The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The next four days had a dream-like quality. Here I was, strapped to a couch with one of my lower holes filled with a large vibrating silver sausage while the other was butt-plugged, and yes, it buzzed and vibrated too. That wasn’t all for my nipples and clitty were covered by silver cups which were held in place by some sort of goo. They also vibrated from time-to-time. It was surreal: that was the only word for it—surreal.

There were other things attached... Little tabs to measure my heart rate and blood pressure were stuck to my skin in various places while my head had been anointed with a silver crown: the circlet, with its mesh cap, that monitored my brainwaves and reactions to pictures and recorded my levels of stimulation.

At a more basic level, personal comfort and relief was provided by way of a catheter while nutrition and water were fed intravenously which meant that I was producing very little solid waste although I do vaguely recall getting an enema at some time. The procedure began predictably with me being given a dose of some drug or other, no doubt to relax me and make sure that I was susceptible to whatever Angie had in store fore me. If I forced my head to the left, not that I had a whole lot of movement, I could see that Emily was strapped onto the next couch. Like me, she was gagged but I could still hear her whimpering. When the show began I forgot about her.

And begin it did: first of all there was the relaxing, almost spiritual music. This went on for some time and I really began to feel good about myself and my situation. The music was accompanied by gentle patterns in pastel colours that flowed and spiralled across the screen in front of me. Eventually a proper slide show began with a series of neutral images: idyllic rural scenes, seascapes, furry animals that sort of thing. I soon I lost count, probably because there were hundreds of them. These were followed by pictures of women, some young, some older but all quite attractive and all tastefully dressed. The women were followed by men who were not so enjoyable to look at. Suddenly it dawned on me: the machine was plotting the parts of my brain that were reacting to the pictures and no doubt, the strength of my reactions also.

The slide show continued with the women, and men, becoming more scantily dressed and more provocative in their poses. Provocative became sexual and sexual became pornographic. Individuals were replaced by couples holding each other, couples kissing, couples fucking. The couples could be one of each or same-sex while the actions became more explicit as time went on. Then as the music faded, the experience became more dreamlike and the mind-fuck began in earnest.

As dreams go, it was rather nightmarish or would have been had it not been for the headset and the monitor screen. The former bathed me in a sea of relaxing sounds while it supplied me with helpful suggestions as to my future life style and sexuality.

• “Girls are wonderful!” — Hell I already know that!
• “You like kissing girls!” — Tell me about it!
• “Boys make you feel sick!” — Well I wouldn’t quite go that far!
• “It’s normal to fancy girls!” — Yeh, well I can’t argue with that one.
• “Boys are dirty!” — Well they do smell different to girls!
• “It’s normal to be a lesbian!” — Yeah!!!

—And on and on and on and on. That wonderful sexy voice was my constant companion day and night, whispering to me, advising me, comforting me, filling my mind and becoming my universe. The words and phrases altered with time but the message was always the same.

• “Girls are really sexy!” — Like I said: I already know that.
• “You need to make love to girls!!” — I do! I do!
• “Boys disgust you!” — They do! They do!
• “Boys just want to use you for sex! — Ugh! Gross!
• “All girls should be lesbians!” — You speak my language!

While this was happening, the vibrators in my pussy and arse whirred as did the little silver caps on my nipples and clitty. The sensations rose and fell in time to the voice and so did the timing of soothing and beautiful patterns and swirling spirals that were displayed on my screen. These were interspaced with rapidly changing images and video sequences, mostly women and girls of all ages, some sexual, some not but all beautiful. There was however, the occasional shot of a male which triggered a set of unpleasant sensations that were a lot like an electric shock, these were delivered by all of the vibrating thingies simultaneously. As time wore on, I began to dread seeing men with their rough, ugly, hairy bodies and their malign, threatening penises.

Women brought pleasure while men brought discomfort; I hadn’t thought of it quite like that before but I did now. Previously, I just did not fancy them but afterwards I knew that I would hate to be near them!

• “You don’t want men in your life!” — What’s new?
• “You will only make love to women!” — No change there then!
• “You are proud to be a lesbian!” — I am proud to be a lesbian.

Lesbian conversion 101 didn’t last long: no doubt the computer software that was interpreting my readings identified that I was gay already and only needed to reinforce the existing state of affairs and distance me from men.

It soon moved on to ‘Phase Two’:

• “Girls are gentle.” — Yes, tell me about it.
• “Girls just want to be loved.” — Who doesn’t?
• “Girls are submissive.” — This one isn’t!
• “You are a girl, you love to submit.” — Run that one past me again?

Submission 101 lasted longer than the first phase did and seemed to go on forever. The pictures and videos that accompanied the sounds and patterns and suggestions began to alter: the women and girls were still intimate but there were now two distinct types: submissive femmes and dykey dommes.

• “You want to be feminine.” — Do I?
• “You love being feminine.” — I do?
• “You are a girlie girl.” — Oh!
• “You are a submissive lesbian.” — Oooh!

It seemed to take forever but slowly I became convinced that I would be happier as a submissive and that I could only be happy if I submitted: but who to?

Phase three embedded that information:

• “You love Angie.” — Yes, well haven’t I always?
• “You will do anything for Angie.” — Well that goes without saying.
• “Angie is your Goddess.” — Well that’s taking it a bit far!
• “You belong to Angie.” — Oh, God! Yes! Yes! Yes!
• “Anjika is your Mistress!” — YES! OH YES!! SHE IS!!!

On and on and on it went as truth after truth after truth tsunami-ed into my poor brain. The pictures and videos of beautiful, submissive, sexy girls were subtly replaced by pictures and videos of my beautiful and sexy Angie. Angie: who I now lived for. Angie: who I served. Anjika: my raven-haired Indian Goddess. Anjika: who I worshipped.

Why hadn’t I seen this side of my beloved before? What had been wrong with me? Thank you for helping me, Anjika. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!

Life would now be much better because I had purpose. Previously I had just been a vague set of drifting unfulfilled needs coupled to a set of stimulation-seeking holes. Anjika had shown me just how empty my life was and by taking charge she would provide me with the fulfilment that I craved and she would fill my holes for me in a much more pleasurable way than anyone had ever managed before.

As I lay strapped to that couch I knew that the old, empty Siobhan O’Rourke had ceased to exist. But more than that, she had undergone a drug-assisted psycho-electronic rebirth. I could see the light of a new endless day that was illuminated by a glowing sun. And that sun was named Anjika Gupta. Waves of realisation broke over me like a warm, tropical sea. I had a new catechism:

Anjika is my Goddess.

I will do anything for Anjika.

I love Anjika.

Anjika can fuck me whenever she wants and however she wants.

I am Anjika’s submissive sex-slave.

On Tuesday I was ready to begin my new life. I knew exactly what had been done to me; I knew how my mind had been altered, how my personality had been re-written. It was a shock, but not as big a shock as the realisation that it didn’t matter. I was still me, I was still Siobhan, I had all of her memories, but none of her old hang-ups. For the first time ever, things made real sense and I knew that I was a very lucky girl.

We lay together up in the living room, our naked bodies entwined on the settee where Anjika had just made love to me and consummated our new relationship. She was still wearing the strap-on which somehow served to emphasise my new status.

“Oh, Shiv,” She sighed, whispering into me ear, “I really didn’t intend to alter you; not like this. I knew that I couldn’t have you so I just wanted to turn Emily into a substitute you.”

I giggled, which was something that I’d never done before. “I know that you have a thing for red-heads...”

She began to fondle one of my tits. “If I couldn’t have the one that I’d always wanted then I decided that I’d best create a replica.”

She smiled lovingly. “I’d been hypnotising you for years to help you control your stress and anxiety levels but I guess that I must have taken you out of your comfort zone because you suddenly started to fight me and I panicked.”

Little wheels seemed to go around in my head proving that I could still think. “’Miri simver vadoo,’ that’s what’s called a trigger-phrase, isn’t it?”

She hugged me. “There’s no need for you to worry about it: not now!”

“Hmmm! But what’s it actually mean?”

Anjika chuckled. “It’s Hindi for ‘my beautiful pet’: which is what you will always be.”

I shuddered appreciatively and nuzzled the side of her neck: I was her pet. She had a thing for red-heads and I had a thing for Indian girls: we fitted together perfectly.

“What about, Emily?” I asked.

“What about her?” She purred. “You are not jealous, are you?”

Suddenly, I knew that I wasn’t and never could be. Anjika could have as many red-heads as she wanted, just as long as I was one of them: red-heads, blondes, brunettes, raven-haired girls: all the colours of the rainbow. Whoever she wanted was alright by me!

She rolled me onto my back again, then reaching down she slipped the end of the strap-on into me. I sighed as our two-backed dance began again. Her dildo filled my pussy just as her existence filled the hole that had previously been my life.

Oh, I had been ridden before when I was younger and before I became more set in my ways, but for the last ten years, the only person who had slid a dildo into my pussy had been me. I was the dyke and dykes just didn’t get fucked, or at least this one didn’t. But now as Anjika thrust her hips forward and forced her plastic tool into places that never got filled it dawned on me that I had been missing out. My holes were made for filling, t was what they were for, they were meant to be filled.

Anjika was gentle but forceful, she kept most of her weight off me and I could feel her breasts brushing against me every time she pushed her tool in. Push in fast, pull out slow—in fast, out slow—in fast, out slow. I sighed out of shear pleasure; I squealed for joy, I moaned with happiness. Anjika’s thrusts became stronger as she speeded up. “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”

My body seemed to explode as I orgasmed! I was being fucked and I loved it. Mistress Anjika had re-made me and I loved what I had become!