The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Still clasping hands, we tilted our heads slightly and pressed our mouths together, kissing like long-intimate lovers. I tried with every ounce of willpower and strength I had to scream, but couldn’t produce even a grunt. The only sound to be heard in the stall, echoing out into the otherwise empty restroom, was the smacking together of our lips.

After what seemed like an hour, we suddenly pulled apart, staring wildly into each other eyes. Like me, she was clearly completely confused and terrified, equally unable to explain or prevent what we were both doing. Someone was behind this, obviously. Someone had to be. But who, and how, and for God’s sake why?

We opened our mouths and lunged together again, kissing even more passionately, both letting out little whimpers this time. When we pulled our faces apart, a line of saliva hung in the air between her full, dark lips and my own. I felt sick.

Then she said, “Our spit is connecting us.”

Shut up!, I thought desperately, feeling even sicker. Don’t mention it! But of course she wasn’t saying it on purpose. If I had any doubt left whatsoever as to whether she had any will of her own in the matter, the look in her eyes at that moment dispelled it instantly and forever.

“Some of my saliva,” I found myself saying, “and some of yours.”

“Mixed together,” she said.

“Connecting us,” I repeated.

Just as at our earlier encounter on the subway car, we were speaking phrases that seemed designed to narrate what was going on, to reinforce the idea of us being “partners,” and to heighten our fear and dismay. To emphasize our total lack of control. Our being controlled.

We stood, hands clasped, eyes locked, spit string shining between us, breathing heavily. My heart hammered in my chest until I thought I would collapse from the strain.

“More saliva,” she said, and we slammed our mouths together almost before she had finished speaking. The saliva washed freely between our mouths as we mashed our lips together. None of my previous kisses had ever been as ferocious, as animalistic, as this. We pulled very slightly apart, still joined by the wet, sticky mess between us. Her lips gleamed wetly, like a beacon.

Then footsteps echoed in the bathroom. Someone was here! In my head, I screamed furiously for help, praying whoever it was would find us and—

I would have laughed if I’d been able. Find us and what? Be mildly embarassed at finding two lesbians kissing in a bathroom stall? They couldn’t possibly understand what was happening, couldn’t do anything to help even if they did.

“More,” I said, and the kissing began again, and went on and on and on. I imagined whoever was out there waiting, with increasing impatience, as the two of us stood kissing. Eventually, the footsteps echoed again in the bathroom, fading. They had given up and were leaving. NO!, I tried to scream, PLEASE!

They were gone.

And still we kissed. We teetered back and forth, always on the verge of losing our balance, and kissed and kissed and kissed. We probed each other’s mouths with our tongues, circling and licking. We pushed in deeply, we jousted viciously, we licked each other’s teeth. It would have been the most erotic kiss in history if it weren’t happening entirely against our wills. When we pulled apart again, we both drew in air like we were drowning.

We stared at each other, chests heaving, mouths open in what could almost be the lustful expression of a cheap porn actress. I realized our still-linked hands were gripping each other tightly, and could no longer tell if the action was externally induced or a defensive reflex.

Our faces moved together, and I mentally braced myself for another horrific bout of violent kissing. But we leaned aside at the last second and placed our mouths at each other’s ear.

“That was wonderful,” she hissed.

“Yes,” I said, “wonderful. And we’ve only gotten started.”

Our hands unclasped, and my fingers suddenly felt the pain of our extended gripping. My hands slipped behind her head, and a second later I felt her warm palms and fingers on the back of my neck. I shivered.

“Soon we’ll really be together,” she said.

“Truly and for good,” I added, my fear ratcheting even higher than I already thought possible.

“Where nothing can disturb or distract us,” she said, the “sss” at the end of her sentence fading slowly away.

“This is only the beginning,” I said, struggling without the slightest bit of success to make my mouth not say what it was saying. We pulled our faces slowly apart and I read in her eyes the same mixture of emotions I felt: helpless cameraderie, angry resentment—and something else I couldn’t identify or didn’t want to.

“Until then, my partner,” we both said simultaneously, and leaned into another kiss. But this time the kiss was slow, gentle. The impossibly soft press and give of her lips on mine, and the almost inaudible sound of our lips separating, was in its own way even worse than the passion play we’d finally finished.

We stood looking at each other for another few seconds. Then she seemed to instantly snap out of the force that had been controlling her. She gasped loudly and jerked away from me, her fingernails raking the back of my neck as she pulled her hands away. She rubbed the back of one hand roughly over her mouth, as if trying to obliterate what it had done, then scrabbled desperately with the stall door lock. She flung the door open and ran out of the bathroom.

I remained immobile in the stall for another couple of minutes, then regained control of my body. I sank trembling onto the toilet seat and sat sobbing for a long time. Then, not knowing what else to do, I got up and left the bookstore.

The next few days were like a waking dream, or nightmare. The forced kissing session replayed itself endlessly in my mind, whether for obvious reasons or because I was being made to recall it by whoever or whatever had caused it to happen in the first place. I went over and over every detail of the encounter in my mind, thinking about what I’d felt at each moment. It even occurred to me, with a stunned clarity, that the someone waiting in the restroom could have been the person behind all of this. Anything was possible. Could I even trust my own memory, my own sense of what was going on?

As before, I found that I was absolutely convinced that I wouldn’t be able to speak of or write down what had happened, or seek help in any way at all. I had never in my life felt so utterly and overwhelmingly powerless, and the dread and certainty that more was to come only made it that much worse.

One evening I picked up some Chinese food near my office and hailed a cab. I had barely eaten for days, and clutched the hot bag more out of a childish need for comfort and stability than out of hunger.

“Where you going?” asked the driver after I’d gotten in and slammed the door.

I told him the address, and felt a wave of cold nausea hit me like a tidal wave. The address I’d spoken wasn’t mine. I had no idea what it was.

I sat in terrified silence as the cab made its way downtown to wherever I was going. I didn’t even try to protest or beg the driver for help. I knew there was no point.

“Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen,” I said aloud, genuinely not knowing whether I was saying it of my own accord. It didn’t matter, either. I knew beyond doubt that it was true.

“Eh?” the driver called back over his shoulder. “What’s gonna happen?”

“Something amazing,” I said, quite definitely not intending to. “I’m going to spend the entire night with my partner.” The words shocked me more than a punch to the face could have.

“Oh yeah?” the driver said, smiling. “Ah, that’s nice. Lucky guy, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“We’re both lucky,” I said, closing my eyes and hugging the bag to my chest. “So, so lucky to be partners.”