The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


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Carly didn’t know what to expect from the interior artist Damian Wedgewood’s manor, except that it would likely shock and disturb her as much as what she had seen on the grounds outside. And in this expectation she was correct.

The door led into a long hallway—and there was another nude girl lying just inside. She was on her back on the floor, her large tits pointed upwards. Her legs were spread—and kept in that position by a spreader bar—and her hands were bound by her sides. Unlike the door girl, she wasn’t gagged.

“This is the doormat,” said Damian. “Just use her to make your shoes clean. The path up to the house is sometimes a little muddy.”

Carly blushed as she looked at the nude woman. “How?” she asked.

“Well, first clean the tip of your shoe in her cunt,” said Damian. He brought his foot between her legs, and pushed the tip of his leather shoe into the girl’s twat, twisting it back and forth as he did, before repeating with the other shoe.

“Then wipe off the sole on her tits,” he continued, dragging the sole of his shoe across the woman’s large fuckbags with some force, leaving a trail of dirt and mud across them and making the woman squeak from pain.

“And then get her to tidy up whatever’s left,” he finished, presenting his shoe to the woman’s mouth. The woman’s tongue extended, somewhat uncertainly, and began to lick at the leather of his shoe. She clearly didn’t like what she was tasting.

When Damian was satisfied that his shoes were clean enough, he encouraged Carly to do the same. “Go ahead, cunt.”

Engage with the art, her brain said. Be a good cunt. The purpose of women is to be decorations and furniture.

She surprised herself by actively kicking the girl in the cunt with the tip of her high-heeled shoe. The girl squeaked in a satisfying way as Carly pushed her toes as far into the slut’s wet fuckhole as they would go, and then she did it again afterwards with her other foot.

It was fun, too, to wipe her shoes on the girl’s fuckmelons. She had never realised before how large breasts could look like small soccer balls, and she wondered what it would be like to kick them.

Then she realised she might not have to wonder.

“Can I kick her tits, sir?” she asked Damian.

“Of course you can, cunt,” said Damian. “Remember, the consent and comfort of women is never relevant.”

Carly giggled—a high-pitched ditzy sound that she couldn’t recall ever making before—and she kicked at the girl’s large breasts. Now the girl did scream, and struggle, but bound as she was, she was unable to protect herself. Carly kicked her tits again, and made another giggle. How had Carly never realised how fun it was to hurt a woman’s tits?

I’m engaging with the art, she thought, and kicked again.

“Good cunt,” said Damian. “Now, why don’t you take off as many clothes as you’re comfortable with, and then let’s proceed to the study.”

Take off her clothes? That felt wrong to Carly—and yet, every girl she had seen on the manor grounds was naked. It felt weird to be wearing all these clothes—like she wasn’t fitting in. Like she was being a bitch.

But she had come here to be a bitch, hadn’t she? She had come here to humiliate Damian Wedgewood.

But he was being so nice to her—and his art was so compelling—and after all, she was just a cunt, and it wasn’t her place to humiliate anybody….

She shrugged out of her blouse, revealing a lacy bra that strained over her large tits, and then, blushing, she unhooked the bra and removed it. Now she was topless, and Damian was staring at her boobs.

This was wrong. Wasn’t it? Or was it right? She couldn’t remember. There was just that buzzing…

No, it was wrong, and she knew how to fix it. She reached under her skirt, gripped the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down her legs.

There. Now she was wearing nothing but a skirt and high heels. She was possibly still a little over-dressed, but it would be fine.

She handed her clothes to Damian, proudly.

“Good cunt,” said Damian. “That was a good choice for you. I’ll have these disposed of.”

Disposed of? But she would need them back when she… when she…

She couldn’t remember when she would need them back.

She followed Damian down the hallway, her exposed tits bouncing with each step, into a sitting room. Two leather armchairs faced each other here, each with a strange hole, about the size of a basketball, set into the front edge of the seat.

Between them was a coffee table—or at least, something like it. It had a solid glass surface, certainly, on which were placed coasters and a small vase of pink flowers. But the surface was balanced upon two naked and bound women. The women were forced together in a 69 posture, each with their face jammed into the cunt of the other. Their knees were bent, with their feet trapped against their buttocks, and their arms were behind their backs.

“Another installation,” said Damian. “I have the housekeepers rotate which cunts we use in it every four hours. We try to always use pairs of girls who hate each other, or ones who believe that licking another girl’s pussy is sinful, so as to increase the inherent dramatic tension of the piece. These two, for example, were churchgoing girls whose close friendship turned to hate when they feuded over a boy they both liked. Luckily, the one thing they still agreed on was how much they enjoyed my art…”

There were muffled sounds from the table, and Carly realised both girls were licking each other’s twats—the only motion that their restraints allowed to them.

Damian motioned for Carly to sit in one of the armchairs, and he took the other.

She placed herself in it awkwardly, not sure what to do with the large hole. “What is this for?” she asked.

He smiled. “Spread your legs, and press the button on the armrest.”

Carly did as she was told. Parting her legs made her skirt ride up her waist to her tits, exposing her now panty-less cunt, and that made her blush, but also she couldn’t imagine not doing as Damian had said. She was a good cunt, after all. She was engaging with the art.

When she pressed the button, there was a sudden snapping sound from the chair, and, before she could react, bands of metal had extruded themselves from the arms and legs of the chair and wrapped themselves around Carly’s wrists and ankles, pinning her in position.

Then there was a whirring, mechanical sound from inside the chair, and to Carly’s surprise an horror, the head of a pretty redheaded girl emerged from the hole. She must have been inside the seat of the chair the whole time, and internal motors were now shifting her position so that her head was revealed. Carly could see nothing of the girl’s body, but she had no doubt it was bound, as all the other girls in Damian’s manor.

What was more distracting was that the girl’s face was right between Carly’s legs, very close to her naked, wet pussy.

And then the chair made one final clunk, and the shape of the backrest changed, pushing Carly’s hips forward—so that her pussy was forced against the girl’s mouth.

Carly squeaked. Her cunt was against a girl’s mouth! And the trapped redheaded girl wasted no time in beginning to lick. Carly thrashed her arms and legs, trying to move, but she was completely unable to free her body.

“Damian!” she said. “Please! I don’t want this!”

“Oh, it’s part of the art installation,” said Damian. “A little statement about how a woman’s sexuality is never under her own control. But if you don’t want to engage with the art, then just say so, and I’ll disengage the chair.”

As he spoke, he adjusted his pants, and Carly saw him take out his hard, throbbing cock. He pressed a button on his own chair, and the head of a pretty blonde popped into view. There were no shackles or restraints for Damian, she noted. He shifted forward of his own volition, and forced his cock into the trapped girl’s mouth, sighing happily as she began to suck.

Carly did not want her cunt licked. Not by a girl, not in public, not while her hands and legs were restrained, not while Damian watched it happen as he facefucked one of his bound slave-girls. She definitely wanted out.

But to do so she would have to say she didn’t want to engage with the art. And that wasn’t true. If there was one thought in her mind right now, it was that she should engage with the art. That, and that she wanted to be a good cunt. A good cunt for Damian.

So she blushed, and let the girl lick at her wet pussy, trying to ignore how good it felt, trying to pretend that her nipples weren’t hard and her face wasn’t flushed.

“So, cunt,” said Damian. “You wanted to ask me some questions for an interview, didn’t you?”

She did. That was why she had come here. She tried to think, struggling with the omnipresent buzz in her brain, and the pleasant sensations coming from her pussy.

“Uh… I guess… “—she had to take a deep breath to marshal herself—“I was wondering who you felt this art was for?”

Damian laughed. “Well, men, of course,” he said. “I do think some women appreciate it on a kind of instinctive, primal level—it speaks to the truth of their existence—but also women, being essentially a kind of decorative furniture, are ultimately not sentient enough to grasp its true subtleties.”

He gripped the hair of the girl who was sucking his cock, pulling her closer, half-choking her on the rim of the hole she was emerging from.

“Whereas men appreciate my work deeply,” Damian continued. “They are often willing to pay very large sums to visit my mansion and view the installations on display here. Not just view, but interact. I have a particularly popular exhibit called ‘No Rights, No Consequences’, where I place a cunt in a padded room, and allow a male patron to interact with her. He’s allowed to do absolutely anything he wants to her providing that the results do not require medical attention. I find a couple of hours in that exhibit often completely transforms the way that a man interacts with women in his life.”

He smiled, and released the girl’s head, allowing her to breathe for a moment.

“I find the best art changes people, don’t you?”

She felt dizzy. She was aware that if she sat here much longer she was going to cum against the face of the restrained girl—and yet she was trapped, unable to move.

“What do you… what do you do with the money you make from your art?” she gasped.

“Well, a certain amount supports the upkeep of the mansion, and purchases cunt food for the volunteers in the kennels,” Damian said. “Some of the rest, I invest in certain speculative ventures. Some years ago, for example, researchers in my employ discovered a quite interesting soundwave, that can only be heard by females. We learned that it can carry subliminal messages, which, with only a short exposure, can seat themselves quite powerfully in the minds of cunts.”

Carly didn’t understand what she was hearing. Her cunt was so wet, and the buzz was so loud.

“And much of the rest I donate to advocacy groups and not-for-profits aimed at teaching women their true place as pleasure toys and decorations,” he concluded.

Carly felt herself cumming. Her body shook and, to her immense shame, she felt herself squirting onto the face of the trapped girl.

But the girl didn’t stop. She kept licking Carly’s twat, making the orgasm longer and more intense. Carly felt like her body was made of liquid, melting into the seat. She made an incoherent noise of lust and humiliation.

“Was there something else you wanted to ask, cunt?” asked Damian.

There was. She could almost hear it. It was the most important question of all. She reached out to it with what remained of her mind….

“Would… would it be okay for me to be a good cunt, sir?” she heard herself ask. “Can I engage with the art?”

“Of course you can, cunt,” said Damian. “Would you like to volunteer? I think you’d make a good doormat, or a comfort chair. Or maybe something else. Your cunt would make a pretty holder for a wine bottle, or a guest’s umbrella. Or maybe we could find a place for you as a urinal…”

“Yes, please, sir,” said Carly, bucking her cunt hard against the girl’s face. “Please. I want to volunteer.”

“Good cunt,” said Damian. He extracted his cock from the girl’s mouth, and pressed a button on the chair, causing her head to retract back into its hole. He stood, and walked across to Carly, and then pointed his cock at her face and began to masturbate.

“I know you write for your university newspaper, cunt,” said Damian. “But are you aware of another publication on your campus, called Alpha? It’s a periodical for men, that I finance, that advances views in line with your art. I think the first way that you’re going to volunteer is by writing an article for Alpha that explains why women are objects for men to enjoy. And we’ll do a little photospread of your nude body to go with it, so all your former peers can enjoy looking at your pretty little tits and cunt. That will be nice, don’t you think, cunt?”

“Yes, sir,” moaned Carly. She was going to cum from the girl’s mouth again soon.

Damian kept pumping his cock in the direction of Carly’s face.

“And then we’ll bring you back here and turn you into a pretty little art installation,” he said.

And with that, he came, spraying his cum across Carly’s face and tits.

And Carly knew, immediately, instinctively, that she had more value in this moment of being used as a cum rag by Damian than she had ever had in her life as a “person”.

And with that knowledge, she found herself cumming again…