The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Magical Mystery Tourist

I sat back, and tried to get comfortable in the hard seat. That’s the problem with trains—never any comfort. As we stopped at Nuneaton station, the carriage suddenly filled up. Nobody sat next to me, and nobody asked me to move my bag, so I guess it wasn’t too crowded. More people than I was comfortable with, though.

I wondered for a moment just how long I’d be sitting there. That’s the problem with having a control-freak hypnotist for a girlfriend—she thinks I don’t need to know any more than strictly necessary. So I’d packed a bag, but I didn’t know how long for. I’d bought a ticket and got on the train, but I didn’t know where to. Mistress liked her privacy. Maybe she was even in the closet to friends in the real world. But with that little annoyance came a different kind of freedom. I didn’t need to know, I could follow her instructions without even remembering them, so everything I did for her came as a wonderful surprise.

Well, wonderful or terrible. But terrible in a good way. Even thinking about it turned me on. The pounding of my pulse, echoing in my ears and throbbing from my clit, was louder than the click-click-clicking of the train rushing over the rails. Even the gentle touch of my thighs pressing together as the carriage rocked was almost enough to bring a gentle moan to my lips. I moved my legs apart a little, and breathed a sigh of relief.

My phone buzzed with a text message. “Showing the world your knickers?”

I blushed with indignation and glanced around me. Who could have noticed? I jabbed the keys to tap out a brusque response, and then shifted position slightly. It must have been someone in front of me, but I could only see businessmen and families there, nobody I know. They were right, though, whoever they were. I was wearing a tight PVC micro-skirt, and my underwear must be visible to the world.

I pulled down the little tray table on the back of the seat in front of me. Maybe that would provide a little modesty. I put my phone down on the table, and as I did so, I noticed the wording of the message I’d hurriedly typed: “lol, I’m not wearing any”

If I’d thought I was blushing before, I must be glowing like a beetroot now. My face was so hot, I could have burst into flames. What had I been thinking, to write that? It wasn’t like me to let hormones overrule my better judgement.

Before I could think how to respond, the phone chirped again. “Prove it. Pic.” My eyes went wide. She was my Mistress as well as my lover, and she could demand whatever she wanted. But ... on a crowded train? That was a little extreme. I set about composing a reply, doing my best to explain that I didn’t want to get arrested or something.

I knew it was her I was talking to by now. I didn’t recognise her name when the message arrived, but then it seems I never do. The first time I knew it was her was when I found myself irrationally wanting to do as she asked while I was writing the reply. There’s just something about her words.

Another little bleep from the phone. I wondered who it was, and then if she’d be too upset about waiting for her proof. I tapped the button, and the message appeared on screen: “Upskirt pic. NOW”

I tried to express how worried this made me, the chance of getting caught in a message limited to 160 characters. It was hard, though, and made harder because the command was no longer on my phone’s screen. My screen was showing the camera app, under the control of hands that had apparently decided to follow orders by themselves, without allowing my brain a veto.

I leaned forward and tried to pretend I was getting something out of the bag by my feet. I managed to reach down to the bag with my left hand, closest to any potential observers, while the right tapped at my phone screen a couple of times, hoping there was a clear picture in among there somewhere.

As I sat back up, I glanced around the carriage again. Most people were talking with their own little groups. Business travellers, commuters, a family holiday. Only a couple were staring at me, but I wondered for a second. Oh god, I know them. It was Mark and Patrick McNivven, I’d taught them English at stage 2. My breath caught in shock for a moment, before I reminded myself that they didn’t look like schoolkids any more, these two had been in one of my first classes when I started teaching, nearly ten years ago.

But ... they must have recognised me. I’d looked too young to be a teacher when I got the posting at St Morgan’s, and I’d barely changed since. What were they saying to each other now? I was growing more and more nervous, and doing my best to pretend that the helplessness wasn’t turning me on. I couldn’t even convince myself of that one, though. Luckily (or not, I guess), I was pulled out of this mood of navel-gazing by another bleep from my phone.

“Too dark. Take your skirt off.”

I reflexively composed a response in my head, “You must be joking!” or words to that effect. Maybe a little less polite, but I can’t repeat that here. I mentally revised it three or four times before I got it down to “Give me a minute to get to the toilet cubicle so people don’t see,” then as I started typing I wondered if that was still a little too rude for my Mistress. I added a please, and then changed another word as I typed it. In the end, it took me nearly 2 minutes to write a single sentence. But I was finally satisfied that it was deferential enough to go without offending her. I glanced down and read through it again as I hit the send button: “As you wish, Mistress.”

Wait, that wasn’t what I’d meant at all. I reached for the phone to hit cancel, but found that simple action was beyond me with both hands fully occupied. The skirt was little more than a rectangle of slinky PVC material, a little under a foot long and two and a half feet round. The short edge was decorated by a row of seven buttons, and excitement made my hands unsteady enough that it took both to free myself of the garment.

I’d like to pretend that I was calm and collected. Not that I didn’t care, that I was some kind of sex-crazed exhibitionist. Just that I had enough self control to avoid making a scene. Sadly, this wasn’t the case. I looked around and saw all those professional commuters pretending not to notice, and my former students sniggering and recording me on their phones. I couldn’t take it any more, and realised I was starting to cry. A massive sob got the attention of anyone who hadn’t yet noticed my little show. I stood to run to the toilets, to hide my shame, and felt a sudden tug on my wrist.

Bending down to get something from my bag hadn’t been such a good idea after all. I’d maybe managed to stop the passengers noticing what my other hand was up to for all of five seconds, but at a disturbing cost. I don’t even remember owning handcuffs, much less packing them for this journey, but there they were. I could even look at the box in the top of my bag, and see the clearly shaped indentation in the packing foam where the keys weren’t.

Again, my phone chirped. I dreaded what it was going to say, but I couldn’t help myself. I stuffed my skirt into my bag, and tapped the screen to bring up the latest message: “Is this turning you on? Do you want more?”

I had to say no. I hated the thought of other people seeing me, and I was terrified by now that I’d end up losing my job, even getting a criminal record. As soon as those boys put their phone videos on the internet, I’d never work with children again. I could honestly say there was nothing arousing to me about letting other people watch. I quickly tapped out a reply, or at least as quickly as I could with one hand: “8/10 yes please mistress”.

Well, I never said I wasn’t aroused by the feeling of helplessness. Knowing that as much as it disgusted me, scared me, I couldn’t resist her commands... that was exactly the thing to drive me wild. Even as the tears ran down my face, my heart raced and my juices were pooling on the seat.

Beep beep.

“Good. Go to 10. Masturbate NOW.”

I couldn’t reply to that. My hand responded instantly, dropping the phone into my bag. I pinched my clit roughly and moaned loudly. At the other end of the carriage, I could hear a voice. “All tickets from Macclesfield, please.Can I see everyone’s tickets?” I tried to stop what I was doing long enough to explain myself—though I had no idea what I could say—and found I had no choice at all. It wouldn’t last long, that helpless feeling had me on the edge to start with.

Every moment of pressure seemed more intense than the last. Every firm stroke of fingers against slick wet flesh. Every touch made me arch my back and gasp and moan. I could hear the train manager coming, to ask for my ticket, but even that wasn’t enough to stop. Everyone knows that feeling, when you’re so close that you can’t even imagine stopping, no matter what.

“Excuse me, madam,” a voice cut through my growing ecstasy, “If you’re that desperate, maybe I can help you.” I wanted to stare at him in shock and disgust, eyes wide. Or to tell him where to stick his assistance. But I couldn’t shape words, and I was so sensitive now that I couldn’t move except to writhe in delicious anticipation.

I felt someone else’s nails gently scraping the inside of my thigh. I strained to swat the hand away, but there was nothing I could do. One hand was anchored by steel to the arm of the seat, and the other was just as hard to bring away from my clit. I couldn’t imagine what I must look like by now; body soaked in sweat, back arched against the seat, gasping and whimpering. I was so close to orgasm now I could almost feel it, but even the movements that always took me to heaven weren’t doing the trick today.

And then I felt something inside me; slim and hard. I knew what it was, and I knew I wanted it to stop, but there was nothing I could do. A couple of fingertips held me wide open as a stranger pushed his handheld ticket punch inside me. It was degrading and humiliating, the worst thing I could imagine. He must be taking the actions of my fingers as consent, continuing to knead my clit roughly as he shoved the stiff rubber handle in and out.

So degrading, and yet there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I couldn’t form words through the involuntary moans of pleasure and disgust. I could hear the other passengers laughing at me, the distinctive bleep of an iPhone camera catching the moment for posterity. I’d never hated my situation so much in my life, and yet there was nothing I could do. That one thought turned me on like nothing else, and my body spasmed in wave after wave of ecstasy. It seemed like forever, one thrust after another, until the last twitch subsided and I was able to draw a breath.

“How do you feel?” the train manager raised an accusatory eyebrow, “Always saying you don’t like that kind of thing, but you seemed to be enjoying yourself then.”

I tried to swear, but the words didn’t want to come out.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You’re allowed torecognise me now, if you want.”

“Mistress? I mean ... Joanne? What the ... ?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she crowed. It was clear just how much she wanted to gloat over the cleverness of her plan, “Train company regulations, we can’t use a first class carriage if the heating is more than two degrees outside the target temperature. So I thought it was a perfect opportunity to stage a private party.”

“You total... you utter, manipulative bitch!” I muttered as the passengers faded and vanished back to whatever recess of my memories they’d been drawn from, “I love you.”