The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dream a Little Dream With Me


Part Four

This time, she knew she was dreaming from the beginning.

It might have been surprising, realizing she was in a dream, had it not been so very similar to the one she’d had the night before. The setting was, perhaps, different, but she started the dream, if anything, even more strictly bound.

She was in a brightly lit warehouse, or maybe a barn, and kneeling on a cool, hard cement floor. She heard nothing outside, but the light came from bright, electric lights overhead, so maybe it was simply too late for any sound to penetrate the walls.

She was nude this time. Her discomfort became immediately apparent to her, but it took several minutes of careful self-examination before her predicament revealed itself to her completely.

Her arms were crossed behind her back at the elbows, well past them, really, her wrists secured past her shoulder blades. It wasn’t until she began struggling, though, that she discovered what secured them. Rough, scratchy rope, or maybe thick twine, had been wrapped around the base of each of her breasts and around her opposite wrist, crossed behind her back. More cord seemed to be wrapped around her ribcage, three or four strands whose function she didn’t understand.

She could feel the knots under her breasts, well out of her reach even if the position of her arms hadn’t turned her hands wrong way to. That didn’t stop her trying to reach them, but when she tried to reach the knot under her left breast with her right hand, it pulled—actually, tightened—the loops of cord around her right breast, and some of the cords wrapped around her ribcage.

Nicole’s reaction was nearly instinctive; she pulled her hand back, and when that didn’t loosen the constriction around her breast and her ribs, automatically pulled in the other direction, as if she were trying to get to the knot under her right breast.

This, of course, didn’t loosen anything. In fact, it immediately tightened the noose around her other breast, and the remaining ropes looped around her ribs.

This sent her into a panic, struggling irrationally against her bonds, which continued to tighten them. Soon she could feel her pulse pounding in her nipples, and the rope wrapped around her ribcage was making it difficult to breathe. No matter how tight the constriction got, though, the tightening of the nooses around various bits of her didn’t seem to loosen the bondage of her arms.

Some small part of her realized that her reaction ... her utter terror at her bondage ... made no more sense than anything else about her dream so far. She knew she was dreaming, so why was she so frightened? And how could ropes fastened to her wrists tighten around her breasts and ribcage without giving her arms at least a little play?

But mostly she was once again caught up in the logic of the dream, and the logic of dreams has little or nothing to do with the logic of waking life. The dream said her breasts were being strangled in slowly-tightening nooses, and she didn’t question it. Her dream told her she should be terrified, and she was.

It wasn’t until her struggles knocked her over that she fully realized her upper body wasn’t the only part of her had been bound. Her ankles had been tied to the backs of her upper thighs with the same rough cord. Once she fell, rising ... even back to her knees ... was beyond her strength.

She was still struggling, her breasts now a pair of orange-sized, deep red globes that throbbed madly with every beat of her heart, when He returned. Nicole couldn’t tell how she knew it was Him, the man who’d been in her dream the night before; she hadn’t seen Him, and He hadn’t spoken yet in this dream.

But she knew.

She knew despite the fact that she’d never seen Him in last night’s dream, and despite the fact that he now wore a Japanese n’oh mask whose demonic features completely hid his face. She stopped struggling to rise as soon as he came into view, and just lay there, panting lightly and watching him.

His body was slim and athletic, the musculature showing only the earliest hints of what she usually thought of as “old age decrepitude,” a slight sagging of the flesh around his chest and stomach. He wore only black jeans, and His skin was pale and free of blemishes, like fine porcelain. No, she decided, she couldn’t honestly describe her dream tormenter as decrepit. Instead, he seemed godlike ... ancient, powerful and cruel. Nicole found herself whimpering as He drew near.

He crouched beside her. “Who said you could move?” growled His hauntingly familiar voice through the demonic, ebony mask as He reached out, grabbing the painfully distended flesh of her nipples and areolae between His fingers and thumbs. He pulled her to her knees that way, forcing a pained grunt from her. She didn’t dare voice any greater objection, though it felt for a moment as if He was going to tear her breasts off.

He stepped back once she was on her knees again. “What are you?”

She blushed and stuttered, but the answer came automatically. “I—I’m kind of a stupid slut.”

“Kind of?”

Nicole couldn’t see His face behind the mask, of course, but his voice sounded cold, even angry. She quailed inside at the thought ... not at the possibility that He would punish her, for she had already accepted pain at His hands as inevitable, but at the idea of displeasing him. She wanted to roll over on her back and show him her belly, a bitch surrendering to the pack’s alpha. Only His obvious displeasure at her moving without permission kept her upright. Instead, she looked down at his feet, face hot and nearly as red as her breasts.

“I’m a stupid slut.”

He reached out and touched her, stroking her head the way one might pet a dog with which one is pleased. “Good girl,” he said, and her body fairly quivered with relief ... and with happiness at having pleased him. She didn’t question her body’s reaction; pleasing Him was just right in a way nothing else had ever been.

He took a step back, and she allowed her eyes to follow His feet. The discomfort of her bondage was no less than it had been from the beginning of the dream, but with him there, speaking to her, it was far more exciting than frightening. In fact, she could feel the heat of arousal growing in her belly every time he spoke, could feel her pussy growing moist and ready for him.

“I see you’ve spent today discovering what your body’s good for. That’s good. So tell me how a dumb cunt like you uses her body.”

The order was more confusing than embarrassing for Nicole. She had come to accept, almost without realizing that she was doing so, the vile names He called her; they seemed only right. But she had to know how to answer him, so he’d be happy with her. And she just didn’t. It was only when she realized that no answer at all would be sure to anger Him that she dared to speak at all.

“To ... to get ahead ... I’ve been using my body to get ahead.”

She never saw where the riding crop came from, but she felt it as it bit into the distended, tortured flesh of her breasts. She shrieked in pain as it slashed, burning, once across each of her nipples.

“Wrong answer,” He said, “Try again.”

“Ah ... Aaaahhh! S—Sex! A slut uses her body for sex!”

This time the crop cracked down twice across each nipple, leaving fresh, new welts. Nicole screamed out at each new assault. It felt, she thought, as though her breasts were being branded.

“True enough,” He said quietly, “but only part of the answer. Try again.”

The pain made her afraid, but not as afraid as knowing ... knowing ... that her answers disappointed Him. She didn’t know why it was so important, she just knew that it was.

“Please ...” she could hear the panic mounting in her own voice, “Please, I can’t tell you, I don’t know....

He chuckled, and reached down to grasp her breasts. The touch of his flesh against hers made her gasp ... in excitement rather than fear. In that moment she knew that she would do whatever she was asked, would obey any command, and would suffer any pain or humiliation to feel this excitement and to see him smile at her.

He patted her cheek with one hand, continuing to pinch and pull at her nipples with the other.

“Service,” he said, “A slut’s body is meant to serve her man. Say it for me.”

Nicole blushed, knowing he’d given her the heart of it and not understanding how she’d missed it. “A slut’s body ...” she began....

“No,” he interrupted, “Your body. You are a slut, aren’t you?”

“Y—yes, sir. My body is made for service. I’m meant to serve my man.”

“Good girl,” he said, more gently this time, reaching down and fondling her breasts again, pinching and twisting. It hurt, but at the touch of his hands, a wave of desire tore through her body as her skin fairly prickled with need, her belly and pussy clenched, and her clitoris began to throb with need. She found herself gasping, nearly convulsing, with desire for Him.

He chuckled, and lifted her up under her bound arms until she was ... barely ... balanced on her knees. Holding her upright by her hair with one hand, he opened his jeans with the other and pulled out his cock. “Suck me, slut,” he ordered, pulling her to him.

Nicole let her lips part, taking him in as he pulled her forward. He was big, as big as she’d ever seen, and he tasted of salt, of old sweat and urine and cum. She could also taste his pulse on her tongue, and the heat of the blood that engorged him.

My body is made for service.

She wrapped her tongue around the head of his cock, licking up the salty fluid that had accumulated at the tip. She worked her tongue down his shaft as He forced himself farther and farther into her mouth, stroking him with both the tip and body.

I’m a stupid slut. I’m made to serve my man.

Soon it was more like he was fucking her throat than allowing her to suck him off. He forced himself against her soft palate, and farther, into her throat, again and again, taking her hair and forcing her against his crotch over and over. It hurt ... oh, God, it hurt ... her knees and lower back felt like they were on fire, her teats felt like they were going to explode, and she gagged every time He forced himself down her throat.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was that she was doing what she’d always been meant to do, using her body to serve her man. She swallowed when he pushed himself down her throat, forcing herself to control the gag reflex, and then used her lips and tongue to pleasure him when he pulled back, doing all she knew how in order to pleasure Him. And all the while, whenever her body had the freedom her hips spasmed, pushing against a cock that wasn’t there.

Finally he came, flooding her mouth with the taste and texture of his thick, salty, bitter cum. She swallowed gladly, grateful for the opportunity to fulfill her purpose. All the while, she continued to hump the air, aching to feel His cock inside her once again.

My body is made for service.

When he was finished he shoved her away from him, causing her to hit the concrete floor, first with her right hip, then her shoulder, before landing on her back. He followed her quickly, wrapping leather straps around her belly, her throat, her forehead, and finally her knees, pinning her to the floor. She had no idea where the straps or their attachment points had come from ... she’d seen none when she was upright ... but it didn’t matter. She knew she was dreaming, and the man she dreamt of wanted her secured. That was all that was important to her.

I’m made to serve my man.

He sat beside her and began to play with her pussy, sliding one finger inside of her, and then another. She gasped and ground her hips upward to meet him ... as much as possible, the way she was bound ... while the muscles inside her clenched desperately around His fingers.

He chuckled and ran the fingers of his other hand through her hair while his thumbnail flicked across the tip of her clitoris, forcing something between a moan and a shriek of pure pleasure from her lips. “You think with your cunt, don’t you?” he asked, “That’s good; that’s what a slut should use to do her thinking. Say it.”

“Ah ... ah! I—I think with m—my ... cunt. I’m a slut! I think with my cunt!”

“Good slut. But tell me, what are you?”

“S—slut? No! Servant, I’m a servant!”

“Excellent,” he chuckled, “We’re making real progress here.” He twisted his fingers inside her, flicking the tip of her clitoris again with his thumb. “But I think you’re thinking a little too much with this little nerve bundle, here. So from now on, you’re not to come without permission, do you understand?”

Not come without permission? It came to her not so much as a thought as a sudden realization that she was about to come immediately, and that she mustn’t ... mustn’t disappoint....

“Oh, God ... oh, God ... oh, God ... y—yes, I understand. P—please let me ... please let me....”

Nicole woke with her fingers deep inside her, her pussy ... her cunt ... sopping wet, ready to climax. Even before she was fully awake, she could hear herself repeating, over and over, the last words from her dream. “Please let me. Please, please let me....”

You’re not to come without your man’s permission.

She was fingering herself as she came awake, but she knew it would be no good from the time she heard the voice in her head. She needed permission—permission from somebody—before she could climax. But who?

She was barely awake, groggy and stupid with sleep (I’m a stupid slut), so it was some time—time in which she nearly forgot herself and came—before she thought of Ev ... of Mister Chasseur.

The thought startled her, even through the fog of lust that seemed to envelop her mind and body. She’d considered him, when she thought of him at all, as something between a business partner and a blackmailer since their ... new relationship ... had begun, never somebody who could give or deny her permission for anything.

Once the thought occurred to her, however, it fairly lit a fire in her brain. Mister Chasseur obviously could tell her what she could and couldn’t do; he’d quite obviously taken firm control of every part of her life that touched his. She was his slut, having dropped her panties for him basically as soon as he’d asked. That made him her man, didn’t it? And he was at least as real as the faceless, nameless Master whose orders filled her thoughts night and day.

Nearly panting with lust, Nicole grabbed her cell and thumbed it open, searching for Chasseur’s speed-dial number....

I’m a stupid slut. My body is made for service.

... and then closed it again. It wasn’t right, waking Mas ... Mister Chasseur in the middle of the night for her slut’s desires. If she wanted to come, she would just have to earn the ... she hated to admit it, but the privilege ... and be ready to accept the orgasm when He offered it. In the meantime, she’d simply have to ...

control ...

her ...


I’m a servant....

It would be a long, wakeful, frustrating night spent waiting, and touching herself, and making sure she did not come, before it was time to rise and get ready for work.