The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cynthia lay on her back in her dark bedroom, staring blankly upward. Sleep refused to come; her thoughts whirled with memories of the last two days.

The police had found her in the alley, curled up and sobbing, and taken her to the emergency room along with the other survivors of the Beast’s second attack. Once there, they quickly realized she wasn’t physically harmed, which meant sitting, alone, surrounded by the sick and injured, waiting for someone to call the orphanage.

Sister Euphresia had shown up around midnight, furiously demanding to know where Cynthia had disappeared to. “You may be eighteen, but you haven’t moved out yet, and until you do, you’re still our responsibility!” she’d said—multiple times, with slight variations.

Cynthia couldn’t explain. What could she say? That she’d been cursed and blessed, given strange powers, compelled to embrace being a sex slave? They’d probably call an exorcist—the Church still had those, didn’t it? She’d babbled something about being caught in the first attack, wandering confused and scared for a day, and then being picked up by the police after the second. Sister Euphrasia seemed suspicious, but at least for now she’d bought Cynthia’s claim that being found near the second attack was pure coincidence.

And then she’d had to do it all over again with Ruthie. “We thought you were dead!” was the refrain that time, though, and unlike Euphresia Ruthie’s variations on it were accompanied by tears. Which of course started Cynthia crying again.

Eventually, Ruthie had crawled into her bunk—the top one—and gone to sleep. Cynthia could hear her soft snores, the creak of the springs behind the thin particle board that silently received Cynthia’s blank gaze.

Maybe she should just tell them. They probably wouldn’t believe her, but if she demonstrated... no, that wouldn’t work, then she’d be Syn again, and Syn loved being Syn, she would leave and make sure the nuns never allowed Cynthia back. But if they did call in an exorcist, maybe that could actually work? Get whatever this blessing/curse was out of her system and set her free?

But. Syn loved being Syn. And Cynthia... well, she didn’t mind being Cynthia, but it was—well, ordinary. Cynthia did all right at school, but she wasn’t a genius. She could sing well enough for a place in the choir, but she wasn’t a soloist. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful. Wasn’t an outcast, but wasn’t super-popular. She was just Cynthia, and would never be anything else.

Could she really throw away being Syn, being a gorgeous sexy super-powered warrior against evil monsters? After all, if not for the whole sexual slavery thing, and the monsters, it would have been pretty much end-to-end wonderful—and when she was Syn, even the slavery felt good. Even being held down and—her mind skidded away from the word—used by that monster felt good.

Her last thought before exhaustion finally claimed her was, Maybe the problem isn’t being Syn. Maybe it’s becoming Cynthia again.

Lawrence laughed cruelly. “You’re mine, Syn! And you’ll do anything I want!” He rubbed his enormous cock, and Cynthia recognized it as the monster’s.

“I’m not Syn!” she protested, but he ignored her as he advanced slowly, looming over her.

“This is what you get,” Sister Euphresia said sternly, and handed Lawrence a tangled bundle of dark red ropes.

Lawrence held one, and Ruthie had another. They slowly circled Cynthia, who could only stand helplessly as they wound around her. There were two other people winding ropes around her, too, but she couldn’t quite see them—a small man, who circled her directly across from Lawrence, and a tall woman opposite Ruthie.

Soon she was on her knees, completely bound, helpless. The ropes had morphed from a cocoon to the minimum necessary to hold her completely immobile, and her clothes had vanished, leaving her naked as well. She tried to struggle, and gasped.

The ropes felt so good. And the more she struggled, the better she felt.

She looked up to see that Sister Euphresia, Lawrence, Ruthie, and the two people she couldn’t see were gone. Two women stood in front of her, naked as she was, holding hands. They were identical in every way, except that one was bathed in golden light and so beautiful it was hard to look at her, and the other was draped in shadow and so sexy it was hard to look away.

Each laid a gentle hand on one of Cynthia’s cheeks, the golden beauty on her left and the dark seductress on her right. They said something, but she couldn’t hear.

“What?” she asked.

They said it again, but she still couldn’t hear them. She strained as hard as she could, desperate to catch anything of their message, because she knew it had to be incredibly important. They were sad, and trying to warn her, and to help her, she was certain of that. But no matter how she strained, she couldn’t make out a single word.

And then she woke up.

Janelle tried not to squirm in her chair as the meeting droned on. It wasn’t that it was boring—quite the opposite, it was a major crisis that had to be dealt with. Two explosions of unknown causes in two days, dozens of deaths, over a hundred injured, and no one could tell her what was happening? That was bad.

The problem was that she already knew what she was going to do about it, and the prospect was intensely exciting. But she couldn’t do it until the right moment, and that moment would be when everyone else stopped making excuses or explaining at length what the explosions weren’t. So she had to sit and wait, wet with anticipation, while the chief of police explained that there were no credible claims of responsibility by terrorists or evidence of incendiary devices at the scene, a representative from the utility company insisted that there were no gas leaks or electrical issues in the areas hit, and on and on, one stuffed-shirt old man after another using as many words as possible to say that he didn’t know anything and it wasn’t his fault.

Finally, finally they were all finished, and looking to her for her decision. Finally, she could obey, and feel pleasure. “Gentlemen, it’s all right,” she said. She couldn’t quite suppress the mini-orgasm as she began to obey, but she was able to turn it into a hopefully convincing smile. “I have already begun assembling a task force to investigate these disasters, headed by a notable expert in the field.”

Before any of the other people could ask “What field?” she buzzed for Carrie. “Send Mr. Feiticeiro in, please.”

In the anteroom of the Mayor’s office, Carrie giggled and removed her mouth from Bruce’s cock with a pop. “Sorry Master, I guess I didn’t finish in time,” she said.

He patted her head. “I’ll cum on you later,” he said. “Duty calls.” He tucked his cock back into his fly and zipped it up, then walked to the doors of the Mayor’s private conference room. Now the real work could begin.

Morgan slammed her fist on her desk in frustration. Next to her keyboard, the untouched, long-turned-cold cup of coffee bounced and a little splashed over the side.

Nothing. No matches for the mystery man’s face in any criminal databases she could access. Nothing in the DMV files she wasn’t supposed to be able to access—which meant he was either from out of state or didn’t have an ID.

Her phone rang, and grumpily, she picked it up. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Um, eleven in the morning?” replied the voice of her old school friend Meghan.

Morgan looked up and blinked at the dusty sunlight coming in through the window. “Fuck, really?” Had she worked all night and well into the morning? Wouldn’t be the first time, but still. She sighed. “What’s up?“

“Bruce Feiti—shoot, I have no idea how to pronounce this. I’ll just forward you the press release.”

Morgan sighed again. She thought about telling Meghan to fuck off, but... Meghan was a junior reporter on the City desk of the Times, and Morgan was a PI. They had access to very different sources of information, which meant they very often had tips to help each other with their jobs. Plus, she was a friend, and Morgan didn’t actually have very many of those.

And most of the ones I do have, I made through Lawrence... She shoved the thought away and looked at the email.

It was about the launch of a City Hall task force to investigate the explosions that had been happening the last few days—Explosions, plural? Guess I should have been watching the news—headed by some guy named Feiticeiro.

“What about it?” she asked, already bored and wishing she could get back to tracking Mystery Man and finding out what the fuck he was doing in that video.

“I’m trying to figure out who he is,” Meghan replied. “You don’t just come out of nowhere and get put in charge of a crisis task force, but I can’t find anything on him. There’s only a handful of Feiticeiros in the country, none named Bruce, and as near as I can tell, none anywhere near here. They’re mostly in Rhode Island.“

“You think it’s a fake name?”

“Yeah,” said Meghan. “But there’s no way City Hall would put someone they didn’t know on a task force like this... I smell shenanigans.“

Morgan rolled her eyes. Only Meghan would say shenanigans to mean corruption, conspiracy, and cover-up. It was a good thing her editor wrote all her headlines. “I guess I can look into things if you—” She froze, staring at the picture attached to the press release. “Holy shit.“

“Morgan?”

“Is that him?” she asked, hardly daring to breathe. “In the group shot of the task force, next to the Mayor?”

“Yeah,” said Meghan. “Why, do you know him?”

“No. But I may have a lead. I’ll get back to you.” She hung up, still staring at the man in the photo. No question: it was definitely her Mystery Man.

“Feiticeiro,” she said quietly. Even a fake name was a start.

Janelle moaned as mini-orgasm after mini-orgasm exploded through her, one every time her Master thrust into her.

She’d taken intense pleasure in watching him dismiss all questions about his appointment with a word, instantly overcoming that room full of old men and proving what she’d always known, that they were weak. Now they did what he ordered, just like her, but they took no special pleasure in it—they neither resisted nor were rewarded for obeying, they simply did. The same was true of the other women she’d seen service Master—Carrie, or that young brunette she vaguely recognized as Teisdale’s daughter.

Janelle was different. Janelle had fought, still fought. Something inside her screamed at her every moment, that this was all wrong, that she needed to stop obeying, needed to resist.

But Master had given her everything she needed to overcome that part of herself. Every act of obedience to him was pure pleasure, and every burst of pleasure made the voice of resistance inside her a little weaker. The more she obeyed, the better she felt, and the better she felt, the more submissive she became. That was the reward for her strength: the pleasure to silence her resistance.

And now? Master had ordered her to fuck him, and with every stroke he fucked the pleasure into her, fucked obedience into her. She knew that when he came, his will would fill her at last, and the last of her resistance would be gone.

But the reward of pleasure would remain.

Bruce was enjoying himself as well. But like every time he used his slaves—as he did every waking moment—he was plotting, scheming, analyzing ways to make the present moment work toward his grand design. The woman was on the verge of collapse. Fucking her will away completely would release powerful energies—energies that he could use.

He was still frustrated that the Beast had overcome the new magical girl, disrupting his plan to locate her. After being fully sated by a magical girl’s unlimited life force twice in such rapid succession, it would be unlikely to return for some time. But with this energy he could pull it back, force it to pursue her again.

Hopefully this time he’d be able to track it. Damn the Beasts and their chaotic, unpredictable magic!

He came with a grunt, and Janelle screamed in ecstasy. He felt her resistance crumbling, and deftly reached in to drain away that energy. He stood, leaving her panting, dripping, full of his cum and empty of everything else.

He had work to do.

Cynthia woke with a start and stared panting at the top bunk. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

It’s coming back, she thought. It’s too soon. She didn’t question how she knew; perhaps the women in the dream told her, or perhaps it was some part of the curse.

Much later she would come to know that the answer was both. But this night, she could only guess—and in any case, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the Beast was near—and it was coming for her.

She sat bolt upright. It’s coming HERE! How many people would it kill?

I could protect them. The thought came unbidden and she shied immediately away from it. If she became Syn again, she knew she would try to stay Syn. It felt too good to stop. And if she stayed Syn, who knew what could happen?

No. As much as some dark, deep-down part of her wanted to, she couldn’t. Which meant the only thing she could do was wait here and let it kill her and who knew how many other people—Wait. No.

If it killed her here, surrounded by teen girls... The curse would pass on to one of her classmates. It might even fall on Ruthie. She couldn’t do that. There was only one option: she had to run.

No time to dress. The sweatpants and t-shirt she’d gone to bed with would have to do. The nuns will kill me, she thought, slipping out into the hallway. ...if I ever come back...

As the door quietly closed behind her, there was a rustling in the top bunk. Ruthie sat up as well. She stared after Cynthia a moment, and then climbed down the bunk bed’s ladder.

She was probably going to die. If she didn’t... She’d have to keep running forever, trying to stay ahead of the Beast. She had no other options.

Cynthia paused at a street corner, panting. She had no idea where she was—this neighborhood was completely unfamiliar, a run-down, graffiti-splattered block of boarded up windows and half-collapsed old buildings.

It was close. She could feel it. She’d run as fast and as far as she could, but she couldn’t run anymore—and it was closer than ever.

Syn could outrun it, that treacherous voice inside her said. Syn is much faster, and never gets tired. Cynthia shut her eyes. She refused to become Syn—and that meant she was going to die very soon. Was that really what she wanted?

“Cynthia!” The familiar voice rang out, and she opened her eyes again. “What’re you doing, can’t you feel it coming?”

“Yes,” Cynthia panted. “I know.”

“Then transform, you stupid girl! You have to fight it!”

“I won’t!” She balled up her fists and glared down at Grankitty. “I never will again!”

Grankitty sighed. “I know how you feel, child, truly I do, but do you understand what you’re saying?”

“I’ll die,” Cynthia answered simply. “I’m not afraid.”

“You will, and yes you are. But you think dying will set you free? It won’t. You’ll become like me, bound to the next girl for as long as she needs you. I don’t mind, though I wish you wouldn’t keep leaving me behind. But I’ve always been fond of you, and you’ve always been a good girl. Whoever the curse passes to next... Might not be. Will you apologize to her? Tell her that she carries the curse now because you gave up without a fight?”

“I...” Cynthia began. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I know,” Grankitty said. “It’s okay. But... You have to decide. It’s close.”

Even without her strange sense of the Beast’s nearness, Cynthia would have known that. She could feel the pounding of its feet as it ran through back streets and alleys. She gulped. “Will... Will you help me?” she asked Grankitty. It was clear to both of them what she meant—not just advise her in the fight, but help keep her from losing her will.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

Cynthia nodded. How do I—she thought, but it was like wondering how to breathe. She just had to not choose not to do it.

She gasped as those waves of pleasure and delight filled her, as light and dark magic swirled around her. Once again her body changed, her features shifting into doll-like perfection, her hair into effortlessly tumbling golden waves, her legs lengthening, her breasts swelling until her t-shirt strained to contain them. It changed, too, becoming thinner, clingier, the hem rising to expose her navel and the neckline plunging to show a nigh-obscene quantity of cleavage. Her sweats dwindled away to almost nothing, a tiny pair of shorts that barely covered her ass.

Syn grinned, reveling in the intense feeling of being herself. Why did I ever fight this? she wondered. I feel so alive, so powerful... So horny...

Then she heard the scream, and the roar. Pausing only to scoop up Grankitty and drop the plush toy into her cleavage, she raced at top speed toward the source of the sound.

What she saw as she rounded the corner horrified her enough to momentarily break through the sheet joy of her transformation: Ruthie, gripped in the claws of that hideous monster, screaming, sobbing, struggling, and utterly unable to break free. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst was that she was too far away. Syn leaped as hard as she could toward the Beast, hit the ground running, and sprinted toward it... but it was already tearing Ruthie’s clothing away with its claws. She had no time...

“Syn!” gasped Grankitty from her cleavage. “Quickly—your power! You can attack with light! No time for practice, just do it, get its attention!“

Syn tried. She had no idea what to do, but then she had no idea how she did any of what she did. She just knew. She raised a hand as she ran and pushed it toward the Beast, imagining a ball of blazing light flying out to strike it.

The Beast finished tearing Ruthie’s clothes off and grasped her legs, one in each claw, prying them apart. She had gone limp, trembling occasionally from the sobs that wracked her but no longer fighting.

Syn tried, desperately, again. No light flared out again. She closed her eyes, briefly, trying to concentrate, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t shake an image, a fragment of half-remembered dream—a warm, gentle hand, and a whisper. A warning, and...

Her eyes flew open, blazing a brilliant blue. She stopped running and stood straight and tall, her left arm held out in front of her at face height, her right drawing back at shoulder level. “Light of the fallen!” she cried, the words welling up inside her. “Guide my aim!” Light flickered fitfully between her hands, and at right angles to that, outlining the vague shapes of a bow and an arrow. “Shooting... Star...” The light concentrated, focused, pulling in from all around her, until the blazing white bow and arrow looked almost solid. “...BOW!”

She loosed the arrow. It flew, perfectly straight and blindingly fast, into the Beast. The Beast dropped Ruthie, turned toward Syn, opened its mouth to roar...

And exploded in a burst of pure white light, howling in agony as it died. When it was over, nothing of the Beast remained but a wisp of smoke.

In the Mayor’s office, Bruce swore in three dead languages and two living ones, one of them human, and punched a wall. “First she’s defeated,” he ranted, “and now she wins too quickly!”

He glared at the still-limply blissed-out Janelle as if it were her doing. “How? How does a girl transformed for only the second time, in only her second battle, not only manifest light but fully materialize and weaponize it? What is she?“

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down. So. The girl had talent. Perhaps she was unusually good at tapping into that which powered the magical girl, or perhaps she had some small gift of her own that interacted positively with those powers. Either way, it made her even more of a prize—and meant even more power for him once he had her in his grasp.

He smiled thinly. One thing was certain. “She will be mine.“