The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When Rhonda got into the car that evening, her makeup was smeared and her hair was a mess. She smiled groggily at me as I pulled up outside her building.

“Get in,” I said. I wondered if I should feel bad about what she’d been through, but I had to admit—she looked happy. No, happy wasn’t quite the right word for it…

Satisfied. She looked satisfied.

As she got in the passenger seat, I recoiled. The moment the door closed, my entire car—just like Rhonda—reeked of cum.

It wasn’t unpleasant, although I was hardly about to race out and buy a cum-scented deodorizer. I turned on the music and started the car, pondering on how I felt about it. It wasn’t as though I liked the smell, it just felt…right.

Rhonda was doing exactly what she was born to do. My plan was working—I was giving her a purpose in life, a purpose that I wish every woman could have. For the first time in her life, she was going into work each day and really earning her keep.

She was silent on the way home, just sitting back and taking in the music. It was clearly working—she spent the first half of the trip with her hand on my leg, and when we got on the freeway, she unzipped my pants and started idly running her hand up and down my erection.

As I pulled into her driveway, it was clear that I was about to cum, and so Rhonda leaned over and swallowed my cock, taking me in her mouth and allowing me to pump my seed deep into her throat.

“Thank you,” she said demurely, and when I gave a curt nod in response, shivered with pleasure, taking her hand out from between her legs and licking it clean.

As she gave my cock one last, hungry look and walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder if what I was doing was wrong. Not the tapes—those were for her own benefit. But letting her suck me off—was that cheating on my wife?

No, I quickly decided. After all, it wasn’t as though it was for nothing—I was giving her a lift home each day. I deserved something for my efforts. And if my wife did somehow find out and complain about it, I’d just tell her it was what I wanted, and she’d soon agree.

As she should.

With a satisfied nod, I tucked myself away, zipped up, and drove home.

As I walked into my house, the main hook of the fourth tape still stuck in my head (even without Rhonda with me, I’d been unable to resist listening to the end) I was delighted to find that my wife had gone shopping once more.

She’d apparently interpreted the order to be subservient in a slightly different way, because she was standing in front of me wearing a French Maid dress which left her shoulders completely exposed, emphasized her curves, and ended mid-thigh, a few inches above her black stockings.

When I opened the door, she was kneeling in front of it, and I wondered how long she’d been there, waiting patiently for me to come home.

If this is what she’s like now, I mused, I wonder how she’ll act when she thinks I’m her Master.

I quickly pushed that thought out of my head—I could never do something like that to my wife. No, the first three tapes, it made sense to share those with my family. They weren’t really about altering someone, but about revealing what they always were, what they should have been all along.

Using the last one on my darling, loving wife? That would just be wrong.

“Girls!” I called out, “Go to your rooms!”

My wife was so hot, so blatant in her desires…it would have made sense to find somewhere private to fuck her, but I didn’t want to. This was my house, and if I wanted to fuck my wife in the hallway then damn it, I was going to fuck my wife in the hallway.

“They’re out,” she whispered in reply, a smile on her face. “They’re both on dates.”

I hope the men pay, I mentally noted. My girls are worth it.

Before I could follow that train of thought any further, I realized I was letting myself get distracted when a perfect walking fucktoy was kneeling in front of me, non-verbally begging me to fuck her mouth and coat her with my cum.

Despite Rhonda’s thanks earlier, I was hard and ready to go again. I may not be a teen any more, but when someone as gorgeous as my wife is around, I’m definitely able to provide what she’s so desperately craving.

Let me tell you, I’d thought our romp the previous day was good, but this was incredible. The more I ordered her around, the more I told her what to do, what to say, what to think, the more turned on she seemed to get. It was over an hour before I collapsed against the wall, almost too exhausted to order her to clean up the mess we’d made.

As I sat there, watching her licking my cum off the hallway floor, I got to thinking. My wife sits around the house all day with nothing to do—I’m the primary breadwinner, and when we’d had kids it had been a no-brainer to let her quit her job and take care of them.

But our kids were all grown up now (their clothing choices of the last few days had shown me how grown up they were) and watching my wife leaning over and exposing her pert ass, her shaved pussy-lips, watching her breasts threatening to bulge out of her top…

“Honey,” I said casually, “I love your outfit.”

“Thanks,” she said with a blush, quickly followed by that grin I’d fallen for so many years ago. “I thought you might.”

“It’s a shame that I’m the only one who gets to see it.”

Clearly unsure of what I was getting at, she stayed silent, and so I pressed on.

“You know, if you wanted some extra money, I’m sure that a lot of people would pay to have someone as foxy as you cleaning up their place.”

Again, I was met by silence. I instinctively knew that if I pushed it, my wife would go along with anything that I asked of her, but this is the woman I love—I didn’t want her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

I wanted her to want it.

As soon as Rhonda got into the car, she slipped off her top, unbuckled my belt, and began enthusiastically fellating me. We weren’t even out of the driveway yet—for a brief moment, I was worried about someone catching us, but I quickly realized that no one was going to complain. She was just doing what she was born to do, after all.

Plus it was Friday. Who’s going to report someone for starting the weekend with a blow-job?

Watching her walk towards the car had quickly made it clear that Rhonda had decided to go all-in on the “whore” costume today—her now-discarded top was pink and incredibly skimpy, and she was wearing a leopard-print mini-skirt and long, black, fuck-me boots.

She didn’t say a word as we drove to work—occasionally I would gasp out an instruction or two, but she never responded, just implemented my advice immediately. The only other sound that could be heard was the final tape, subconsciously seeping into Rhonda’s mind.

Most of the time I had one hand down, pulling and tugging on her large brown nipples. As well as glasses, I’m a real sucker for boobs, and Rhonda’s were every bit as fine as I’d imagined they would be.

The whole trip, I couldn’t help but marvel at what a difference I’d made. With one hand buried between her legs, she would occasionally shiver in orgasm as we traveled—such a stark contrast to the uptight, constantly-complaining shrew that I’d drive around for the first two weeks.

I’d done so much for her. She owed me, not only for driving, but for changing her, improving her, bringing out her best.

She owed me, and it was a debt that she’d never be able to repay.

That thought stuck in my head all day.

Rhonda’s timing was impeccable—as soon as she felt me pulling up outside her work, she redoubled her efforts, using her tongue and hand in perfect synchronicity to get me off, and then swallowing down my cum as quickly as I provided it.

As she redressed and went into work, I couldn’t help but wonder how long those clothes would stay on.

When I dropped by her office to pick her up that evening, I’d come up with a solution to Rhonda’s debt. To my surprise, she didn’t reek of cum as she had the previous day—perhaps she’d found a shower, and used it before coming to find me—although it was clear from the bow-legged way that she approached the car that she’d spent her fair share of the morning taking men inside her and rewarding them what she felt they were owed.

What they were owed.

Of course, it was nothing compared to what she owed me. I’d taken a broken, prudish, unhappy woman and given her purpose. I’d given her satisfaction in life, showed her how she could spread happiness to everyone around her.

I’d created her. She owed me everything and the payment for that debt was obvious:

I deserved her. Mind, body, and soul. I deserved to own her.

As soon as she entered the car, Rhonda instinctively reached for my fly, but I swatted her away.

“Uh uh,” I said, and to her credit, she didn’t ask for an explanation at all, just sat there listening to the music as we drove.

“Um,” she said, as we zoomed past her house, but when I didn’t invite a response, she fell silent again.

I knew what she was going to say. She was going to ask why we weren’t stopping, or where we were going, or some other ridiculous question that didn’t deserve a response.

What she didn’t know was that her house wasn’t her house any more. Just like her, it was mine. And since she was mine, my house was her home from now on.

She was my property, and I wanted her somewhere I could keep an eye on her.

Pulling up in the driveway, I was forced to face the reality of what I was doing. Rhonda needed a master, I knew that. On some level, all women do, but the tapes specifically had molded her into someone who needed taking care of.

And as the one who knew the exact process she’d been through, the exact process I’d put her through, I knew that I was the perfect man for the job.

But convincing my wife and daughters to see it that way…that was going to be a whole other problem.

“Stay here,” I said curtly, and Rhonda nodded. I couldn’t say for sure, but I suspect her shiver was another orgasm, just from the decisive way I was talking to her.

This was exactly what I was talking about. If I let her into the world like this, who knew what would happen to her? She was better off in my hands; I knew how to deal with her. She was a woman, the purest woman I’d ever met.

All women should be like her.

Exiting the car, I pocketed tape number 5. The easiest way, by far, to break this to my family would be to gather them into the den for a meeting, and play them the tape as I explained the changes I was going to be making around the house.

Opening the door, however, the sight that met me pushed all thoughts of Rhonda out of my head. In front of me, barely dressed and kneeling submissively, in the exact same position as my wife had been the previous day, were my two teenaged daughters.

“Hello Daddy,” my oldest said, looking up at me earnestly.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”