The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I’ve worked sex crimes for about three years, now.”

Gwen and I were strolling along a large pond at a nearby park. Rollerbladers and bicyclists passed, ducks quacked, geese honked, children made children noises. She sipped an iced chai; I just had water. She’d swapped out her black pumps for running shoes—the same ones she’d been wearing when she and Arthur had mated on the path a week earlier.

After Gwen’s confession in my living room, I’d suggested we get some air. I’d played it as being solicitous, as if going outside would help her feel better. The truth? I wanted this agent of the Federal Bureau of Nosy Bastards off my property. I couldn’t chance that one of the so-called freaks Gwen had seen was my wife having it off with Gunther. My wife wasn’t home, but Gunther was in the house, and of course my house was my house. If Gwen had seen any of my work, then she’d seen my furniture and maybe could recognize my voice.

Christ. I’d thought I’d snagged a lawyer or a marketing specialist or some doctor’s wife. Instead I hooked a fed. Be careful what you fish for.

“Three years,” I repeated. “That’s—well, is it a long time?”

“I hadn’t thought so. I’d thought I’d work it for ten years, maybe longer. Now I’m thinking it was way too long.”

“You must’ve seen some stuff . . . .”

She snorted. “Yeah. People are anim—uh. People are awful. I mean, the things that they do with each other. To each other.”

“Do you actually catch people?”

“Sometimes, yeah. I mean, mostly we get the people who have child pornography. They’re so stupid—their computer crashes, they bring to a store for help, the employees find the porn and call the cops who call us. . . . Just dumb. We catch a lot of those.”

“Disgusting,” I said. And I meant it.

“Yeah. But those are the dumb guys. Never gals, just guys. Low-hanging fruit, most of them. But we also try to go after the smart ones. The organized ones, the ones who control themselves. The ones who do it not just for fun but for money. Businessmen.”

“How do you catch them?”

Gwen shook her head. “Sorry. That I can’t talk about. Bureau regulations.”

“Sure. But, you know. You can trust me, Gwen.”

She smiled, and her eyelids grew heavy—sure signs my words had poured just the right cocktail of oxytocin and other useful hormones into her circulatory system. At least that was going right.

We stopped and tossed our empty drinks into a bin. “I know, David. I do trust you. It’s not that. It’s just the Bureau. I can’t talk about it.” She bit her lip. “I’m already in enough trouble.”

“How?”

“You know . . . I mean, after what happened. I’m not—I don’t . . . .” She stared at the pond. “Not Bureau material, anymore. Not after me and Arthur.”

After a silence, I asked: “How’d you get started in the Bureau, anyway? Why that career?”

“My Dad was a cop,” she said. “He went out and got bad guys. I liked that idea, a lot. And that’s pretty much it.”

“But you’re not a cop—”

She smiled. “Bureau pays better. And I went to college. He didn’t.”

“Is he still a cop?”

“He’s dead. Couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Happens,” she said. No sadness. Just acceptance.

“So why sex crimes?”

“College, again. I went to a big university. Lots of partying, lots of women being abused, lots of date rapes. And I was a women’s studies minor. You get to understanding what this world is about for women—how it’s all slanted against them. Against us. It wasn’t fair. So I decided to do something about it.”

I struggled to hide the rage that flared up in me. I’m a pretty even keel guy, and I try to be fair-minded, but I bristled at the bullshit. When a woman says “rape,” what she means is “I would like some easy and responsibility-free money.” And a women’s studies minor. Apparently the FBI will give a badge and gun to anyone with two tits, a hole, and a heartbeat.

Fucking quotas.

So any sympathy I’d felt for Gwen’s predicament burned away. Granted, I didn’t have much to begin with. I’d given her the best gift any woman could have—an orgasm of primal and flattening force. But I’d allow her some sadness, help her through her misguided regrets, and figure out what to do next.

But then I learned she was a fed, so my plan changed. Find out what she knows about me. If nothing, then cut her loose. If something, then . . . figure it out.

But now? If she knew something about me, then I’d still have to figure things out. But even if she knew nothing about me, my wife, Gunther, my business. . . . well, I might not cut her loose, now. Not after mouthing that offensive garbage about date rape and women’s studies. Propaganda designed to make men feel evil for being men and women feel virtuous for no reason at all.

“David? Are you okay? You’re getting awful tense.”

Oh, Christ. My whole body had clenched. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I know what you mean. The unfairness of it. How it’s all stacked against women. It makes me angry, too.”

“I’m glad you understand,” she said. “So you know why I do it. Why I go after the bad guys. It’s about justice.”

We walked along the path in silence, her arms folded beneath her breasts, my hands in my pockets. I fingered my key fob, waiting for the right moment. It came quickly.

A woman jogged by with a black lab. Its balls jangled—not fixed. Perfect. I pressed a button on my fob. Gwen gasped, stumbled, and gripped my shoulder for balance. “Nnnnhh. . . .”

“What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

Her eyes were locked on the dog’s rear. “I . . . no, I can’t.”

“You can trust me,” I said. And she exhaled.

“The dog. That dog . . . oh, God.”

I played dumb. “A flashback . . . like PTSD. . . .”

“Nuh—no. No, not that.”

I gave her a one-two punch. I pressed and held down the fob and said, “You can trust me.”

That did it. She fell to the grass. Her hands were claws gripping the sod. “The dog . . fuck. I wanna. . . . oh, God. . . . Please. . . .”

I snuck a look at her skirt. A damp crease was widening at her rear.

“Gwen. Do we need to go. Get you to a doctor. . .”

“NO,” she shouted. Then she hissed. “No doctor. Please. Just get me out of here. Back to the car.”

“Gwen, the car is at least a mile away now. Can you walk?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Can’t. Du-dog. Doggie. Please. . . please help me. . . .”

Whether she wanted help getting away from the dog or getting the dog inside of her was unclear to both of us. It was probably both.

A man approached us. And not just any man . . . a man with a mastiff. “Hey, uh—can I help you guys? What’s wrong?”

Gwen grunted and keened. Her back arched. I could tell from how she was clutching the sod that it took all the strength she had not to tear her clothes off.

“My friend, she’s in trouble. She’s sick. She can’t move. I need to go get the car. Can you stand guard and keep her company while I get it?”

The heavily muscled canine snuffed the air. He smelled Gwen’s now sopping pussy. He pulled at his lead, hard.

“Um, sure,” said the man, fighting to hold back his dog. “Get the car.”

I moved to leave, but Gwen grabbed my wrist. “Nuh . . . no. Don’t leave me.”

“You can trust me. I’ll be back in—”

“Nooooo . . . don’ leeev me here with th’ . . . with th’ . . . .”

I whispered in her ear. “With the dog?” I said, pressing the fob.

Gwen howled and lost it. Her hands unclutched the sod and wrenched open her blouse. Then she tore open her bra—this was a front-loader—and her tits bobbed free. Smushing them into the ground, she lifted up her ass and pulled down her skirt and panties. Both got caught at her ankles, so she flipped over onto her back, pulled her knees to her chest, and forced them off over her shoes. Her eyes were half-closed and empty, and raspy nuuh-nuhh sounds came from her throat. Then she flipped herself around, spread and lifted her legs, clutched her calves, and aimed her swollen pink pussy at the mastiff’s head.

“Jesus Christ,” said the man. The mastiff pulled mightily at its lead, dragging the man forward. Then it buried a cold, fat nose far into Gwen’s cunt. She shrieked, and then smiled, and then laughed, and shrieked again. And spread herself open farther.

“Goddammit, get your dog away from her!”

“I’m trying,” hollered the man, yanking the leash. “He’s too strong! Help me!”

I gripped the leash farther down and half-heartedly pulled back. The mastiff’s front legs rose from the ground, but its nose remained planted in Gwen’s snatch. Then the dog began licking her labia, and Gwen’s pulled her legs up and wider even more. Her loud yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh noises began.

Dogs are rubbish at cunnilingus. Absolutely terrible. Their tongues are too fat, they have no delicacy, no technique, no style. It makes obvious sense. Our tongues are designed for speech and a certain degree of control and delicacy. But a dog’s? It’s for drinking and panting and rough cleaning. It’s a blunt and sandpapery instrument, and under normal circumstances a woman’s vagina wouldn’t care to have it anywhere nearby.

It was hardly normal circumstances for Gwen, though. She was pretty much just another dog, now.

The man kept pulling, and I pretended to pull. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”

“Her? It’s your dog!”

“She started this! She took off her clothes and . . . .”

He looked sick. Another prude. We kept pulling. And then the leash broke. The mastiff was free and attacked Gwen’s pussy with all the horny vigor of a healthy, happy dog.

The man pulled out his cell phone. “God! I’m calling the cops.”

“No,” I said. “Please, no. My friend, she’s just sick. She needs help. And she’s a cop herself. Please, let me just go and run and get the car. Don’t call anyone.”

I ran off down the path at top speed. Gwen’s antics had been noticed. Parents were rushing their children away, telling them not to look. Some people watched worriedly, dismayed, their hands up at their faces. A few people ran toward Gwen and the mastiff—mostly men, I noticed. At about 100 feet away the path turned, and I was hidden by bushes and trees. I slowed to a walk. No need to get to the car too fast. I wanted the mastiff and Gwen to take some time with each other.

With a strolling and whistling pace, it took me about 20 minutes to reach the car. I hung out in the car, listened to the radio for a while. The Supreme Court was hearing an argument on whether a state law regarding the protection of “personhood” was constitutional or infringed on the ability of women to get abortions.

I listened to the whole report with interest. The whole issue evoked mixed feelings for me. On the one hand, the idea of women having abortions was problematic for me. I’d been raised in a Church, and raised properly. Respect for life . . . innocent life . . . mattered.

On the other hand, it’s been pretty well documented that women tend to trap men by getting pregnant. Abortion is a solution to that sort of deviltry. And, having babies tends to ruin a woman’s body.

Yet another reason I chose to get my wife spayed a couple years back. Takes care of all those problems.

Thinking of my wife tore me from my reverie. She’d be home in a couple hours. I’d promised to cook dinner. I needed to get moving on this.

I brought the car to where I’d left the man, the mastiff, and Gwen. But the man and his mastiff were gone, leaving only Gwen. She was on her knees in the sod, ass up in the air, head planted on the ground. Her tan flesh was marred with grass stains and muddy streaks and long, red scratches. Pearly white strings oozed out of her red, puffy cunt.

Noticing me, the only remaining witnesses—three men and one woman—guiltily put away their cellphones and quickly walked away.

“Gwen,” I said. “Gwen, can you hear me?”

She just moaned. Gwen wasn’t home.

“Gwen. Gwen, c’mon. Get up. We have to get out of here. You just . . . did it again. Gwen! GWEN!”

More moaning, and now that stupid fucking post-coital smile women sometimes get. She was dead to the world. This had all worked too well. Even if the guy with the dog hadn’t called the cops, somebody must have done so by now.

I had to make a choice: heft Gwen’s dead weight to the car, foist her in (maybe in the trunk—she was naked), and drive off somewhere safe until she could recover.

Or I could just leave and let the cops deal with her.

Sirens were coming. I had to make a choice, now. What was I going to do?

It wasn’t an easy decision. I’d told Gwen that she could trust me, and I meant it. And I try to be honorable and keep my word, even to a woman stupid enough to believe everything Gwen does. Even to a women’s studies major.

Without our honor, without keeping the promises we make, what are we? Nothing but animals.

But I couldn’t chance it. The cops might catch me and Gwen before I could spirit her away. And while the focus would be on Gwen, the situation might open my own life to more scrutiny. My life, and my wife’s life. And I couldn’t risk that. My dear wife. For my dear wife, I would break a promise.

Dinner was on the table when she came home from work. Teriyaki salmon, grilled Brussels sprouts, couscous, white wine. “Smells delish,” she said, and we hugged. So short, and so cute. Gwen’s romp with the mastiff had made me horny; maybe I’d get lucky tonight.

Eating, listening to music, enjoying each other’s company, my wife and I relaxed into the evening. Gunther came up and circled the table.

My wife said, “You wouldn’t believe what happened over at _____ Park today.”

“Really? What?”

“Some lady was fucking a dog. In public. In front of everyone! She just tore off her clothing and let the dog go at it.”

“Holy crap. Did you see it?”

“Ew. No. Horrible. But everyone was talking about it as I was leaving work today. I guess some sick bastards even took pictures of it. Can you believe it? They didn’t even try to stop it.”

“So nobody tried to help her?”

“Help her? Hah! You don’t understand. She was begging for it. She wanted the dog to fuck her. She was sick. At least that’s what people said. It was nuts. But I guess the cops got her now. She’s in jail.”

“Hunh. Poor woman. She sounds really ill. I hope she gets some help.”

I already knew about the cops nabbing Gwen, of course. She had called from jail. She needed help, and I was the only one she could trust. The only one in the world who could help her.

What could I do? I told her that, for good of my reputation and my wife, I would not help her. Not that I “couldn’t” help her—I “wouldn’t” help her. Whatever problem she had, she would need to solve it on her own.

Never call me again, I said. Ever. And without waiting for a reply, I hung up. She didn’t call back.

Family first.

Still. I wasn’t heartless. Gwen’s life might be wrecked, but I at least I could give her pleasure in the years ahead. I set her nanites to a “primed” status. She’d be totally normal . . . until she saw a male dog. Then, well . . . you know.

“What’s so funny?” asked my wife. I had snickered, giggled, and snorted.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just coughing.” But I’d flashed on Gwen encountering a male Chihuahua. Hopefully her back end wouldn’t swallow it.

“People are horrible,” said my wife. Her hand was on Gunther’s head, and she spoke to him as if she were speaking to a child. “People are sick and horrible, don’t you agree, Gunther baby?”

I regarded my lovely wife and my beloved dog. My happy home. “I can’t argue with that,” I said.