The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a mercy Charlotte wasn’t awake for this. I padded down the hallway in a towel, clothes discarded behind me in the hamper (they were drenched in sweat, not to mention whatever Charlotte had drooled through my shorts). Every step invited a wet slap on a half-second delay?—whatever blood this spell forced my sister’s way (and I assure you, she’d been unnaturally rigid), had been thrown down below when the ice-cold shower saved our lives. My?—her?—balls were now feeling the repercussions.

And though I groaned in a pain that krept up my bladder, twisted my stomach like a flaming cramp, I yet thanked my lucky stars that this was the worst yet to come. The world was alive with dissatisfaction?—never before did I feel this palpable need to come, withheld (hell, I’d been masturbating thrice a day for as long as I could remember, so sexual need was really only a feeling I had fifteen minutes experience with: five minutes, three times). This may have been new, but I was heartened by the distinct feeling that this need?—this pain?—was human. Was of this world, whatever that meant.

Whatever feelings Charlotte had been driven to?—whatever had degraded her to those fantasies on the car-ride home. That had to have been something different.

And?—thank god?—we seemed to have found a loophole. Without a dedicated blood-supply, my sister’d petered out. Her consciousness had faded alongside my chubby, and though I caught a mumble here and there?—a snippet of her dream when I flopped on the bed and caused a minor stir down there, there was no sense of urgency, no riding the edge, nothing beyond my own dull, pounding (but human!) ache.

I kept the elastic around my wrist, just in case. I knew my libido, and what it was liable to do at any moment’s notice.

Now: to suss this situation out. I had closed my bedroom door and locked it behind me. Mom and Dad weren’t due home for a couple hours, but I was playing this game with the habitual privacy of a masturbation session. Better safe than sorry.

Shivering from the shower, I slid my legs beneath the rarely-washed comforter and spread my knees. Charlotte sat vulnerable and miniscule—she curled out from a dense patch of pubic hair and rested her chin dejectedly against my swollen balls. They were a deep shade of red?—a state I’d never encountered, and hoped would soon abate. I prodded her, an inch above her base. “You there?”

Nothing.

I flicked her like a crokinole chip, jolting with the memory that “she” was indeed still mine. But nothing.

I suppose I just wanted to make sure she was okay. Having your sister scream perversions in your ear a whole half-hour and then fade away in the span of three seconds was a more worrisome experience than it might seem when read on paper. It seems obvious to me now that I should’ve poured a cold bath?—filled it with ice-cubes, and sat inside until our three hours were up.

But I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. I’d been “thinking with my cock”, and I wish I were speaking figuratively, for the last however long. And my concern for my sister, you’ll agree with me, considering her current state, was justified!

Or at least that’s what I told myself as I reached for the bottle on the nightstand?—filled my right palm with hand-cream.

Not so much, not so much!

We were experimenting. For what purpose, neither of us gave much thought, but it seemed somehow necessary, and scratched an itch we felt together as soon as my sister plumped, rose, and awoke.

I flipped the page, brittle yellow paper, and revealed a woman dressed in comfortably dated pajamas. Their pattern hurt my eyes, but you couldn’t deny the tacky charm.

Yeah, that’s it.

We’d only managed a few spreads of the Maxim, hidden under my mattress since God knows when, before abandoning it. The glistening skin, the pouting lips?—even the ancient cumstains?—were bringing Charlotte too close to the edge, and me along with her. Too close to a permanent position between my legs, ogling girls in magazines.

From this perspective, though, that fate didn’t seem all that bad. Digging up my memories, she knew exactly where I’d hidden that Sears Christmas catalogue more than a decade ago?—the paper still crinkled the way I remembered. The way we remembered, now.

It’s like a hunger, she explained.

I didn’t understand, but nodded.

Like, when you see them, it feels like I’m consuming them somehow. But different.

I flipped the page to a well-worn bra selection.

She twitched. Too much, too much?—

I flipped back to the wholesome brunette—perfect teeth.

Mmm…, my sister sighed. It’s like, like a thanksgiving meal, but when you eat it, you feel like you need to give something back, you know?

“I don’t.” She was speaking nonsense.

Like I owe her something. Tribute, or a reward, or I dunno.

I flipped to a random page. “You mean cum? Tiffany really fucked you up, Char.”

Her attention never wavered from the semi-clothed, 90s-era models. She either ignored me, or didn’t care to address what was clearly true. The clock across the room told me it had been an hour and a half since we got home. Getting there.

Hey?—did I leave my phone charging in the kitchen?

“Don’t know,” I sighed, knowing she had another task in mind. “Why?”

I’ve got some photos of my friends. Can you grab it?

Fully charged, Charlotte’s phone was full of notifications.

Anything pressing?

I scrolled through the line of texts, skimming. Nothing. But below them, something worth concern: Missed call, Missed call, Missed call, Missed call. All in the span of ten minutes?—same number.

“Someone’s trying to get a hold of you. Left a message.”

Put it on speaker.

It may have been because I was buck naked, scrolling through my sister’s phone in the kitchen, but the air seemed to grow colder as that automated voice led me through the fifty steps required to hear my “one new message”. The recording began with a sniff?—a sharp intake of air?—and a female voice filled the room:

“Char?— It’s Gill. I’m so sorry Char?— I’m so?—”

She was crying, clearly. Something was very wrong.

“Char I need your help. I’m in an emergency and I can’t explain it over the phone. But you need to pick up. I need your help right now and I can’t call the police for this. I can’t trust myself not to?— I’m sorry Char?— Please if you get this come as fast as you ca?—”

Message ended. Silence rose from the floorboards, but for the ticking of Mom’s favourite clock.

Charlotte spoke decisively. Her friend needed help. Put on your clothes.