The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Part 7 — Sabrina Smith!


This could have been your story. This was yet another winning submission to the contest.


Alex’s wish fulfillment, spelled out courtesy of a Valentine’s Day writing contest, leads to some interesting changes to his live-in girlfriend, especially after a mistype.


This story is a work of fiction; any apparent resemblance between the characters in this story and any actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional.

Do not read this story if you are under the age of 18 or if explicit sexual fiction is illegal in your jurisdiction.

This story contains mind control and explicit descriptions of a sexual nature. If any of these concepts disturb you, please find something else to read.

This story is a work of erotic fantasy. It is not meant to reflect real life, nor should it be read as an endorsement of the actions and attitudes contained within.

All stories start with “What if?” the Weaver’s most powerful tool.

What if, for instance, the Weaver decided to host a writing contest for lovers on Valentine’s Day. A contest wherein the prize is completely decided by the writing… and everyone is a winner.

* * *


It’s only midway through the workday when the thought strikes me — Shit, it’s Valentine’s Day.

The upside to living in small town Canada is that you pretty much know all of your neighbors and everyone is kind. The downside is that midway through Valentine’s Day, there’s not a rose to be found for miles and miles. Also, the single “nice” restaurant is all booked up, deaf to your pleas for help, despite being consistently and across the board friendly. Most people, smart people, plan in advance. Despite my skills as an architect, I’m feeling quite dumb today. I could blame it on the project I’m working on being in the final stretch, but Sabrina deserves better than that.

I start to search the internet for something that might be able to deliver in mere hours and stumble across some kind of contest.

No one celebrates love like The Weaver. As such, this St. Valentine’s Day, I want you to write me a story about your significant other. Tell me who you are and who they are. The story aspect though is for you to tell me who you want them to be. Unleash your fantasies onto the page and you could win a truly memorable prize to share this holiday. Send your stories to

Grasping at straws, I decide to submit a story in the hopes that being unique and interesting will outweigh the lateness of my entry. If I could promise Sabrina a truly memorable prize worthy of her, that would go a long way.

My name is Alex Jones, I’m an architect and despite this last minute submission, I assure you I’m generally also a romantic. My girlfriend Sabrina Smith is absolute perfection. She’s a literary doctoral candidate working on her final thesis. An absolute brilliant mind, I’ve never won an argument with her. (Not that we argue that often.)

I would like to win a prize to really show my love and affection for her, because she’s always so giving and wanting to make sure my needs are fulfilled. Hopefully a prize that pulls her head out of her books and allows her to strut her sexy lynx self for a while.

I click submit and only then realize that in my rush to submit, I wrote “sexy lynx” instead of “sexy minx.” I hope whoever’s running this contest doesn’t take off points for bad metaphor statements. I mean, if I’m being completely honest, Sabrina isn’t a sexy lynx nor a sexy minx. Sure, we have sex, but it’s more relegated to special occasions like she wants than the daily occurrence like I’d want. There’s always her thesis work to be done. On the plus side, Valentine’s Day is absolutely a special occasion so there will be sex to be had tonight. I’m happy about that, but sad that I’ll have to wait for my birthday in April to hope for our next tryst. Describing Sabrina accurately as a “nearly sexless boyish scholar” probably wouldn’t have earned me any points with this contest. Besides, I don’t love her for her curve-less body and utter lack of sexy attire, I love her for her mind.

With a sigh, I catalog that thought as useless and I’ve already clicked on the next webpage for ideas when I get an email:

You are a winner!



…what exactly did I win, so I can tell Sabrina about it today and not just show up with a card, a smile, and a hope of “getting some tail?”


My day is pretty booked up.

Do as much research as I can in the morning and afternoon before cleaning up a bit and dressing up a bit for whatever Alex has planned for us tonight after he gets home from work. My gift to him is the nightie I’m going to be wearing when he strolls through that front door. I’m not usually the type to get half-naked… ever… but it’s a special occasion, our fifth Valentine’s Day together. And this is the first piece of lingerie I’ve ever purchased. The traditional gift for five years together is wood, so I’m going to attempt to give him some wood as a nice little surprise. It covers enough so that I can maintain my modesty.

The thought of Alex’s wood is, of course, a distraction from my work so I tamp it down like always. I can’t have distractions like that. Time enough for sex when all my work is done. Thesis papers don’t write themselves, after all, and this girl has her sights set on a Ph.D. ASAP.

I get a good five pages of notes down, about a quarter of my usual output, before I feel my eyes cross trying to keep reading. Typically, I don’t need a break this early on into my daily research, but I really have to push the book away and rub at my eyes.

That doesn’t seem to help, as a book that made absolute sense a moment ago — one I’ve been studying for weeks now — seems foreign to both my eyes and mind.

I pull another from the stack — the same thing, but in addition to not making sense, I’m actually kind of repulsed by it as a “books are icky” thought runs through my mind forcing me to ask myself immediately after — are books icky? I’m not entirely sure if the answer is yes or no.

I take another book off my pile and discover it has no pictures… I immediately pout at the book. Why would anyone want a book with no pictures? What’s the point? The pictures are, like, the best part.

Finding absolutely no pictures in any of these books, I decide that I am done with them all. No pretty pictures equals no pretty Sabrina looking at you. I stick my tongue out at the disgusting stack of books on the desk. I shudder at them and can’t imagine wanting to ever open a book again…

…Or sitting at a desk even, because it’s so uncomfortable to tuck my tail for so long against that hard surface.

I vaguely remember a lifelong dream of getting my Ph.D., but the only Ph.D. this girl needs is Alex’s Pretty Huge Dick. I lick my lips and feel the pointed ears atop my head flutter a bit at the thought.

I strut through the house, wearing just my thong, and feel my tail, now freed from that unbearably constrictive seat, swaying side to side behind me.

I take an extra long shower to put all of that nastiness behind me, vowing to never open a book again so long as I live. I run out of hot water because of some gratuitous self-love, getting off twice using my hand and once rubbing my pussycat tail up and down my pussy. Knowing that my delicious man will be coming home, I step out of the shower and start to primp and preen. I spend a good time blowdrying my hair, ears, and tail to make sure they’re at their fluffiest and sexiest. I look at myself in the mirror. The black tail and black ears look so nice against my light brown hair and pale skin and also make my pretty perfect titties and curvy hips and ass look even better.

I go to my closet and spend some time picking out the right collar. It has to match my knee-high stockings, fuzzy wristlets, and lacy thong. I mean, everything I own is black to match my ears and tail, but this is a fancy, special occasion collar. I only own stockings, wristlets, thongs, and collars. Why would a pet need anything more?

Must only look nice for Sabrina’s owner.

Must only try to serve him and make him happy.

Want Sabrina’s owner to love Sabrina.


Armed with a Valentine’s Day card, and only a card, I’m ready for Sabrina to be disappointed. Hopefully not so much that she takes sex off the table. That would be a real loss. There’s only so much masturbation you can do when you’re in a committed relationship without it impacting your self-image.

I open the door and I’m barely paying attention while I kick off my shoes to feel something rub up against my leg. I look down and see Sabrina there, but not the Sabrina that I left this morning. This morning’s Sabrina would never wear such little clothing and she didn’t own such sexy stuff. The Sabrina at my feet starts to purr at me and that’s when I notice the ears and tail and realization strikes me. She’s finally decided to give in to my requests for some role play to spice things up. That realization is a bit affected when I see the ears and tail move with life. And the fact that her breasts and ass are easily double the size of when I left this morning. No commitment to role play can achieve that. Something else is going on here.

“Sabrina?” I say.

She sits back on her feet. “Yes, master?”

The sight of her looking so subservient like this… oof… I feel my cock stir in my pants at that.

She seems to somehow sense this, a smile on her face and eyes glued to my crotch. Eyes that seem glazed over compared to how I remember them looking. Bigger, more innocent eyes.

“Master brought Sabrina a present. Can Sabrina unwrap it?” She reaches out towards my zipper even as she asks. My dick gets harder still hearing her speak of herself in the third person. She sounds so… simplified.

I nod and she eagerly pounces closer to me, working my belt off and my zipper down in record time. She tugs my briefs down with my pants and I spring up towards her face.

She kisses my cock head and looks up at me. “Sabrina loves her gift.”

She takes the whole thing down her throat and it feels so good. She starts to focus her mouth on the tip when I feel a soft grip around the shaft. I look down to see her tail wrapped around. I’d probably freak out if it didn’t feel so damn good.

The feeling is so all-encompassing, I blurt out, “Let me cum on your tits.”

I immediately fear repercussion. I’ve never talked dirty to Sabrina. I’ve been afraid she would shut down immediately. When she pulls me out of her mouth, I’m worried that’s about to happen, but she looks up at me and very pleasantly says, “Okay!”

She strokes me with both hands and her tail at the same time. It’s an extraordinary feeling that I wish every man could feel. I grunt and shoot wad after wad across her chest and she only stops jerking me when I tell her to, when the feeling is just too much.

I watch as she hoists each breast up towards her mouth and tongues my cum off of them, licking herself clean.

The magic of that sight has me hardening and back in performance shape in no time at all. She seems to know the effect she has on me. The licking clearly equal parts utilitarian and performance. I walk behind her and smack her ass, sending her tail flying in the opposite direction.

“Are you teasing me?” I taunt.

“Sabrina would never tease.”

I push her to the floor, giving me a clear view of her glistening pussy. I pull her tail up against my chest and, gripping it, push into her. She’s tight and, grunting… straining… I have to work for every inch.

Once I begin to build up to a thrust, I let go of her tail and grip her hip bones.

I start to slam into her, almost animalistically taken over by the moment.

Her mews become yeses.

The yeses become indecipherable sounds, half human, half something else.

Her cat ears twitch as she cums. I see that and can’t hold back from my own cum.

Laying naked next to her, I finally have time to read her collar. Engraved, it simply says “Sex Kitten.” On the other side is my name and phone number. I realize that she’s mine.

Realization strikes — After all of the sex, I finally give her the barely signed card I bought on the way home.

Sabrina laughs, tossing it to the side without opening it, and says, “Master knows Sabrina can’t read. Sabrina is a pet for master to take care of.”

After saying this quite plainly and matter-of-factly, she curls up against me.

Hands on her perfect body, I don’t think I’ll ever miss Old Sabrina, bookish, passionless Sabrina, because I really love my new and improved furry Valentine.