The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ruth Yarrow lay on her bed. She was ill, very ill: but she would get better. Her recovery would be complete though it was going to take a long time. It was not that Ruth felt sick or anything: on the contrary, she felt fine. She lay there not moving, not even reading. It was not that she felt too ill to read or was too indolent: she could easily read or, rather, she could easily read if the book was held for her but she couldn’t turn the pages. Ruth’s sudden illness had left her paralysed, unable to move so much as a finger below her neck. But, and this was the good thing, the doctors had no doubt, had assured her, she would make a complete recovery—though it would take time.

For a young girl with so much to do, so much to try, so much to explore, this illness was frustration incarnate but there was nothing she could do about it. She was stuck in bed, reliant on others for everything. And everything meant everything. Nurses and, latterly, helpers came every day to assist her parents. To feed her, to wash her, to work her limbs to ensure the muscles did not waste, move her to avoid bedsores, to pummel her and, yes, help her to empty her bowels. It was embarrassing, not very nice, but that was how it was and she accepted it—had to accept it. She did look on the positive side—at least she wasn’t incontinent, she had that control.

It was boring, there is only so much television you can put up with—or at least Ruth could put up with. The radio was really a better thing altogether and Ruth discovered a whole new world in Radio 4 and learnt the difficulties of speaking for a whole minute on a subject without hesitation, repetition or deviation and certainly of mastering the rules of ‘Mornington Crescent.’ Reading was not really possible unless someone held the book or newspaper for her so it was not surprising, with so much time on her hands, that she was often bored, “tedium, tedium, tedium,” as she would say to herself. She was also sexually frustrated. This was not to say she had had a boyfriend or girlfriend before the illness but she had long since discovered what her hands could do, where her thoughts could lead and the pleasures of the solitary orgasm tucked up in bed at night. Now even this was denied her. Oh, she could think all right and did think a lot about sex but it was all in the mind. She could not touch herself, stroke her breasts, no matter how hard her nipples became, or slip her hand between her legs and move her fingers busily no matter how wet she became. Frustrating—yes, with a capital ‘F’ and a desperate need for release.

Ruth sometimes even found pleasure when being given a bed bath by one of the visiting nurses or helpers when her breasts were flannelled or her privates washed—they were of course women but Ruth could pretend they were men. She had tried to find the younger, prettier ones attractive but she found she simply had no lesbian tendencies so that didn’t work and she had to go back to imagining they were of the opposite sex. As they weren’t this was not very satisfactory!

One day Ruth was lying in her bed and heard the usual key in the lock denoting a helper had come to feed her and deal with her needs. She was expecting Karen but it was not her; instead it was a young man. Ruth looked at him in surprise when he came into view.

“Hi Ruth, I’m Bob. We’ve had some problems, Karen’s off sick and there wasn’t a female to come, so they sent me. Hope you don’t mind.”

Well Ruth didn’t mind one little bit. Tedium temporarily banished. She was very happy to talk to him as she was fed, he was interesting to talk to and it was such a pleasure to have a masculine viewpoint after the endless chatter of women. The bowel business over (not so pleasant and much more embarrassing than usual but let us skip over that) it was time for the morning bath. As Bob got the hot water ready Ruth allowed her mind to wander and, as happened so often for her, it turned to sex. She watched his trim figure as he got things ready and thought, with expectation, of his hands washing her and felt the stirrings of arousal.

At first the wash was no different from usual, businesslike and efficient but as the flannel brushed over her breasts Ruth closed her eyes and thought to herself, “No, not the flannel—use your hands, rub the gel in.” It was a much pleasanter idea than the rough flannel and the idea strong in her mind was quite a turn on, given her weeks in bed with just a female helper washing her.

She hadn’t expected the use of hands of course, not necessary and inappropriately intimate. So the sudden feel of Bob’s hands massaging the shower gel into her breasts was more than a surprise, her eyes opened wide and there was Bob looking confused, surprised and worried, his hands on her breasts.

“Sorry, I...” he said.

“Sorry for what?” queried Ruth, “you didn’t hurt me.”

“The soap, I...”

“I do get so sweaty lying here, I do need a good wash.”

Bob looking worried picked up the flannel, dipped it into the bowl of hot water and began rubbing her breasts to wash and remove the gel.

Ruth closed her eyes again. The flannel was not as good as the fingers but it was still touch—and by a man. Bob had put rather a lot of gel on so it was not easy to get it all off. Ruth thought to herself, “It’s not working, go on use your wet hands to wash, particularly around my nipples, build up a lather.”

To her surprise Bob put the flannel down, dipped his hands in the bowl of water and began massaging her breasts again particularly around the top, around her areolae. The lather built up impressively as did Ruth’s arousal. She could feel her nipples hardening under his hands. The wet flannel mopped off the lather. Ruth glanced at Bob’s face, he was staring aghast at Ruth’s hardened buds. What had he just done?

“That feels so much better, so much cleaner, thank you Bob,” she said quickly. She did not want to spoil this. Certainly not—that had been great.

Bob looked relieved. She did not seem to have minded or perhaps noticed his over enthusiastic washing—or assault. He carried on, worried and puzzled at what he had just done. Why on Earth had he done that? Efficiently he worked down her body. He washed her feet, washed her legs, even turned her over carefully and washed her back putting off having to wash her private area. His washing, his unintended, unconscious perhaps, over washing of Ruth’s breasts had made him nervous. He moved lower down her back. He was going to have to wash her bottom. The flannel rubbed across the smooth rounded cheeks. Bob was not unaware of its attractiveness, its shapely curves. It was his job, or one of his jobs to wash people, but he was not insensitive to an attractive womanly form.

Ruth was laying face down, eyes closed, enjoying every moment. Bob’s hands, or at least the flannel, were now on her bottom. “Use your fingers on my bottom hole, so much more effective, go on,” she thought. And once again he did. She could feel Bob’s fingertips massaging gel around her anus and then the hot flannel pushing between her cheeks to wash the soap away, hot water that trickled further down. It was a lovely feeling, Ruth sighed with pleasure. A pleasure not shared by Bob who was again looking shocked and puzzled by his actions. He turned Ruth carefully back over and looked down at the dark vee of her sex. There was nothing for it, he had to wash her there “but just use the flannel,” he thought. One by one he lifted a knee up and bent it, before splaying them and opening Ruth’s sex to view. He tried not to give it more than a perfunctory glance but it was not easy, Ruth’s posture looked so wanton and inviting. “Stop it,” thought Bob, “she’s a helpless invalid.” But it was difficult for him not to be moved by the profusion of black curly hair and the slightly parted labia hinting at delights inside. Bob meant to give a perfunctory once over with the flannel but was horrified to find his fingers in the thicket of Ruth’s pubic hair building up a soapy lather hiding the black hair in suds.

Ruth was quite beside herself, all she had thought was, “Wash my pubes like my hair please.” She hadn’t expected him to do just that, but Bob was doing just what she had thought and building up a lather just like washing her hair. Inevitably the movement pulled the skin across her pubic bone, which in turn pulled her lips and sex around further down. She felt herself getting wetter and wetter. It was great.

It was not great for Bob. “Sorry,” he stammered.

“What? No, you’re doing just fine,” said Ruth, “much better than my usual helpers.”

Ruth was very reassuring but Bob was almost in a panic. What was he doing? He dipped the flannel in the hot water and rinsed off the suds, he squeezed the water out and went to use the flannel lower down, on Ruth’s sex. It was not fingers but the hot flannel was still very enjoyable for Ruth.

Bob was relieved to have got that over as he towelled Ruth carefully dry. It was then Ruth asked him to apply her body lotion. “Is there a cloth?” he said. Ruth said there wasn’t and so Bob found himself having to squeeze the lotion on Ruth’s skin and rub it in. He tried to be businesslike but it was not easy when it came to rubbing the slippery, oily lotion onto Ruth’s breasts and feeling the hard buds of her nipples under the palms of his hands, nor rubbing her smooth buttocks with the stuff. He felt himself hardening. That was most inappropriate. He turned Ruth carefully over again. Not actually an easy job as she was dead weight, unable to help him at all. Once again his hand pulled her thighs a little apart and he applied the lotion to her inner thighs. “Don’t forget to rub extra lotion higher up,” thought Ruth. She was rewarded for her thought by the sudden touch of a newly squeezed and cold dollop of the lotion on her labia and the sensuous feel of fingers massaging it in, fingers moving, right into her sex, fingers around the entrance to her vagina and on her clitoris. Unbelievable, absolutely marvelous, such a wonderful feeling after weeks of frustration—Ruth very nearly came!

It was not wonderful for Bob. He jumped back as if he had been bitten by a snake—what had he done? “Is, is that all right,” he stammered. Ruth assured him it most certainly was and very well done. Hurriedly packing his equipment Bob fled leaving an almost satisfied but still frustrated Ruth to wait for lunch.

Ruth was puzzled by the way Bob had almost seemed, no, had seemed to do what she thought. “No, don’t be silly, that can’t be.” Nonetheless she tried her thoughts straightaway on the girl who brought her lunch and fed her—nothing; she tried her thoughts on her mother—she didn’t go and buy her any chocolate; she tried her thoughts on Karen who came to wash her the next day—of course Karen’s fingers would not be half as exciting to feel as Bob’s but it would be better than nothing and she was a quite a pretty girl in a solid athletic way after all—but her thoughts produced no results, the flannel did the washing. Her thoughts seemed to have no effect on any of these women. Ruth shrugged her shoulders, or would have done had she been able to—perhaps she had imagined it.

It was such a pleasant surprise for Ruth a few days later when Bob reappeared.

“Couldn’t Karen come?” she’d asked.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he’d said breezily with a lot more ease than he felt. Actually he was quite worried, worried about what he’d done to this young woman last time he had been here, but she had not seemed to notice, poor thing.

“No, no far from it—I was very happy with you the other day.”

A flicker of worry crossed Bob’s brow. What had she meant by that?

As Bob picked up the flannel for the bed bath and looked at the now naked Ruth he was acutely aware of last time, how he had got an erection washing her, how he had found himself massaging her with body lotion in a sexual way. He must be absolutely correct this time. He took off his shirt, stretched his muscles and began to wash Ruth’s face and shoulders.

“Is that all right Ruth?”

It was very all right. Ruth was quite amazed. It did really actually seem that Bob would do what she thought. She had in her mind just asked him to take his shirt off—and he had. There was no other reason for it. He hadn’t last time. Karen and the other girls did not take their blouses off. No it must be her—she must be doing it. How interesting, how puzzling, how intriguing, how exciting!

“Ask me what it’s like to be lying here completely immobile,” she thought.

“Ruth,” he said as he picked up her left arm and began to wash,” how do you cope with just lying there all day, you really must get so bored.” As soon as he’d said it Bob was shocked at himself. What a crass thing to say.

“Mmm, very bored—it is so good when I have company. When someone is here as well. Like now. Having someone to talk to, something going on. I try to be positive. The doctors say I shall start getting better soon. I think there is movement in my right hand. Look.” There was a flicker of movement, fractionally Ruth’s forefinger and thumb moved, and then again.

“Yes, yes,” said Bob with enthusiasm. “You are right, you’ll be able to hold something soon, that’s really great!”

“I also get so frustrated.”

“Must do.” What was he saying?

“And I don’t just mean because I have to get someone else to do everything. Well, I do really but there is something I haven’t been able... well I get, I get so sexually frustrated. I lie here and I—you don’t mind me telling you this Bob—I get wet and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Bob did mind, he was embarrassed. He was not used to such intimate confidences. He also realised why Ruth had not minded last week.

“Could you help me please, Bob?” But she thought, “You will be very happy to help.”

“Of course.” Bob could not believe he had agreed to her request. He had just said it without thinking. It was quite against his code of ethics. Sexually abusing a helpless client—even if she had asked him to. He was quiet as he washed her. How was he to get out of this? He rubbed the hot wet flannel across her flawless skin.

“Ruth, I really don’t think I ought to, to do what you suggest.”

“Up to you, Bob, I’d be ever so grateful though. It is so frustrating lying here.” But she thought, “You are getting quite excited at the thought of playing with me, you really do want to help me.”

Bob stroked the flannel across the dark patch of hair between Ruth’s thighs, his penis now straining at his trousers. He bit his lip. It would be really good to feel his fingers in her wet sex. No, he mustn’t think that.

It is of course one thing to resist such temptation when working with a flannel and soap but quite another with body lotion. He avoided Ruth’s breasts, bottom and sex as long as he could but he could not very well ask her to finish the job. His lotion smooth hands touched her breasts and he was lost. The feel of the hard nipples in the palms of his hands, nipples he had watched hardening with increasing dismay, was so exciting.

There was a sharp intake of breath by Ruth, “Oh, please pull them.”

He knew what she meant, he drew his fingers up her breasts until the tips rested around her areolae, squeezed them together and pulled, pulling the areole and engorged brown nipples up, stretching the skin, elongating them, sending sharp messages of pleasure to Ruth’s head. His lotion-coated fingers could not hold them for more than a second or two and they slipped from his squeezing fingers. Bob squeezed more lotion on his fingers and repeated the motion drawing the nipples upwards and away from Ruth until again they slipped from his fingers.

The feeling on her breasts was so strong. Ruth was quite amazed how erotic this was, having Bob excite her when she was completely helpless, unable to do anything about it—except think of course.

Bob’s fingers massaged her breasts. His penis was rock hard in his trousers. His feelings were in turmoil. He was excited, very sexually excited indeed but at the same time horrified at what he was doing. He moved his lotion slippery hands down the smooth skin of Ruth’s tummy, his fingers circling round the dip of her tummy button before tickling right inside it. Inches below it the fine black hairs of Ruth’s pubis began, a few random little hairs before they thickened into a fine vee shaped patch. Unlike Bob’s girlfriend’s or indeed his own, they were not curly but rather straight fanning out from the slit that marked the beginning of her sex, the divide that became the outer lips between her legs. The legs were slightly parted and Bob found himself itching to slip his hand between them. His conscience was screaming at him to stop, to tidy Ruth up, pack his things and leave—flee—but a voice in his head seemed to say “squeeze” and he found himself dribbling more lotion from the bottle straight onto Ruth’s pubic hair. It fell and left a trail across the hair and, in his aroused state, it reminded Bob of a stream of semen as if he had just come spurting across Ruth, his penis leaving a visible demonstration of his excitement. This would not do—he must stop this. He tried to rub the illusion away with his fingers but this only made it worse for him as he massaged the lotion into the soft pliable skin under the hair. He could feel the rounded bone beneath and his fingertips seemingly on their own volition, against his will, curled themselves round and down under the bone and into the pool of wetness that was Ruth’s sex. She cried out at the touch: Bob almost cried.

Bob’s fingers moved slowly up and down Ruth’s lips, there was no need to add lotion, there was lubrication a plenty.

“Oh Bob, that is just right, just what I need, you are so good. Please, would you, would you... your fingers in me?”

Bob was actually thinking of something else he would like to put in Ruth and was at the same time shocked that he had even had the thought. He must stop this—or would it be better now to bring Ruth to a climax? Either way she could complain to his superior, or worse: but perhaps she wouldn’t if he made her come. He could see how frustrating it must be just to lie there, but it was not his role to... no quite the opposite. He made the decision and a finger found her entrance and he slipped it in. Bob began to move it gently in and out and soon joined it with a second and third finger to give a better simulation of the motion of intercourse. He looked at Ruth’s face, her eyes were closed and her pink tongue was licking her lips. Bob could see she was very much enjoying what he was doing. Slowly he moved his thumb towards Ruth’s clitoris and began to just lightly brush the little raised organ. Ruth’s breath came in little short pants but the rest of her stayed completely and strangely motionless except, that is, for a flicker of movement to the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

It was frustrating and terrifying for Bob. He desperately wanted to release his penis from the confines of his trousers, stroke it across Ruth’s breasts, and slide it up and down the crack between her legs before penetrating. The thought that she could do nothing to resist added spice, like his fantasy of playing with a sleeping girl, except Ruth would be awake but nonetheless like a doll for him to position and take. He shook his head. What was he thinking? He should not be doing this! His thumb flicked across Ruth’s clitoris, the tiny corrugations of his thumbprint providing friction despite the copious wetness. The movement translated as pure pleasure to Ruth. She came making a funny little mewing sound but otherwise her body was completely still. She kept coming as Bob kept stroking—weeks of frustration culminating in a crashing orgasm.

Her breathing slowed, “Oh thank you Bob. I so, so needed that—you must do that again another time.” She looked at him from her bed, her eyes wide under her dark hair, her pale skin showing a sheen of perspiration. He looked back at her.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he glanced down at his hand still between her legs and pulled it away as if it had suddenly been burnt, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You should, Bob, you should. I am so grateful. If I could I’d return the favour.”

“Got to wash you again, I can’t leave you all hot and sticky like this.” What else could he say? Bob washed Ruth, pulled his shirt on and fled, his penis still hard and uncomfortable in his trousers.