The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira’s hands were shaking so badly it proved almost impossible to put on the submask. She would draw the rubbery material over her head, start to adjust the mouth and nose pieces properly, get the back half situated so that her hair was successfully threaded through the hole, and then be completely unable to seal the bottom flap around her throat.

After the third failure, she slammed the black hood onto her make-up table. She grabbed the edges of the table’s surface and tried to steady herself, whimpering in her dire need.

She hadn’t even taken the O yet. Her pussy was on fire regardless. So strong was her need for penetration, she couldn’t even close an automatic collar!

She sat naked in a chair facing a mirror. She was beautiful. But she was also sweaty, nearly delirious from sexual desire. Her face looked like a woman’s on the edge of an orgasm: it was. She kept biting her lower lip. Mira’s toes clenched and unclenched. She couldn’t sit still in her seat, couldn’t make herself comfortable. Her pussy ached so badly with its need for deep, hard penetration.

Her mouth opened. Her tongue probed her upper lips. She needed a cock in her mouth, too. Soon. And the taste of cum on her tongue. Delicious.

On the table in front of her, a vial of O, still unopened. 100, 99, 98, 97 . . . she counted backwards until her spasming went away. 90, 89, 88 . . . Eventually, she let go of the table. She tried picking up the mask again. Her hands were a little calmer.

She tried again.

This was the third time the man had been brought in. The door slid open at his touch. He walked into the half-lit room, naked save for the locked metal bracelet about his wrist. The playroom was square and nearly unfitted. The bed was the centerpiece and occupied most of the space. Various implements hung from the walls, many of which had been used in the past. The door sealed itself behind him.

The slut knelt in front of the bed, like before. She was on her knees, her thighs spread wide, her forehead touching the carpet. Her ass hung in the air. Like the man, she was all but naked. Unlike him, her only adornment was a rubbery black mask she wore over her entire head, that covered everything except her eyes, which peeked through in wide framed holes. Black hair poked in back, tied off in a ponytail. The slut’s mouth was encased in rubber: the mouthpiece was very flexible, as the man should well know as he had received the benefit of that mouth and her tongue multiple times. His penis was erect and throbbing.

The man approached the masked slut. Her need for him was apparent: she was wet, and the musk of her arousal filled the air. Slowly coming up beside her, he ran his hand over her upturned buttocks, which elicited her moaning. He reached down and took hold of her ponytail—that was what it was there for—and pulled her upright in front of him, the front of his body pressing into her soft form in back.

Again, she whimpered. “Please,” she begged. “Fuck me, please, sir. I need it. I need it!”

“Silence, whore,” he said to her and reached around with his other hand and grabbed her breast, cupping it in his hand. She jerked like a fish. His thumb rang over her engorged nipple; he flicked it one way and then the other, then gave her a pinch that made her whole body shudder in response. He bent down and kissed her hard on the throat from behind, and she pressed herself close to him, wantonly.

Releasing hair and breast, the man took hold of the slut’s arms and raised them up above her head.

There was a set of handcuffs waiting on the bed. He locked her wrists together, then pulled her onto the mattress, flinging her down stomach first. He positioned himself between her legs, took them, and spread her apart. He knelt down at the edge of the bed, then crawled forward. He lifted her abdomen from beneath, taking hold of her midriff with both hands. Pressing his face forward, he brought her upraised pussy close to his mouth and lightly tongued her. The slut moaned like the aroused creature that she was. The man rose up, put his knees on the bed, took a better hold of the slut, and readied her. Her pussy was open and inviting.

Taking his time, he slid his cock inside her. He began fucking her, pumping into her with hard, regular strokes. Her whole body shuddered with each forward thrust. She screamed in pleasure, climaxing: “Ahhhh . . . ohhhh . . . ahhhhh!” He did not: his timing was expert, his control practiced.

He slid in and out rhythmically. He manipulated the slut’s body, pushed her forward onto the bed until her head was pressing against the back wall. The slut’s pussy wrapped around the manhood inside her.

She squeezed it, drawing to draw from it what she needed. What she craved.

When he finally did let go, Mira felt his cum drive into her with hammering force. She climaxed again, white spots blasting before her eyes. The fucking was good; the fucking was wonderful; but it was the cum that was so addictive. The cum. Under the influence of O, her body reacted to a man’s secretions much more powerfully, much more uninhibitedly. The surge of semen burned its way delightfully inside her womb, and she exploded with sensation again, the whole universe brightening, fiery currents blasting from Mira’s invaded sex and whipping their way through every vein and molecule.

Mira gasped, shaking from the force of her orgasms—her slave orgasms, some distant part of her acknowledged, though at the moment she could care less—while simultaneously screaming her utter submission to men, and to this particular man holding her in his arms, fucking her.

Her heels pressed tightly against the bed. Her thighs were wrapped about him in reverse. His arms were wrapped around her body. Pleasure rolled through her, wave after wave; and she wept in joy.

“Ohhhh, thank you, thank you, sir! Thank you!!”

Her climaxes under the O were beyond belief. Yes, it was at times hard to quench those appetites that filled her soul afterwards, that made her nipples and clit as stiff as burning rods of steel, that made her hot and wet and in desperate need for a hard and severe fucking at the most inconvenient of times; but the satisfaction Mira received in satiating those desires was more than worth the effort. At length, he pulled out of her, and she wept, for the burning, the aching came back immediately.

She felt so empty without a cock inside her!

He manhandled her, flipped her around. This man was one of her favorites: he was already ready to go again, a rare talent for a member of his lower social class. His cock looked rock hard. It was wet from her secretions, coated with his cum, and looked absolutely scrumptious. The slut couldn’t keep her eyes away. Her lover took hold of himself slowly, clearly enjoying the hungry look on her face. Mira’s mouth opened and quivered. “Do you want it?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” she breathed. “Oh, yes, please, sir!” She liked to call a man ‘sir.’ It felt good.

She inched forward, as much as she could, being handcuffed, and he stepped back at once, teasingly. Her eyes remained absolutely riveted to his throbbing organ. “Not so quick, slut,” he said, and the word ‘slut’ reverberated in Mira’s mind. Slut, she thought, feeling and enjoying the immediate quickening of her pulse. I’m a slut. I am a slut.

Yes, she was. Nowadays, she had never wanted to have sex more in her life. At this moment, she had never wanted to have sex more in her life. She had to have sex. She needed to be fucked.

Slut, she thought. I am a slut. She made a soft, pleading noise, and her lover relented, finally.

He moved up. Mira pounced on him like a she-lion. Her masked head came down over his crotch, and she swallowed him, desperately, eagerly. Oh, my God, she thought. The taste! The taste!

It was like that first hit of a drug, that first glorious high. Her tongue circled the man’s throbbing rod; the precum that hit her tongue sent a wave of magnificent fire coursing through her veins. As much as she had wanted—needed—to have his penis inside her, the shock of it was still a surprise. The pleasure was everything good, glorious. More, though: she was aware that she was performing a service . . . she was pleasing a man . . . she was being used like a slave . . . and that awareness in and of itself, under the influence of the drug, was every bit as great a high.

As always, though, Mira was aware that whatever she felt must be . . . diluted.

A normal woman’s needs, the strength and potency of her orgasms, even under the influence of the O, were said to be nothing compared to those of a fully, genetically resequenced bioslave.

At length, he released her hands from the cuffs, so that she could give him the better blowjob. Her hands raked up and down his hard body. Between breaths, she moaned. He gasped and let his head lean back, eyes closed, enjoying the way her tongue worked at him, the way her head bobbed, the vibrations increasing his pleasure. She wanted to please him (pleasing a man made the orgasm even more intense, she had found). He began to tense, and before he could unload he put his hand to Mira’s rubbery head and pushed back. “Not yet. Not yet, whore!”

“Yes, sir,” the slut whispered. Her tongue licked at her lips. Such an incredible taste. And her pussy was on fire!

She crawled on the bed before him, instinctively shaking her ass as she did, thrusting upward enticingly, like an animal. At his prompting, she crept up onto him and tried to turn around at first. But he would have none of that. She liked him taking control like that. Forcing his will upon her. Putting his hands on her—his burning, magnetic hands, hands that sent waves of ecstasy crashing into her—he pushed her face into the soft material and raised her pussy up high again.

He took her from behind. The result was a truly titanic orgasm.

“OHH GOD! MASTER!! MASTER!! OH!! OHHH!!!”

The meaty thickness of him—Him!—felt heavenly. No exaggeration: it felt heavenly, like a divine gift, a godly fucking. It was a religious experience. As He thrust into her, celestial fire blazed inside Mira.

“Fuck this slave, Master!” she cried. “Oh, fuck your slave, Master! Oh, Master . . Master!!”

He did. He buried the length of himself inside her. He pressed down harder and harder on her lowly, slave’s body. Her hands reached out first to support herself, then finally grabbed at a pillow futilely.

Her Master’s hands were at her hips, clutching, burning. He was totally in control. He pulled his shaft almost out again—Mira whimpered in the sudden loss—and then rammed it in again, as far as he could.

Mira spread herself as much as she could to accommodate him. He went deep inside. His balls slapped against her thighs, and she screamed incoherently, lights flashing behind her eyes, spasming in an utmost frenzy of sensation. Each thrust was like the thrust of some powerful engine of pleasure.

She screamed into the pillow. “Master!” She had had no idea a man—no, not a man, a Master!—could make her feel this way, could incite such passion, ignite such pleasure in her slave’s body.

She bucked like a mere bioslut. She writhed within his grasp. His strokes came faster and faster, and Mira gritted her teeth, the pleasure so intense now it was painful, it was melting something inside her, she could feel it. Her Master’s hand reached over and caressed her engaged pussy lips.

He slid his fingers in, pressing against his own shaft, increasing the tightness, the pressure.

Her heart was pounding so that it felt like it would soon burst from her chest. Her slave’s body was slick with sweat. Her fingers dug deep into the pillow. Her pussy felt so good wrapped around her Master’s cock! Suddenly, though, he pulled back completely out of her. NO, she yelled inside. NO!

She was so empty. So terribly, terribly empty!

With masculine ease, he took Mira by the tummy and flipped her around, and before she could utter a word, he was on top and inside of her again, his mouth on her mouth, their tongues locked together.

His shaft sank deep, even deeper than before. It seemed to touch the core of her. She climaxed.

Her slave’s body shook. The universe shook. At some level, Mira, the real Mira, realized what was happening. Her natural feelings of submission were enhanced while on the O. The physical ecstasy of her fucking was being augmented by the erotic mutagens in the drug. Objectively, she was being fucked no better than she had ever been fucked before. The difference was in her. She was different. Her mind was different while on the drug. Yet at the moment knowing all this made no difference whatsoever.

“Master!” she cried out again, loving her Master, loving the Use she was receiving, loving the fact of her femaleness. Her lowly, lowly femaleness compared to his godlike masculinity. “Master! This slave loves her Master!” The words came natural to her, and the belief. At that moment, she believed.

Pleasure. Literally mind-blowing pleasure.

“This slave loves her Master! This slave loves being a slave!” Her penultimate orgasmic scream was very high-pitched. It completely drowned out his own rather low grunt of satisfaction. So great was her shaking, she knocked one of the whips down off the wall.

Almost immediately after he climaxed for the last time that evening, the biosensor in the bracelet he wore, which was sensitive enough to discern such a thing, shut down his alpha-wave rhythms. Rather peacefully, he went to sleep, like a baby. And despite Mira’s pleas for him to awaken and use her again, he remained unconscious, waiting for her to leave. So she had programmed the computer.

She left his payment on the bed and left long before he did.