The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Annabel fidgeted in her chair. In truth she really didn’t belong there. Her apartment complex was not very close to the neighborhood at all. She had gone because she was so bored, so very bored, of the quiet, and because it might be nice to meet other girls, and also for one very, very, secret purpose.

Then this policeman, with his enormous bulging dick and stern, stubble-filled face, had shown up. She had spent a long time rubbing her thighs together and not really listening to him. But eventually some words, or at least the tone, had gotten through, and Annabel had reached a sudden, terrifying conclusion: she knew exactly what and who the police were looking for.

It was a lucky accident she’d kept the memory. A lot was gone. Annabel had fleeting memories of lengthy arguments about moving, baked in from the ferocity. Chris had been adamant about the math: they both had student loans in the six-digit range, she barely had any income to speak of, and the company was offering an enormous signing bonus. Plus they could live for dollars a day. Once fixated on a rational, scientific solution her fiance never wavered. True, she’d be abandoning friends and family for some oddly-named chemical corporation in absolute nowhere. But the math, Annabel, the math.

Such a relief there wasn’t any math anymore. Heck, Annabel wasn’t sure there were even numbers.

But she’d given in. Chris had won her over with the promise of quiet. Simple silence. Annabel had lived a life filled with unavoidable, unstoppable noise. A number of siblings, parents angry at themselves, at each other, at life. They’d lived in a small house too close to a freeway. From there life had been a sprint away from that house, but never easily, gracefully. She’d had to wave her arms and clap her hands to get noticed at all in an oversized high school, to get into college, to graduate. Everything had been a struggle, and the prospect of a rest, of days spent in rural calm, was very appealing.

The first Monday after they moved in was by far the longest and most tedious of Annabel’s life.

Chris had been in an enormous hurry to get out the door, and she laid in their full-size bed listening to him hustle through morning steps. He even poured his breakfast cereal with haste, shaking the box impatiently. He cursed softly as he worked on the tie. They’d practiced with youtube tutorials, all of which he’d forgotten. He was out the door at 7:03 a.m. exactly, while Annabel was still spreadeagled under the covers, eyes half-lidded.

Back in the city she had worked in a cubicle farm in the geometric middle of a vast room. In a brick building that reflected all the sound. An easy enough job to quit, and easy enough to convince herself: this is where she had the time to reinvent, to create, to be more than a replaceable 38K-a-year paper drone, bringing just a bad health plan to the relationship. On the first day there she’d created a cozy working space out of an Ikea desk, some plants, a window overlooking another part of the apartment complex.

Annabel had rolled out of bed and written the first one thousand two hundred words in a short story that was ultimately about leaving one’s comfort zone. It was a solid burst of creativity. She was done by 7:30 a.m.

She made a big breakfast all for herself. She did yoga on her mat and closed her eyes, listening to a few distant bird sounds. The clock read 8:31 a.m.

She drank a big cup of water, read the first few pages of a novel, and checked the clock again.

It read 8:43 a.m.

Annabel easily quelled a brief sense of panic.

By 3:05 p.m. the concern had become real. Annabel had taken the longest shower of her life, read a book, and drank a lot of water. The water had a lot to recommend it. It was country water, somehow. A tart, sweet simplicity. Otherwise she was absolutely bored to tears. A brisk walk had killed all of twenty minutes. Yoga, again: another fifteen. The birds called out again. She told them to go fuck themselves.

That’s when she got the idea to really, really fuck Chris when he got back from work. Just fuck the hell out of him.

The idea made sense on many different levels. First, it would be wickedly ironic, pointing out to him that she was playing housefrau. Second, it’d give her something to do, to get ready for, that was less debasing than roasting a ham for four hours. Third, it was symbolic, even affirming, to give her fiancee a thoughtful, welcoming screw throughout the apartment. A house wasn’t a home until they’d fucked in some of the rooms.

Fourth, it was fun to fuck. She was actually kind of horny.

By 5:30 she’d gotten to a lot of horny.

That wasn’t very usual, multi-hour horniness. Typically she experienced a general willingness to have sex, an enjoyable burst of heat, and then she’d maybe cum. Hours of grinding, hot heat were not in her. And she was a quiet screw, eliciting, at most, a gentle, pleased murmur. Sedately horny.

Until now, watching the door, squirming with her legs crossed. She’d given no thought to dinner. They’d order a pizza. After they’d fucked. Annabel had spent a very long hour going through outfits, eventually settling on a sort of office-girl look, with a tight pink button-down and brief pencil mini. After fighting off the urge, she’d gone and put some makeup on. Just lipstick, blush, and mascara. And then heels. She’d even worked out a routine, which had gotten steadily sluttier as time had crawled on. From welcoming him with a kiss to moaning like a slut in the bedroom until he investigated.

Her phone buzzed for the first time all day: ‘WORKING LATE 7:50 ETA”.

Two hours and twenty minutes in a horny haze. Her thighs were white-hot. Annabel had propped herself up on the brand new bed, spread her legs, and watched the analog clock tick. She had put a towel under her slit to keep from messing up the comforter. She hadn’t really masturbated since her teenage years, but she instantly keyed in on the solution. Her body needed, craved the release. Annabel had flipped over and jammed a pillow between her legs, humping it in pathetic, desperate need. Chris’s dick would’ve brought her off in moments, she just knew it. The pillow wasn’t much longer, and it shut her down almost entirely.

When she came it was with wet, loud moans.

When she could think and move again it was 6:55.

Disturbed, she ordered a pizza, stripped the now-wet comforter, and changed the pillow covers, all before Chris arrived back. When he got back, at 8:30, she presented a figure of total repose, reading on the couch, in a large comfy sweater.

“How was the day?” she said.

“Long,” Chris said, setting down heavily beside her. Part of her still wanted to jump him, but she was still processing the day. While he had made money she had lazed around and fucked a pillow and honestly made a mess of herself. “What about yours?”

“Got a little quiet,” Annabel said. She indicated the box, unnecessarily. “I got pizza!”

On the third day of work he called in the middle of the day.

It was very unusual—that he would call her at all. Like all couples of their age the entire relationship was conducted over text messages.

“Annabel,” he said, with total seriousness. Annabel straightened. “Yes?” she said, cautious.

“Have you been drinking the water?”

She laughed. What a question. She’d half expected an accusation: Annabel, did you get off in the shower last morning [yes]. Did you forget to wash your hands after tentatively putting your fingers inside yourself [yes]. Did you go buckwild on the pillow while the case was still drying on the rack [yes yes and yes]. In a way she felt like she was cheating. For all her sudden surge of interest in stimulation her fiancee had left early and arrived home very tired.

“Yes, I am staying hydrated, of course I am,” she’d said. “I’m drinking water right now.” Outside of frigging herself and trying to stay productive it was her major occupation. “Glug glug.”

There was no response. She could hear him breathing heavily. “That’s okay, right?” Annabel said, half-concerned. She wore a bathrobe with nothing underneath it. It was a mix of frumpy and hot. The heavy piled cotton was warm on her boobs. “You want to come home and check on me?” Worth a shot. She really wanted to talk. To anyone. Anyone that wasn’t a cow. The view outside the window was of a grassy hill. It was a poor conversationalist.

“No… but… I’ve gotta go,” he hung up. She texted him a ???? and received no response.

Then he returned home promptly at 5:30 and fucked her within an inch of her life.

It was an amazing experience: her fiancee walked through the door, washed his hands thoroughly, and then grabbed her boobs. They were cold from the water. Surprised, Annabel found the truth was she was nonetheless happy to oblige, especially when he pinned her against a wall, hands all over her body. They hadn’t spoken. It had been another long and tedious and silent day punctuated only by intervals of using herself, and any physical contact was very welcome. They ended up on the much-abused bed, where the comforter was still drying out. He simply manhandled her to put her ass up in the air, and then slid balls deep. Chris had no doubt at all she’d be wet. Really, she’d been wet all day.

The only problem was that it only took both of them about five minutes to cum, which meant another long night of nothing to do.

“That was nice,” Annabel told him, afterwards. She was propped up in bed, practically glowing. He watched her drink a big glass of water, expressionless. “Real nice. Super-duper nice.”

“I didn’t have any choice,” Chris said. He looked so grim saying it, although Annabel giggled. Of course it had to be a compliment. A new vista opened up for her: sexing during the day, maybe some pussy pics, even playing dress-up for his approval. That would be a good weekday activity.

“If you need some pussy, I guess that’s my job,” Annabel said. It was more vulgar than she’d intended, and he just grunted and got up. His dick swung between his legs. “I’ve been a little bit…” did she confess to feeling beastly aroused? It was a little disconcerting, how she’d been spending these hours in a literal rut. His head snapped up to look at her. Unaccountably nervous, Annabel took another drink. It was cold and sweet. “Bored. A little bit bored.”

“Bored,” Chris said. He sat back down on the bed. “I guess—but—maybe we shouldn’t’ve come here. I mean, I thought I knew what I was—but…” His shoulders sagged. Annabel came up behind him. It seemed natural and correct to gently jack on his dick. It was still oozing a lot. She had a lot of his cum in her.

“Fuck it,” he said, breathing hard. “I guess this is what it was always going to be.” Was he really getting erect again? Annabel tumbled back down on the sheets. Soon he was on top of her. His first thrust made her giggle, breathless. The worries and tedium melted away. She was getting fucked. Nothing else seemed to matter. It wasn’t even particularly easy to think.

And then two straight sexless endless days.

She barely even saw Chris, who left before she woke up, and came back around nine, even nine-thirty. When he did come home she would’ve happily fucked him, more than happily, but he kept his eyes downcast and his dick in his underpants. He really did look haggard, exhausted. He evaded talking about it. Actually he evaded talking about anything. One night she caught him watching her, very early in the morning, sitting upright in bed. Once he realized she was awake he got up and turned on the shower.

For her own part, it was embarrassing how much she missed carnal contact. It wasn’t like they normally fucked every day. One lengthy encounter during the weekday was more than enough sex. But she had woken up horny, and remained horny, until it was a constant hot ache between her legs, a constant intrusion on her mind. A pressure: her body needed sex like it had previously needed things like food and sleep.

It didn’t help that Annabel found it practically impossible to concentrate on artistic achievement. There was something repulsive about sitting down and just holding a book with her hands. Her tits were aching to be fondled, her breath came in short, hot gasps. Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily. And there she was looking at words on a page of paper. She found herself flipping idly through her stacks for something with at least a little heat, even if it was poorly written literary fucking. Eventually, angry at books, angry at herself, she tossed one over her shoulder and just spread her legs.

She didn’t want to admit to herself how much she was masturbating. In many ways she was always jilling herself. Even the way she walked came with a twist, a turn to her hips, so her thighs could skim together. Otherwise it was wanton, constant, wearing all pillows and hard surfaces down like a cat on a scratching post. Not really sticking fingers into herself—although when it was nearing eight p.m., and Chris was still gone, even that was on the table. Just rubbing, rubbing against her clit, that hard nub of pleasure that didn’t seem to mind all the friction. On and off she cycled, heat, release, heat.

Annabel tried to stop herself. Flashes of concern, even panic, broke through the wet haze that increasingly filled her empty days. Waking up in the shower, underneath cold water, after she had cum so hard underneath the showerhead she’d passed out. Realizing she was mindlessly slurping on sticky fingers, that she hadn’t bothered to wash her hands after many fingerplay sessions.

But even with proper clothes on, jeans zipped up, hands put in gloves, the question was: now what? Read books? Try and get the dodgy internet to work? Watch TV without any cable at all, dependent on a snowy fuzz, like it was 1981? They’d taken pride in cutting the cord. Any projects she tried to embark on, staring at her laptop, seemed sterile. Pointless. She was never going to be anything special, she was a kept woman living off her partner’s professional and financial success. The few short walks she took were depressing: roads full of trucks, sidewalks full of cornfed blondes, and vast fields of grain beyond the new housing development. Plus she couldn’t really touch herself on the road.

It was just so easy and fun and lazy and time-killing to play a game, where her body was the game.

“Isn’t it the weekend yet?” she told Chris, when he arrived home earlier than 8:30, for once.

Chris frowned. “Annabel, we’ve been living here two weeks. How—” he checked himself. She’d gotten used to his frowning look of appraisal. “Come here for a second.”

His tone had gotten increasingly authoritarian and demanding, but Annabel wasn’t about to turn down physical contact. He slipped his hands underneath her tanktop and cupped her boobs.

“They’re bigger,” he informed her, once she was barechested. Annabel looked down, confused. There was in fact a lot of tits there. Was she getting fat, sleek and svelte on deliveries and lack of exercise?

“You think so?” She squeezed a boob. “Am I getting big?”

“Yeah, like two cup sizes,” he informed her, voice flat. He ran his hands over them.

“You’re much bigger,” he informed her. “WAY bigger. You didn’t notice anything? Do you know what day it is?”

She had no idea, and for the first time, felt a trill of real concern. What fucking day was it? And her boobs were bigger? Annabel felt a sudden sense of disorientation: wasn’t she basically an indie girl, with a side-interest in hiking, looking to jumpstart her writing career? Shouldn’t she know what DAY it was? But then Chris surprised her by putting his fingers in her mouth. He was looking directly into her eyes. At no point had he done anything like that, just used her body as he saw fit. The warmth spread all through her.

“It’s okay. Calm down. Don’t worry. It’s Tuesday,” he told her, finally pulling his fingers out, but not before she’d sucked gently on them. “We should get some sleep. Why not read some books tomorrow, huh? Just… do the best you can.”

The next day, Chris came home with a present.

After the enduring weirdness of last night, sucking on his damp, musky fingers, Annabel had tried extra hard to stamp out the growing, forgetful fog. She’d put on old jeans, uncomfortably aware that they hardly fit: her butt overflowed, the zipper would not zip. Her old bras were small sections of tightrope, dramatically unable to do more than underline her tits. So she read in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, listening to the tick of the clock, keeping her hands to herself. She spent hours trying to get a signal out of the internet, to just connect to some old normalcy, in her snarky and highly political twitter feed. She got as far as the loading screen.

“Here,” Chris said, sliding it across the table. It was nearly ten at night. He’d been growing a beard, unwilling to take the time to shave before rushing out. She’d greeted him in an old t-shirt, now aware of how much her boobs rode up in it. Her willpower hadn’t extended to stopping snacking. Every other day there were groceries delivered, mostly cheap corn-based snacks, and she’d steadily gone through most of them. She assumed Chris had ordered them.

She opened a small flat box. Inside was a sleek black vibrator.

“A—toy?” she said, startled. Was she so overwrought that he thought she was—just a horny layabout fiancee? Maybe that was close to the truth.

“I’m gone so much. I know there’s some long days,” he looked shifty, unhappy. “And… you know. I know. I thought you might appreciate it.”

“We can just fuck late at night. Or early in the morning.” Shit, were those the words coming out of her mouth? Maybe she really was just a randy housewife-to-be. “Whenever. Please.”

“Try it,” he told her.

“What, right now?” Her body was overriding any concern. She was already shifting forwards in her chair, trying to find the on button. There it was. It made a little purr. “What’re you gonna do?” She was already lowering the thing. “Watch?”

“Observe,” he told her, as Annabel pushed the sleek silicone rod against her snatch. It sent a brief electrical shock through her, one that traveled from a clutch of tender nerves in her clit up through her spine and into the increasingly soggy, overstimulated mess of her brain stem. That part of her shook and spasmed. Happy chemicals spewed everywhere. It made the rest of her wholly unimportant. Already she could feel a bath of dumb happiness flow through her, with just a tiny bit nonsubmerged. With what was left, Annabel pulled the stick away. It was too much. She was already struggling with the temptation to jill herself stupid, reduce herself to drooling orgasms. The vibrator would just burn her away. She looked at Chris, pleading. Surely he would understand what he had handed her. It was dangerous.

“Why’d you stop?” he said, frowning. Helpless, Annabel touched it back to her pussy, and fell back against the couch.

He was right that it was nice to hear something that wasn’t just silence.

After that her memories got a lot more fragmented.

The hum, that wasn’t hard to remember. It had gotten scratched into her, pushed deep, over and over, with that hard-buzzing stick. If she closed her eyes the hum was still there, even deep into the night. A wave of stroking warmth that was always right beneath the surface, just below whatever thoughts she could conjure up. It was just a part of her. A buzz that put her to sleep and woke her up. It was never quiet, now.

At some point the TV got hooked up, or perhaps it simply turned itself on. At any rate, the nice shiny surface played pornography of every possible kind. It filled a void: Annabel needed something for her eyes to rest on while she was buzzing away, and a blur of people having sex worked nicely. After a long time watching, in between sessions, legs too rubbery to walk, she realized that the volume had never been turned on. It was on mute. She had no idea where the remote control was. It didn’t really matter. The hum was loud enough, and she added her own screams, on a regular basis.

She had sparse, vague memories of trying to leave. In fact she was pretty sure that at one point she woke up, took a shower, put on some fairly normal clothes, and tried to just drive away. Of course it didn’t quite work the way she had planned, starting with how the normal clothes were brand-new slutty pink puff outfits that made her look like a whore cheerleader. She had a distinct memory of looking in the mirror, her still-growing tits plump and thick, staring in horror at a new pair of distinctive cocksucker lips. That her hair was increasingly blonde barely signified. She was pretty sure she drove until it was time to reward herself with an escape cum. The town police had found her dribbling and grinning stupidly shortly after nightfall.

She was pretty sure that her fiancee didn’t lay a hand on her. That wasn’t to say he was chaste and innocent. Chris quickly got in the habit of jacking off onto her while she buzzed away, jerking ropes of white cum all over her. As time went on he edged closer and closer, until he could reliably cum directly onto her face. It was what he preferred. Annabel was too distracted to participate, but would obediently open her mouth. Swallowing his cum was something she could do for him, since she was being so very lazy.

The truth was, the moments of rebellion and self-doubt were far and few between, inevitable lows between the crests of incredible highs. The reality was that she was deeply happy all the time. In the mirror she was glowing, sporting a big dopey smile that only hinted at the constant, orgasmic ripples. It was like she had unlocked a cheat to happiness. The happy chemicals were always inside of her, briefly unlocked in fleeting moments of orgasmic bliss. Why not just feel that way all the time? True, it was etching big holes in her vocabulary, not to mention her sense of time, and basic ability to think clearly. She vaguely recalled reading something about a rat and cocaine. But there it was: she’d jammed open the part of her that kept her from being blissfully happy, all the time. Was that so bad?

Of course, she didn’t quite remember her mom’s name. A flood of text messages came in, randomly, her phone getting a stray signal from somewhere. It took Annabel a long time to work out the various names and relationships, her lips moving. Briefly chilled by the experience, she passed by the mirror. The body there was florid, big. There was a thick ass with big round supple curves, a goopy mouth that was still spackled with Chris’s last load. But after a few minutes the good feelings returned. She’d left the vibrator inside of herself and it was still working away.

The next time she felt bad was when Chris came home with a stranger.

She waved a cheerful hello to him, and managed to sit up when the newcomer tentatively came in. Luckily she was wearing sweats, a cute pink pair that had arrived at her doorstep, just like all the food. Although she was bare chested.

“She weighed 115 two months ago,” Chris said, to the man. He was tall and handsome, in a button-down grey shirt and very dark jeans. He wore a surgical mask for some reason. “Probably double that now.”

“Hiiiii,” Annabel said, smiling, nervous.

‘Uh. Hello,” the man said. He looked, questioning, at Chris.

“I don’t need to tell you the intellectual impact. All this stuff is just—not good for you. Imagine if sticking your finger into a light socket felt really good.”

Annabel’s eyebrows knitted at that. This was the first time they’d had visitors in… however long they’d been there.

“But you’re unaffected. Because you’re male?” the visitor said, folding his arms. Chris smiled at that.

“Unaffected?” he shook his head. “I’ve put on sixty pounds of muscle. I have to cum five or six times a day. Need to. The intellectual impact is different but if I don’t regularly drain I’m as stupid as Annabel. John, you don’t understand what this is. Your surgical mask is a joke. Its in the water, the air, the everything.”

For emphasis, her fiancee pulled his dick out of his pants right in front of John. “Annabel.”

She didn’t need to be told more than once. Annabel got on her knees. “Suck,” he told her. At long last. She had never really questioned it, sensing a truth that would shatter what remained of their relationship. But his dick had been totally off limits. She put her mouth around it and drooled.

“She never even remembers sucking my dick,” Chris said, somewhere beyond her ability to hear. “When I cum it knocks her right out. Then she wakes up with another inch of ass. That’s what you’re up against. I fought it for three days. After that I fucked my secretary so hard she yowled.” Annabel worked diligently on his cock, wondering what all the words meant. They sounded sort of familiar.

“I don’t think its that hard to not have sex. Or just jerk off,” John said. He crossed his arms and backed away from Annabel’s noisy blowjob.

“Try not breathing,” Chris advised. He rubbed Annabel’s head, affectionate. “It’s not so bad. You know that climax is from a greek word? Meaning ‘ladder’? And not just any ladder. Ladder to god. I hope I hold on to that memory, in my pen. Watch. Annabel here is going to see something divine.”

It was true, Annabel thought. The taste was familiar, the motions. She had done this before, many times. In the onrush of pleasure, getting ready to knock her out, she felt a moment of clarity. She loved this. Becoming a big fat stupid slut. It was great. Sad, pathetic, but really a lot of fun.

“You’ve got the serum?” she heard the stranger say. And then Chris came, and she passed out, but not before experiencing what might’ve been an oxygen-deprivation euphoria, and what might’ve been the heavens.

That was the last time she saw her fiance.

He wasn’t there when she came to, wasn’t there the next day.

Even more concerning, her vibrator ran out of batteries.

It was suddenly quiet, for the first time in a long time. Just herself in an empty room.

It occurred to her that Chris must’ve been putting in new batteries, every night. But before she could really focus on this, two police officers showed up at her door, politely asking for Mr. Chris Pauling. They were very gentle with her, even taking the time to give her the fucking she so desperately needed. Annabel was very ready to tell them everything about the stranger—they were men, after all—but they never asked.

Once they left, she was all alone. No noise but the birds chirping. And maybe someone crying out in bliss, in some other apartment.

She masturbated by herself, but it wasn’t really the same. With all the stimulation removed Annabel felt a little bit more like a person. Enough to realize: she had to get out, if only to find someone to talk to. Figure out what she was, after everything she’d gone through.

She’d found an outfit that still sort of fit, and walked outside of the door for the first time in four months.

On the first telephone pole she ran across was a flyer for a community meeting. For later that day. Just before three. Annabel had been prompt. She’d smiled at everyone. And then a police officer, a new one, had shown up. Which ruined her big master plan, the one she had formed, sitting there in her big empty apartment, her fiance missing, her body a bloated, bimbo mess. The plan she had laboriously written down, so she wouldn’t possibly forget, even with her big bimbo brain.

The vibrator took three double-A batteries, and, somewhere in this house, they had to be waiting for her to purloin.

She really missed the hum.