The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


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Carly thought it was a fantastic idea for an article, and her student newspaper would love it. She would interview controversial artist Damian Wedgewood, and confront him over the wildly misogynistic themes in his artwork. The resulting article would generate the kind of interest and outrage that would look good in her resume once she completed her journalism degree. She had been surprised he agreed to the interview—yet grateful for the chance to interview him.

But she began to have second thoughts from the moment that she arrived at his rambling mansion located on the outskirts of town, and it began with the gates.

She had arranged to meet Damian in the mid-morning, outside his property. He was returning from an exhibition in Los Angeles, and he would be coming home directly from the airport.

But Carly was a little early, and Damian was a little late, which gave her time, alone, staring at those gates.

They were made of wrought iron, set into a fieldstone wall, presenting a car-deterring barrier across the drive leading up to the house proper. But it wasn’t the gates themselves, but rather the design of them.

Each side of the gates bore the wrought-iron profile of a naked woman. Her feet and hands were shown to be bound behind her back, and her long hair was likewise tied into that knot. Her face and tits came right up to the edge of the gate, so that when the gates were closed, it seemed like the two women were kissing—or rather, being forced to kiss by their predicament.

To compliment that effect, there was a strip of leather binding the gates closed, in a way that made it look like the women’s heads were bound together, and there was a chain further down that gave the impression of the women’s nipples being chained to each other.

It was an obscene and pornographic piece—and entirely in keeping with what Carly knew of the portfolio of Damian Wedgewood, which kept returning to the motif of enslaved, restrained women, forced to become artwork against their will.

Standing beside her car, contemplating the gates, Carly shivered. She had dressed in a manner that she thought of as “attractive but professional”—but now she was wondering if she could have made her lipstick less sexy, and maybe shown off a little less of her buxom cleavage, or picked a skirt that came down a little lower than the cute miniskirt she was wearing.

There was the sound of tyres on gravel, and Carly turned to see Damian arriving, near soundlessly in an electric vehicle. He parked by the side of the drive, and got out.

“Ah, you must be Miss Luon,” he said, with a small bow. “Welcome to Wedgewood Manor.”

He was attractive, Carly had to concede, in an expertly tailored suit, short cropped black hair, and a trimmed goatee. She blushed a little under the full gaze of his attention.

“Thank you,” said Carly. “I’m looking forward to talking with you about work.”

“Well, we have some right here!” said Damian, gesturing at the gate. “It’s been some years since I crafted this one, but I’m still proud of it.”

“Well, that’s what I was wondering,” asked Carly. “Don’t you think it’s a little… demeaning to women?”

“How can it be demeaning?” asked Damian. “The gate elevates the female form to the level of art. If anything, it immortalises the women that I used for my models. And it presents women in their best possible light—both decorative, and functional.”

He stepped forward and undid the strap and the chain from the gate. With one hand, he pushed it open, breaking the lewd kiss of the metal women, and revealing the path up to the manor house.

“Normally we would drive up,” said Damian. “But perhaps you would care for a short stroll, to take in the grounds?”

Carly agreed to this invitation—and soon found that the grounds were, in fact, breathtaking. The manor was surrounded by sweeping lawns, kept in immaculate condition, dotted with statues—which universally depicted nude, bound women—and with topiary (and this, too, had been carefully clipped so as to suggest breasts and vulvas).

“This must cost a fortune to maintain,” said Carly, as she walked amongst the greenery.

“Oh, it’s not cheap,” admitted Damian. “But I have help.”

He pointed, and suddenly Carly realised they were not alone. There was a beautiful dark-haired woman standing amongst the hedges—and she was almost completely nude.

The woman was wearing high heels, which appeared to be locked to her ankles, and on her head she had a headband with a pair of fox ears. A fluffy fox tail emanated from her cute derriere—and Carly realised it must be attached to a butt plug, pushed into the woman’s anus. There was a red-brown ball gag stuffed in the woman’s mouth, and small bells hung from chains connected to clamps on the woman’s nipples and—apparently—clitoris.

In her hand she held a pair of garden shears, with which she was trimming the topiary.

Carly audibly gasped. “Is she… a slave?” she asked.

Damian laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “Merely an art lover. My work has a very… primal fascination for many women, and as they study it, they come to understand that the natural state of women is somewhere between a decoration and an appliance—a thing that exists purely to please the eyes and cocks of men, and to make the lives of men easier. Many of the most devoted of these girls come to volunteer on my mansion.”

“They’re not paid?” asked Carly.

“No, it’s the natural role of women, they don’t deserve to be rewarded or praised merely for doing what their biology draws them to,” said Damian. “We make rent-free accommodation to our female volunteers in the kennels out the back, and give them three meals a day of a patented nutritious woman-food that I have developed, and many of the girls take advantage of that. Others live off-campus, and pay for their private accommodation by taking work as strippers or sex workers at night.”

“Do you really believe that,” Carly asked, “about women being… decorations?”

“Of course I do,” laughed Damian. “And you would too, if you took the time to listen to what your cunt has been telling you all your life.”

He stopped, and stood, facing her.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Just humour me. Take a moment to stop here, in this peaceful garden, and be conscious of your cunt, and what it wants, and just… listen.”

Carly was infuriated by Damian’s demeaning words, and his lewd insistence on talking about her cunt—but she wasn’t ready to storm out of this interview just yet. She was on a journalistic mission, letting him say what he wanted to say. It would all look ridiculous when she put it in print, and no doubt it would destroy his reputation.

So she stopped, and listened, and…

… there WAS something. Like a hum, a buzz, that she’d been hearing ever since she stepped on the manor grounds.

And, to her surprise, her cunt did have something to say. It was wet. Not overwhelmingly so, but she was unarguably aroused. Was it because of the handsome Damian? The pervasive sexual suggestiveness of his “art”?

“You can hear it, can’t you?” asked Damian, smiling.

“I hear nothing,” lied Carly. “Let’s continue on.”

As they reached the house, they passed two small white stone podiums—and on each podium was kneeling a naked woman. Both girls were fair-skinned and buxom, and the both had their legs slightly parted to reveal their cunt, and they were cupping their tits with their hands.

Each girl also had a leather bag over her head, concealing her face.

For a moment, Carly did a double-take. The girls were perfectly still, and she thought possibly she had mistaken statues for real people. But no—these were living, breathing girls. She watched the leather bags slightly move with each breath.

“What…” she asked, not sure where to start.

“More art lovers,” said Damian. “They were so in love with my work that they agreed to take part in this installation. It will run for the next month, after which I’ll either dismantle it or re-staff it with new girls. It’s called ‘Their Tits Exist For You’. It’s about how the true owner of a pair of breasts is not the girl it’s attached to, but rather the men who enjoy it. Nothing matters about these bitches except their udders.”

He walked up to one of the girls, and slapped her proffered breasts hard with his hand. She made a small squeak under the mask, but didn’t shift her position.

“Go on,” said Damian. “Why don’t you try it? Give them a slap.”

“That’s fine,” Carly demurred. “I don’t really want to.”

Damian shook his head. “How can you say you’ve had an open mind to the art if you haven’t really engaged with it? Go on. Use that one’s udders. Try and really hurt her. Take as many tries as you like, and if you can get her to make a sound, I’ll tell you a secret for your little newspaper.”

A secret? That sounded intriguing. And he was right. These women had consented to be here. She should engage with the art in the spirit that it was presented.

She lightly slapped the girl’s breasts—but got no response. She slapped harder, and then punched the girl’s left tit. Still no response, so she punched it harder—and this time the girl squeaked.

“Very good!” said Damian. “Isn’t it fun to hurt a girl’s tits? Doesn’t it seem like that was what they were made for?”

“You promised me a secret,” said Carly.

“Oh, yes,” said Damian. “Well, the secret is this—that girl whose tits you just punched used to work at your little student newspaper. She came to do an article just like you, but she fell so in love with my art that she wanted to stay. We just call her Cunt 17 around the manor but I think she used to call herself Betty?”

Carly’s eyes widened. She knew Betty—a pretty brunette, who had been studying feminist theory, until one day she had just withdrawn from her degree and vanished. Could this really be her?

(And had Carly really just slapped and punched the tits of a girl she had once gone to coffee with?)

“Did she… really consent to this?” asked Carly.

Damian sighed. “Cunt 17, speak,” he ordered.

From inside the hood, Carly heard the girl speak—and it was definitely Betty’s voice.

“It thrills me to acknowledge that I am nothing but life support for a pair of tits, and that those tits exist for men to abuse, torture, and ejaculate onto,” Betty said. “I’m delighted to have a chance to be part of Mr Wedgewood’s art.”

“See?” said Damian. “She’s delighted. Come along now. We haven’t even reached the mansion.”

Carly felt confused, and a little scared. How had a committed feminist so completely changed her life that she would spend her days as an objectified fuckdoll in an art exhibit?

And there was still that hum—a buzzing sound, growing louder as Carly approached the mansion.

“Do they stay here all day?” she asked Damian.

“Oh, no, the human body has limits,” asked Damian. “The exhibit runs from 9 am to 3 pm each day with a brief break at noon for them to defecate and re-apply sunscreen. But otherwise they stay like that all day, in exactly that position, whether there’s someone to see them or not. There’s no exception for weather. Cunt 17 took some nasty bruises last week in that hailstorm…”

They eventually arrived at the front door of the manor, and Carly was in for another surprise. There was another live, naked blonde woman bound to the exterior of the door, her legs and arms spread, her eyes blindfolded, her mouth gagged, her pussy and tits defenceless. She was supported in this position by a harness of ropes around her waist and chest.

“Ah, this piece,” said Damian. “It’s a symbolic and literal rite of passage, that teaches that entry to the best things in life comes from accepting the place of women as decorations and furniture.”

He then turned, and looked directly at Carly. “Do you like the art, cunt?” he said.

Something happened in Carly’s mind—a kind of fuzzy blur.

“Yes, sir,” she said, immediately.

Why had she said that? Why had she called him “sir”? And… hadn’t he said something offensive to her, a moment ago? A word that he shouldn’t have said?

No, her brain told her. He had used the exact right word for her. He had seen her, and acknowledged her, with a level of accuracy she had never previously experienced. It felt good.

Damian had turned back to the door. “Now, see, Cunt 13 here literally operates the door. I’ve had switches implanted in her, and the switches open the door. One is near her G-spot, inside her cunt, and the others are in her tits. To open the door, you either have to jam something up her fuckhole to push the inner switch, or just hit or squeeze her tits very hard.”

Damian looked back at her. “Go ahead, cunt,” he said. “Open the door.”

The whole installation repelled Carly—but something in her brain reminded her that she should engage with the art.

Engage with the art—and the purpose of the art was to objectify and demean and violate this woman. She should engage with it.

She looked around, and saw a long, rounded, smooth stone lying in the nearby garden. It was a bit dirty, and a bit wider than she’d honestly want inside her own pussy—but it should do the job. She walked up to the poor, restrained woman on the door, and reached out and felt the girl’s pussy.

It was wet. There—clearly the girl was into this. She consented.

Slowly, Carly forced the dirty stone up the girl’s fuckhole.

The girl moaned, and struggled, but Carly did not relent—and soon there was a “beep”, and the door latch disengaged. Carly pulled the stone back out of the girl’s twat and—without even realising that she was doing it—she licked the end of it clean, before dropping it back into the garden.

“Very good, cunt!” laughed Damian. He put his hand on the girl’s stomach and pushed, causing the door to swing open inwards.

As soon as the door opened, the buzzing sound became louder. Carly touched her head for a moment, feeling dizzy—but the feeling passed.

There was nothing to worry about. She was a good cunt. She was engaging with the art.

She stepped inside…