The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I can still remember in perfect detail the moment Trixie strutted her way into my house. Mid-twenties, Asian or maybe half-Asian girl, but with real curves. Hair dyed platinum blonde, almost to the point of being silver. Tattoos up and down her arms and legs. Tits—real tits, without a mark on them—to die for. All wrapped up in a tiny black dress, carrying nothing except a little bag with birth control pills, a letter, and a vibrator. (She also had a butt plug, but I didn’t find that out until a little bit later.) She lowered her sunglasses and gave me a coy smile. “So,” she said. “Where do you want me first?”

That was a hell of a weekend. The trainers had done maybe some of their finest work with her. She needed some more practice when it came to taking up the ass—she admitted as much herself—but man alive, could she suck cock like a pro. And that squeal she made when she came—well. Like I said, it was a hell of a weekend.

What really stuck with me above all else, of course, is the energy, the pure enthusiasm she put into everything. Even by the standards of the Business, she was an amazing slut. Creative and nasty, with a real talent for dirty talk. When you fucked her, you really believed she was putting her all into it. I can still remember her wolfish little smile as she went down on me for the third time, her fingers eagerly working at her cunt.

Needless to say, neither of us got much sleep over the next two days. I made the best of the time that we had. Even had her down on her knees in front of me as I made us breakfast Sunday morning, rubbing my cock between her tits, before plunging her mouth down on me just as soon as I came, swallowing up every spare drop. (She gave me a grin when I served the eggs. “I’m kinda full.") All the same, the hours flew by. Soon enough, our time was up.

I’d been working for the Business for about a year up until that point. I was what they called a “quality assurance tester.” Not a trainer. I just took whoever they gave me and tried them out for a few days. Made sure the product was up to Business standards. Then I filled out some paperwork and drove them off to the next person in the chain. Didn’t pay much at that point. But the perks—well.

I didn’t know too much about what they vaguely called “the process” at that point. Didn’t care to. By the time they reached my door, the women were always sluts. Always wet, always willing. Obedient and submissive to the core. You could do whatever you wanted with them. Take video or pictures, they didn’t care. (In fact, I was required to take three photos to send along with my report. One with them riding me, one with my cum on their face, and one with them lying back with their legs spread wide. Trixie kept putting up the horns when we took her pictures, this cute little smirk on her face.) As far as I knew, they’d always been that way. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I mentioned there was a letter in Trixie’s bag. She got it out and presented it to me after the second or third time (I forget which.) I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and read:

Mr. Phillips:

Mr. Abbott has requested that #E489 “Trixie” be sent for advanced training. Please deliver her to the following location by Tuesday morning...

Abbot was the big boss in charge of our region. The address was new to me. It wasn’t my usual drop-off point. Not too much further of a drive for me, though—three hours or so by the highway, if I made good time.

In addition, while the product should at this point be a shameless exhibitionist, I regret that we have not sufficiently tested her response to public exposure and humiliation. After consulting with Mr. Abbott, we’ve decided to impose additional requirements to the delivery. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Your instructions are as follows: the product is to spend the entirety of the trip handcuffed, blindfolded and nude in the front passenger-side seat of your vehicle. Furthermore, she is to spend the entirety of the trip (in as much as possible) masturbating herself, be it with her hand, her vibrator, or a dildo. Under no circumstances should she be allowed to orgasm before arrival.

A package with the required materials (i.e. a blindfold, handcuffs, standard conditioning dildo) will be delivered to your residence promptly on Monday morning. Again, we apologize for the trouble, and appreciate your assistance in this matter.

I turned the letter over in my hands to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. My one thought was that it sounded like this delivery promised to be an interesting time.

Monday night, I got things started by carefully putting down plastic on the passenger seat of my Chevy Malibu. No sense in leaving stains. I set up the toys down on the floor by the seat, and put the suitcase holding Trixie’s bag and her little black dress in the trunk. “Okay,” I said. “You can come out now.”

She carefully stepped into the garage. Though I’d just spent the last few days getting to know just about every inch of her body, I’ll admit the sight of her still took my breath away. Her toned arms and legs made it clear she’d been some kind of athlete before, maybe a runner or swimmer. In addition to the ones on her limbs, ornate tattoos ran down her hips and wrapped around her inner thighs, making it abundantly clear that the artist had been given access to her most intimate of places. Right above her shaved pussy sat the brand of the Business, a pentagram-circle kind of thing with the letters E489 printed at its center. (She had another one too, I knew, a tramp stamp above her ass that read PROFESSIONAL FUCKTOY. They all did; I’d been told it was their official diploma from the training they all went through.) Her piercings—five in total, including her nipples, belly button, clit and tongue—gleamed in the light. She was a teenage rebel’s wet dream, every Suicide Girl and punk rock bondage model I’d ever gotten off to summed up and topped off with a cheerful smile and a dirty mind.

I’d already had her put on the blindfolds and handcuffs in the house. She tottered forward another step uncertainly on her heels. (Of course I let her wear shoes. I kept the floor of my garage swept, but still.) I went over and led her to the side of the car. She slid inside once I opened the door for her. “Ooh.” She rubbed her shoulders appreciatively against the back of the seat. “Leather. Nice.”

I went around and got into the driver’s seat. “You got your seat belt on?” I asked as I buckled myself in.

“Yeah.”

“You find your toys?”

“Uh-huh.” She experimentally pushed the tip of the dildo inside herself. It went in and out with a pop sound.

I pressed the garage door opener. “You remember the rules here, right?” I asked. “You’re going to tell me when you’re about to cum. Right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Say it, then.”

I could see her roll her eyes under the blindfold. “Yes, I will tell you when I’m about to cum.”

“All right, then.” I started the car and put it in reverse. “Okay. Here we go. On your marks...”

She chuckled, that wonderful naughty smile flashing onto her face.

“Get set...” I grinned and put the car. “And...”

As I pulled out of the driveway, I heard the hum of the vibrator start up in the seat next to me, in perfect time to the engine.