The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

You remember that time at school when you put out for what’s-his-name and you didn’t even like him? You’ve forgotten his name, but the shame and arousal is still vivid—right?

That was me.

Or when you slept with the boss on that business trip for no reason at all, and then your boyfriend found out and all hell broke loose, except in a strange way you didn’t even really care that much one way or the other?

That was me as well.

You were happily married until you woke up one morning beside a total stranger, and you couldn’t even remember his name, and the first thing you did was not run for it (like you should) but reach down and take his cock in your hand (like you shouldn’t) and marvel at it stiffening again at your touch, and then you thought fuck it, why should I have to put up with just having one man when there are so many, and all of them want me (well, most of them), so why not enjoy this one short life to the absolute max—all of this just before your fingers closed around him and he began to stir again, under your absolute control—and you thought, does this make me a slut (of course not, but…) and that thought made you shiver with new arousal, and as you leaned down and licked him you were already deciding to move out and get your own place that very afternoon, because then you wouldn’t need to keep carrying a toothbrush around in your bag, and life would be a hell of a lot easier and more convenient.

Mememe.

Remember that guy who wanted you, and you said no no no yes, ah then yes, and later he secured your arms and legs to each corner of the bed, and then teased you for hours until you finally came? And afterwards you thought, this is a whole new world I want to be wide awake in… Do you remember what he made you wear, and how you loved the feeling of being his possession, a fantasy made flesh? How after you’d tasted it once you couldn’t taste it enough?

They say you only travel to arrive.

I definitely remember K.

I’d spent the last few days partying in the company of a perky young cheerleader (aren’t they always perky, or sometimes pneumatic). As young girls often do, she kept going on about wanting to, like, so marry her boyfriend and have a baby, yadda, zzzzz. With a little encouragement she’d turned out to be an insatiable cock addict (as they so often do). After a long weekend of drunkenness, debauchery, and multiple penetrations with scant regard for birth control, culminating in a rotating spit roast scenario with several over-excitable members of the local football team, she would, indeed, be having a baby.

I left shortly after the moment of conception. I didn’t need to stick around to witness the memory blanks and self-recriminations of a lost weekend, the dazed attempts to recall which of the interchangeable faceless, nameless, jocks had done what to her where, and in what position, and how, and with what, and then the liberating realisation that actually it didn’t really matter. There was no need for me to confirm that having been “broken in” as she now put it to herself (where on earth did that phrase come from?), she’d be dwelling on her gang bang all week with an irresistibly perky urge to do it all again next Friday night.

From my point of view, I didn’t want to be around when the cold water splash of the pregnancy test hit her, or, when she started to show, the frantic fruitless search for a father who would never be identified.

As for the inevitable long phase of plucky single motherhood while she waited for “the one” who would accept and redeem her and her kid, it’s just another modern American cliché, and thus too boring to endure.

Therefore, I found myself temporarily in the company of one of those same jocks when I ran into K. that night. To be honest, I had tired of his company within about five minutes, but travelling alone is not really an option for me. His singular virtue in this instance was the fact that he had laid his unwanted hands on this girl, K. As she pushed him away, quite genuinely pissed off, and not at all interested in his adolescent groping, skin-on-skin meant—

Contact

Momentarily, a bright clear road filled with new possibilities.

I looked at K. with interest. I saw a slim, dark haired girl, small breasted on her slender frame, wearing a midriff bearing top and tight jeans and an angry expression. An object of desire, was K.

I switched point of view.

I looked back at man-boy-thing and saw him through her eyes. A hunk of meat, really, leering at her with that curious combination of lust and fear common to all young men. I put myself firmly in her shoes and felt what she felt: revulsion, desire, revulsion, heat, self-loathing, arousal, revulsion, and so on, around and around we go. Then, something much deeper and more complex.

A rich life of the imagination, there in little K.’s head, waiting to blossom into being, all unknown to her.

Who am I?

A/S/L: older than I care to remember / female (by origin and general preference) / wherever the mood takes me.

I don’t know exactly when I awoke. It was a long time ago and lost in a chaotic welter of memories that fade to indistinct fragments in deep time. I don’t think I’ve ever spent more than a few months in the company of any individual, and I’ve lived with men and women alike. I have learned much and shared much.

I was young once, and I like to be young now, but youth has its downsides too.

(I remember the very young servant girl batting her eyes at the landowner’s son, offering herself to him like a common putain, knowing it will end in tears.)

Who am I? What are any of us? What is identity?

A bundle of memories, a sentient meme.

A wandering metaphor. Signs and symbols intertwined.

An idea. A point of view.

As we stalk away from the young idiot, K. mutters to herself, as if from nowhere: “I’m 21 and I want … proper … sex … not these goddam immature fumblings. I want to be with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

She very much wants to think this and do this, but won’t often think it, let alone do it, because it’s not “good girl” thinking to think it, and she is a good girl, so therefore she shouldn’t think it, let alone do it, even though she is thinking it, and even though it’s becoming a major thought that she thinks very, very often.

The knots people tie themselves in, trapped in their points of view! I coax the thought out and set it free. I’m here to help.

K. stops her quasi-virginal self in its metaphorical tracks and thinks: Did I just say that out loud?

To pacify her, I whisper a meme of loose limbed freedom borrowed from another twentysomething woman I spent some happy time with just a little while ago. K. relaxes a little in my company and pleasantly re-evaluates what she means by “good”.

Now she is thinking: Mmm that guy over there is hot. That’s good, too. I agree with her. He’s tall, black, muscular, and about 25 or so. We’ve always liked contrast. To prove it, I whisper to her of dark hands on smooth white skin, and other things too.

My thought slips into hers like a hand into a glove, filling it out and flexing its fingers. A vague imagining becomes a living thing.

I can see he’s spotted her staring at him. From his point of view, I imagine he sees a clear invitation; in seconds he’s off his bar stool and ambling towards K. As he approaches, there is a slight swirl in perspective and I can see he is even taller than I’d thought. Muscular, too.

K. stands there, transfixed, as he walks up with an easy grin.

“Hi,” he says. “You look nice.”

She is attracted and in the mood to take what comes. I realise she is smiling at him.

“Hey,” she says. “You too.”

One drink leads to another, and one thing leads to another, and after a while, he leads her home to his place. She hesitates. Then, with a little teasing from me, she doesn’t.

See? His apartment is just over there, the one with the big bay window. It’s a nice professional neighbourhood. He’s probably on his way up at the bank. He’s a nice guy looking for a nice girl. Nothing to worry about at all.

His name is Jerome, and I can tell he is one of the good guys. Inside, in the welcoming warmth, he offers her a drink, and she stands on her tiptoes, eyes closed, offering him her welcoming mouth to kiss. I feel his tongue enter K.’s mouth, exploring, gentle at first and then, as she responds in a rush of desire, harder and faster. She pulls her T-shirt over her head and guides his hands to her breasts. He begins to lead her towards his bedroom.

I hope it’s clear that I’m not in the business of “controlling” people. That isn’t possible. You can’t make anyone do anything they don’t want to do. But “want” is a slippery word. Do people really know what they want, deep down? Will they admit it, express it, let it flower?

What does K. want? I’m not sure yet. There are hidden depths yet to explore. I can feel what she feels, I think what she thinks, and vice versa. Her thoughts are all hers, and the new ones I share with her complement her own beautifully. They fit together like one piece of a jigsaw into another. If a piece doesn’t fit, you can’t make a picture.

All we are is our memories, dreams, experiences. That is what identity is.

She doesn’t even know she’s got company.

What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be with someone else right now?