The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She was lying flat on her back. Everything was dark... her eyes were closed. She let them open just a little and a blur of light pounded at her head.

It was a small room with greenish-gray walls. She turned her head left and right. She was lying on a narrow bed, with tube-metal rails along the sides. There was a chair in the corner opposite the door with a small burlap sack lying on the seat. Other than that, the room was bare and empty.

Scrunching her eyes not quite closed, she tried to sit up. Something jerked at her wrists, pulling her back down.

Blinking the fog out of her head, she looked down at herself. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed to the bedrails. She flexed her arms and legs one by one, then yanked as hard as she could, ignoring the throbbing chloroform hangover. No good. She was stuck.

As her brain started to work again, she took a good look at the cuffs. As far as she could tell, they were plain ordinary ones. She could pick the locks with a hairpin, if she could just get one hand free to work.

She tossed her head, wincing as her sinuses pounded. If she could get one hairpin loose so that it landed near her hand.... No luck. They stayed firmly in place.

Hyperia told herself to remain calm and professional. She had to get out of here fast. Her dress was still on her, thank goodness, but her captor’s intentions were obvious, especially after her encounter with Ginger Butch. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered another problem. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious. There was no telling how much time she had until the real Lascivia Lavender arrived and put an end to her impersonation.

She grabbed the rail in her right hand and tried to work it loose. If she could just get one end out of its socket, she could slip the handcuff free and then get to work on the rest....

The door creaked open. She froze.

“Hey, babe!” It was the voice of her captor. “Ready for some fun?”

“I’m not in the mood,” she said flatly. Maybe if she acted nonchalant and treated this as a game she’d been willing to play until she decided it wasn’t fun any more, she could get out of it without knowing their special code word. Surely, even if Lascivia enjoyed this sort of perversity, she didn’t want to engage in it all the time. It ought to be possible to beg off without giving herself away.

“Yeah, I know, you’re never in the mood right after you wake up. I keep telling you to try halothane or isoflurane to see if those work better for you, but you keep insisting on ‘tradition’,” he replied, making air quotes and doing a nasal high-pitched voice on the last word. Continuing the whiny tone, he sighed, “Oh, but, Spike, I just doesn’t feel like the girl reporter at the mercy of the evil henchman if we don’t use chloroform!“

So this was Spike Shackley. Hyperia filed away the information in case it became useful.

Spike walked over to the chair and slid it along the floor to face the foot of the bed. “Just take deep breaths and clear your head while I get this ready for you.”

He held up the burlap sack. Hyperia could now see that it had contours shaped into it... the shape of a nose and a chin. The mouth of the bag was circled by a thick black leather band with buckles and straps. It wasn’t a bag—it was a hood designed to go over someone’s head. Her head.

“We don’t need that,” she said, trying to maintain her nonchalant tone. Her chances of escaping looked bad enough already without getting blindfolded.

“You don’t want it?” He grinned. “Tell me why you were snooping around, missy. Give me an honest answer, and I’ll let you go.”

Hyperia thought frantically. From the sound of it, Spike was immersing himself into the “girl reporter at the mercy of the evil henchman” fantasy, and expected her to do likewise. She didn’t know the special word to end the game. Was there some other way to derail it?

“I was working for the competition.” It was a safe and generic response that would at least keep the conversational ball rolling.

“Which competition?” He sounded like a dinner-theater actor playing a hardboiled detective. “Supreme Libidinous Unity Transcendence? Prime Elemental Revolutionary Victory? Who?”

Was that the key to this trap? If the “safeword” was the name of one of the other sexual-liberation outfits, a random guess just might work, and she’d been given an opening where guessing wrong would just seem like part of the role-playing. “It’s the Worldwide High Order Revival Enterprise”.

Spike scowled. “Wrong answer. I’ll bet you’re really working for the Prime Reactive United Defense Entente!“

“No!” A moment too late, she realized that she shouldn’t have let herself react. She told herself that it was just a lucky guess, that he hadn’t really seen through her disguise.

“Oh, really?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Well, now, if you aren’t working for the PRUDEs, you’ll be glad to prove it by doing some un-PRUDEish things for me.” He leered.

“What do you want?” It seemed like the safest response at the moment.

“I want you to lie down like a good girl reporter while I get the hood ready for you. Not that you have any choice.”

Spike sat down in the chair and looked up her legs. “Nice view,” he murmured as he took a piece of frilly white fabric out of the sack. He held it up, and Hyperia recognized her thong panties.

“You showed my yours, so it’s only fair to show you mine.” He unzipped his fly and took out his erect cock. “Now, just one more thing....”

He curled the fingers of his right hand around his erection and began stroking. With his left hand, he positioned the hood in his lap. “I’ll have this ready for you in a minute.”

“That’s disgusting!” Hyperia cried as she realized what he intended to do. It was a raw visceral reaction; she didn’t think about whether or not it would help or hinder her attempts to escape or maintain her cover.

“Yeah, the dames always say that,” he sneered. “They change their tune when they get a good strong whiff. It makes ’em pure animals, moaning for me to hurry up and get hard again so I can let ’em have it!”

“No! Stop that!”

Spike slowly slid his fingers up and down his shaft, taking his time. “Keep telling me how much you don’t want it, darlin’. It’ll make it taste better on those lyin’ lips.”

She quit talking. Even without his comments, she could tell that her protests were only encouraging him. Frantically, she yanked at the restraints. They remained firmly in place.

Was there some way to buy time by making him miss the target? No. The heavy leather band sewn into the opening of the hood formed a big open target positioned at point-blank range. When he finished—which, judging from his heavy breathing, would be very soon—the inside of the hood would be sprayed with his ejaculation, and then....

“It won’t be long now,” Spike muttered. “Just lie back and get ready for your facial.”