The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

After the second night, Stacey gave in. Her will was simply exhausted; the narcotic music that flowed through the house and the unquenchable thirst of the three other girls kept her mind pinioned, straitjacketed with lust. She awoke bruised, fatigued, forever hot. She gave in.

She was beyond shame. Colleen had orchestrated her punishments, even as she herself writhed uncontrollably in the throes of Dr. Hunt’s song. Stace had never even imagined sex like that—submitting herself so utterly to the will of others, and needing it so badly she’d endure anything for more. But though she tried to think of her deeds the way she might once have judged them, her tears of shame were quickly forgotten in the bliss of obedience.

For the next six days, she mostly forgot about being Stacey at all, and gave herself to pleasure. She wandered nude through the rooms of Hunt House, aimless till she found another body to submit to. It was effortless; the roommates all had different schedules of classes and work shifts, so someone was almost always home. She would drift into the kitchen or the dining room and fall feverishly upon them, sweaty and cloying with urgent musk. They would each react differently at first—Rachel playing coy, allowing her to take control, or Becky giggling and game, or Colleen businesslike, aggressive—but they would always let her share.

Occasionally the girls were all away. Stacey would then sit in the sun room, across from the foyer, where she once made love with Becky. She would spread her legs wide on the chesterfield and jill herself for hours—she’d only ever done it with her right hand before, but she learned to switch hands at regular intervals. She’d fuck herself until a girl came home—or until one of her roommates sent somebody home, all hot and catatonic on the entry rug. The victims would lie twitching while the house seemed to draw their energy. Stace would spoon them, sometimes, rubbing herself against the helpless bodies. When it was boys, she’d mount their helpless erections and grind her hips against them till she screamed. She never had orgasms that way, but it passed the time.

Some nights, before midnight came, she’d experience a flash of conscience. Then she would hole up in her room, covering the mirrors so as not to get turned on by her own reflection. She would sob and moan and grind her nails into the palms of her hands. But she stayed in the house until midnight, because that was the only sure way to banish the pain, the truth. The tune would plunge into her mind, and she would stumble down to join the others for another inexpressible fuck-fugue.

In sleep, she always dreamt of Dr. Hunt. The faceless woman’s presence spread out darkly, like an ocean, drowning all her other dreams. Some nights, she appeared as an impossibly beautiful woman—luminescent, alien, beguilingly perfect. Other times she was a vampire, a succubus, hovering on leather wings, gleefully surveying endless orgies of lost souls. Sometimes the bodies of her lover/roommates merged together, and the many-cunted chimera that beckoned her to join them was itself, somehow, Dr. Hunt. And once she imagined the house itself was her invisible mistress; in her dream, she wandered through empty halls with pulsing red orifices instead of doors. Unthinkingly, she plunged herself into each hungry hole, a whole-body phallus, existing only to pleasure her home.

All these dreams terrified her, yet she came to take them in stride. They were, after all, no stranger than real life.

After a week, her roommates staged an intervention of sorts. “It’s a phase we all go through,” explained Becky sympathetically. “Believe me, we all wish we could do the same,” added Rachel. But Colleen laid down the law: “You need to get out there. Take some lovers. Send them home.”

They were in the kitchen, having breakfast—all three roommates fully dressed, while Stacey sat naked on a stool and played with herself. She was sullen; she hated when they talked instead of fucked. “I thought there were only two rules,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Rachel, gently but firmly lifting Stacey’s hand away from her pussy. “Rule Number One is, we share everything. That includes the chores, honey.”

Stacey warmed to Rachel’s touch, and instead of listening to the girl’s reproaches, she leaned dizzily towards her, caressing her tits through her blouse. Rachel sighed and let Stace fondle her, but with her own hands, she brought the horny girl’s face up to meet her own eyes. “Dr. Hunt doesn’t let us live rent-free, you know. We have to earn our keep.”

Through a mouthful of eggs, Becky agreed. “You were real good at it, to start with. Remember? You got that guy the first day out.”

Stacey did remember, but she didn’t like the memory. Her assault on the boy in the library had been a desperate act, to keep herself from doing something similar to Marga. And, at the time, she hadn’t known that it would result in Hunt House luring the boy inside and doing...whatever it did. It wasn’t sharing, that’s for sure.

Rachel’s hands tightened against Stacey’s cheeks, and she seemed to be peering deep into the girl’s mind. “Who’s Marga?” She asked. Stacey jerked back and stood up, befuddled and distressed.

“Sure, go find a girl,” Said Colleen impatiently, “The campus is crawling with freshman cunt, little bi-curious virgins who can’t wait to rebel against mommy and daddy. Hell, you can seduce a sheep, for all we care. Just get out there and find some fresh meat. You’re starting to smell like last week’s pussy.”

Rachel and Becky both gasped, and admonished Colleen for being such a bitch. But within a minute, they had all turned it into a joke, and returned to the chatting and light flirtation that characterized most of their meals. Stacey wasn’t laughing, though. She backed out of the kitchen and then scrambled to her room. She knew what she had to do.

She dug through her dresser, tearing and shredding her clothes. She tore her favourite t-shirt to create a midriff; she ripped her favourite skirt until it exposed a half-moon of asscheek. She struggled into the skanky clothes, writhing in frustrated lust whenever a stray hand found its way down to her swollen nether lips. Then she slathered layer after layer of makeup onto her face, and sprayed her hair into a serpentine tousle. She had never met a whore in her entire life, but looking in the mirror, she knew this was what they looked like.

As always, the mirror made her hot. She used that surge of heat to propel her out the door, and down the street until she’d left the campus district, crossed the old railroad bridge, and slipped into the grungy maze of downtown. She started getting offers within minutes; cars slowed down and honked at her, and male pedestrians began to cross the street towards her when they spotted her. In less than an hour since breakfast, she had turned her first trick.

Only they weren’t really tricks, and she wasn’t really a whore, because she never asked for money. She just leaned against the buildings, spread her legs, and let them fuck her from behind until their spunk fell hot upon her thighs. And then each one would go glassy-eyed and stumble off, hypnotized, towards the university. Towards Hunt House, and whatever awaited them there. She didn’t care. By the time each one had lurched out of sight, she’d found another john to haul into the alley. She had no patience for flirtation or bartering; if any of her “customers” began to beat around the bush, she’d just hike up her skirt and show them hers. That ended the conversation pretty quick.

By noon, she’d lost count—at least a dozen cocks had come and gone. She stole the next guy’s wallet, so she could buy lunch from a hot dog stand; then she gave the hot dog vendor a freebie, and sent him on his sleepwalking way towards Hunt House. Next she did two guys at once, hands-and-knees, cunt-and-mouth. Then a cop pulled up and threatened to arrest her, but she talked him into letting her off in exchange for a blowjob in the back of his car. When the cop weaved away on foot, she looked warily at the abandoned squad car and decided it was time to switch corners. She fucked junkies and bums, businessmen and priests, and a pimp who thought he was raping her as punishment for whoring on his block. That one felt especially good; sort of like turning tables.

She spent most of the afternoon in a sort of fugue state, and only emerged after rush hour, when the downtown core began to empty out. She was hungry again; passing the hot dog vendor’s cart on her way home, she found it still abandoned. The squad car was gone, though. Her pussy and jaw both ached. She had no idea how many men she’d had.

Back at the house, she was a hero. The girls applauded when she came into the foyer; they kept clucking their approval over a sumptuous steak dinner; then they carried Stacey upstairs to the bathroom, where they washed her face and vagina, and made her come to high heaven. She tried to use the orgasms to erase the whole day from her mind; but after the impromptu orgy, the girls began to reminisce—using their creepy telepathy to draw each fuck out of Stacey’s memories, and then comparing them to the guys they’d seen show up throughout the day. When they began rating them, Stacey excused herself quietly. “Just a little sick,” she said.

Rachel giggled. “We should’na fed you that much. You were snacking all day long!”

Stacey feigned a laugh, then slipped into her room and closed the door. Her clock read 8:50pm. Just over three hours until midnight. Every nerve in her body, every lust-choked impulse in her mind, wanted to spend those hours in the arms of her three lovers. But then she’d have to do this all again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Moving slowly, trying not to overstimulate herself, she found a relatively undamaged outfit and got dressed. She tried one last time to put on underwear, but the mental block against it was too strong. Instead, she wore tights, cut-offs, and a knee-length skirt; she hoped that, by putting as many layers as possible between her cunt and the outside world, she would force herself to stay in control. It wouldn’t be enough, but she had another scheme.

Last summer, babysitting to raise the funds for university, she’d looked after a baby girl whose parents used white noise to help her sleep. Curious, she’d uploaded a file of the staticky stuff onto her iPod, but it had never really done anything for Stacey’s sleeping habits. Now it was going to save her life, or at least her sanity.

First, she shimmied her bedroom window open as quietly as she could. It was an old frame, and it scraped and groaned, but hearing the uninterrupted chatter of the girls downstairs, she was pretty sure they hadn’t heard. Then, she found all her paper money and tucked it in her cleavage. Finally, she plugged her earbuds in and turned the white noise up—way up. Once the rasping static drowned out the ambient sounds of Hunt House, she felt committed. She was going to escape—and if she could just make it past midnight, she thought, she’d be free.

Climbing out the window was her first challenge. Her room was on the second floor, overlooking the sloped roof of the veranda. To steady herself, she had to straddle the ledge, and then scrunch low to duck her head under the pane. Even without music to stimulate her, this compromising position sent a wet jolt of lust up her spine. She began bucking her hips, humping the ledge compulsively, and her fingers went roaming under her shirt, scratching at her breasts. She gasped as she raked a nail along one nipple, then sucked in her breath and froze, terrified that she’d been overheard. What if the kitchen window was open? Yet no one came bursting into her room, or rushing out onto the lawn.

With agonizing slowness, trying not to let her loins flare up again, she inched her way out the window and onto the veranda roof. She decided against trying to close the window behind her—once they found out she was gone, it wouldn’t matter if they figured out how—and concentrated instead of moving silently along the roof towards the far end of the house. Once there, she assessed her options. She could try climbing down a precarious ivy-covered trellis, or she could jump for it, aiming for the hedge to cushion her fall. She prodded the trellis with one shoe; it seemed strong enough, but something about the vines made her hesitate. She had a feverish image of becoming entangled, pinned to the house and hopelessly horny. She decided to jump.

The hedge did its job of cushioning her fall—she landed with only a couple of scratches. But it was noisier than she’d hoped, as branches snapped or else sprang back against the house, as if trying to sound an alarm. Even underneath the whooshing white noise soundtrack, it sounded loud. She didn’t wait to see if there was any response from within; pulling herself free on the neighbour’s side of the hedge, she sprinted across the lawn, then through the back gate, into an alley, and away. She ran three blocks before pausing for breath.

Her watch said 9:13. Less than three hours to midnight, and freedom, she hoped. It was more than enough time to make it to the bus station, or the train station, or even to the city limits, where she could hitchhike out of town. But she had a different plan. Last time she’d tried to escape directly, the girls had found her; whether they’d been able to read her mind, or just guess her plans, she didn’t know. This time, she hoped, she would trick them by not running. She would find a hiding spot on the university campus and hunker down till twelve. She knew just the place.

Between SUB and the Bio-Sci building, there was a quiet, secondary quad. A knot of trees grew up on a hillock, beside which coiled a cobblestone path—decorative, mostly, since the quickest route between the buildings skirted the hill altogether. But the tangle of trees gave her a good vantage of the whole area, and the bushes underneath provided cover. If she saw the girls approaching from one building, she could probably race into the other one, and lose them in the hallways. She knew SUB was open all night; Bio-Sci turned out to be locked, so she waited near the door until some TAs left for the night, then propped the side door open with a piece of litter. Then, beneath the mustard-amber lamps that lit the quad, she crossed up to the hill and tucked herself into the hedge.

The waiting game was hard, to start with, but it got easier as time and distance from Hunt House both served to clear the lustfog from her brain. Playing the white noise on her iPod helped; it gave her something to focus on, even if it was just static. But every time a pedestrian crossed the quad, her traitorous snatch would flare up, and her mind’s eye would be plagued with images of sex with strangers, on the grass or up against the wall—even rape, with Stacey as aggressor. She was no longer ashamed of her thoughts, but they were distracting.

Yet she managed to keep her hands out of her pants. It would have been so easy to relieve the itch, and pass the time till midnight by jilling herself silly in the bushes. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to orgasm on her own. Plus, somehow she knew that the more she thought about fucking, the easier the other girls would find her. It was an ordeal; she’d shift across the ground to get more comfortable, she’d scrape her ass across a tree root, and before she knew it, she’d be grinding against it. When she checked her watch at 11:20, she marvelled that she’d gone two hours without putting anything inside herself.

She began to hope. With no sign of the girls, and only forty minutes to midnight, she wanted to believe she’d get away with it. She wondered what would happen when the spell was broken. Would the rules change instantaneously, or would she carry the needs and the kinks with her forever? She thought she could reconcile herself to a life of sluttiness, just so long as she was in control of her own actions.

“Stace-y?” The voice swam through the white noise, as if from a great distance. She started when she realized the speaker was standing right behind her. Fumbling to her feet and turning at the same time, she stumbled and fell, rolling down the hillock in a tangle of earphone cords. The speaker seemed to swoop down through the darkness, a fierce tangle of red hair around a shadowy face. Stacey thought the girl would tackle her, but she stopped just short, crouching down beside her. It was Marga.

“Stace-y, vhy vere you hidink there? Are you all right?”

The earbuds had fallen to the grass. She spread her palms out frantically while she sputtered a response. “F-fine, Marga. You scared me, s’all.”

The Russian girl was trying to help her up. “Vhere have you been, from class? You know, I had to make our presentation by my self.”

Stacey didn’t want up, not till she found her earplugs. She followed the cord from the iPod and scooped them up, one, two.

“I vas vorried. My friend Nikki say, she saw you downtown, on the corner.”

Stace allowed herself to get hauled up, and found herself standing very close to Marga. “I...I can’t explain right now. I have to...” She looked across the paths from the quad. Down one path, past the entrances to SUB, she saw a tall shapely silhouette – an Amazonian girl, walking with purpose. Colleen.

“I have to go.” Stacey pulled herself free from Marga’s grasp and bolted towards Bio-Sci. She could duck into the door she’d propped open, then lock it behind her, giving her the run of the place. Could she hide in there for forty minutes? She’d have no choice.

Now Marga was following her, calling her name loud enough to draw half the campus. Stace rounded the corner, then stopped short, gaping at the door to Bio-Sci. Shut tight. Somebody must have wandered by and closed it. Marga came around the corner and slammed into her. They both fell this time.

Marga was on top of her. “Vhat is happenink?” She whispered urgently. “Is someone chasink you?”

Stacey forced herself to calm down. “Yes, Marga, someone is chasing me, some very dangerous people want me, but I can’t explain right now, you have to trust me.”

Marga stayed on top her a moment longer. Her green eyes were inches from Stacey’s. She could taste the girl’s breath. She started shifting her hips under Marga’s weight. Her lips opened. Not now!

Then Marga was off her, and helping her up. “I think I know a place to hide. Come vith!”

They ran, Stace blindly trusting Marga, seeing nothing but the fear and need that pulsed behind her eyes. As much as she wanted to escape them, she also yearned to be back in that house when midnight sang down from the upper floors, pulsing through her body, turning her—

They halted in a spray of stones. They were at the very back of the Bio-Sci building, past the loading docks, on a grey gravelled rectangle. One failing lamp hung above them, alongside a narrow ladder bolted to the concrete. “Up,” Whispered Marga. Stacey hesitated. The roof? They’d be trapped there.

But she was having trouble forming words. She stared dumbly at her classmate for a few seconds, till Marga rolled her eyes and started climbing up herself, her long skirt striking the ladder’s metal safety grille. Now Stacey had to follow, to keep Marga safe if nothing else. They’d find a hidden corner of the roof and hunker down, sharing the earbud static till the danger passed. Then she’d explain to Marga, everything, and she would understand, and thank Stace for saving her from the clutches of Hunt House. She would be so grateful...

“Come on!” Urged Marga, halfway up the ladder. Stacey scrambled to follow. Twice she nearly fell, and the second time, her iPod tumbled from her hand and cracked open on the gravel underneath. So much for white noise. Now she had to fear any passing radio, any singing pedestrian below...any music could set her off, just like before, in the library.

“Don’t hum!” She called up to Marga in a whisper-hiss. But Marga was already hauling herself across the lip of the roof. Stace looked up just in time to see her skirt flare and her feet snake out of sight. And through the folds of the skirt, she saw...

Her breath caught in her throat. Marga wasn’t wearing underpants.

She suffered an endless, frozen moment of indecision. Marga’s head reappeared above her, and then she stretched down a pale hand, to help Stacey up. Somewhere beneath them, shoes were crunching gravel. She was pinned like a moth.

“It’s all right,” Said Marga calmly. “I vould never hurt you, Stace-y.”

In a fugue, she clapsed Marga’s hand and let herself be lifted onto the roof.

They were three stories up. The buildings and foliage of campus spread around them like a blanket. Above, the stars were out, dusted with drifting wisps of cloud. Across the treeline, over Marga’s shoulder, Stace could see a neon drug store clock, writing the time in bold red lines.

“Eleven-forty-five,” Murmured Marga, even though she was facing Stacey, with the clock behind her. “Plenty of time. But you are gettink better, by fifteen minutes. Last night, she caught you at eleven-thirty.”

Stacey said nothing. Marga smiled, then languidly shrugged out of her sweater and skirt. It was an impossibly simple motion—one shrug, and she was standing nude. Unabashed. Perfect.

“Marga, no.” She managed to say. Tears were stinging her eyes and nose. “No, no, they didn’t get you. No.”

“Oh, Stacey, love,” Marga leaned forward slightly, making Stace step back. She sat back heavily against a concrete rail. She could sense the emptiness behind her; if she leaned back, she would fall three stories, onto gravel. But now Marga was holding her steady, one hand behind her back while the other one swept ablur across her clothing. Skirt, then cut-offs, then her tights. She sucked in her breath as the night air found her snatch. Her swollen lips.

She tried to insist, to be determined, as if stating it could change the facts. “They didn’t get you. I, I never thought—I made sure not to let them see you, in my thoughts.”

Marga leaned in close. She smell of her skin mingled with the scent of Stacey’s musk. “Vhy vhould you do dat? Vhy hide me from them? Is it because you are wanting me all to yourself? That is sveet of you, my love.” Her slim hand coiled downwards like a snake.

Stacey gasped again, and her legs spread wide involuntarily, as wide as they could. She fought to hold onto her mind. “I wanted...wanted...you.”

“Of course you did.” Marga kissed her, sliding tongue and fingers into her, high and low, in the same rhythm. Stacey arched and bucked her hips; she would have fallen if the girl’s strong hand here not still clasped behind her head. Now she was pinned, literally, and she couldn’t imagine anything better.

She was gasping for air through kisses. “F...fu...fuck...” Her cunt was liquid fire, clutching greedily at Marga’s fingers. Marga pressed in closer – now her lips grazed Stacey’s ear, and her hair was in her face. Stace could taste Marga’s neck, and feel the crush of breasts against her breasts. Every stroke inside her was a masterpiece.

While she fought for breath, Marga spoke almost conversationally into her ear. “You can’t have me to yourself, love. You know ze house rules. My rules. We share everythink.”

Her rules. Clarity returned for a heartbeat. Behind and below, she heard a voice – Becky’s? – calling up to them. “Have you got her, Doctor?” And she heard Marga’s response – not in her ear but in her mind. “I believe I do. She likes to run, this one. But she’ll always come back to me. Won’t you, love?”

“Y-y-y...” Stacey’s head flew back. Marga...Doctor Hunt...the angel/mistress/beast that had her pinned so close to heaven...kissed her earlobe, then slipped one last finger up her cleft, and made her come. She felt the energy burst out of her, up and down and out. She felt it spread, invisible electric, to the other girls of the House. And further out, touching more of the Doctor’s girls, a hundred thousand of them, all across the globe. They were sharing her. And she would share them. Always.

Through a veil of dark red hair, the stars spun and spun and spun.