The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Music Box

AN: This story is intended to be enjoyed as a fantasy by persons over the age of 18—similar actions if undertaken in real life would be deeply unethical and probably illegal. © MoldedMind, 2019.

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She was doing her monthly tidy when she came across it. A small, non-descript box with a thick wood lid on a hinge. It had been underneath the couch, shoved so far back it had been right against the wall. Katie had only found it because her broom had knocked it into the wall with a clunking noise, which had startled her.

Now, as she held it in her hand, she only felt more confused. What was this box doing under her couch? She’d never even seen it before, let alone held it, and it wasn’t like there were people sneaking into her house and hiding strange objects in dark corners and nooks. She racked her brain to remember where she might have gotten it, but she only came up blank.

Giving that up for a lost cause, she instead unlatched the golden clasp on the front of the small box, and eased open the box.

It was empty inside, but for a small golden disc in the centre. The disc was strange too— it wasn’t flat. It was ridged, with dozens of tiny lines twirling around each other. With a start she realized it was a spiral.

She looked beneath it again, and realized the box was much deeper than the floor beneath the disc showed, as if there was something beneath it. She felt around for a lip that might open up and reveal a hidden compartment, but there was nothing. The wood was solid all the way through.

She fumbled around the gold disc, then, to see if it would do anything or reveal any of this box’s mysteries. When she twisted it with her thumb and forefinger, there was a clicking sound, a moment of silence and then an ambient audio track started to play, and the golden disc began to spin.

The sound of the strange music froze her where she stood. It made her heart stop in her chest, and she felt adrenaline flood her system unexpectedly. Oh. There was something about it that was strangely familiar, as if it were something she had heard in distant dreams. Vaguely she was able to process that she was holding a music box, but that was as far as she could get. Her thoughts were dying before her eyes the longer she listened.

The music was sweet, even though it lacked a strict melody. It was more like pulsing, oozing sound seeping out and spreading everywhere, all over the carpet she had tried so hard to vacuum and the floors she had tried to clean. She was still frozen, stiff as a board, the only sound apart from the music her own laboured breathing.

There was something about it that made her anxious in spite of how pleasant it was to listen to. The longer she listened the more she could feel her body being pumped full of adrenaline. Her hair was practically standing on end, and she could feel her heart racing as if her life depended on it. Her hands were shaking where they held the box.

Yet the oozing, pulsating sound wrapped itself around her, in all her tight places, coaxing over corded and tensed muscles. It was water submerging her, and it surged over her in waves that kept coming endlessly, and all the tension in the world couldn’t hold out against that sense of persistent, peaceful washing and covering.

The tension slowly eased out of her body, her limbs becoming limp, and she felt her knees give out beneath her as she sank to the floor in one languid motion, the box still in her hand. The music played on, wrapping itself more closely around her, gently taking her hands in its grip and moving them to put the music box on the floor. In what was left of her logical mind, she knew music didn’t have the power to do that, really. But there was no other way to describe it— the music called, and she listened. It sang to her all the ways she was meant to move, and feel, and she responded. It called out to her how she was meant to act, and she obeyed it. The call and response was so fluid, so instantaneous that it really felt as if the music were a living thing, physically moving her limbs in its sinuous grip.

Delicately, it eased her down onto her back, and she stared with wide eyes up at her white ceiling. Her jaw came unhinged at the joint, and her breaths tumbled out, slowing to a languorous pace.

On her back now, staring up at white nothingness, she felt as if she had slipped out of the real world into a strange abyss of nothingness. Suspended in air, she drifted, and drifted, the music pulling her along.

Though the tension was gone, the intensity it had left behind was still present, circulating through her veins. She was empty, at peace. She didn’t care if she drifted endlessly through the music. The way it pulsed was that beautiful.

Then, there was a shift. She hadn’t been ready for it, and her guard had been lowered. It surged over and through her suddenly, seeping in through her ears, coiling between her toes, and slowly pushing in between her legs to coil in her womb. She let out a strangled grunt, but the music didn’t stop there. It intensified, surging as it had been all along, but now in a way that felt distinctly… warm… and wet. Like a tongue, or… her words were gone. She couldn’t place it.

And then the music pulsed, surging in her, pulsing through her. It was pulses of wet heat in her cunt, pulses of wet heat kissing and licking every inch of her inner walls, and pulses of wet heat pressing with forceful pressure against her womb in a way that made her entire body shake.

She was on fire with lust already. All of that intense energy that the tension had left behind was set on fire and electrified by the pulses of pleasure, the omnipresent touch that covered every internal inch of her. She felt the music in her, kissing and licking, and pushing, and pounding and pumping, all at the same time. Even as she felt it licking over her breasts, kissing and licking every inch there, and rounding, plucking at her nipples. It created a desperate haze of lust that only sparked higher and higher with every pulse and surge. She thrust into it, tears in her eyes from the intensity of it… the perfection of it.

The music played on, but in the blank whiteness before her, she could see shimmering patterns now. The more she focused on them, the more they slipped away, but when she focused on not focusing on them, they became clearer. When she looked away to see them from her periphery, they were clear as day.

They were golden, rainbow words. Obey. Surrender. Give in. Give yourself completely. The same several phrases looping.

But she realized as she noticed the words, the music was shifting again. The words were being carried by the music, pulsing in time with it, and she could where the music was in her brain, could feel it burning and searing the words into her brain matter with that fiery, unbearable pleasure. She knew she had no choice but to submit. The music was changing her, forcing her to become… something… someone helpless to obey, and the more she thought about, the deeper she could feel the music drilling these new ideas into her the centre of her mind, irrevocably changing her.

It was branding her, everywhere it touched. Burning the words into her, tattooing them on every inch of her skin, tattooing them inside of her, all over her inner walls even as it continued fucking her. It was literally fucking obedience into her, and that was so hot she juiced and juiced at the thought of it. At the thought that was drilling and pumping itself into her brain just as the music was pumping itself into her cunt.

It licked over her clit, too, pressing the messages there, and her eyes were seeping tears, and her cunt was seeping arousal. She was being made to obey. She was being made to enjoy it. It was too wonderful.

She would be forever changed. Anyone who saw her would see the words on her— they wouldn’t be able to miss them. They would see what a horny helpless slave she was, and they wouldn’t be able to resist using her… anyone… anywhere… Images pumped into her mind at that same surging pace, images of people pushing her up against alleyways and fucking her with their fingers, images of people pulling her into club bathrooms, mall bathrooms, images of people bending her over counters in retail stores and openly fucking her for everyone to see… everyone would understand that it was normal, because they would see the words on her… they would know that she was a slave, and she was meant to be fucked, meant to be taken by anyone that would have her… meant to obey anyone and everyone who wanted her…

The music kept fucking her, drilling and drilling into her brain, cutting away all the resistance, cutting away everything that she used to be, removing her old memories, her old identity. She didn’t need it. She only need the deep pit of pleasure that was being installed in her brain. Whenever it was time for her to obey, she would feel it open up there, in the centre of her forehead, and find herself plunge endless down into it, racing toward a bottom that didn’t exist, falling, only to stop when obedience no longer had a use for her; until it did again.

It fucked and fucked her endlessly, burrowing deeper into her brain. Abstractly, she realized she was coming, and had been for a long time. Her orgasms stopped and started, and came and went, endlessly as the burrowing just went on and on. Her body was exhausted from the spasms, her muscles exhausted from clenching and unclenching, and she felt the music encircle her hand, pull it forward, and snap the lip on the box shut.

And just like that, it was gone. Silence came, and she returned to herself, the memories of the music already slipping away. Still only half conscious, she shoved the box back under the couch, until it was right against the wall.

She stood up, and took her broom into her hand again, going back to sweeping. She resumed her task, still in the last vestiges of obedience.

It wasn’t time for her yet to stay there permanently, but someday it would be. And when that day came, she would be ready.

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