The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lawrence sat on his bed and tried to think. What was he going to do? Some hot young thing declares me her Master, tells me she’ll do anything I want, and she’s obviously got one thing in mind... He knew what most men would do in his situation.

But he tried not to be most men. He had a fiancee—had being the operative word—that he loved, and he would never, ever cheat on her. It had been so much work getting Morgan to trust him! She worked as a PI, so more half the time her job was to take photographs of a cheating spouse on behalf of their jealous significant other. She and Lawrence got on well, but she shied away from commitment, convinced that betrayal was always just around the corner. It had taken years of patient, loving loyalty to convince her to accept his proposal, and now all of that was gone.

He leaned around the bookshelf to look at the girl, or at least the back of her head. She was sitting patiently, exactly as he’d told her to. Her head bobbed side to side ever so slightly, her pigtails bouncing in their little pink bows, as she bopped along to the memory of some song.

Syn was aware her Master was looking at her. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she knew. She wished she could pose for him, but he had ordered her to sit quietly, and so quietly sit she would.

But there had to be some way to get his attention, some way to get him to use her. She knew he was upset with her for causing his fiancee to dump him, and hurting Master was the worst thing imaginable. She had to heal him, just like she’d healed him after that monster hurt him—and preferably through the same methods.

Her thoughts turned to the ways he might use her, and she rubbed her hands slowly up her thighs, under her skirt. Please take me, she thought. Use me, order me... She sighed and let her head fall back on the couch. She raised one hand slowly, languorously over her bare belly to her blouse, and began to rub her breast through it, imagining that it was her Master’s hand.

Lawrence watched, open-mouthed. He couldn’t see much of the show, but he could see more than enough to know what was going on. “Please,” he said. “Stop.”

Immediately, Syn straightened up and placed her hands back in her lap. An explosion of happiness burst through her at being given a command to obey, almost enough to overwhelm the disappointment she felt at not being able to continue.

Almost.

“What, um, what is your name, again?” Lawrence asked.

“Syn, Master,” she replied.

“Do you have to call me that?” he asked. It was really unnerving to hear that sweet voice say such an unsettling word, and directed at him, no less!

Syn thought about it a moment. “Yes,” she said finally. “Unless you order me to call you something else, then I have to obey that.” She smiled. A chance for another command! “Is there something else you’d like me to call you, Master?”

“Please just call me Lawrence,” he said tiredly.

“Yes, Lawrence,” she said, smiling.

Lawrence shivered. Everything about the way she said it, other than the word itself, sounded exactly like she was saying “Master.” Hearing his name like that was worse than having her call him her Master—it made him feel like he actually was.

He looked down. One part of him liked that idea a great deal. Irritably, he pushed aside the memory of how he’d woken up after the building collapsed on him, and tried to focus on the unanswered questions. “I was hurt, wasn’t I?” he asked. “How come I’m fine now?”

“I healed you, Lawrence,” said Syn.

“How?” He stood and walked back around to the couch—there was no point in having this conversation with the back of her head.

“Magic,” she answered.

He stood next to the couch, at the far end from her, and stared. “Magic?” he repeated.

Syn nodded. “Yes, Lawrence.”

“What exactly did you do?”

She turned her head to look up at him, and smiled through her lashes. “I climbed on top of you and rode your cock, Lawrence, until we both came,” she said sweetly.

He reddened. “I... I remember.” Magic, though. Magic?

“The magic is why you own me, too,” she said. “It made me yours.”

He stared at her a long moment, then shook his head. “No, this is crazy. You’re... you’re a disturbed young woman, acting out some kind of fantasy... I’ll call the hospital, I have friends who work in the psych ward and they—” He broke off. Syn’s huge blue eyes were welling up in tears.

“No, no, please don’t cry!” he said. He looked around frantically for a box of tissues. Finding none, he grabbed a fresh roll of toilet paper out of the linen closet, then sat on the couch and held it out to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Please don’t send me away!” she begged, dabbing at her eyes. “I just want to stay by your side and serve you, please! I’ll do anything you want!”

Lawrence sighed. “I know you feel that way, Syn, but there’s no magic spell making you obey me. You know magic isn’t real, right?”

“It is real!” Syn insisted. “I can prove it!”

“Really?” Lawrence countered. “Do it.”

Before he could stop her, Syn ran to the balcony and jumped off.

Mayor Lumley gazed out the window over her city. She loved the view from here—in fact, she’d had the mayoral offices moved from the old city hall to the space the city rented in this skyscraper just so she could get a view like it. Her city spread out below her like a map, its lights, its streets, its people, all buzzing away, living and working and thriving.

They’d said she couldn’t do it. She was too young, they said, only 37 when she announced her candidacy, and too inexperienced, with only three years as a city councilor and a decade before that as a community organizer. They didn’t say it, but she knew what else they were thinking, too: too black, too female, too working-class.

But she proved them wrong. She convinced the business leaders she would keep their profits high, charmed and schmoozed her way to those fat donation checks, and then took to the streets with her message of renewal and construction and opportunity.

And here she was, mayor of a major metropolitan city, approval ratings high, and not even 40 yet. And with the ties she was forming, there were more opportunities on the horizon—Governor, Senator, maybe even higher than that. “First black woman President of the United States” had a very nice ring to it.

Her phone buzzed, and she pressed the button to answer it. “What is it, Carrie?” she asked.

“Um, your...” Carrie was audibly out of breath, and she interrupted herself with what almost sounded like a muffled giggle. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Lumley sighed. “It’s past seven, Carrie, I’ve finished all my meetings for the day. Tell them to make an appointment.”

“It’s very—oh!—very urgent.” Lumley stared at her phone. This wasn’t like Carrie at all. She was normally very professional, not all breathy and giggly.

“Fine, send them in,” Lumley said. She smoothed down her skirt and patted her hair—everything had to be in place, because the world was always watching, always judging.

Carrie walked in looking—well, if Lumley hadn’t known better, she’d have said she looked groped. Several locks of her blonde hair had escaped from her usual neat bun, including one that dangled down the side of her face, her cream-colored button-down blouse was askew, and Lumley couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she might not be wearing a bra.

Behind her walked a rather short man, pale, with straight dark hair and eyes, wearing an impeccably neat navy suit. He didn’t look particularly important or interesting—quite the opposite, actually, he looked like someone whose own mother would have trouble picking him out of a police lineup—but something about the way he carried himself suggested power. This was someone who had the power to fear nothing, who hadn’t heard the word “no” in years.

Lumley allowed herself an inward sigh and repressed the urge to roll her eyes. The farther up she got in politics the more men like that she met—and inevitably they turned out to be weak, privileged crybabies, so used to power and ease that they crumpled at the first sign of difficulty or opposition.

Still, it never hurt to be cordial to them, at least at first. They could be useful, if you steered them with a gentle enough hand. “Janelle Lumley,” she said, holding out a hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Mr...?”

He took her hand and kissed it. She’d had him pegged as Asian, but maybe he was European?

“Bruce Feiticeiro,” he said. “We have an appointment tomorrow afternoon.”

“Feiticeiro,” she said, thinking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t place the name.”

“I added him to your appointment calendar earlier today, ma’am,” Carrie said. “He’s a construction contractor working with Mr. Teisdale.”

“Ah,” said Lumley, nodding. Teisdale was one of the richest men in the city and a major campaign contributor. Of course, he’d contributed just as much to her opponent’s campaign, but that was the point—most of the city’s wealthy had assumed she would lose, and given her campaign a lot less than old Mayor Grunby’s. “Well, any friend of Mr. Teisdale is a friend of mine, but you’re almost a full day early. Why the visit?”

Bruce smiled, and Lumley had to suppress a shiver. Something about him creeped her out, some sense that he was used to power in ways beyond even her ambitions. “Tomorrow is the official meeting, when you create a position for me with the access and power I require. Tonight is when I enslave you and give you your orders for that meeting.”

“When you what!?” Lumley demanded, but then his power struck her like a physical blow. It tore through the layers of Mayor Lumley and down into Janelle beneath, spreading around her like a warm and comforting blanket, a soft, gentle, yet irresistible urge to worship this man.

But Janelle fought back.

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “You are strong indeed, young Janelle,” he said. “You must have a will of iron, to resist my power.”

“Nobody...” she said through gritted teeth. “Nobody tells me... what to do.”

“Of course this is only a fraction of the power I could bring to bear,” Bruce continued, “but the full force of my magic might break your mind, and I need it intact. You are far too public a figure to risk damaging. Carrie, help persuade Janelle that she needs to stop fighting.”

Carrie walked up to Janelle and began removing her jacket. “Please...” Janelle said, struggling to speak while still fighting the insidiously soft, warm pressure inside her skull. “Carrie...”

“Sorry, boss, I belong to Master now,” she said cheerfully. “Trust me, you’ll be so happy once you do, too!” She continued methodically stripping Janelle, who was too busy trying to keep her mind under control to resist what was happening to her body.

Keeping up the spell wrapping around Janelle’s mind took little effort and less attention, so Bruce was able to poke around inside her mind while he did, looking for the key to her resistance. It wasn’t hard to find, since it was everywhere: ambition. Janelle lived for the climb, the ascent to power, the game of politics and status, and that was incompatible with descending into slavery.

Or would be normally. It had been a long time since Bruce owned a ruler—democracy had made it more hassle than it was worth—but there might be advantages to having the President as a slave.

Meanwhile, Carrie had pressed her clothed body against Janelle’s now-naked back and wrapped her arms around her. One of Carrie’s hands went to tease the Mayor’s small, but still high and perky, breasts, while the other descended between her legs. Carrie nibbled her boss’ ear and whispered, “When Master finally fucked me, it was like I was flying. It was the best ever. I can’t wait for you to find out how good it feels, too...”

“No...” Janelle groaned, but she couldn’t stop her assistant. It was hard to want to stop her. The stroking of her gentle fingers resonated with that warm fuzzy blanket wrapping around Janelle’s brain, and they amplified each other, making it harder to think while Carrie’s hands felt better and better.

“Don’t worry,” said Bruce. “I have no intentions of getting in the way of your career. Quite the opposite—give me what I want, and I might be able to help you.”

That was the key. Visions blossomed in her mind before she could stop them. A man with this kind of power, he could bring recalcitrant legislators to heal, persuade donors to make campaign contributions, convince rivals to back down. All she had to do was do things for him, too—it was the same quid pro quo that all of politics was built on.

And just like that, her resistance was gone. With her ambition swinging around to support the invader in her mind, what independence remained just didn’t have the votes. She surrendered.

Bruce stepped forward and pulled her into a kiss, which she eagerly returned. Carrie was right; this felt amazing. It didn’t matter what he wanted from her. Sex, favors, a job, kickbacks—she would give it to him, and love doing it.

“Syn!” Lawrence rushed to the balcony in a panic. Fearing what he might see, he leaned over the balcony and looked down.

Syn had made a perfect three-point landing in the parking lot. She looked up at Lawrence, more than forty feet above, and could see every detail of his face with perfect clarity. She smiled at the worry she saw there, and jumped back up. Lawrence barely had time to step back before Syn grabbed the edge of the balcony, flipped herself up and over it one-handed, and landed on her feet and upright directly in front of him.

“Wha... how... you...”

Syn smiled.

“Tha... that was more than four stories! Straight up! From a standing start! Nobody can jump that high!”

“Not without magic,” Syn agreed.

Lawrence stared at her wide-eyed. “So you’re saying... you have... magical powers? Of... jumping?“

“And strength, and speed, and healing, and I’m not even sure what else,” Syn said. “Also senses—I was able to feel where you were from across the city.”

Lawrence shook his head and returned to the couch. He sank into it slowly. “This is crazy.”

“It’s true though,” said Syn, following him. She descended gracefully to her knees in front of him and looked up at him in concern. “Are you okay?”

“And this same magic, it makes you... belong to me?” He couldn’t wrap his brain around it.

“Completely,” said Syn. “Utterly, totally, and happily yours.”

He looked down at that beautiful, angelic face, that infernally sexy body, and fought the urge to gulp. “Um, could you maybe, uh, not kneel?”

“Of course, Lawrence!” Syn chirped happily, and stood up. Which just put his face on a level with her bare, smooth midriff, not exactly an improvement.

“Maybe, uh, sit next to me instead?” he asked.

“Okay,” said Syn. She sat on the couch, just a little too close to Lawrence for his comfort, and again smiled that dazzling smile.

“What... what’s it like?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed. “I feel like there’s this fire inside me, just this infinite supply of energy. I feel bathed in love for everyone and everything. I’m constantly horny, but everything feels so good—the cloth of my blouse on my tits, the brush of my skirt against my thighs. Nothing’s as good as skin against skin, though.” She laid her hand on top of Lawrence’s, closed her eyes, and moaned softly. “So good...“

He didn’t move his hand away. “And... how you feel about, um, me?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her smile absolute love and joy and affection. “I love you,” she said simply. “Like I said, I love everyone, but you... you’re special. I love you completely and utterly. Nothing you do could ever be wrong. I want you to have everything you want, always. And god, you’re so hot. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you. It’s like torture, every second of being near you—it’s like torture and I love it.”

“But it’s not real,” Lawrence protested, trying to ignore how hard he was getting listening to this.

“It feels real,” said Syn. “And if a feeling feels real, then it’s a real feeling, isn’t it? Please... use me, Lawrence. I need it. I need you to control me, to fuck me, to give me ord—”

Lawrence covered her mouth with his own. It was an impulse, a desire that popped into his head that he just decided to go with, without thinking about it.

Syn responded eagerly, wrapping her arms around him. Her body was so warm and soft and yielding it might as well have melted as he lowered her back onto the couch, trailing kisses down her neck as he untied her top. She threw her head back in ecstasy as his hand found her bare breast. “Lawrence!” she cried, putting every ounce of worshipful, blissful obedience she could into his name. “Please... take me!”

Fuck it, Lawrence thought. I’ve lost Morgan, Syn is here and sexy and begging for it, I want it, so why the hell am I fighting this? He scrambled out of his jeans and boxers and stroked Syn’s long, smooth thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Her skirt was already flipped up, and she wore nothing underneath it. Lawrence could see how wet she was, her voice was in his ear, just murmuring “please, Lawrence, please, Lawrence” over and over. She was begging, but it was a mantra, too—pleasing Lawrence was the thing she was begging to be allowed to do.

She cried out as he plunged into her, her eyes rolling back in her head as she immediately came. With her pussy—tight and wet, hot and slick—milking his cock eagerly, Lawrence didn’t last long, either, and soon spurted inside her with a groan, before collapsing on top of her.

The two lay together in a tangled, sweaty mess on the couch for a while. Later, their second round lasted a bit longer. On the third, they tried to make it to the bed, and managed to get halfway. The fourth was actually on the bed, and then they slept.

Bruce glanced around quickly and then ducked into an alley. It should be private enough here, he thought as he shed his suit jacket, removed his tie, and then began unbuttoning his shirt. He’d held off as long as he could, trying to get things done, but it was nearly midnight and he couldn’t keep it back much longer.

Stripped to the waist, he leaned forward and braced his hands against the wall, waiting for what he knew was coming. His back was covered by a large, elaborate tattoo, an ornate circle inscribed inside a triangle and surrounded by arcane symbols. Inside the circle was a passage of text written in a language no human tongue could pronounce, in a script no human eye save his had seen in centuries.

It began to glow. The glow soon spread, until all the lines on his back glowed the dull red of hot metal. He gritted his teeth against the burning pain, knowing it would soon be worse. The tattoo glowed brighter and hotter, until it was white-hot and dazzlingly bright. Then a massive claw emerged from his back, eliciting a grunt of pain from the wizard.

A second soon emerged as well, both on the ends of long, muscular arms, and a creature soon pulled itself through. Nine feet tall, but hunched down to about seven, massively muscled, a huge, scaly, furry round gray-green body supported by squat, thick, hairy legs. The thing stepped out into the world from the back of the mage, and at last his agony ended, the glow of the tattoo fading as the creature bounded off into the world in search of prey.

Soon, he thought. Soon I will have her once more... and soon after that I will be free.

High on the wall of Lawrence’s apartment, something banged against the air vent, from the inside, a sort of muffled thud. It repeated four more times, before finally the vent popped off and fell to the floor with a much louder clatter.

It wasn’t enough to wake Lawrence and Syn, however, sunk into the deep dreamless sleep of two people who have just spent several hours in rather strenuous, albeit extremely pleasant, exertion.

A tiny figure tumbled from vent to floor, but despite the gracelessness of its descent, it made almost no sound on impact. It made its way over to the bed, and laboriously climbed up the blanket until it reached the top. Then it climbed over Lawrence’s body until it reached his face, and slapped him.

“Wake up, ya daft great lump of a man,” said Grankitty. “We need to have a talk.”