The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The first day off the O wasn’t bad. The second was alright, too. By the end of the third day Mira was ready to tear her hair out by the roots.

By then her skin felt like insects were crawling over it. Her bones ached, the joints rubbed raw so that every motion, every shiver inflicted pain. Her mouth was dry; her lips felt chapped and swollen. A pounding, aching pulse beat behind her eyes, a tell-tale throbbing that marked time with her heart; the sockets themselves felt gouged into and bleeding. Mira’s breasts were inflamed. Cramps pulled on her tummy. She felt menstrual, for the first time in her life, her body at war with herself, unused.

That was the root thing: Mira felt unused . . . unfucked . . . a blazing sexual hunger raging in every fiber of her being. Her need was an aching furnace that consumed Mira’s every thought. By the end of the fourth day, the start of the fifth, every impulse she felt became a sexual one. Mira couldn’t not think of sex. She couldn’t not think of being fucked. She wanted to be fucked. She needed to be fucked.

Every moment she wasn’t fucked was an eternity. Every second she wasn’t fucked was a universe of pain, a blazing, boiling pit of agony. This was worse than any deprivation she had previously known.

She bled. Mira’s social class had the best medical care of any in the history of humanity. Her body had been perfected, her internal systems calibrated to within a hair’s breadth of machine-like flawlessness. As a result, she was, naturally enough, fertile; but menstruation was messy and inconvenient and easily done away with by the technology at hand. After her first time, as an actual teenager, Mira had simply told her housecomp that she didn’t want to experience a woman’s natural cycle anymore, and so she hadn’t, for decades. Mira woke up on the fifth day following her treatment and thought she was dying. She screamed, the housecomp apologized profusely, and Mira spent the next three hours in the shower.

Nothing, upon a detailed medical scan, was physically wrong with her. Nonetheless, Mira went in and out of her house’s medical unit on a twice-hourly basis that first week. The minutes after her treatment were the only times she felt right, that she felt like a human being again. And then the need-agony for sex would inevitably come crawling back, and after enduring it as long as she could she would order the housecomp to open up the bay, and she would practically run into the cube. As a result, her teeth were as clean as they had ever been. Her muscles were tone. The smallest molecule of cancer had been eradicated. Her weight was absolutely unchanged. Even her hair kept coming out in the latest styles.

For three days Mira did not sleep. Then she did sleep, for nearly twenty-four hours. When she woke, the heiress had no idea where she was. The housecomp spoke to her, and she screamed.

That was the first week.

Eventually, the cravings for wild, hard fucking, whether they were physiological in origin, or derived, as she now suspected, from the purely psychological, faded. They didn’t disappear entirely—Mira still found herself, from time to time, in dire need of male penetration, and she had developed the obscene habit now of rubbing her thighs together and her whole body oftentimes against hard objects, like a cat marking its territory—but the actual need did decrease, somewhat, perhaps through sheer exhaustion.

What replaced that need, though, was in many ways worse. Mira grew restless, and the problem with that was akin to when she had been obsessed with thoughts of fucking: the more aware she was of being restless the more restless she became. Mira would be trying to conduct some other activity, whether it was reading, taking a long walk, shopping, even eating . . . and the thought would inevitably intrude that she could be having sex instead.

It broke her concentration. Trying to stay focused on things proved nearly impossible.

Social interaction had been laborious even before her drug use. She just didn’t like people all that much. Mira’s parents were dead, she had no siblings, her peers were witless twits, and her only real friend was an addict like herself. Mira had lots of lovers, both male and female, but they didn’t count. Mira liked fucking more than she did talking. Fucking people was much easier than talking to them.

You had to pretend to care when you talked to people.

The benefit in sucking a cock was just that, in sucking that cock (the taste, the feel, the submissive pleasure in knowing the man she was servicing was about to squirt in her mouth, delicious). It was easier for Mira to relate to people when all she had to do was fuck them (or, better yet, let them fuck her). She didn’t have the energy to care anymore. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t try having sex. During the worst days of her post-treatment sexual craving, Mira naturally had tried masturbation. This proved utterly fruitless, no matter how hot or tingly the lotions, no matter how hard and powerful the tool.

She had completely lost the ability to stimulate herself.

As for people, Mira had, of course, resumed her masked rendezvous with secret paramours, in the vain hope that something might kindle, no matter how less intense. She had sucked cock, let herself be forced to her knees, invited her own rape, exactly as she had done previously; yet it was all for naught.

The lovers went away disappointed, and so did Mira. Their cum wasn’t nearly as tasty anymore. She climaxed, at times; but not frequently, and never so completely; and however delicious it had once felt to be flat on her back, arms and legs tied to bedposts, and a strong, handsome tenant on top having his way with her, using her like the fucktoy she was pretending to be (wanted to be, again), without the drug she was only going through the motions. They knew it, she knew it, and after about two weeks she stopped the midnight meetings entirely. She missed the past fuckings, but she didn’t miss these.

She began sleeping a good deal longer. The housecomp initially made a game effort toward maintaining the semblance of an ordinary schedule, prompting Mira awake first in the late morning, then the early afternoon, then in the late; but its owner countermanded its directives, and it went on a twenty-four schedule after that, providing breakfast when demanded no matter the hour or the amount of sun (or lack thereof) in the sky. It was not a stupid house. But it was limited by the mores of its time. The signs of acute depression were not difficult to diagnose—in addition to the oversleeping, Mira had lost appetite, she sat around the environs staring into space, her facial expressions were mathematically charted to within 90% levels indicative of unhappiness and listlessness—but mental illnesses were no longer treated as such—they were just medicated away. The housecomp couldn’t call anyone. There wasn’t anyone to call, except the biopolice, and the circumstances under which it could do that were limited. It tried to alert its mistress; but she paid the computer brain no attention. Efforts to move her toward the medical cubicle now were mostly in vain; and on the few occasions when she did allow herself to be treated—for youth upkeep—the housecomp again found nothing physiologically wrong beyond what it had already determined. The house’s mistress was in misery, but her misery was her own; and unless she did something about it, the house brain could do nothing for her. And so nothing was done.

Mira did accomplish a lot of nothing. But at times when she stared off into the wall, there were thoughts occurring behind her eyes. She thought about her life before taking the O. I’ve done nothing, she would think. I am nothing. Nobody cares. No accomplishments. No one to remember me after I’m gone. Then she would blink and come out of that semi-suicidal state, shuddering, for despite everything Mira wanted to live. She just wasn’t sure how anymore.

It said much about how thoroughly isolated Mira’s life was, regardless of how she defined it, that weeks went by and only one person tried to get in touch with her. Every time the house brain dutifully informed her. At length, Mira gave in.

“You look terrible,” Marlene said, her golden-haired face floating in holodisplay. “Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”

“Because I hate you, you bitch,” Mira said, limply. Just seeing Marlene made her feel worse. Marlene looked young, happy, and gloriously well-fucked. Mira felt old, wretched, and needful. “You got me addicted to O.”

“I told you you were using too much,” Marlene said, carefree. “Just cycle yourself through your cube, Mira dear. You’ll be perky as a pair of pierced nipples again, you’ll see.” She beamed. If the technology had allowed, Mira would have reached through the holodisplay, grabbed her “friend” by the throat, and throttled the life out of her.

“I’m off,” Mira said, about to wave her hand over the necessary control. “I just wanted to know if you’re going to the auction tomorr . . .” Marlene was cut off.

Mira sat there, breathing hard. She was about to get up when she thought, Auction?

“What auction was she talking about, house?”

“The Midseason Slave Auction, Ms. Lockard,” the housecomp replied, so quickly there seemed to be a hint of relief in the air, “at the Fork’s Gate Retreat and financed by the Third Lordly Alliance. You received an invitation, ma’am.”

Mira stared into the empty holofield. A slave auction? she thought. Her tongue probed the corner of her mouth. I’ve . . . never owned a slave before.

And that was a strange thing, now that she thought about it. She had fantasized about it. Fantasized about being a slave. But all her lovers had all been free men or women. Tenants, a great many of them, but free tenants nonetheless. She had never actually used—or been used by—a bioslave of either gender. It occurred to Mira for her to wonder why.

She thought about the tenant sluts on “Smiley-Face!’ The Stud who fucked them always did a thorough job. A very thorough job, it seemed.

“House, prepare my safetycar.”