The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As it turns out, I didn’t need the tracking chip to hunt down my blonde. On Arthur’s collar was a tag, and on that tag was a phone number. A 10-second Internet search told me where my blonde lived and that her name was Gwen.

Following that stunning first performance on the isolated dirt path, I’d mulled over what to do about Arthur and Gwen. Arthur was my main priority, of course. He was far too large to keep in my little home, and I wasn’t about to take him to the pound. And while I was curious about how my wife might tackle a Great Dane—or maybe both Arthur and Gunther at the same time—I wasn’t certain how the two dogs would get along. The whole thing might turn into a fight in my living room, with my wife getting scratched up or worse. And I wasn’t sure how her regular persona—her daylight mind—might explain away actual, unusual, physical damage to her body. So for now, Arthur was staying on the acreage with a farmer I’d made contact with a few months ago.

And me? Well, after three days of thinking it through, I decided on a plan. My work with Gwen and Arthur had gone so well that I couldn’t help but try to follow up. So, right now, I was standing at the end of the walkway up to Gwen’s front door, wondering if I could go through with it. Meeting Gwen, that is. And starting out on an entirely new endeavor.

The late afternoon Sun warmed my head. A metallic navy-blue mailbox shone reflected heat on my forearm. But the rest of me was cold, especially my hands. My heart raced and stomach swirled. I had a plan, but I had no idea how it would go.

Fortune favors the brave, I thought. Don’t be a pussy. I remembered the old joke: “Why does everyone think pussies are weak? Those things can take a pounding.” I can attest, through all my observations, that they can. They really can.

With Arthur’s collar quietly jangling in my right hand and what looked like a black key fob in my left, I walked the 57 paces up to Gwen’s front door and rang the doorbell.

As I waited, I took in the place. Beautifully manicured lawn, flawlessly weeded rock garden, cowbirds warbling overhead. And this house—it was maybe five or six times the size of mine, and gloriously gabled. Gwen had money, lots of money. Her own? Someone else’s? I didn’t know. I know nanobiotechnology; I know how to set up and broadcast webcams to the perverts. What I don’t know is how to learn about people, and I don’t trust anyone else to do it for me. So in approaching Gwen, I was mostly flying blind.

Nobody was coming to the door. After maybe 30 seconds—which felt like 30 minutes—I rang again. This time, after a few moments, shadows shifted behind the frosted glass. Then the door cracked open, and a face appeared. “Yes?”

Gwen. But not the confident, triumphant Gwen I’d watched gallop down the trail, a near Valkyrie. This was a devastated Gwen, a fallen Gwen. Her eyes were red-rimmed and baggy, her face drawn and wan. Angry vertical scratches scuffed up her right cheek from where her head had lain while Arthur mated with her and then dragged her backward on his knot. And her hair, normally golden and sleek, was frizzed out and unwashed. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“Um—hi,” I said, and I gave my name. “Are you Gwen D_____?”

“Yes,” she said. “What can I do for—”

I raised Arthur’s collar to her eye level and pressed a button on the faux-fob. Throughout her glands and nervous system, billions of nanites suddenly became very busy. “I hope I have the right place. Does this belong to a dog of yours?”

Gwen gasped, then swallowed. Only part of what she was feeling was shock. She opened the door a crack more. She was clutching a red bathrobe closed. “Wh-where did you get that.”

“Over on the M_____ Forest Trail. It belongs to a dog I found while hiking. He was all alone.”

“A dog,” she said, eyes darting in alarm. “You didn’t bring a dog here, did you?”

“No. Arthur’s at a friend of mine’s. He’s really big. I didn’t want to bring him until—”

“I don’t own Arthur,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t, I mean, I don’t own any dog. No dog. You’ve made a mistake.”

I frowned. “But this phone number, on the tags.” I jingled the collar while pressing the fob-button a second time. Gwen gritted her teeth and clutched both the door and the bathrobe more tightly. “It’s your phone number, right?”

“You’ve made a mistake,” she said. “I don’t own—”

“Arthur,” I said. “His name is Arthur. He’s a magnificent Great Dane.” I pressed the button a third time and held it.

Gwen winced as if a migraine had hit. That’s not what she was feeling, of course. “Not my dog, I don’t own a dog, please leave—”

“Ma’am,” I said. “Are you okay? If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look well.” All the while, I kept the collar jingling and held the button.

Gwen flushed as sweat bloomed over her face. Her eyes were fixed on the collar. “It’s the flu,” she said distantly. “Flu. I’m sorry. Please go.”

“Right. I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. I’ve obviously made a mistake.”

Gwen nodded, but it wasn’t an actual response. She wasn’t paying attention to me, only the jingling collar.

“I guess I’ll be going,” I said.

Gwen said nothing. She’d glazed out. All she knew at this moment was the gently jingling collar in my hand.

For maybe 15 seconds we stood there, me holding the collar, Gwen gazing at it. Then I released the button and turned my back. Gwen inhaled through gritted teeth.

Walking away from the house, I called over my shoulder. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. I hope you feel better.”

Gwen made a strangled sound. Then I heard, “Yuh—yuh, yes.” And a door slamming. I fancied I heard her body slumping against and sliding down the door to the floor.

Just as I reached the mailbox, I heard a repeated, frantic thumping against the inside of the front door. Then over and through that muted thrashing came a woman’s scream. Gwen. There was anguish in that scream, and a genuine horror. But I fancied I heard a third tone in her shrieks—some thing that found its own way free, surprising even her. An animal pleasure she’d felt just once before, a few days ago.

I couldn’t see inside the house, but the blinking blue light on my “fob” told me what had happened. Gwen had just brought herself to a shattering orgasm.

I allowed myself a tight smile. From a pocket I removed two printed photographs of Arthur—a plaintive front view, and a noble side view in which his genitalia just happened to be visible. On the back of both photos, I’d written my name and my cell phone number. I hastily added a third note to the side view: “Just in case you know who owns him.” I placed both photos in the brilliant blue mailbox—ouch, hot—and got back into my car.

I waited there a few moments, watching the front door. I thought maybe Gwen would chase after me and confess that Arthur was in fact her dog. But nothing. Maybe she was too ashamed to lift her head. Or—more likely—she was just lost in the same, doped-up reverie she’d felt after letting Arthur take her on that dirt path.

Before leaving, I took one last look at the house and her yard. God, it was nice. Either she was heavily in hock in a mortgage, or she had enormous amounts of money, or she cohabitated with someone who did. I admitted my envy of her life. Some folks really have it made.