The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There are many kinds of dreamers: those that only dream in the dead of night and don’t remember anything about their dreams the moment they wake up; those that drift into them with their eyes wide open at every possible occasion without even realizing they’re doing just that; those that do it purposefully to escape a boring conversation, a boring business trip or, simply put it, a boring life; those that dream the impossible for it is the only way for it to become something real...

And then there was Natasha Anders, Kentucky born-and-bred, who had been told since she was a young child that while dreams were a beautiful thing to be had, they weren’t as important as “Deo gratiam habeamus” for The Almighty alone had the power to make one’s wishes come true if He so desired. Up until her sweet sixteenth birthday, she believed in it and other warped dogmas her father insisted came straight from The Bible because she didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Barry was always strict with her, even when it was undeserved, and the fact he loved spirits almost as much as worshiping The Holy Trinity itself haunted her all the time. The day he died is when everything began to change.

It happened on a Friday afternoon, one block away from church. The mid-sixties man smiled as he looked at the leaden sky, bottle of malt scotch hidden inside his raincoat. One moment, he was singing “Hallelujah!” hoping a choir of angels would reward him with an heavenly response, and the next he was rolling down a flight of stairs, clawed hands on his breathless chest, heart torn asunder. While he never stopped believing God was about to welcome him with open arms, it was Satan’s time to smile all the way to the bank.

His funeral will forever be remembered by how few relatives and acquaintances bothered to attend. Barry’s overzealous lectures had burned many bridges throughout the years, most of which never resisted an attempt at reconstruction. Still, it was for the best for the quiet solitude made Natasha come to terms with everything that was distorted or simply plain wrong in her life until then. As the coffin descended to its final resting place, her thoughts did the opposite, ascending beyond the confines of a twisted morality. For the first time ever, Freedom was not just an illusion beckoning at an unfathomable distance. It was everywhere, limitless, and wanted her attention.

In the year that followed, she got her first temp gig in a beauty parlor, courtesy of one of her high school friends, learned how to ride a moped, and got a gothic quatrefoil tattooed on her left ankle in shades of grey, black, and green.Though she hated the pain and the rash that followed, the design remained a personal favorite. On the opposite end of the spectrum, she also discovered that joints were amazing but not as intoxicating as hard cocks, and that sucking two guys under the bleachers while the football playoffs were underway was the epitome of “living dangerously”. The act got her her first suspension, a punishment that was repeated only two weeks later after a similar spectacle inside the boys’ locker room, this time with a perfectly aware and engaged audience. Though being a slut had never crossed her mind before, it was too liberating, consequences be damned!

The last three months before her father’s death first anniversary were the most tumultuous, emotionally-wise. Risking expulsion for her reckless sexual behaviors, Natasha found solace in her mother Arlene, a stewardess at a now defunct airline. Despite work demanding her to be up in the clouds more times than she wanted, she was as pragmatic as needed be, managing to keep her only daughter grounded until graduation.

And then college came, and everything went to shit again.

She hardly talked about those days now, but the memories were still fresh in her mind. Sex and other obsessions took over and hundreds of beautiful blooming smiles were lost to restless nights swimming in pools of fresh cum. ‘Boyfriends’ came and went quite literally, their names and features becoming progressively indistinct as the mental breakdown engulfed everything she hoped to be for the second time. With no family to protect her and bring her back into the light again, it had fallen on Kabir, first moved by pity, then honest affection to show her a way where she believed she deserved the best and not a facsimile of life. He was the bridge between the last student derails and true adult life. Dreams never recovered though.

They were often boring, trifling affairs, rehashes of regular daily events played out on a loop. It’s not that she hated her job at the hotel—she didn’t!—but it wasn’t exactly the most riveting experience she could hope for, either. After indulging in so many excesses that knew no boundaries or reason, everything about her workplace fell flat because of how organized it was. Just as she didn’t feel quite herself when she offered her lips to the nearest tumescent member, she agonized deep inside whenever she saw the black and blue pens placed equidistant from one another atop her desk, or heard the perpetually dust-free phone chirping Ode to Joy instead of a regular ring tone. Order. Progress. Constancy. Her boss was a freak about anything pertaining those three words and keeping up with her antics, a daily challenge. Something different was in order, and it needed to be heard.

Alana was it. The heiress, the millionaire, the one that had everything she wanted whenever she wanted it. She was the omnipresent fantasy when her eyes fluttered, fading in and out of consciousness with a trigger. Amidst all the unfulfilled fantasies of her young, yet troubled life, she was the missing extra and had plenty of stories to tell, especially in her sleep, like the time...

... her husband Damien surprised her with an unexpected trip to Milan on a golden private jet to buy a new evening dress and two pairs of matching shoes or when...

... BFF Dahlia pretended to be her inside Teatro di San Carlo to confuse a group of Italian reporters so she could throw an underground party without being disturbed or when...

... the three of them drove to Florida on a whim and bought three beach houses for each one just because they could...

So many beautiful moments of an illusionary life that could be rewritten at any time if she remembered how or the suggestions stuck. She truly loved them. Every single deviation, every guiltless realization for when real dreams turned into nightmares, hypnotic fantasies could take their place.

At 4 am in the morning, Natasha snuggled in bed, dreaming of Alana, and Alana dreamed of a honeymoon suite where love had been replaced by blissful pain. She stood to attention, hands locked in a medieval pillory suspended from the ceiling, a black blindfold over her eyes. Her exposed ass cheeks bore the fresh marks of a leather paddle with brass rivets. Behind her, Damien was laughing:

“Look at you, all the money in the world, everyone at your beck and call if you simply snap a finger and yet, deep inside, you’re nothing but a bitch in heat, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Damien...” She whimpered, feeling his carnivorous breath on her neck. He didn’t have fangs but, if he did, she would gladly let them feast on her blood until she was no more than a mindless husk.

The paddle rained down on her right cheek. “That’s Master Damien for you, bitch, or are you so horny you’ve already forgotten how to properly address your superior?”

“No, Master Damien... Please forgive me. I will never disrespect you again.”

“Don’t believe a single word she says...” Dahlia retorted. She was sitting on a mahogany chair, long latex red dress hugging her voluptuous breasts. “Those of her kind can’t be trusted unless they’re pounded to submission without remorse.”

“Oh, I know!” Damien’s large hands trailed across her naked shoulders. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”

“Judging by the fact she can still talk, it’s obvious you haven’t done enough...”

“Do you have anything in mind to rectify that then?”

“When do I not, dear?” She picked a strap-on harness.

“Good point.”

“The question is: Large, Extra Large, or Extra-Extra Large?”

“Unless you want to break her like a twig, we should probably let her choose...”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dahlia pouted.

“Indulge me, please.”

“Fine. Have it your way, spoilsport!”

Damien removed the blindfold from his prisoner’s eyes and watched as she struggled to adjust to the bright lights after being two hours in the dark. Beyond the insidious smile of someone who was having too much fun, she saw an array of multi-colored sex toys lined up for her torturous ecstasy. Like a group of rowdy boys infatuated by a new teacher, they were all screaming “Me! Me! Pick me!”

“What will it be, bitch?” Damien asked.

Eyes roving between flesh-like monstrosities with more inches any body could take and the slick, aerodynamic torpedoes of a superior race, Alana mewled. The pillory chains rattled, they too amused by the inescapabilty of her predicament.

“Anything but the spiked one, Master! Please, not that one!”

“I guess we have a winner...” Dahlia fondled the tip of her nemesis, the silicon barbs making her tingle. “Hold tight, girl!”

“Master, no! Please don’t let her do this.”

“Shhh... you know you don’t want to fight... Here, I’ll make it better for you...” He unzipped his pants and thrust his creamy dick against her anus. Alana’s boobs perked as if she were an inflatable doll receiving a breath of fresh air. Her back arched with each additional carnal blessing, completely mesmerized by the perfect rhythm produced.

“Oh, Master...”

“One less hole to worry about, but you’re still too tight...!” Dahlia slid next to her, belt wrapped around her waist. The pink thorny phallus grazed against her friend’s navel, descended onto her calves and then rammed her pussy. “I should probably do something about that dirty mouth of yours too, but it’s so much fun to hear you squirm...”

“Agreed. And she’s been getting better at it, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, but still not good enough. Take it, slut, and tell us how grateful you are to be ours to abuse...”

“Hmmm...” Alana slobbered, puppet body juggled back and forth between the two competing appendages.

“Ah, you took every word out of her mouth, Dahlia. It seems you finally got what you wanted.”

“I always do...”

Smirking, the redhead kept on pumping.

When Natasha opened her eyes to reality once more, it was half past eight in the morning and the bed was wet. Despite both vagina and ass being sore, her face radiated with sweet orgasmic afterglow. A cat’s tail whipped her dainty nose. Misha, her two-year-old Siamese always welcomed a new day the same way before jumping out of bed, demanding breakfast.

“Yeah, I love you too, fur ball! God, that was intense!” She mumbled to her pillow, a stain of drool signaling its agreement. Natasha could still feel the elastic spikes massaging her inner labia, pushing the already tender skin to a new depth of helplessness. “Fuck, I really am a slut!”

“One that will be late for work if you don’t snap out of it...” She could almost hear her mother’s voice in her head still looking out for her, despite now living ten states away. “Hurry up!”

“Right...” the young receptionist nodded. “Come on, Misha. Mommy needs a shower.”

“Meow...” the fluffy pet exhaled, leaping from the stained sheets to the top of the bed frame, from there to the nightstand and finally to the rugged floor. The sapphire lamp wobbled on her descent but didn’t fall. Her smartphone wasn’t so lucky, landing face down at her feet.

“Look what you’ve done, you klutz:” Natasha admonished her. “Pray you didn’t break it or I’ll offer you as snack to Belinda’s Rottweiler next weekend!”

Misha ignored her threat just like she had done many times before and sat by the bedroom door, licking her front paws. Cobalt eyes gazed at the circular back camera.

Bare feet, Natasha squatted to pick up the phone, the video message display waiting for her.

“What have you been up to, Kabir?” She simpered before hitting the “play” button. It was a question she regretted asking right away.

One thing was to dream of debaucheries without any true consequences, the other to see them taking front stage in such a messy and unexpected fashion.

“What the fuck?”

If only she knew that the real fuckery hadn’t even started... Without a moment’s hesitation, she called her (still) boyfriend, foaming at the mouth.