The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

April 11th, 2011

“The Cartlan Paradox is key here.” said the professor. He was a man in his fifties, Mark wasn’t sure about the first name, but he knew Professor Richman quite well.

Of all of his courses, Mark’s favorite was by far the Philosophy of Consciousness taught by Professor Richman. In it, they discussed matters of objectification, identity death, and debated over the moral dilemmas that faced those of the Gifted and the powers they had.

In many ways it was cathartic for Mark. Sure, it forced him to face the terribleness of his own actions with his powers, but it also taught him how he could redeem himself. Already he had been working on Sammi, doing his best to build her a personality that could provide her with some measure of dignity.

Mark glanced down at Sammi, who sat at his feet like a dog. She was still a work-in-progress, but she had made her own choice for this. It turned out that the new Sammi loved roleplaying. He wasn’t sure if it was something the old Samantha would have approved of, but he whole-heartedly believed in the Cartlan Paradox.

One was never the same in any given moment as they were in any other given moment. Change was inevitable. Even though time was a construct, the passage of moment to moment was the truth behind reality. There were ways of preserving an identity, not that Mark had thought to use those, but even then, a person whose mind was touched, shaped, molded, could never return to exactly who they once were.

So it didn’t matter entirely if this or any other quirk in Sammi was a relic of the Samantha that was gone or the Sammi he had created, it was a part of her now. A part of her that was absolutely adorable and endearing to him, and very fun for her.

As if sensing his stare, Sammi turned her head to look up at him. She stuck her tongue out, as though she were a dog that was panting, but the playful glint in her eyes betrayed that fact. He knew that she would be looking for a treat later. Mark shifted a little in his seat as he felt the twinge in his pants in response to the thought.

Nobody else reacted to the exchange. There were some in the class that were older, but most were younger than he was. And, while some of the other students did have pets of one sort or another, nobody else in this class did. In spite of that fact, everyone had grown accustomed to treating it as normal.

The time that Mark had been at the Academy had done nothing to change his observation that the general view toward non-Gifted was condescending, if one was being polite, and objectifying if one wasn’t. It was clear that there were few, if any, that were upset about what he’d done to Sammi. Rather, it was the reckless and and undisciplined way in which he went about it that had gotten him into trouble.

That was mostly with the teachers and staff, however. To many of his fellow students, he was admired for the sheer amount of power that he possessed. Mark had no barometer with which to measure how his power compared to others, but it was apparently quite a bit.

Not that Mark was the strongest student there, that was also made abundantly plain to him.

Within his first week at the Academy, Mark found himself cornered by four of hiis fellow students, he later discovered they were known as the Gang. Three of them were older than he was, one, the only girl, was younger. However, none of them were to be underestimated. The girl, Shanya, had only been there for a year longer than Mark, but the other three: Jude, Marshal, and Jonathan, had been there for five, seven, and eight years respectively.

That length of time didn’t reflect on their inability, however, or even a lack of motivation. They represented precisely what Mark feared in himself, as prisoners of a system that didn’t trust them out in the real world, beyond the little microcosm that the Gifted had created here.

“You,” Jonathan had said, using his size in an attempt to intimidate, but Mark was just as big as he was. Tall, muscular, well-built. “You’re new here. If you want to survive the Academy, don’t cross us.”

“Pretty sure you’re crossing me.” Mark said, feeling the rough stone as it pressed into his back.

Marshal laughed. He was a blond, stout, pudgy short that seemed more like a follower than a leader, but Mark later heard stories about his exploits that were bone chilling, turning the blood to ice. All four of them were dangerous, but Marshal was, in many ways, the most dangerous of all of them.

Mark felt something press against him. Not the meaty hands of Jonathan, something that seemed to press against him from the inside. Remembering his father’s warnings, he immediately steeled himself against the intrusion on his thoughts.

Shayna smirked, “We’ve got a clever one, boys.”

Her red hair contrasted well with her sharp green eyes and pink lips. She was easily a head shorter than all of them, with a thin, athletic frame, but she had a presence equal to any of them. There was a quality about her that was even more imposing than the sizeable Jonathan.

“We can see how clever he is after a good beating.” Jude said, crossing his arms. He was dark haired and gangly, with a pale complexion and a bit of a shaking tic. He wasn’t the one that did the actual beating, of that Mark was sure.

“Not necessary, not necessary,” Jonathan said, pulling them all back. “We’re all friends here, right?”

“Sure.” Mark said, eyeing them carefully. The sudden change was unexpected, but hardly surprising. There wasn’t a lot they could do to him under all of the eyes of the instructors, and with tales about his prowess, they’d more likely than not want to bring him into the gang, if they liked him.

Personally, Mark had no desire to be counted among them, but it was easier to play along, to lead them to believe that he was considering it.

“Great.” Jonathan said, letting Mark go. He took a step back and gestured to the others, “We’ll see you around.”

Even just thinking about it now, Mark felt many of the things he’d felt in that moment. The chill from Marshal’s stare, the strength of Jonathan’s hands, the awkwardness of Jude, and the deviousness of Shayna. He reached down and scratched behind Sammi’s ear absent mindedly as he followed Professor Richman’s lecture.

“Alright, stand in front of me.” Mark said, commanding Sammi, but not with the Gift, just his sheer will against her pliant submissiveness.

Sammi did as she was bade. She wore naught but her pink underwear and her white-and-pink polka-dotted bra. Mark had to admire his figure. It had changed in substantive ways since he first met her. She was no longer working out and her tight, muscular body had grown soft and curvy instead. She was still lean, but with more curves to love and far less strength to resist.

“You made for a very convincing puppy today.” Mark said as he considered her from his perch on the edge of his bed.

Slowly, Mark rose, looming over Sammi now, but she gazed up at him with her sparkling blue eyes. There was more life in them now, but still a certain vacantness that bothered Mark. He honestly didn’t need a brilliant wife who would be able to keep up with him, but the slight emptiness in her gaze, even as an improvement over what it once was, was a reminder of his failure.

As fascinating as the Academy was, Mark would have preferred to find out about it and attend it voluntarily. Over the months that had passed, Mark found himself more and more fond of his pet- his girlfriend... whatever she was. He gazed back at her, considering the thought. She would be whatever he wanted her to be, but what did he want?

Mark pictured the straight-out-of-stepford woman that was his mother. Sweet as sugar, spicy enough only to complement it, knowing every recipe in every cookbook imaginable, and assuring that her son had a solid moral foundation. As contrary as it might have seemed to her person, Mark’s mother had been a strong feminist and that had never changed. Her definition merely included the broadest definition of the term. Only in retrospect, remembering his father’s story as he introduced him to what it meant to be a Gifted, did that even seem strange.

Sammi could be a feminist too, if he wanted her to be. The thought of it did more than just stir his cock from its slumber, it made the hairs stand up on his arm, his entire body seemed to jump to attention. He reached down and stroked her cheek with his thumb, just looking at her was a distraction now, but he had work to do before he could play.

“What’s your name?” Mark asked.

“Umm, duh, it’s Sammi.” she replied, giggling as if he’d told her a silly joke.

Mark moved his hand down to cup Sammi’s chin, grasping it firmly, but not harshly. Still, the strength of it caught her attention, she looked up at him confused.

“Samantha Murdank?” she said, tilting her head.

Mark smiled, “Not quite yet, babe.”

“Oh, poo.” Sammi pouted and, for a moment, Mark felt like relenting, to allow her to live in whatever fantasy she’d created for herself. “Samantha Tucker then. Ooooor, Marky’s girlfriend.”

At this point, marrying her felt inevitable. Even if it hadn’t been the plan, it was the only way for him to keep her dignity intact. He couldn’t ever put her back the way she was, and he found that he no longer wanted to. Sure, it wasn’t what he planned, but he wanted it all the same. Not stepford though. Mark loved his mother, but that’s not what he wanted for Samantha.

“And who is Samantha?”

May 23rd, 2011

Mark ran his fingers through his hair and stepped out of the classroom into the warm embrace of the sun. School was over, for the academic year anyway. There was still plenty for him to learn, and he doubted the UGA would only keep him there for a single year.

As he made his way out of the building, he saw a blond woman looking out over at the hills that surrounded the campus. They were green and teeming with life, risen from the brown ashes of only a few months before. She wore a lovely pink sundress with a white cardigan, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. He admired the way the dress hugged her lithe form, but fell off of her hips in a classic a-line style to give sharp contrast to her waist.

When she turned around, Mark found his gaze catching with her sparkling sapphire eyes. They were alive and bright to match the sunny smile on her features.

“Sammi.” Mark said, placing one hand around her waist.

“Babe.” she replied, lifting to her tiptoes in order to give Mark a kiss.

The new Samantha wouldn’t have been found in the gym, but she’d found plenty of other activities to keep her attention. It was true that many of those activities were domestic, but she was more likely to fit in with the cheerleaders of the world than the stepford mothers like his own. She’d taken up dancing, ballet especially, but she was also pulling in a second income for them by dancing around a pole.

Whatever life Mark faced, he knew he would be facing it with her.

“Dinner is in the oven, Love.” Sammi said as she drew back, but her smaller hand sought out his.

Alright, maybe there was a little of Stepford in her, but she was still his. She remained a modern woman, she’d fit in with others, whether it be at the nail salon, or, eventually, with the other soccer moms. When she could no longer dance the pole she’d likely pick up some sort of craft for some side income while she ran the home.

“I hope it’s not canned soup.” Mark joked with a grin, easily dodging her half-hearted swat.

Sammi did indeed swat, but the slap of her hand was as ineffectual as her resistance to him had been. He stepped forward and then pivoted, taking her waist into his hands once more. She felt so light, he couldn’t be sure if it was because of her size, or if it was because of the removal of the burdens of worry that weighed on most people’s hearts.

“Just because you’ve been working hard in class doesn’t mean I’ve been sitting at home just to look pretty for you.” Sammi smiled sunnily at him.

“You do look very pretty though.” Mark smiled back.

“Thank you,” she blushed, “but I’ve been doing better. You liked the spaghetti and meatballs I made last night. I thought you might like steak and potatoes and.. a little something extra tonight.”

“Oh? I suppose I won’t need to sign you up for that culinary course after all.”

Sammi gave him a look, but she couldn’t hold onto it and broke down into a fit of giggles.

“I’ll leave the studying to you. School is... too hard, and not very fun.”

Mark lifted her up a little as he hugged her, before putting her down. Sammi was doing a lot better since he had begun leading her down the path he’d chosen for her, but the sheer stripping her mind took under his fumbling, inexperienced assault had left its indelible mark. She’d never been the sharpest knife, but if Sammi had any sort of edge as Samantha, it was gone.

Instead of a knife, there was a spatula. Soft and pliable, perfect for its specific uses and nothing else. Sammi could focus on him, she could focus on building a home, but she wasn’t going to be managing bills, she wasn’t going to be taking evening classes to better herself. She had one purpose now, the purpose that he’d directed for her: him.

However selfish that might have seemed to others, Mark knew that it wasn’t true. It likely wasn’t the life Sammi had planned for herself, just as it wasn’t the life he’d planned for himself, but both of them had begun to find their place in the world, and that was worth something.