why should she? They knew what she was as well as she did. But Patrick insisted they show her respect.

Maybe she was his mistress. An ex-policewoman who was the mistress of a mobster. Who loved getting fucked by him. Carol knew that once she would have hated what she’d become.

The only thing she hated right then was that she’d have to wait until later that night for Patrick to fuck her.

Carol tilted her head back, accepting the kiss Patrick offered. She wanted it, a thrill running through her body. She wanted what it promised. That he’d fuck her again. She wanted that so bad. But even as one heel lifted off the floor, her knee bending, high heel rising, she placed both her hands on Patrick’s chest, not letting the kiss go too deep. She didn’t want her makeup ruined. Not because it mattered to her. If Patrick wanted to ravage her, smear her lipstick all over her face, have her mascara running, then that’s what she’d let him do.

But she knew that it wasn’t what he wanted. Not tonight. So she held him back.

“Our guests will be here soon,” Patrick announced after they broke the kiss.

Carol knew what her role was for the night. To be decorative. To hang on Patrick’s arm. To look good and say nothing of any importance. Make Patrick look better because he had someone as gorgeous as her to display. To show that she’d do everything that was expected of her and nothing more.

She could do that. Carol was always good at playing her role.

Patrick led her to the door as the first guest arrived. Tony Pagnotto, another mobster, like Patrick. Not as powerful, but important just the same. Carol hadn’t met this man before, but Patrick whispered his name in her ear. She recognised the name, from the life she’d had before Copeland. When she’d been something different. When she didn’t feel like there was an empty void where something like strength used to be.

There’d be more guests coming, some Carol knew, some she didn’t. They’d have dinner. There’d be no business discussed. Not in front of their wives and girlfriends. Not in front of her. That would be for other times. She knew that meetings like that went on in the mansion. Once Carol would have been dying to know what was discussed at them. Would have been trying to find any excuse to overhear them. Maybe plant a bug in the room. She knew that Wainwright would give his left hand to know what was being said. Knew how much the captain would have valued even knowing who was here tonight, what it said about alliances between the rival gangs of the city.

That wasn’t who Carol was now.

It wasn’t her role.

That part of her wasn’t there anymore.

“Hello Mr Pagnotto,” Carol said, “I’m pleased to meet you.” Her voice was bright, her welcome sounding sincere. She knew that she’d heard those words before. She remembered Copeland teaching them to her. They were the words she’d been supposed to use when she met who she was going to be sold to.

Pagnotto looked at her, ran his eyes over her. Did he know what she was? Maybe he’d heard. Maybe he’d seen her at the garden party, so many months before.

Maybe he just knew by looking at her.

Carol was sure that so many of the women did. The wives and girlfriends who had accompanied the other guests. She doubted any of them were mistresses. Mistresses were something you had in secret. Like seeing a whore.

Carol was sure that she was the only whore at the table.

She could see the accusation in the women’s eyes. They didn’t say anything. Patrick was the most powerful man at the table. They’d know not to say anything. But Carol could sense it just the same.

Whore

Carol didn’t care. She was a whore. She was Patrick’s whore. So she laughed at his jokes. And smiled. And touched his arm. Leant against his shoulder. Let him put his arm around her, his hand running up and down her side. Not too provocatively. Not anywhere near as much as she would have liked. But enough to have her squirming in her chair with need.

Carol moaned, softly, when Patrick’s hand grazed the side of her breast.

When Carol thought it was what Patrick wanted she offered comments, even if the other women at the table ignored her. Once or twice Patrick glared at them. Carol almost smiled at the green tinge that came over their features. And how they grudgingly responded to her after that.

Carol realised that she meant something, even if only by association. If she was Patrick’s mistress then everyone else had to allow for that. Patrick was too important. An insult to her would be an insult to him.

It would take someone very brave or very stupid to insult Colin Patrick.

It looked like there wasn’t that much bravery or stupidity around the table.

Some of the women even took Carol’s hand as they were leaving. Carol didn’t think there was any friendliness in the gestures. But she marked them down as the smart ones.

That’s what Patrick’s mistress would do.

Carol was good at playing her role.

But judging his guests wasn’t the most important thing.

Sometime after the guests had all left Carol was on her hands and knees on the dining room table, her beautiful dress and expensive underwear reduced to a pile of rags from Patrick ripping her clothes off her. That wasn’t the most important thing either. The most important thing was that Patrick was fucking her. If the guests had still been there, still seated around the table, they’d have known exactly what she was.

“Oh God, yes,” Carol cried out, feeling Patrick’s length filling her, her back arching in response, her spine tingling as her head threw itself back. He pulled back, her hands bunching in the expensive tablecloth at the loss. Then Patrick was thrusting forward again, long, confident, strokes. Holding her on edge, his hands firmly on her hips, guiding her, just occasionally one reaching around underneath her, gripping her tits.

I’ll let any man who pays me do anything he wants.

Patrick paid for her clothes, paid for her food. Gave her a place to live. He was paying her. He owned her.

He could do anything he wanted to her.

Why am I letting him?

Once Carol wouldn’t have let this happen. Once this would have horrified her. Her acquiescence, especially with who Patrick was. What he was. It wouldn’t have mattered how good he made her feel. Carol would have hated this.

But she wasn’t that Carol anymore. Parts of her had vanished. She was different now. Playing a different role.

As Carol came, screaming Patrick’s name, it didn’t matter. She’d been given a role to play. If that role was to be Patrick’s mistress she could do that.

Carol could always paly her role.

Especially if it meant getting fucked so well she could barely think.

Carol slumped to the table as she came again.

Mistress.

Carol rolled the word around in her head, considering it. It was another name for whore. A certain type of whore, but a whore just the same.

Patrick had even started taking her out, just occasionally. To expensive restaurants. Of course he’d choose what she ate. She wondered if the waiters, so formally dressed, knew what she was.

She was a whore.

It was what she wanted.

It was her role.

She was lying in her bed. Alone. Patrick hadn’t come home yet. He did that, sometimes. Stayed out late. Mobsters didn’t keep office hours. Carol understood that, but it didn’t mean that she had to like it.

She would much rather he was here fucking her.

That was one problem with being a mistress rather than an ordinary whore. She didn’t get fucked anywhere near as much. At the brothel Carol would be fucked six, seven, eight times a night. Maybe more.

Part of her missed that.

Living in the mansion it was only Patrick who fucked her. She was his. No-one else was allowed to touch her. Not like that, anyway.

Whore.

Mistress.

If Patrick wanted her to be his mistress she could be that. It meant he would fuck her.

He fucked her better than anyone else ever had.

Carol drifted off to sleep, smiling at the thought.

“Baby doll.”

Patrick was already pawing at her, Carol still half-asleep. It was dark outside. She didn’t know what time it was, didn’t care. It didn’t matter, Patrick could do whatever he wanted to do. The light in her room was on. That meant he wanted to look at her. She sat up in the bed, flicked a lock of hair back over her shoulder and smiled up at him.

Patrick was still wearing one of his suits. But it was ruffled. There was a mark on his shirt.

Blood.

Oh God.

Carol didn’t want anything to happen to Patrick.

He wouldn’t be able to fuck her if anything did.

“Is that?” Carol managed, pointing at the red smear. “Are you alright?”

Patrick smiled at her as he slipped off his jacket. “Don’t worry baby doll. It’s not mine. Someone needed to be taught a lesson.”

Once Carol would have wanted to know who. Would have tried to ferret the information out of Patrick. She knew how useful that information could be to the police.

She didn’t say a word, simply staring at Patrick, wide-eyed.

That’s what he’d expect his mistress to do.

His whore.

Carol pulled her negligee over her head, threw it aside. Sometimes Patrick liked to take things slow. But she could see the light in his eyes. Eager, hungry, wanting her. Had whatever violence he’d indulged in made him more eager for her? Carol didn’t ask. Her place was to do what he wanted, not ask questions.

A good whore knew what to do without asking.

That she was eager as well only helped, need thundering through her. Maybe it was the hint of violence. It didn’t matter. She wanted to be filled. She wanted him.

Even as she knew how wrong that was.

Patrick had removed his trousers now, Carol lying naked before him. His eyes never left her as he unbuttoned his shirt. She knew what those muscles felt like. Knew what they could do to someone when Patrick used them in anger. Knew what they felt like, next to her. Her body was displayed for him, his for the taking. It didn’t matter how much older than her he was. Didn’t matter that there was a hint of middle-aged spread to him. Maybe more than a hint.

It didn’t matter that she’d never have taken someone that old, who looked like that to her bed. At least before Copeland. Patrick looked far better than many of her johns from the brothel. It didn’t matter that he was a mobster.

She was his whore.

Carol smiled up at Patrick, her head angled invitingly, twisted her hips, just a little.

With the raging heat between Carol’s legs and the tight points her nipples had become and the roaring need inside her what mattered was that she wanted him. Wanted Patrick to fuck her. Wanted him to use her however he wanted to.

Wanted him to make her cum.

I’m a whore.

Patrick ran a hand over her torso, cupping her breast, Carol moaning in response, the sound coming from deep in her throat.

I’m his whore.

She was spreading her legs, welcoming him, wanting him. She didn’t know what he’d been doing. Had he beaten someone? Killed them? She wouldn’t ask. She knew it was something to do with his criminal empire. The thought just made her heart beat faster.

That’s how his mistress would react.

He’s paid for me.

The drugs, the protection rackets, the numbers games. Those were what paid for her clothes and her jewellery and her furs.

I used to be a policewoman.

As Patrick thrust inside her that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the way he made her feel. And that she was a whore, paid for, and she was being used.

She didn’t used to be like this. She used to be different. She used to be more. She could hardly remember what was missing. It didn’t matter. Now she simply accepted her place as a monster’s mistress. Didn’t ask what he did, didn’t ask where the money came from. Wasn’t strong. She used to be strong, but she wasn’t now.

Her role needed her to be weak. So that’s what she was.

If it meant she got to be fucked like this, Carol didn’t care.

She screamed as she came, bucking wildly underneath Patrick.