The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mr. Mike crossed the street in the diagonal crosswalk. The crosswalk angled askew like the events that were his life. Dark pavement, bright gaudy safety colored stripes. He lived between the lines. The perfect metaphor. An even more perfect cliché.

Mister Mike picked out his bitch for the day. His duffle hung at his side like some holster of an old west gunman. Its zipper gleamed. Well oiled for smooth silent operation. He faced off with her as she entered the crosswalk. Her pale blue eyes challenged him to make his move. Zipper slides. Reach inside. A brief rummage. So many decisions within. Mr. Mike fumbles and fondles his many weapons, tools of his trade. He feels and decides upon Instant Freeze. The can, cold, feels right this time. She closes. Their eyes meet. She goes to move past. He draws upon her and fires. The mist spurts furtively and sputters. Mike has a flashback. Bad scene. No spray. Empty. She sidesteps almost casually and walks on. She shrugs and maybe even snickers. Empty, empty, empty, IT does not perform. A rare but regrettable occurrence. She was not stopped instantly as the can promises. Promises are so often broken. But one must be prepared. And make sure they are not shooting blanks or not at all. Tomorrow he will go to the corner five and dime and replenish himself. Stock up and maybe even get some of the newest flavor gum. Viagra spearmint. Spear? Ironic. But for now he is empty, the can is empty, his bed will be empty. He curses the manufacturers lies. The instant freeze should have stopped at least three more for his purposes. So ironic. Tomorrow he would write the manufacturer to complain. He is sad. Disappointment looks poorly on him. She would look good though. Sigh... At 28 he is no longer seventeen. Life is like an aerosol spray can. There’s no real guarantee’s. Then Mr. Mike has the sudden realization that Obey spray (a generic product), or ro-bey would have also gotten the job done in their own ways. A bot or a zom-babe would have passed the dark hours just as good.

Suddenly a rubber wench sneaks up, all suddenly like, and Mr. Mike feels her juice spike in his arm. He was not paying attention. Tonight he will be her toy. Shiny needle, shiny new toy. He catches a look as the drug takes effect. Tonight there will be more to love. Toy boy toy boy toy boy. Pretty shiny rubber rubber rubber the right way and win a prize. Mr. Mike gives service with a chemical smile. Funny. Just a trickle as her slave, but an ocean as her master. Not his thing but he plays her game. It’s the rules. His spirit sputters weakly and she is not satisfied. Too much on his drug clouded mind. He does not fill the empty place in her (s)hole. Another night things go so much better..larger. All a matter of perspective. Only the fantasy matters in the end. But she has not reached HER end, and he must take her to the edge of her world, fall off, into the deep black unlit void. As he rushes face first into the depths he smells the taste of lust chemically firing in his brain. He swallows his pride along with the flow of her need. She is wet and sticky like the drip of ice cream down its cone on a hot day. And it is very hot. He can tell. She squirms like it is VERY hot indeed. He pushes her button and she responds irresistibly like a machine. But he is the machine. And he functions perfectly. When he tastes her satisfaction he goes into cleaning mode. Like a robot cat. When it is over she tastes him lightly on the lips like one sampling from a box of sampler chocolates. She likes the recipe. Both of them adding something to the mix. Too many chefs do not spoil this soup. In future she will make an effort to remember him. So they can compare recipes and swap... notes again.

Mr. Mike wakes on a dirty park bench. He smiles. The rubber girl is still on his mind, on his face. Her scent still embraces him though she is physically long gone. He is naked except for this thin, intangible shroud. The newspaper laid so carefully under him crinkles as he begin to move. So thoughtful. Later, at home he see’s from the reversed ad printed on his ass that pork chops are on sale. He decides that tomorrow he must go to the market. The sun is bright and quite high in the sky. He casts a shadow like a slightly shriveled sundial, that tells him (after he makes an adjustment for how it is bent) it is well after three pm. He shakes his head appreciably. She did good work. His bag is at his feet where he can easily find it. It contains everything he had been carrying, and wearing. Most considerate. He mentally inventories the contents. Only the Obey-spray is absent. Fair payment. He notices a little piece of paper stuck to him like a post-it by a very little sticky strip. It takes several hairs and an immature belly button dust fuzzy that will never grow to maturity now, with it. It is a police ticket. Loitering? Loitering?? He laughs aloud. At least they could have woken him. Half tan, half burn, over everything upright. He is done on one side and should be turned over, or basted in liquid butter. The signature on the ticket is officer Katy Magee. Her address is on the backside of the ticket. Anytime after six. If she’s not a troll he won’t have to fight this ticket in court after all.

At home, Mr. Mike applies a cooling cream to his embarrassment wherever he can reach it. He finds he cannot get the cream everywhere, so he does the only logical thing: orders an extra large 3 way pizza. The delivery girls (making up two of the three ways) are young, fresh, and nubile. The only pizza shop in town that always gets his order right. The girls giggle as they rub the pizza all over themselves paying special attention to properly flavoring the most tasty bits. One girl thinks it is thanksgiving and stuffs herself like a turkey. She uses extra topping, especially mushrooms. The other seems to favor christmas and drapes herself like a christmas tree with stringers of cooling cheese. He looks forward to taking down the decorations when the holiday is over. Between moans and heavy breathing, the girls recite next weeks menu specials in a pre-programmed mono-tone. The steak and cheese sub sandwich has promise... Still, he hates when they insert commercials and ads into everything, but its so common that he just accepts it as unavoidable. But the meal is otherwise extremely excellent. Mr. Mike hates to have to pay for takeout but the day was such a terrible disappointment that he doesn’t want to make the effort to cook. He puts the meal on his credit card and pays the tip using a gratuity card. He tips liberally. He slips them both something “special”. The ads were not the girl;s fault after all. When they go off line and de-program at the end of this shift they will be very pleased. Mr. Mikes first job was as a delivery person. He hadn’t liked it. He hadn’t walked right for quite some time. His first stop had been a party apparently. A large one. And everyone had ordered something. Mr. Mike whole heartedly agreed with the old adage about it being better to give than receive. So he tipped now out of sympathy. Besides; the way these girls looked, they wouldn’t have to work this job very long. Barring anyone else having a salami. A big hard salami takeout order. Who knows, he thought, slipping turkey girl the afore mentioned meat product in a tiny opening which puckered with a little Oooooooooh like it was surprised to have not been overlooked. When stuffing a turkey one should ALWAYS be thorough, Mr. Mike remembered his mother once telling him. And Mr. Mike ALWAYS did what his mother told him. Mom had always been such a good cook. Mostly Mr. Mike did takeout. To often it ended up fast food. But not before he put his order in. Mr. Mike always placed his orders very carefully. But now, the order had been placed, the meal eaten, and all the messy leftovers re-wrapped. So he sent the girls on their mary way. Mary had delivered here before. With nothing left to do, Mr. Mike (completely full and totally satisfied), turned in for the night. But just in case he left his door unlocked.

In the morning Mr. Mike wakes refreshed. He is a little bit disappointed, but not overly so.

Across town in one of the nicer neighborhoods, Mary leaves her townhouse looking rather contrary. The innocent little school girl look really becomes her, or perhaps she becomes it. Perspective and reality make everything relative to whether she makes the clothes or they make her...a victim. She hikes the carefully pleated plaid skirt as high as propriety allows and then; like an elevator, goes one floor higher. She seconds the second possibility. Her thirteenth floor is much more drafty than the little girl twelfth. She takes her car to the office today. Late again. On her big day. Only time for a quick nylon troll along main street before she must report to the office for work. No bites. The city is concrete and stone, glass and steel, nylon and heel. Mary is 6 inches closer to moving up the corporate ladder since that stop at Thom McCann shoe. Today is the day. The meek (little girls?) will inherit the earth. Failing that? Spikes! Her job description is due to change. She wants it bad. They will elevate her, there is no doubt. Above the fabled glass ceiling, so all the good ol boys (and a few girls) can stand on the floor below. Mary seldom wears underwear, but she always prunes the bushes in her garden. Her favorite bush is rather course but brightly colored. She likes its bright red color. It matches her hair, naturally. Does her offices elevator have a button that allows it to go above the glass ceiling? She will have to look closely today. It has never occurred to her before. Mary doesn’t always like to watch her garden grow but does enjoy the oblong fruit that sometimes grows there. Strangely more so today. When not working directly under her boss she is in programming. Programming is her life. Programming and fruit. Sometimes she spit polishes the fruit found in her garden till it shines, but more often than not she uses her personal secret recipe. The one that has been handed down in her family, and lately in her possession, for her entire post-adolescent life. Of course it can only be made in small but very concentrated batches. Her boss calls her into a private conference. She has shared her secret sauce with him. She holds.... all his... calls. His hold button works in a way contrary to logic. He holds, and Mary has a sudden urge to do some work in her garden, with a fresh picked piece of fruit. Juicy, firm, needing polishing badly. The fertilizer is a dark and lusty mix. The good news is she has gotten her raise. The elevator goes up. Mary goes up. But Mary, being contrary, takes the stairs. And she is understandably winded when she arrives. Has her garden grown in her absence? She has a way with growing things. She has a very green thumb. She can make anything grow. All she has to do is put her hand to it. She has very good hands. Years of working with them. She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She’s not afraid to get real d*i*r*t*y. She practically craves the earth. It is sweet, and damp. And sweet and damp is sooooo good. She tastes the soil to see. See what it has to give. It is rich and fertile. One of the rows is particularly deep to hoe but deeper is more fertile after all, so she pushes the seeds as deep as they will go.

Mary pauses.

Mary is put on pause.

Mary’s calls will not be forwarded. Such a valuable ASSet to the company should be displayed and utilized. Not allowed to gather dust. Mary is dusted. Rubba—Maid Dolly Dust settles, and when it clears Mary isn’t so contrary. Her mind clears as the dust does. Hello dolly. Or is it Mary? She is kept too busy to care about such things. Do they make fruit dollies in far away tropical places she has never been? Would she be able to break her company into these faraway markets? The maintenance men are called in to make sure everything is clean and spotless. Mary’s mind is clean, except for the garden dirt, and spotless too. The maintenance men do some polishing before they disappear. Mary’s position is assured. Mary works hard. Mary is hard, like one must be in business. Whether toys and dollies or fruit it doesn’t really matter to Mary. Mary is put in charge of receiving and handling everything rubber... and fruit. She is now the companies undisputed expert where rubber is concerned. A corporate head. A real giver, even after hours. Her position is elevated. Practically on a pedestal someone observes. Who says dressing for success doesn’t pay off? Not Mary. She is completely into her job, it is completely into her. The nylon elevator has a shiny red garden button. Installed by the maintenance men, due to a last minute work order, placed by someone with foresight. It is stiff and resists at first, but once some lubrication is applied it works perfectly. Mary likes red.