The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Isabella Hemingway studied the package. It was small, rectangular and unexpected. It had arrived ten minutes earlier at the student house she shared with three other girls. They were all out and she was already running late to meet a friend for coffee. The package demanded her attention as it seemed important—not in appearance, it was a plain brown parcel with her name and address printed on it. It was the delivery that made it special—there was no stamp or postmark; instead it had been delivered by a cute if serious looking special courier.

Isabella sat down at her desk and cleared away some of the clutter. Gingerly, as if opening a present from a loved one, she unwrapped the paper, taking care not to damage it. She slid out an old fashioned wooden box with a hinged lid. A letter accompanied it. Quickly she read the contents.

It was a gift from a loved one, a final present from her recently departed Great Aunt Deshayes. It was no doubt an antique from the shop she had owned her entire adult life, a shop her older brother had since inherited. Isabella delicately flipped the brass catch on the wooden box and swung the lid open. Part of her expected her face to be bathed in a wondrous golden glow, like the scene from Pulp Fiction. Instead of gold, jewels, fortune or glory, she found a hairbrush.

Isabella slumped back in her chair in disappointment. A hairbrush? Her brother inherits the whole damn shop, and she gets a hairbrush! Isabella put the box down on her desk and rummaged around for her clothes, her focus now on making her coffee date.

After she had tugged on a tight pair of jeans, calf-length leather New Rock boots and changed her nightshirt for a simple, figure hugging shirt, she gave herself a once over in the mirror. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, but for a quick coffee date and then afternoon lectures she figured it didn’t matter too much. Her hair, however…

Everyone in the Hemingway family had thick, black hair. It was a nightmare to manage at any length, particularly for the women. The men usually kept it short, or gelled, but the women had to spend forever combing and brushing it. Instead, Isabella usually went for a short, chic and choppy look, one that accentuated the hair’s natural urge to go crazy. Today, however, her bed hair looked genuinely terrifying. It rose from her head like Medusa’s snakes.

Isabella groaned, wondering if she had any hairclips left. She reached over to the mountain of spilled paperwork on her desk in search of a lost headband and knocked the wooden box. The hairbrush sat neatly inside, snug in tissue paper. She paused, hesitated, ruminated. She was already ten minutes late. Well, why the hell not, she thought.

The hairbrush gleamed bone-white and had the look of ivory. The handle was carved in the Celtic style, like braided strands overlaying each other. An intricate pattern was carved in to the head of the brush and silver had been worked in to the grooves. Isabella tilted it so it caught the light, and the silver lit up like an electric circuit. Isabella tried to unravel the Esher-esque design and found herself being lulled by the hypnotic shape. She shook her head to clear it and stepped over to the mirror with the brush.

Carefully, she applied the bristles to the side of her head and gently pulled down, trying to get a feel for the brush. The jet black bristles were stiff enough to disentangle her hair but somehow felt soft and soothing as they ran through her matted strands. Pleased with the performance, Isabella began to brush more vigorously.

The short, chopped locks started to come under control. Each brush smoothed out the hair on her head until she was looking at perfectly flat hair. That didn’t seem right to her, so she tried to brush in some styling, giving the brush gentle flicks as she reached the hair tips. Isabella continued to pull the brush through time and time again until her hair finally took on a curled finish. Satisfied, Isabella stepped back to admire the result.

Curiously, the matte black hair had taken on a silken shine, somehow looking more dense and lustrous than when she woke up. That wasn’t the only thing. Oddly, the ends of her hair now fell around the top of her shoulders, when before it didn’t go past the back of her neck. Isabella stroked the glossy, black hair, admiring the smoothness and warmth of it against her skin.

It looked nice, but obviously that wasn’t right either, so Isabella picked up the brush again and ran it through her hair. When she had started, a single stroke took a brief second. Now she was pulling the brush through her long, silken strands for three, four, five, six seconds at a time. It tumbled and twisted down her back, so she pulled it forward where she could see it. The perfect curls bounced over her nipples and sprung back up again when she tugged the brush free.

Isabella stepped back. The hair was now a proud mane of black, glossy hair. No, black wasn’t right… Isabella stared closely at her locks. They were incredibly black, but also they seemed to catch certain colours, like oil on water, reflecting flashes of royal blue and crimson. Each individual strand was thicker than she ever known hair to be, and so, so smooth. Isabella caressed it, and in turn the hair caressed her. It cascaded over her shoulders, a night-black waterfall of passionate hair that curled and tumbled over her breasts and to the small of her back. It was beautiful.

But not long enough, a voice said inside her head.

She didn’t know if it was her thought or not, but she agreed. Somehow the hair wasn’t quite long enough, so she brought the brush back, languishing in the pleasure of each long, deliberated stroke. The bristles parted the hair, granting length and lustre with each pass. Inches were added until the tips of the vast mane touched the base of her buttocks. Finally she set the brush down to revel at the outcome. Instead, she frowned at the mirror. It was too much. Too much clothing.

She stripped off her shirt and bra, moaning gently as the incredibly soft hair tickled and flowed over her sensitive skin. With some practiced skill, she sat down on the edge of her bed and tugged her tight jeans off over the calf-high boots. Then she smiled.

The Hemingways were a tall, strong boned family, and with the extra inches from her boots, Isabella dominated the tall mirror with her 6′2″ height. Her naturally light skin looked pale and ethereal against the framed backdrop of her bitumen black hair; the mane lazily writhed and moved over her skin, nuzzling against her breasts and buttocks.

One final touch required, whispered the voice in her head.

Instinctively, Isabella picked up the brush and applied it to her triangle thatch of pubic hair. The short, curly pubic hair fell away from her mound with each stroke, showering to the floor and disappearing. When she was done, her crotch was perfectly smooth and inviting. The folds of her pussy glistened with wetness.

The hair coiled around her nipples, tickling and squeezing them to hardness. Isabella gasped and arched her back, sending more hair tumbling down to her buttocks where thick strands probed her anus, pushing through the pert cleft of her arse to investigate forbidden passages. The student momentarily panicked and reached to tug her hair away from her nether regions. Suddenly it coiled around her wrists. Impossible strength pulled her arms over her head, where the strands had formed braid-like ropes to keep her restrained.

Isabella fell back on the bed, landing on the bulk of her hair. It formed a soft cushion beneath her, writhing and massaging her into pliant submission. She relaxed, knowing that she couldn’t escape her own hair. It sensed her willingness and loosened the coils around her wrists slightly. Then a thicker coil of tightly wound hair emerged from between her legs, having formed from the strands that fell furthest around the base of her arse.

It flexed and probed, then pushed its way in to Isabella’s slick cunt. More of it followed, until Isabella felt her vagina stuffed with the thick braid of hair. It assumed a rigidity and began to thrust back and forth, penetrating deep inside and catching her g-spot.

Isabella moaned, her panting breaths becoming shorter and sharper as she was fucked to a rising climax. The hair kneaded her breasts and tweaked her nipples; the hair flicked her clit; the hair stroked every erogenous part of her body; the hair was everywhere, the ultimate lover, delicate, considerate, firm and strong.

It came upon her, and Isabella screamed her delight. Muscles tensed. Nerves overloaded. A momentary whiteness of intense pleasure overcame her. Girl juices soaked into her hair, nourishing and wetting it to a sleek shine. She relaxed back into the hair. It released her wrists and she stroked it lovingly, pulling it around her like a blanket and dozing off.

A little while later, Isabella awoke. She stepped off the bed and strutted over to the mirror. The hair was behaving. She imagined it coiling around her left breast, and suddenly a strand responded, wrapping itself around her generous breast. Isabella then imagined a thick coil pressing into her anus, and very quickly she was bent over her desk, gasping in painful pleasure as her hair anally assaulted her to orgasm.

Breathless, she stood back up and tried a few more experiments. The hair was under her complete control. Isabella smiled. Her brother was welcome to the shop—this was the best gift she could ever receive. The coffee date and the afternoon lecture were both long forgotten; Isabella wrapped herself in the hair and massaged her clit; she was close to climaxing when there was a knock on her door.