The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Stacey needed a place to stay. After arriving in the city and cabbing to her best friend’s house, she had been turned away. Maddy had made excuses, citing email miscommunications and last-minute roommate reversals. But Stace could tell from Maddy’s mussed-up hair and flushed cheeks that something else was up. Standing rejected on Maddy’s doorstep, Stace craned her neck to see down the hall, spotting other signs of a brand-new boyfriend. Clearly, Maddy wanted her privacy. So much for BFF.

The dorms were already full, and when she saw how long the waiting list was, Stace didn’t even bother entering her name. She wandered the sprawling new campus, fighting back tears while she scouted out likely benches upon which to sleep.

So when the clerk at Tim Horton’s coaxed out Stace’s dilemma and then offered her a place to stay, she couldn’t say no.

Couldn’t say no. That phrase would take on a different meaning soon enough.

The clerk’s name was Becky. Like Stace, she was petite, with sharp features but a soft, sympathetic smile. Her eyelashes hung heavy with mascara, so Stace sometimes found herself tilting her head down while speaking to her, trying to get past the fluttering gates and find her eyes. They were deep brown, like her hair; friendly, but hard to pin down. Becky was in her second year of Psych—a programme which Stace had also pondered before settling on Comparative Literature.

“Oh, you’re a clit!” Exclaimed Becky as they hauled Stace’s bags to her house.

Stace blushed. “What?”

“C-Lit.” Becky clarified, laughing. “You’d better get used to that one.”

As Becky explained the living arrangements, Stace’s immense relief was coloured with dismay. She said she lived with two other girls in an old two-storey rambler called “Hunt House”—named, apparently, for Dr. Hunt, the girls’ patron.

“Dr. Hunt takes in girls who show particular promise,” she went on, “She gives them really cheap rent and helps them learn to share.”

Stace’s nose crinkled in confusion. “Share? You mean, like, chores, and things?”

“Chores, responsibilities. But also knowledge. Dr. Hunt believes in pooling our resources. For the future.”

Stace couldn’t place it. The arrangement sounded halfway between a feminist sorority and a commune. But she was new to university, and to the big city, so she had to admit she wouldn’t have known what to expect in any case. The most important parts were that the rent was low, and that Becky, at least, seemed like a great roommate.

One thing troubled her, though, and as they strode down the tree-lined boulevard towards the house, she finally spoke up. “You said she only takes tenants who show promise. I don’t know if my grades are good enough yet. Is there some sort of transcript I should bring, or—?”

Becky laughed again, and touched Stace’s shoulder reassuringly. “Just bring yourself. You’ve got what she’s looking for. I can tell. And, as for grades, Dr. H looks after that. Your marks will be over the moon; trust me.”

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Stace. But her doubts were banished when she saw it: a stately two-storey clinker brick house with ivy curling sinuously up towards the shuttered tower windows. It had a tower! She practically floated up the broad brown steps, across the shady porch and into the front parlour. It felt simultaneously homey and palatial; she felt like a spoiled princess, and yet she also felt right at home.

Becky took her on a tour, starting with the common areas on the main floor, then proceeding up to what would be her room. When Stace asked about the room’s previous occupant, Becky tossed off an enigmatic smirk and said, “That’s Tania. She’s on a mission.”

“A mission?” Asked Stace. “Like a Mormon, or something?”

This made Becky laugh, a bright, musical sound. “Kinda more like the exact opposite. But don’t sweat it, she won’t be back for a while.”

Becky’s laugh must’ve carried down the hall, because two doors opened almost at the same time, and Stace turned to meet her other two housemates. Becky introduced them as Colleen and Rachel. Colleen was a tall, athletic redhead who managed to seem friendly without ever cracking a smile. She was, from Stace’s shy appraisal, utterly gorgeous. Rachel was also attractive, but she hid her freckled features under a tousle of brown bangs. Even when Becky introduced her, she didn’t make eye contact with Stacey—and there was something furtive about her movements that made the new girl wonder if, perhaps, Rachel wasn’t all that pleased to have another roomie in the house.

Colleen seemed to be the alpha female in any case. “There are only two rules at Hunt House,” she said, arching a thin orange eyebrow as though it were a whip about to be cracked. “Rule one: we share everything.”

“You mean, like, bills and stuff?” Asked Stacey.

“And groceries,” Added Becky, nodding. “And if someone needs to borrow clothes, or other things…”

Stacey tried to mask her displeasure. She’d grown up with two sisters, and she wasn’t fond of sharing. Mind you, most of her roommates wouldn’t fit into her wardrobe; Colleen was taller by nearly a foot, and Rachel looked to be at least a D-cup. Only Becky shared her petite physique. Well, she thought, sighing inwardly, having one sister isn’t that bad…

“What’s Rule Number Two?” She asked.

Colleen poised her eyebrow for another whip-crack. “Curfew,” she said simply.

Becky added hastily, “Just, not being out after midnight, without, you know, letting the others know.”

“Dr. H likes to know where her girls are at.” Said Colleen.

“And besides,” Becky said, “getting in late, you’re bound to make noise. And the walls are very thin.”

At this, Colleen made a little hmm sound, and Stace noticed Rachel’s downcast face was scarlet. She was blushing painfully. Obviously, there had been some sort of incident in the past. She’d have to coax an explanation out of Becky later on…

All four of the girls ate supper together that night—Rachel cooked a sumptuous fettuccine carbonara, plus salad and some custards for dessert, and Stace found herself relaxing into the dynamic of the house and enjoying the company of the three city-savvy students. Their personalities were so different—Becky was outgoing and boisterous, Colleen radiated confidence and authority, and Rachel was cagey and distracted—and yet they all seemed to agree on certain topics. Their reverence for Doctor Hunt, for instance, was almost creepy at times.

At eight-thirty, after Rachel had cleared the table, Becky cracked the books. She’d changed out of her work clothes, and now wore baggy sweat pants and a sports bra; her hair was bundled up behind her head, looped around a thin silver rod. Stace decided to get off on the right foot, so she changed into similar attire and joined Becky in the dining room, spreading out her anthologies and course outlines, trying to make sense of all the readings and assignments she had ahead of her. Colleen and Rachel were both somewhere above; Stace could faintly hear the strains of Metric’s “Monster Hospital” drifting down the old oak staircase.

They were the last few hours of her old life.

She only realized how much time had passed when her stomach spoke up, interrupting both girls’ study with a plaintive growl. They laughed.

“God, it’s been hours!” Stace exclaimed. “I’m starving.”

“Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” said Becky. She glanced up at the clock and then lowered her veil of eyelashes.

“You sure?”

“Remember the rules? We share everything. It all comes around.”

Stace impulsively ruffled Becky’s hair as she stood up. Then she groaned as her body’s stiffness made itself known. She practically limped across the hardwood floor. Behind her, Becky said, “You’re gonna have to take care of yourself, you know. We need you to stay in shape.”

“Yeah, right.” Laughed Stacey, turning down the hall into the kitchen.

She stood barefoot on the intricate tile floor, holding a carton of milk, and wondering if this unexpected new living arrangement was the best—or the worst—thing that could happen to her. She figured, if she didn’t like it, she could always start apartment hunting after the first term. But maybe then she’d be attached to the old place—

The clock in the dining room started striking twelve. Still holding the carton of milk, she elbowed shut the fridge and started looking for a glass.

And then the song struck her body, soaring down from above and through the crown of her head, spinning through the air and buffeting her skin, vibrating up through the tiles and the soles of her feet, making her knees buckle and her thighs pulse and her groin, her pussy, her cunt—

The song. She’d dropped the milk, she saw it fall and strike the floor. Her eyes were dancing, though, the song blurred everything except a clear, sharp melody of heat that swirled inside her, up between her legs, and—no, she was looking down now, it wasn’t just the song between her legs, it was her own hand. She’d plunged her right hand past the drawstring of her sweat pants, underneath her panties, she was, Jesus, she was mastur—jilling hersel—she was fucking herself standing up in the kitchen, what the fuck was wrong with her—

The voice. It trilled and her legs buckled again, her left hand shot out to grab the counter. Steady. The voice was everywhere, it coursed through her veins and steered her fingers, it was rolling and thrusting up and down the scale, it was singing out her clit, thick, slick and gorgeous against the palm of her hand as she mashed it in time to the rising and falling, the swollen flesh fuck beauty of that voice—

And then it was gone, and there was just her, stunned, gasping, still fighting to stay upright as her hand kept forcing pleasure from her cunt. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window: eyes wide, mouth agape and tongue almost lolling—panting? Like a dog. God, she was masturbating in the kitchen, she was like some awful bitch in heat. Exerting all her will, she pulled her hand up out of her pants—it was a lot more difficult than it should have been.

What just happened to her? The song was fading quickly from her mind; she wouldn’t have been able to describe it, much less justify the effect it had on her. She felt sick, vertiginous, and somehow still euphoric at the same time. And she was still so horny, she could feel the thickness of her nether lips as they pouted and pressed against her juice-soaked panties. What was the matter with her?

In the dining room, the clock finished striking twelve.

Dizzily, Stace moved back down the hallway. She pressed both hands against the walls, partly to steady herself but also to remove the temptation to put either one of them back into her pants. She just needed to get back to the dining room, to tell Becky—could she form words?—tell Becky she was sick, she wasn’t feeling…and then up to her room where she could jill off till she came. She’d feel better once she came. She’d feel…

Stace stepped into the doorway of the dining room. On the far side of the table, Becky was standing up. Her sweat pants were a grey mess at her feet; although she still wore her sports bra, she was otherwise completely nude. Her thick black eyelashes were fluttering fiercely, and her thin mouth wore a smile. One hand was planted firmly in between her legs, while the other—

Stace’s knees buckled for a third time, and she sank along the door frame to the floor.

Becky’s other hand was tugging free the silver rod that held her thick dark hair back. With practiced dexterity, she brought the short shaft down between her legs and, parting her russet vulva with her other hand, she rammed the rod into her pussy. The noise she made was halfway between a grunt and a chuckle.

Stace moaned incoherently. There was a thick smell in the air. Becky’s wrist twisted underneath her black snatch, and Stace could hear a faint, muffled buzzing sound.

“Curfew,” said Becky. “After midnight, she gets to play with us.”

Becky’s husky voice seemed redolent with echoes of the song that had incited Stacey’s lust. In fact, the whole house seemed to vibrate with it; Stace’s hands were hot and tingling as they moved across the floor and tried to brace the doorframe. She felt as though she’d been injected with some sort of drug which made everything bright and hot and sexual. God, was that it? A drug—the food, maybe the food was drugged. And that explained the song—hallucinations. And this need, this need to—to—

Becky was moving slowly towards her, shaking free from her sweat pants, clutching the table for support. Whenever she took a step, her hips would buck and gyrate. Stace’s vision was blurred, and yet she somehow saw with intense clarity the gleaming lips between her housemate’s thighs. The silver vibrator was altogether hidden, but she heard it in there. Inside Becky’s cunt.

Stace experienced a moment of perfect, agonizing division. Part of her knew that she was in some desperate trouble, and she had to get away, escape this house, find a doctor or a hospital. An equally persuasive part was thinking inside Becky’s cunt. Over and over, a spiraling mantra. I want to be inside Becky’s cunt.

And Becky clearly had the same urge. She was past the table now, stumbling perilously across the open room. “G-get over h-here,” she spoke in gasps and grunts. “G-get a fuck in, now, before she, unh, changes up the rules. I wanna, hunh, wanna fuck you f-f-first.”

The jagged lust in Becky’s voice increased Stace’s fear. She managed to lift herself up onto her feet again just as Becky closed the distance to her. She was going to run or dodge, but that same heavy scent struck her like a fist as Becky fell against her, both hands clawing at Stace’s t-shirt.

Stace experienced another schism, half of her straining forwards towards her aggressive seducer, half recoiling in terror and confusion. Physically, this conflict was what helped her to escape: her head came forward, leaning in towards Becky’s as if to kiss her. But then Becky tugged Stace’s loose shirt up and off her head, allowing Stace to lurch backwards into the hall. She was topless, now—she rarely bothered with a bra at home, since her breasts were too small to demand support. And yet, at this moment, they felt heavy, straining, the nipples painfully erect. She wanted to stop and touch them, molest herself for Becky’s viewing pleasure—no.

The other girl was fumbling to dispose of the shirt, but she was only two steps away, and Stace didn’t know if she’d be able to resist a second time. She exerted all her willpower and ran from Becky, ran past the kitchen, ran into the foyer and the staircase—

And stopped short. For a moment, she could not even process what she saw. But there they were: Colleen and Rachel, together at the foot of the stairs.

Rachel: naked, kneeling, her hands clasped tight behind her back so as to thrust her breasts out pornographically. Both nipples huge, rudely erect, both bearing thick metal rings, with a chain strung between them. And around her neck, a leather collar, with a chain leash leading up to Colleen’s hand.

Colleen: statuesque. An Amazon. Her red hair pulled back tight against her skull, her sculpted arms clad to the biceps in slick latex gloves, with boots to match. And on her torso, nothing but a webwork of leather straps, converging on a single ring beneath and between her high and perfectly pointed breasts. Her crotch was hidden by a curved, black cock, buckled round her lunar hips. The cock’s head hung an inch or so above the kneeling girl’s eyebrows.

Stace felt something in her cunt sing. It was the most horrible, beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She had to get out of there now, or else she would do anything that any of them said—anything to get that cock inside of her.

Long ago, she’d read about the superhuman effort that mothers sometimes generate to save their children from burning cars and such. That was the level of energy and will she now expended as she turned away from that lascivious tableau and ran across the foyer, out the front door, and into the September night.

She didn’t care that she was topless, didn’t even notice, she was driven forward by her need to remain in control—to remain herself. She didn’t understand it except to know that if she stayed in that house, she would be lost. Disoriented by the dark lawn, she stumbled off the narrow walkway and felt the grass beneath her bare feet, heard the light crinkle of leaves here and there. Hang on to those things, she told herself; they’re real. They can save you.

But the voice found her—that pure, clarion voice that had sung her into a sexual tempest at the stroke of midnight. It called out to her from the confines of the house—she even thought she could pinpoint it, coming from the highest point behind her, the tower—and this time its dulcet, siren song turned harsh, commanding—undeniable. STOP!

Her body answered first, taking the voice literally: paralysis. Her forward motion ceased abruptly and she fell forward, arms askew and helpless to protect her from the ground. She managed to turn her head slightly to the left, but she still felt the impact on her cheek, her knees, her chest. Soft, though, cushioned with something moist and musty: the naked earth of the flowerbed against her face. Her left arm flopped limply out against a row of daisies. Her right arm was pinned beneath her torso.

The voice still seemed to echo like thunder within her, and now her mind followed her body’s lead, and shut down. Fear and confusion and her desperate need to flee…everything faded to grey like an old TV turning off. Instead, there was a vague, fuzzy sense of arousal, still left inside her from the first song. She felt blades of grass kissing her bare nipples, and thought yes. She noticed that her pinned right hand was near her pussy, and she distantly, winsomely wished her pants weren’t still on. Maybe I could touch myself a little.

She had no idea how much time passed while she lay in the dirt. Time wasn’t part of the equation; it had left her mind, like nearly everything else. But she knew that she was waiting for something to happen—maybe for the song to sing again inside her head and cunt. It didn’t return, though, and gradually, imperceptibly, her thoughts began to creep back through the warm fog of sex-happy feelings. Before she could bring herself to move, though, she felt hands on her, and she heard a distant voice:

“Oh, no, Stace, baby, it’s no good to run away. It’s not what she wants from us.”

It was Becky. Her small hands touched her naked ankles, her fingers invading her covered calves, waking up the skin beneath her track pants. Then out again, across the covered legs, up towards her thighs, her ass. Stace reflexively bucked her hips, hoisting her ass towards the other girl’s grasp. As she tugged Stace’s pants and panties down from her hips, Becky continued to speak in a low, saccharine tone:

“Running hurts her. All of us. But, um, you do look hot, honey, face in the dirt. So helpless. Let me help, let—ungh—let me show you what she wants.”

Stace couldn’t turn her head, so she could only read Becky from her sounds and her touch. Somehow, she knew that sound she’d made—that ungh—was the sound she made when the little silver vibrator came out of her vagina. She could faintly hear it buzzing. And she knew what came next, and she tilted her exposed ass up and out as much as she could, even though it meant pushing her face further into the dirt. Presenting her cunt, feeling it fiercely awake and hungry, chilly in the night air, but fiery with need. She tried to picture herself from Becky’s vantage, but she found she had no image. Her pussy felt enormous, as if it could swallow the world.

Another chill, cold metal, and a pain and then it was inside her, and Becky’s hand was stroking and circling her clit, and a pulsing wave of pleasure was inside of her, pushing insistently up and out, past her cervix and her womb, through her guts, clutching her heart and forcing it to keep pace with the same mad rhythm. She began to gasp and moan. Becky was still talking but the words dripped down like honey. One hand was attacking Stace’s clit, the other working in her cunt, pushing the buzzing wonder deeper, harder into spaces she didn’t have words for.

Her mouth gaped like a fish. White stars danced behind her eyelids. She came with her whole body, and her mind, unlashed to any other thoughts, rolled along.

The next thing she understood was a distant voice—Colleen’s?—calling Becky. “The Mistress wants her back inside the house.” Stace didn’t really think that “her” meant her, but it still seemed natural and right when Becky’s slender hands slipped underneath her torso and began to lift her up. She was limp and numb, still humming from her tsunami climax. The vibrator buzzed insistently inside her slick cunt. Becky struggled, called for help, and suddenly many hands her holding her all over—under her arms, around her chest, beneath her ass. Every touch echoed and amplified the orgasm. She was helpless, but at that moment, she felt nothing but trust and love for her captors. They were going to carry her inside the house and make her feel like that, over and over, better and better, until she passed out from pleasure.

She wanted nothing else. Even the tiny part of her mind that was slowly regaining sanity, identity, knew that there was no way she could say no. The word had left her at the stroke of twelve.

She ended up cradled in Colleen’s strong arms. The redhead’s lips and jaw hovered above her; held close, the Amazon’s erect nipples teased Stace’s bare skin. Other hands, Becky’s and Rachel’s, caressed her hair and legs, flirted with her mouth and pussy. They all moved in unison, up the broad porch steps and into the music of Hunt House.