The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Wake up, Doll.”

The voice roused her at once. She couldn’t tell if it was her Master speaking, or else a recording of his voice, or possibly a suggestion he’d left implanted in her mind. It didn’t matter. She was awake now, though still in darkness, courtesy of the silk eye-mask she wore at all times, unless instructed otherwise.

Doll moved swiftly, with the determination of singular purpose. She rolled onto her stomach, drew her knees up underneath her, and lifted her ass into the air. The air was cool against her exposed holes. Her face was pressed down against the mattress, which rested upon the floor. Her arms snaked behind her back, hands clasping wrists. She waited.

From the first moment of wakefulness, she knew she must be ready to receive him. Her body assumed this posture—head down, ass up, cunt exposed—in case he was nearby and wished to make use of her. It was the most important thing, the only thing to start with. But if her Master wasn’t close at hand, or if he chose not to use her, then other considerations would begin to creep in. It was always the same.

How wet was she? Slowly, without lowering her posterior, she unclasped her hands from behind her back. Using one hand to steady herself on the mattress, she slid the other hand down between her legs. She parted her genital flesh with a scissor-like gesture of first and third fingers, then with the second, she inspected her nether lips. They were slick. They were always slick, because she was always and forever thinking of the Master.

But they could be wetter. The Master wanted his Doll lubricated, always. Resistance of the flesh could mean resistance of the mind. She ran her middle finger across her clitoris, thrilling as she felt it swell. With her other hand, she reached out, forward, past the head of the mattress, to a shelf that the Master had affixed for her.

The Master preferred natural lubricant, so Doll’s searching hand found no bottles there. Instead, it closed around a thin, glass dildo—the longest of all the Master’s instruments, or at least those she’d been shown. Doll knew that, if the tool was on the shelf, then it was meant for her use. Not for her pleasure, though—that was incidental. It was a tool to service another tool. She needed to be ready to receive him.

Still blind, still prone and ass-up, she brought the glass cock to her pussy. One hand held her lips apart while the other thrust it in. It had to go deep, as deep as she could manage. She sought the spot alongside her cervix—a second g-spot, she knew from her former life; a crude and primitive cluster of nerves. A cock big enough to find its way back there could trigger an instantaneous flood of juices. A savage autonomous self-lubrication. A hot flood of readiness.

She could feel it oozing out of her lips, now. Coating her fingers. Doll slid the dildo out of her, licked it clean, and replaced it on the shelf.

Her skin tingled all over. The muscles in her cunt hummed and pulsed. She waited.

When neither touch nor command came to her, she proceeded to the next step. Her fingers were already slick, but she needed more, so she pumped them in and out of her pussy several times. She stifled a gasp; waiting for her Master made her hot beyond words, but she refused to let it show. She wouldn’t moan or cry out, even when the pleasure threatened to consume her. And she could not come.

Once her fingers were well and truly slimed, she withdrew them and, lowering her buttocks only slightly for the task, she slid first one, then two, and finally three fingers into her own ass. She twisted her wrist, working the tunnel from as many angles as anatomy allowed. She only lingered long enough to transfer some of the precious juice; if her Master chose anal sex, he’d want it tight, so it did no good to loosen herself prematurely. Disappointing him was unthinkable.

Doll was awake; her pussy was gushing, and her ass and mouth were as ready as could be. She waited. Each period of waiting was finite, but she didn’t count the seconds; she had faith that her Master had designed her in such a way that the tasks and the waiting were in harmony. Besides, if her Master interrupted her in the midst of a task, she’d cease her work at once in order to be used by him. If not, what was the point?

Slowly, she eased her ass down and crawled off the mattress onto the floor. She did not remove her eye-mask, so this process all had to be done by feel. She used the wall to guide her—but before she went too far, she retrieved the glass dildo again. She carried it in her teeth while she moved about the room on all fours.

Swiftly, without error, she found the mattress next to hers, and woke its occupant by spanking her, just once. The second doll hoisted her ass in the air, just as Doll had done. Doll’s palm was still tingling from the single spank as she retrieved the dildo from her own mouth. She slid it along the other doll’s thigh until she could locate the girl’s snatch. Then she fucked her with it, silently, just long enough to stimulate the same spot deep inside her. She did a finger-test; the doll was juicing up nicely, so she followed up with some anal lubrication. She cleaned off the glass dong with her own tongue, rather than troubling to find the other girl’s mouth.

Then she waited.

Doll moved on to the next mattress, and then the next. Sometimes the others were slow to rouse; sometimes they cried out inappropriately when the rod entered them, or else they tried to keep it inside, either clutching with their pussies or tilting their hips, greedy, starving for cock. Doll didn’t punish them, or say a word. She was not in charge of discipline. Only readiness.

When all the dolls were primed, she crawled back to replace the dildo on its shelf, then felt her way along the walls, from corner to corner to door, and out the room. She crawled—or scuttled, really, trying to keep her ass as high as she could at all times—towards the bathroom. She would relieve herself, then clean her genitals, then make sure all her holes were juiced again before returning to her station. The task—much like its counterpart, eating—felt like an awkward, almost shameful remnant of some other life. A life that Doll didn’t need to remember.

Suddenly, her breath caught. Halfway down the hallway, he was here—right in front of her. She could smell him, leather and sweat, and she could hear his breath overhead. If she kept crawling, she’d bump right into his legs. Instead, she pressed her cheek to the hardwood floor, twined her arms behind her sharply sloping back, and waited.

“I’ll have that mouth,” Came her Master’s words.

Her body thrilled and she sprang into action. Ass down, head up, her hands found his ankles and traced quickly, electrically, up his legs to find his crotch. He was wearing a dressing gown, open at the front. The silken border brushed her hair back as she moved in. She stretched her mouth as wide as she could. His penis was half-erect, turgid and lazy, but it filled her mouth perfectly. Her tongue did a frantic dance around the tip, and her lips drew taut, forming a vacuum to draw his hardness forth. It did not take long.

Then, as she began to pump her head and neck, slurping along the full length of his hardening cock, she felt the luxurious, powerful touch of his hands on her head. Doll felt perfectly trapped inside this moment. She was being used by her Master, as he had designed her. There was always only and forever this.

But then a cold doubt trickled out of the back of her brain. One of the Master’s hands had traced its way down to the back of her neck. His fingers found the soft spot just beneath her skull, where her spine began. She kept pumping recklessly, trying to banish the twinge of wrongness. She began to crave the taste of his spunk in her throat, a dawning, instinctual hunger. She tried to focus on that...

But the Master had other plans for her today. Pressing one finger firmly against her atlas, he calmly spoke a word that seemed to do nothing at first, save to amplify the fluttering doubts.

“Maeve.”

She kept pumping. The mask on her eyes now felt oppressive. The heat between her legs, the streams of juice cooling on her thighs...nothing had changed but everything was shifting, like a veil raised to reveal the rude truth. The cock in her mouth...had he forced it in there, or did she choose this? Why couldn’t she remember? What was she doing here?

“Maeve, wake up.” He told her. She obeyed.

In the short break between patients, Maeve Braithwaite checked her texts. Her husband’s flight back from Baltimore was delayed by weather, as she’d suspected. He said the airline was trying to get him another flight on Saturday, but it looked dodgy. She tapped out a joking reply, threatening him with divorce if he wasn’t back by Sunday night.

“Next,” she called around the corner, into the clinic waiting room. She took a sip of six-hour-old coffee while she glanced at the timetable on her monitor, to see which patient she’d just summoned. Normally, she tried to be a bit more on the ball, but it was Friday afternoon, she’d worked through lunch, and her ass was ready to divorce this chair once and for all.

“Rebecca Morin,” She read the name on the screen and groaned inwardly. Then she turned as the name’s owner stepped timidly into her office. Rebecca was in her late twenties, curvy and carrot-haired, her face heavily made up. Maeve gestured to the paper-wrapped exam table, and the patient tottered towards it, awkward in very high heels. “It’s been a little while, hasn’t it, Rebecca?” She checked the screen, where Morin’s records had loaded up. “Almost a year. How are you?”

The silent groan had been because Maeve knew Rebecca Morin to be something of a hypochondriac. For a few years, she’d been in Maeve’s office once a month at least, having read online about the latest bacteria or virus, and complaining of obscure and intermittent symptoms. The first few times, Maeve had dutifully ordered tests, but once she’d caught on to the pattern, she began to push back. Eventually, when Morin stopped coming to see her, she assumed the girl had found some other doctor who was more prepared to listen to her theories.

Rebecca sat down and crossed her legs beneath her tight skirt. Maeve’s cell phone chirped; she’d forgotten to switch it off, and now her husband was responding to her text.

“I apologize,” She said, meaning it. She held down the button to silence the phone, but as she did so, the text message popped up, and she couldn’t suppress a smile. Keith had written: “I thought you’d want more time to clean up after the orgy.”

“Sorry,” She repeated, forcing herself to adopt a ‘work’ face as she turned back to Rebecca. But quickly, all thoughts of joking disappeared. Her patient was...altered. Her breathing was rapid, for one thing, as her low-cut blouse made obvious. And she was sitting rigidly on the table, her legs clenched together. The doctor’s first guess was ‘panic attack,’ but other symptoms didn’t match up. For one thing, Rebecca’s eyes looked lazy, almost as if she were drugged. The mascara on her lashes fluttered, and she avoided Maeve’s eyes.

Maeve decided to play this by the books. “Tell me how you’ve been feeling,” She said, as she stood up and crossed past Rebecca to close the office door.

“I...I’m not sure...” Came the mousy reply.

Maeve took the blood pressure cuff down from the wall nearby. “You’ve been very successful with your jewelry, haven’t you? I read about you in the news.” This was just coming back to Maeve now, but she had indeed seen an article in the local paper about Rebecca’s craft jewelry line getting picked up by, what? An international distributor? Something.

“Oh, yes. I have a new manager.” Replied the girl. She seemed out of breath now.

Maeve gently rolled up Rebecca’s sleeve and wrapped the sphygmomanometer around her arm. As she did this, the girl exhaled and fluttered her eyelids, and with a shock, Maeve realized she recognized the symptoms. This woman wasn’t having a panic attack. She’d come into Maeve’s office sexually aroused.

Well, this is a new one, she thought wryly, as she squeezed the bulb to tighten the cuff. “Can you tell me why you’re here today?” She asked, keeping her voice neutral. Some perverse sense of dignity made her avoid looking at Rebecca’s face, but she just ended up looking down instead, where she could see the woman’s nipples straining through the fabric of her blouse. She turned quickly and focused on the blood pressure meter instead.

“I...I feel...” Rebecca was spaced out. More and more, Maeve felt like this was not the woman she had treated in the past. That girl was a hypochondriac, maybe, but she had also been articulate and personable. She’d chatted up Maeve about her jewelry, even showed her some samples from her purse. But this woman wasn’t even carrying a purse. She was dressed differently. Her makeup was ostentatious. Nothing added up.

At least her blood pressure was normal. “How long have you felt this way?” Maeve asked curtly as she removed the strap. She wondered if there were some new drug on the market, maybe some barbiturate crossed with ecstasy? The symptoms of arousal didn’t seem to be subsiding.

Rebecca struggled to answer. “I guess...after I met him. But he’s been so great...my work is really...”

Maeve decided to check her throat next. If she was on some weird new drug, it was a good idea to make sure her airway is clear before doing any other tests.

“Your manager, you mean?” She tried to sound nonchalant as she retrieved a tongue depressor. “Did this guy give you anything?”

“Advice.” She murmured. “He controls...my image. Everything.”

“Uh-huh.” Maeve stepped in front of the patient. “I meant, has he given you any drugs?”

“W-what? No.” Rebecca looked up at her. Her eyes were confused, desperate. She was afraid.

“I’ll help you, okay? Don’t worry.” Maeve lifted up the tongue depressor. “Now open wide. You know the drill.”

Rebecca’s jaw drooped wide. Maeve pressed the tool against her tongue. Their eyes met again, for an instant. She saw the same fear. Then everything changed.

The patient’s eyes rolled back. She groaned. She closed her lips around the tongue depressor and began to suck. At the same time, she uncrossed her legs and spread them, wide. Maeve’s nose caught a wave of musk from between Rebecca’s thighs.

“Oh my god!” Maeve spoke involuntarily. She pulled the depressor out of the girl’s mouth and stepped away. Rebecca’s neck tipped forward, her tongue hungrily chasing its prize—but only for a moment. Then she straightened up, almost robotically, and met Maeve’s eyes.

“Are you—?” Maeve couldn’t finish her question; the girl’s eyes were too disconcerting. All fear was gone from them. Now she was a different person, and this person was only thinking about one thing. The lust in her eyes, on her face, was so uninhibited that it made Maeve herself feel dirty and exposed. She took another step back, banging into the side of her desk. Her coffee tipped and splattered onto her pants.

Rebecca was still watching her. She licked her lips, and then to Maeve’s fascinated horror, she began to perform a series of precise, almost ritualistic actions, all seemingly for Maeve’s benefit, since she angled her body towards her at all times. First, she moved her hands across her own torso, lingering over her breasts. Then, as her hands reached her legs, she slid the hem of her skirt up, tight against her skin, revealing more and more of her thighs, and then the shadowed patch between them. She was not wearing panties, and with her legs spread so wide, her vulva presented itself like a tropical flower in bloom. She could smell its musk from where she stood.

She wanted to say something, but the clinical part of her brain was too curious. Rebecca rose to her feet, still holding her skirt above her crotch. If the woman had advanced towards her—if she’d tried to touch her—Maeve would certainly have cried out. But since she wasn’t in any danger herself, she held back. It felt shamefully wrong to be alone with this girl, who was recklessly flaunting herself yet simultaneously seemed to be in precise control of her actions. Yet it would have been twice as humiliating if she’d had to call security.

So she watched. Maeve watched as the girl who’d been Rebecca slid down onto her hands and knees on the floor of her office. Maeve watched as she pressed her face down to the cold tiles, then brought her hands around to touch herself. She’d chosen the angle precisely, again; from where Maeve was standing, she had the full presentation of Rebecca’s wide buttocks and gleaming snatch.

A minute passed, with no sound in the room except Rebecca’s soft grunting breaths, and the hot squelch of her labia as she finger-fucked herself. Maeve was dizzily trying to stay dispassionate about the whole thing, but if she’d been honest with herself, she’d lost her medical perspective long ago. Terms like ‘digital stimulation’ just didn’t belong in the room; it was ‘finger-fucking’ pure and simple.

Only...it was more than that. Rebecca’s fingers were moving in and out, spreading her own vaginal juices across her outer lips. Then Maeve watched in shock as the girl slathered her own anus with the same juice. It suddenly dawned on her that, for whatever reason, this girl thought Maeve was going to fuck her, like a man would do it. She was preparing herself; she was using her whole body to beg for it. God, she seemed to need it so badly that a tiny part of Maeve almost felt guilty that she couldn’t—almost wished she could...

Her fist was clenched around the tongue depressor. She looked briefly at it, then threw it across the room, horrified. To Rebecca, at last, she said, “Stop!”

The girl stopped instantly. She froze, in fact, with one hand across her pussy lips and the other pressing half an index finger into her own ass. Then slowly, subserviently, she withdrew her hands and used them instead to spread her ass-cheeks wide. Inviting.

“No. I don’t mean...” Maeve was getting too flushed to think straight. “I think you ought to go.”

Rebecca instantly stood up and began heading for the door. “Wait!” Maeve corrected herself. The girl was clearly not in control of her actions. If Maeve sent her out on the street like this, there was no telling what might happen to her. Some unscrupulous stranger would notice the state she was in, and she’d get assaulted, raped, kidnapped. She’d disappear.

Rebecca was standing near the door, unmoving. “Turn around,” Said Maeve, tentatively. The sex-charged patient obeyed. Now Maeve could see an inkling of confusion creeping back into the girl’s eyes. She took it as a good sign.

“Can you speak?” She asked. Rebecca said nothing. “What is your name?” She asked.

“Doll,” Said Rebecca flatly.

“Who told you that?” Maeve asked. No response. “Who did this to you?” No response.

Rebecca began to shift from one foot to the other. She seemed uncomfortable just standing there, although not nearly as uncomfortable as Maeve felt. Grasping at straws, she asked the girl, “What can I do to help you?”

“Use me,” was the reply. In a different context, Maeve would have found the phrase ambiguous, but delivered by this woman, there was no mistaking its meaning. Maeve swallowed hard. She put her hand on her desk, to steady herself. She felt the puddle of spilled coffee.

“Lie down on the exam table. On your back,” Maeve hastened to add. She was trying to make her voice sound as clinical as possible, even though it clearly didn’t matter to Rebecca, whose mind seemed all but switched off. As the patient robotically obeyed, Maeve turned her back and fumbled for some tissues, to clean her hands. Antibacterial lotion. Then latex gloves. Even though her mind was reeling with embarrassment and doubt, she was determined to be professional.

“Rebecca,” she said, turning back to her lust-besotted patient. “I’m going to try inducing a...a vaginal orgasm. It’s not...a conventional treatment, I realize, but I believe that, under the circumstances, it’s the right thing to do.” Maybe it will snap you out of this, she added mentally.

If Rebecca understood, she gave no outward sign. Her breathing remained rapid, her cheeks and chest were flushed, and her eyes had settled back into that disconcerting fugue of need. Part of what made Maeve so uncomfortable was her realization that she had never seen another woman aroused before—not in person, up close. She found herself wondering if she looked like this when she...

“Put your ankles in the stirrups, please,” She said. Rebecca complied. The smell of her vaginal juices smacked Maeve in the face again. She almost reached for a mask, but stopped herself. You just need to do this, she told herself. She placed herself at the foot of the exam table.

Rebecca responded ecstatically to Maeve’s first touch, and the doctor realized that it was going to be impossible to keep deluding herself into thinking this was just a normal medical procedure. The girl’s hips bucked so hungrily, and her labia seemed to grow slicker, more engorged by the second. “Just...try not to make too much noise,” She said lamely. But Rebecca seemed to take this instruction with the same weight as all the others. She kept bucking and writhing, but she clamped her mouth shut tight.

Here goes nothing. Maeve slid two fingers inside the girl’s vagina and curled them upwards, seeking her g-spot. She had guessed, correctly, that her gloves would need no lubrication; Rebecca’s pussy was a swampy mess of erogenous fluid. Alarmingly, just as she was in the process of penetrating the poor girl, Maeve felt a trickle of fluid upon her own thigh.

Pheromones, she told herself. A purely physiological response. She refused to admit to herself that she found any of this arousing. She fought to ignore the heat building between her legs, and concentrated on establishing a firm, consistent rhythm of ‘come-hither’ strokes inside Rebecca. It was hard to keep steady, with the girl thrashing and pumping her hips so much. Maeve had to put her other hand on one hip, to steady her.

Then Rebecca issued a low moan, followed by a series of frustrated grunts. Maeve looked up hopefully, searching for the signs of post-orgasmic release. But there was nothing—her breath was still accelerated, her body still tense and flushed. And her eyes were screwed shut tight, as if she were expending some great effort.

“Are you trying not to cum?” Maeve accused, speaking before she could stop herself. She withdrew her fingers, and Rebecca let loose a whimper. What the fuck am I doing here? She stepped away from the table, lifting her hand to wipe sweat from her brow. Her gloved fingers were coated with strands of pearlescent juice. The smell was never going to leave her office, she thought grimly.

She turned back. Rebecca was prone, slowly gyrating her hips as if searching for Maeve’s fingers with her cunt. Her eyes were open again, and she turned to meet Maeve’s gaze, forever yearning.

“Tell me what I need to do,” Maeve pleaded.

“Use me,” Said the girl again, but now the lusty abandon had an edge of desperation.

“Use you, how? I can’t...I don’t have the, the equipment to just... oh my god.” She sat down in her desk chair, crushed with shame.

On the table, Rebecca licked her lips. She’d done it once before, when all this started. It was a deliberate gesture, like all the others. Pre-programmed. It was an invitation.

Inside Maeve’s head, something snapped. A molten curtain dropped across her medical mind, and she found it replaced by a flood of awful, unstoppable thoughts. She was suddenly furious at this girl for submitting her to this obscene, irrational charade. She wanted to punish her. And at the same time, she wanted her. She lacked the strength to deny it. The heat inside her was rising to match the arousal she saw on display in front of her.

“Get down off the table, then. Get on your knees.” Her voice sounded like someone else’s, and it came from far away. Rebecca obeyed fluidly, moving so that she was always able to maintain eye contact with Maeve. And a distant part of Maeve watched for signs of resistance or dismay—anything to convince her this was not the thing to do. But there was only lust and compliance.

“I’ll use you, then,” Maeve said, surrendering. She raised her ass off the chair just enough to slide her pants and underwear away. The clothing settled down around her ankles. No turning back, she thought deliriously.

She spread her legs as wide as the tangle of pants would allow. Her snatch was open; a thin tuft of russet fur above a crimson crevasse. “Use your tongue to make me cum,” She murmured.

Rebecca leaned in. Maeve began to reach down, to pry apart her outer lips so as to give the girl access, but she wasn’t quick enough. The girl was in already with a long, stabbing lick, followed by a serious of forceful upward swipes. Maeve gasped. The pleasure was more intense than she’d imagined, proof of how turned on she’d been. She was halfway to an orgasm already, and Rebecca had barely got started.

Maeve grunted and ground her mons against Rebecca’s face. The licking came more urgently, and vaguely Maeve began to worry about smothering the girl. For a few fleeting seconds, as her climax began to take shape, she stood outside herself and marvelled at her mad audacity. A patient, presenting with unorthodox symptoms, needed her help, and now she was shoving her cunt into the poor girl’s face!

The moment of clarity was eviscerated by a thunderclap that started in her clit and reverberated through her skeleton. Waves of pleasure seared her cunt, her fingertips, her scalp. She was coming more intensely than she had in years. She was probably making a lot of noise.

Between her thighs, Rebecca pulled back slightly (probably to keep from being smothered), but Maeve wasn’t quite done, and as a reflex she grabbed the girl by the head and jammed her back against her hot crotch. Her hand curled around the back of Rebecca’s skull; her fingers twitched spasmodically as the last of the orgasm dissipated. She felt the girl struggle against her, and realized she was probably squeezing her too tightly. She let go. The real world was starting to reshape itself around her floating liquid self.

“Wh-what? Oh god...” Maeve heard the voice but couldn’t place it. At first she thought somebody must have barged in to her office, and she nearly laughed at the absurd shame of being discovered like this. But the voice didn’t belong to an intruder. It was Rebecca’s voice—her real voice, unencumbered by lust.

Maeve looked down. The girl was still kneeling between her legs. Her orange hair and makeup were dishevelled, and a slick smear of Maeve’s juices gave her chin a sick reflective sheen. She looked like the worst stereotype of a whore. But her eyes were clear. She was herself again.

She stood up, shakily. Maeve said nothing. Did my climax really cure her? It seemed unfathomable now. Rebecca tugged her skirt down and tried to adjust her top back to normalcy. Maeve realized that she was even more dishevelled. She scrambled to recover her pants from the floor.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Said Rebecca, heading for the door.

“Wait! Please! It’s not your fault. I need to know—”

Rebecca opened the door and turned back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Maeve stood up, although her panties were still around her knees. She wouldn’t be able to chase Rebecca like this, so she tried a final, desperate command: “Stop!”

But, whatever had just happened to bring the woman back into her right mind, it had flipped that switch as well. Rebecca did seem to hesitate for a moment, as if the command still held some sway over her; but she was no longer obliged to obey. “I’m sorry,” She said again, and then she was gone.

Luckily for Maeve, she was the last appointment of the day.