The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I watch as a doll named Cassandra dances. I am amazed at her flowing movements and the story she tells with her dance. The passion and longing illuminates with each step. Moving is her performance, as if she is dancing just for me. Clapping, I thank her for her grace and beauty, knowing whoever gets to take her home will be delighted. I am glad I decided to come out tonight at the suggestion of a friend of mine.

In the next room, I gather to see a rag doll. Grace is her name. One that reminded me of a friend I had lost long ago. Hoping both are well. Wishing to take her home and wrap her in my arms to cuddle with. I hesitate however and put the idea in the back of my mind for now.

As I go into the next room, where I find Meredith, I just have to linger a bit. I could see a lust, of love and of life. One life that is fully led. It makes me think of my own. I nod and hope she would find the right person for her to inspire as she has me feeling now.

I move into the next room, truly happy I came out tonight for the exhibition. I take note of the dolls on the shelves. One, in the corner in a glass case draws my focus. Her green faded eyes stare back at me as I look at the doll behind the glass case. Her brown hair seems almost colorless and worn as if she had a hard and difficult life before coming here. Her painted face hides something tragic I imagine. I look downward for a moment to catch the nameplate, reading “Monica.” My eyes return to her face, seeing her lips parted slightly. I swear she wants to speak to me but is muted by the glass case that shelters her.

I yearn to pick her up, to hold her, and protect her from whatever her life was like. I know now that being here; she is safe from everything, even love. A tear scrolls down my cheek as I linger feeling her pain as I listen to the faint whispers of her unfolding story.

Monica’s Story ...

The market is crowded like always. The rushing cars outside mirror the inside of this and every other building around. My eyes lose focus as thoughts from my life plague me.

“Mrs. Monica Jones, You been working for me for how many years now? No matter, might as well be the first tine I have seen you. Your work is lacking. Perfection you are not! Now get out of my sight!”

“Honey I love you. You should know something. It is out of my love for you I tell you this. I cannot do this anymore. I want out. I am not in love with you anymore.”

“Mrs. Jones, I am sorry, you cannot have children. It is just not possible in your condition.”

What seems like hours were, in reality, just mere minutes. Another voice comes from behind me, booming in my ear.

“Hey lady, move up, you are holding up the line.”

I blink and notice I am standing at the edge of the checkout stand being watched by a cashier and the others annoyed at me in my line. I sigh and move finally laying my things on the counter. As each item is scanned and the total rises, I am reminded of my current situation.

“Miss... that comes to Fifty forty three.” I looked in my purse and noticed I only had a twenty. I frowned as I dig more but nothing else was found. I started taking things back to subtract the total. I could hear the groans from behind me. The man next to me almost screaming at me.

“You got to be kidding me... come on lady.”

I stiffen up, finally able to at least buy some bread, cheese, and a small carton of milk. I carefully walk out of the tiny marketplace and head for my apartment. The streets were noisy with the cars honking their horns and the bustle of the day. I crossed the street only to be nearly run over by some old man and his caddie. His horn jolted me from my mind again as I hurried across. Today was shaping up to be one of the bad days. “If I could only make it home,” I thought.

The grocery bag is tight against me as I walk. I almost cannot see where my steps are taking me. I have to shift the bag a few times. While in mid-shift, my mind full of all of my faults and failures, I feel my shoe catch the grate in the street just right sending me to the pavement below. My heel snaps and the bag rips as everything falls forward in slow motion. The milk carton busts open as I hit the ground on top of the bread. I can hear my last stocking rip as I lay there in tears.

Suddenly, I hear a kind voice above me.

“Oh my dear... You took that fall hard. Here let me help you.”

A small hand belonging to a motherly woman reaches down to help me back up. It has a warm softness to it as I take hold. As if I weighed as much as a feather, she hoists me up to my feet again. Her gray eyes scan me from head to toe.

“Thank you” I start to say before she interrupts.

“My word, look at the tatters of your stockings and your shoe, it’s ruined. Come in, I can sew your stockings, and I may have glue for your heel.”

Without waiting for a reply from me, she disappears into the shop. My eyes follow her in, and then upward to see a doll shop. My heart flutters for a moment. Not sure why, as I stare up at the awning. “Precious and Rare Dolls” peers over the edge, welcoming me.

I hobble along, inside the door and marvel at the coziness and inviting nature of the décor. My eyes travel the shelves looking at all the displays. Some dolls, sit perfect in their rows, while others wait behind cases of glass. I notice how perfect and different each one is. The dresses of each doll look to be hand made. The artistry is very detailed down to their freckles and the specs of color in the eyes.

I cannot help but stare, forgetting why brought me inside. On one shelf sits in their cases porcelain dolls, like tiny geishas protected and untouched. One case is empty, I note, and wonder if I interrupted her work of it. My thoughts drift and shift the longer I gaze into the case. Forgotten are my troubles and worries, they seem but a dream as I imagine what it might be like to sit in such a case. Where no one could touch me or hurt me ever again. The edges of my mouth curve into a smile at such an idea. Just as I see it forming, I hear her kind voice once again.

“Like my doll collection dear?” her voice sang. She stands there, smiling, as she carries two small boxes, waiting for my reply.

I blink for a few seconds, and turn from the empty case to her before I realize I was daydreaming. Her question throws me a little, though it was straightforward and simple. I slowly nod and her natural smile grows.

“Yes, I do indeed. You have some fine pieces here.”

“They are all very special.” she says with a Twinkle in her eyes. After a pause, “Come sit, take off your stocking and shoe, and relax while I mend them for you.”

Sitting at a nearby table, I see her setting the two boxes down side by side. One she opens to reveal a sewing kit. I can tell she uses it to mend and make her dolls. She presses a button on the side of the other box and the faint sound of music can be heard, the tune unfamiliar.

My eyes travel from the sewing box to the music box, letting the melody sink in as I listen. She begins to hum along to it and I smile. My body shifts in the chair to get more comfortable. As her hand comes up from a stitch, my eyes catch it and I start to absentmindedly follow her strokes as she mends the stocking.

The music in the background starts to fade to where it is barely heard but I know it is playing. My daydream resurfaces as I watch carefully. Her movements seem to go with the tune of the music box. She begins to hum a little. My mind wraps itself in the honey of it as I consider what it would be like to be that doll in the glass case.

The sewing forgotten, as my eyes look past it to the doll. The harsh words and reality of my life disappear as if they are shielded from going further. A sigh escapes my lips. The joy of being protected and untouchable fills me. My eyes close slowly while the music makes me drift into the dream and desire unspoken. A whisper through the music echoes deep inside of me.

“Like my china dolls, you can be. Protected and cherished without being hurt again. I know you wish it. Deep in your heart, it is all you want in life. I will look after you and promise no one will hurt you...ever.”

The promise becomes an ache, one I cannot ignore. I feel myself drift along the melody of the tune and her words. Forever still and behind glass. Living eternity, untouched, cherished from afar, and loved by no one.

As I look, I notice a trail of a tear coming from the doll. “How is that possible?” I speak aloud not realizing it. I blink, thinking, “Perhaps, it’s a reflection of my own tear rolling down my cheek.” I move my hand to wipe away the wetness, feeling so moved yet so sad. Cannot help thinking, “Is this a warning or perhaps my own mind playing a trick on me?”

A voice sweet and quiet, echoes from behind me.

“Like my doll collection, my dear?”