The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It dripped constantly from the tubes, sticky and sweet. The scent of it filled him with a primal need, a hunger he could not sate. All he wanted, all he thought of, was honey. Delicious, fulfilling, live-giving honey. He was in total darkness, but he knew the tube was somewhere above. The drips landed inches from him. For the first day he had kept his tongue out, hoping it would land there and let him savour the perfectly tart flavour. It fell too far away. The dripping and the smell were all that kept him aware he was close to what he so utterly, desperately needed.

A whirring told him the tubes were lowering. It happened once every few hours and each time was sheer ecstasy. The longing and yearning for the taste was unbearable and strapped as he was in an upright position in a room he did not know the size or shape of, the only thing he felt, could feel, was hunger. Some sounds told him he was not alone, groans and cries and the sound of sucking and slurping and shouts of pleasure when the tubes came. How many others, what they looked like, who they were, even where they had come from was all a mystery. He had known before the honey, before he tasted it and everything changed, but that was no longer important. The tubes were coming.

It was an agonising wait. Seconds that felt like hours, days. Slowly, with a mechanical buzz and somewhere distant a sloshing and churning, until finally a click and he could open his mouth. The tube buzzed and lengthened to enter his mouth and he clamped down on it. Soon. The remnants of his last feeding were still there, and he greedily licked around the edges of the tube while he waited for the flow to start. A low rumbling down the tube told him he would not wait much longer. Honey was flowing, pumped with enough pressure to smoothly roll down his throat and fill his belly, but never choke him.

It came. It filled him, moving into his mouth, and touching his tongue. Nectar of the gods. He sucked it down as though he had found water in the desert. Nothing had ever tasted as perfectly sweet and sticky and sublime. All he knew, all he wanted, was honey. He felt its warmth inside him, coursing through him as though his very veins were suffused with its saccharine, syrupy, splendour.

The tube retracted. So soon, so horribly soon. He tried to push further, to reach more. He needed it, more than food, more than water, more than anything. The tube did not care. It moved away, then up, buzzing, and whirring as it returned to its resting place high above, out of reach. Strapped as he was to what felt like cold metal on his naked body, there was no getting to it. He would have to wait, and he knew the exquisite agony that meant.

A moan nearby told him that so did one of the others. It was familiar, a voice that he felt he knew, but thought was so hard, his mind was trapped in a honey jar. Any attempt to think was like moving through the sticky, gooey mess and that made him think even more of honey.

“Carl,” the voice groaned.

Carl. He was Carl. Was he Carl? He felt something, a memory, bubbling to the surface through a haze of yellow. Carl had been at home when they came. With… with who?

“It’s me, Carl, it’s Becca.”

With Becca. His wife. Only honey mattered, but that was what happened. They came and they took them. It was a flash, nothing more, a stinging sensation when the door opened and then darkness and honey and honey and honey.

“Carl, please…”

All he needed was a taste, another drop. It would let him think, let him see through the darkness and remember more. Remember who he was beyond that flash of memory. Her voice was safe and warm and kind, and it was honey too. It buzzed in his brain and made him feel things he could not place. Happiness and anger and warmth and arousal and pain and pleasure and hope. Honey made him feel better. Honey was only warmth and happiness.

“Carl, we need to get out of here,” Becca murmured, as though she too were encased in a jar of honey.

Carl pulled against the restraints, but they did not budge, and he wondered if getting away meant not getting honey and then he stopped fighting. Honey would come soon. Honey always came. He only wanted the honey, not her. Who was she again?

“Carl, please,” the voice pleaded.

Becca. It was Becca. He knew that. Memories like bubbles in golden droplets popped in his mind. Kissing on the beach, holding hands in a forest, Becca in a white dress in front of people. Family. Friends. Where were they? What was going on?

“Becca?” Carl said. His own voice was alien to him, deep and hoarse.

“You’re there, thank God. Honey, we have to get out of here.”

Honey. That was what he needed. She was right, the second she said it he knew what he wanted, what he needed. The memories were unimportant compared to the sticky, sickly sweet honey. Carl licked his lips and a sliver of drool slid down his chin.

“Carl? Please don’t stop talking. I need to hear you.”

Warm, wet, squelching, and sweet. So, so sweet. Carl’s mind was swimming in honey. The voice talking to him was so far away.

“Please, I need you.”

Clearer now, closer. Becca. Becca needed him. Becca, his wife.

“I’m here.”

“Carl how do we escape?”

In the darkness, he could see nothing. The only sensations over the past few days had been the dripping from the honey tubes, the whirring and buzzing of them and the grunts and groans of whoever else was in the room. It could have been miles long or a tiny box, there was no way to know. Sometimes there were clicking sounds, strange, thin footsteps. Once there had been screaming and shouting and heavy thumps and thuds but then the tubes fell, and it had stopped being important. Now Carl wished he could remember more, but he was drowning in golden warmth.

“I… I don’t know,” he managed.

“I’m scared,” Becca said. Her voice was thin. She sounded tired or pained.

Carl strained harder than he had before. There was another need now, equally primal beside the unending hunger, the need to protect Becca. The restraints gave, just a little. He felt his left arm loosen slightly, not enough to pull it away but enough to move it back and forth, stressing the restraint, jiggling, and jostling about. Something was giving.

“I’ll be there soon Becca.”

He kept fighting, kept pulling the arm against the restraint with all the might he could muster. Carl, deep down beneath the aching hunger for honey, knew something terrible had happened, knew he should not be strapped upright being fed from a tube. How had that seemed normal? Who could have done all this? Why?

“Please honey, please help me.”

Please. Honey. Please. Carl wanted to beg for more of it, more sticky sweet sugary soft surging down his throat. He needed it. The emptiness in his stomach made him feel weak and needy. Desperate. Pathetic. Afraid. The honey would help. The honey would make it all go away and make him whole again. He had no need for a wife or freedom or memories or anything but the glorious honey that gave him life. It was so clear now; he should stop fighting whatever had happened and embrace it. Why would he ever try to get away from the place that served him the only thing he needed?

Becca called out again. “Carl, don’t give up, I’m scared.”

He tried to shake his head but found that was restrained too, a strap across his forehead. It was so hard to think or fight but he pushed his left arm again, hearing a tiny rip in whatever the restraint was made of. Giving it all his might, it gave a little more and finally, with a sudden jerk, it fell to the ground and his arm was free. He grasped at his right hand, feeling the leather strap and buckle, and managing to open it with some effort. Now, two free hands could explore the rest of the restraints. One held his head in place, two he could feel at his ankles and another larger one at his waist. That was where he started, grasping for a buckle or clasp but failing to find it.

“Are you free yet Carl,” Becca said, a little more insistent now, probably as desperate as he was, “please, help me. I need your strength.”

“Almost,” he grunted as he clawed at the tight leather clamping his waist to metal. “Just need to open this.”

“Hurry Carl,” Becca pleaded, “you have to help me, you have to.”

He knew that. He knew he had to help her, but it was so hard to free himself and he was getting so tired and thinking about where the honey would come from next. It was such hard, hungry work.

“Please Carl,” Becca called, “keep working for me, don’t ever stop.”

She sounded so close, beside him or in front of him, but so, so close. He just had to keep trying and fumbling and grabbing at his restraints in the darkness. There had to be a way to get out. He switched to the harness around his forehead and quickly found metal buttons above his right ear. He popped them open, and his head was free. He could lean forward now and find the buckle or the buttons or the clasp, whatever was keeping that strap on his waist locked around him tightly.

“You’re almost there, work just a little harder, ok honey?”

Work. Honey. Work. Which was right? Work or honey? He had to save Becca but the honey, God the honey. Then the whirring started. The tube was coming. He could hear it from all around him, like the buzzing of a great beehive as tubes slowly lowered all over the room. The anticipation was incredible, the horrible need. There was nothing he wanted more, but Becca but honey but work but sweet. He waited for the tube that would give him the energy he needed to keep working on his escape, but it never came. He could hear sucking and slurping around him, others being nourished by the honey tubes, but his was not there. He could move around more than ever but that did not help, it had not dropped from the ceiling.

“Honey?” he croaked.

A flash of light and the room was illuminated. All around him men, there must have been almost a hundred, were strapped to metal machines, sucking honey through the tubes coming from the ceiling. The little yellow droplets that escaped their mouths were the only colour in an otherwise sterile environment. He had never seen anything like it, each man was strapped as he had been, at ankle, waist, wrist and head, and the only thing they seemed to care about was the tube lodged in their throat. He glanced around for Becca, but she was not there.

A door swung open and a woman… no… a bee… walked in. Becca? Was this his wife? She was almost six feet tall, with soft yellow skin, long blonde hair and ruby-coloured eyes. Her body was incredibly curvy, large breasts in a black leotard that tapered down to her hips. Behind her was a huge tail or abdomen, he could not remember enough from biology class to be sure. It swayed gently as she walked on pointed feet toward him, her four black and yellow arms opened wide and a big smile on her face. Two similar looking but smaller bee women flanked her, though they lacked the massive abdomen Becca had.

“B-Becca?” Carl mumbled when she stopped in front of him.

She cocked her hips and put two of her four hands on them, then with the other two she caressed his cheeks.

“This drone is ready for work,” she said.

“Yes, my Queen,” one of the other two said.

“Wait, what? Becca, what’s happening?”

She smiled and let out the tiniest chuckle. “There is no Becca, human, I am your Queen.”

One of the other two bee women stepped forward and examined Carl, tilting her head back and forth. “One of them will escape, and this way of conditioning them will fail, my Queen.”

“Oh I know, but that will be all the more delicious, won’t it, Carl?” the Queen said.

Carl’s mouth was open, his eyes focused on the woman he thought was Becca but now he was lost. Was she Becca once? Was she ever? The Queen leaned closer to him, her chest at the same height as his head. She peeled back part of her leotard, exposing a soft, yellow breast. Squeezing it made drops of honey ooze from her nipple and Carl gulped. He stared at it, the hunger back, stronger than ever.

“Please,” he managed to choke out of his dry throat.

“You see,” the Queen said, turning to the other bee woman, “the human men are easy to control. Now let’s finish his conversion.”

The Queen grabbed Carl’s head and pulled his mouth onto her nipple. He began to suckle at it, feeling the honey pour into his mouth, tasting better than it ever had from the tube. His cock stiffened and a hand grabbed it and started stroking, then another hand joined in. The pleasure, the taste, everything was incredible. So many sensations, such utter need. Carl was swirling in honeyed ecstasy and all that mattered was the Queen and her nectar. He swallowed and swallowed and still needed more.

“Your only needs are to work and feed and never stop,” the Queen said,” that is the life of a drone.”

She pulled away and his lips opened and closed on the air, looking for the nipple and the honey, but it was gone, and he felt totally empty and lost. The only thing that would fulfil him was her honey and he knew he would work until he got it.

“Take him away and prepare him for the mining team,” the Queen said to one subordinate before turning to the other. “Which of these humans is next?