The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Road Trip

Preface

This story has been written over the course of several years, and involves a number of people, both real and imaginary, being used as playthings for my goal: to write an arousing “pillow book” that takes on a number of philosophical ideas to do with power, desire, sex, and relationships. I understand that if folks stick with this story, it’s because of the sex and the erotic tension. I love reading about sex, and I’m sure you do too. I do tend to gas on, but I’ll try and help you keep you happy. You don’thave to keep reading if you don’t want. You can go right to the whack material in CH01 if you like.

Are you still here? OK, then here’s some background. I have been reading erotic stories from the “mind control” genre for longer than I have been writing them. Some have been exciting explorations of the authors’ fantasies and needs, others are pedestrian tracts where the real life impotence of youg kids is translated into fantastic power. Some few stories are truly hateful works by people twisted out of shape by their frustration. But I find almost all of them fascinating in what they reveal about those who write them. Even the most simple-minded stories are the product of people who choose to expend the effort to write and share what goes on in their minds. And the strength of the internet is that it gives a forum to everyone able to log on and share whatever gifts they have, from the sublime to the smelly.

It is still unclear to me why I am drawn to this particular sub-genre of erotic fantasy. I come from a family where free expression is the ideal, but skins are thin. My siblings and I were raised to be fearless, but each of us came upon a situation that shook us deeply, and we realized our limitations as humans. Perhaps it was part of the times; there were many brave attempts to re-write society, and there was a pervasive belief amongst the pioneers that it was finally possible to triumph over the power of ignorance this time. But as the children of the revolution have found out, the world is a difficult place to change. It must be done in every single heart. And it is eternally difficult for good ideas to stand against ignorance backed up by thugs with guns.

We live in a time when slavery is starting to poke it’s pustulent head above ground again. It has been with us since the beginnings of time, and as far as my research has shown, has existed in all cultures. In nights of despair I fear it is wired into our genes. It was stamped out as a named institution amongst the civilized people of the world many years ago, but as we know, civilization is something that comes and goes, and even the most civil of people build traps for others, and the human who lives without exerting power over another is a rarity so fine, only a few of these exalted souls exist. (I have some theories about how background knowledge is rediscovered by each person as they mature, but this is a thesis for another novel.)

We fought three world wars over methods of slavery, destroying some empires, setting up others. But whether the world turned out fascist or democratic, marxist or capitalist, all of these were methods of power which create slaves. Currently the “flat world” is bringing institutions from slave-holding countries into the civil world. Brothels filled with young girls stolen from their families and forced to work as sex-slaves are not just in the far corners any more, but in the shops next to the bakery, perhaps in your town. I would have these people freed, if I had the power.

Yet here I am writing a book about molding the wills of others. If this isn’t slavery, what is? Is it wired into my genes?

Somewhere in the gulf between my hope to free all, and my frustrated pansexual desires dwell the fierce and mysterious creatures of my id, who thrive on fantasies of power. My goal is to learn their shapes by shining the light of honesty upon them, and gradually to tame them to my bridle. They are wild and plunging, but if treated with respect, can hopefully become the mighty steeds needed to plow the furrows of this book.

I am trying to create this book with honesty, but that can be harsh if not tempered by love. This work, even more, this person that I am, would be nothing without the strong and unswerving love of my lovely partner. She is a woman of grace, joy, and life. I have been given true love, and have been shown that no matter how terrifying the times, no matter the deaths and indignities, that this world is also a good and fine and noble place to live. I have tried to approach this story, not only with honesty but all my love. I hope that I can share some of that love with you, my reader.

Dr. Quoll, Somewhere on the Pacific Rim, 2009

Disclaimer: This story is written for adults. You can tell because there are big words in it. All of the people in this story are adults, even the characters who eat ice cream. It contains adult situations. If you are not an adult, physically, mentally, or religiously, do not read this story! This story depicts characters with impossible powers doing things that would kill us puny mortals. If you think you have super powers, and you want to behave badly, take two verses of the Tao Te Ching and get professional help. If you actually are beaned by magic meteorites from the planet Zorkulon, get those puppies up on E-Bay. They sell for beaucoup bucks!

Road Trip

by Dr. Quoll

Chapter 1: A Brief Exposition on the Reasons for a Journey, and a Departure from Familiar Climes

I can never understand people who think they could spend their whole lives screwing thousands of people, having a bevy of mindless sex slaves, and not get bored within months. Yes, I have been a teenager, I remember having a hard-on for every girl I came across. If I remember correctly, I spent my thirteenth year hiding my constant erection with a notebook. But, lord, even with the most skilled women on the planet at your disposal, and centuries of Indian Kama Sutra knowledge to work through, who wants to spend their entire life with their dick stuck in another person? History is littered with pashas bored of their harems. Prince Siddhartha’s father inundated him in a world of unalloyed pleasure, and he rejected it as too shallow long before becoming the Buddha.

When I read the fantasies of others who want nothing but a fuck’n’dump, from every woman they meet, I have to wonder: Is your life so small? Perhaps I’m being ungenerous. I suppose I’m like the man who has enough to eat who is unable to comprehend hunger. “Let them screw cake!” There certainly was a time when I wanted every woman. But now that anyone I want is at my disposal, I’m interested in deeper things. Think of Asimov’s Mule in his Foundation trilogy, only I’m not so particularly bent on acquiring power as an end unto itself.

Shall I tell you I was beaned by a magic electric alien hockey puck? Thaqt I have a magic penis? That I found a benevolent genie and made some wise wishes? It’s as good as anything else. But basically I have complete control over myself and my body, control over those I have sex with, specific mental control over anyone I focus on, and generate a general mental wash over thse in the nearby area. I wish I could alter people by long distance—There’d be a lot less assholes running around causing trouble. I’d set them to building day-care centers. Extending from me, for a radius of a dozen or so miles, I have sort of a generic “charm” field. People accept what I say or do without question, and find me “charming.”

This field is nothing so indelicate as “You are my slave, you will do as I say. Remove your shirt and put in this butt plug.” “Yes Master. Butt plugs good.” Although I did play with that for a while. My general power is more subtle, along the lines of people doing what I’d like, and having no problem rationalizing it. If a waitress serving me has a shapely rear end, she’ll offer it to me at some appropriate time, and nobody around pays any attention. I may simply feel her ass through her uniform, or she may drop her drawers and bend over, so that I may slide my tongue along her moist lips while holding her bottom. It all depends on how I feel at the moment. And just a taste is often enough. Perhaps I saw too many spy films as a boy, but I like a touch of elegance to an encounter. (Says the man describing an ass in his face at a restaurant.)

If it helps you to read this, as part of my control I never catch anything, and am in fact able to physically alter anyone I have sex with. I am able to orgasm as many times as I wish, and withhold all sperm from my seminal fluid, so no one gets pregnant unless I desire it. Do all of these details sound a touch boring? Good, them perhaps you have an idea of my life. Mind you, I wouldn’t want to swap—it just can get gets a touch—repetitious. And would you like to live the rest of your life surrounded by yes-women?

When I acquired my powers I was living in what is fairly well recognized as the most progressive city of the country. And over the years it (and I) have grown increasingly more so. But I’ve grown increasingly bored. No, more than that, worried about its insularity. And perhaps it’s just the nature of power that I would quickly become surrounded with people who are like-minded in every way, from social justice, to how they like me to take them. As I’ve said, I don’t want to be a dictator, I want to have new experiences. I want to learn. And the best way to learn is to meet new people and engage them in intercourse, both mental and physical.

I said farewell to my office staff. On the top floor of my skyscraper, with the city laid out around me, I give each of my assistants what they needed and wanted, from hugs and cuddles to a good face-down-on-my desk, spread-eagled ass fucking. They are all smart women, and well able to handle my multitudinous business affairs while I was gone. I left the office with my batteries charged, and looking forward to a nice broadening trip across the country. A chance to get away from business and get in touch with new people. Kafka talks about taking a fire axe to the ice that builds up around the soul, and perhaps I was looking for a good axing.

In the basement parking garage, I waited while Kara, my chauffeur/valet brought the car around. We’ll be taking the Mercedes Maybach on the trip. Luxury, comfort, and far less ostentatious than the damn limo.

I should take a moment to introduce Kara, as she will be my companion on my journey. She’s been with me for the last three years, since I “liberated” her from her KGB job at the Russian embassy in the capital. My, that sounds so intriguing, doesn’t it.

I was looking for a woman with an excellent intellect, highly skilled, and a person who would excel at whatever she took on. The Russian consul’s daughter here in town mentioned Kara, and they (I) flew her out for an interview. I wasn’t disappointed; much more beautiful in person than her dossier photos. She was a hair under six feet three out of her heels, and had a long flow of light brown/dark blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her deep eyes were folded into an almond shape in the corners, and she explained how her father was a Soviet basketball player, and her mother a North Korean gymnast. (They had apparently met during the Olympics, and her mother was agile enough to scale the giant and mount the bar.) Kara received a body combining the best of both worlds. Mass and grace.

She had amazingly high cheekbones, and you could see in her face the generations of snow that formed her genetic lines. Her skin was the creamy white of a Russian ice maiden, the sort you expect to see swaddled in ermine fur, but with a hint of Asian butter color.

Plenty of tall women, especially those with large breasts, learn to shrink down and hunch over. Not Kara. She had the confidence of a cossack. Our interview went exceedingly well.

“So, Kara. How are your language skills?” I was naked, as I always was for interviews. I wore a thin, tall body, with wide shoulders, and lightly hairy.

“Excellent. I work in the D.C. Russian cryptography office, and have studied not only with Moskva’s finest professors of English, but I’ve also made it a point to watch and listen to any number of your old broadcasts before coming here. I speak Korean, of course, some Japanese and Chinese, and very good German. A decent amount of French.” As herself, she had only the slightest touch of an accent. Enough to be beguiling. “I’ve always wanted to ask—was there any particular derivation for ‘Nanu—nanu’?”

“None that I know,” I scanned her resume. Cryptography school, spy school, survival training, black ops training, evasive and offensive driving. “Your resume doesn’t list any domestic skills. What can you tell me about that?”

“We go through a series of finishing courses. Poise, charm, what to wear, how to ‘give good head.’ There was a home economics section, but I didn’t do well at that. I’m too impatient. I keep wanting to look in the oven for a peek .”

“Well on that note. . .” I nodded towards her.

Kara rose, and I motioned that she turn around. There is a wonderful variety of unique people in this world, how they stand, how they move, look, talk, etc. Each one a world entire. Add to that all the variations in clothing, in color, and it’s easy to imagine that there are new sights to be seen in this world.

Her blouse was made of white silk, and it looked like it flowed over her enourmous chest. I was reminded of the photos of waterfalls, where the spray takes on this misty-iridescent sheen. Her dark green jacket and pleated skirt continued the effect of trees folded around the waterfall. And with her flowing movements. . .

She swung her hair out of the ponytail holder and draped it lasciviously over one eye. She glanced at me sideways and ran her fingertips along the pleats of her jacket, over her breasts, and gave me a look that would boil vodka.

“Heh, heh. Thank you,” I chuckled, “But that’s not necessary. I’m sure we’ll have time to play seduction later. Just disrobe please.”

For the first time I saw her embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d want the whole show. I’ve had lots of time to perfect it.”

“Think nothing of it. Please. Let’s see your body. Tell me, how’d you come by vamping?” Let’s try out her vernacular.

She shrugged off her jacket an folded it neatly, then set to the double buttons on her high silk collar. Her long neck ran down into a beautiful slope of collar bone. “Right out of school we were each assigned to a comrade whose motives were suspect. It was a simple assignment: seduce him, see if we could lure him into any statements against the party, record it, and keep it on file for further use. We were specifically told not to sleep with them. Just ‘vamping,’ as you say. Just to keep them in line. Then glasnost, everyone can say anything, ehh. Still, the KGB endures, whatever the name.”

I approached her from behind, making myself taller, and grazed her neck with my lips. Her scent was sweet, but with that subtle scent that lies under skin. I took her filmy shirt. Then I noticed her bra. “My goodness,” I chuckled. “What’s the point of this?” I was so used to lace, push ups, or just bare skin by now. This thing looked like a yard of white torture. Not that a good amount of it wasn’t to keep her massive mammaries hoisted.

“This is one of those areas where we buried you. Brassiere technology. We have a lot of babushkas who needed help. A doctor took it on as a pet project. Part of a national beautification scheme. However the plant that made them could only produce so many. I got my hands on as many as I could before shipping over.”

“Well let me get my hands on this one.”

She slapped my hand away. “You couldn’t figure it out. Allow me.”

She undid several eyes and released herself. I slid my hands underneath. Her skin was smooth, and in color halfway between honey and milk. Her breasts had the heft and solidity of youth to them, with the right amount of sag to show they hadn’t been altered in any way. She must have worn her bra constantly to keep herself so firm. Her golden aureolae were large and her nipples were soft and as silken as her shirt. I stroked them to a slight firmness as she purred. My hands slid down to her skirt, which I quickly undid. It slid to the floor and I stepped back.

“Your underwear,” I gestured. They slid down too, revealing a thin wisp of very dark brown hair along her pussy. Her skin was that same almost white everywhere, and blemish-free. Her body was nearly hairless. She breathed hard in anticipation.

“Do-do you like?” she whispered, and turned slowly in a circle.

“Absolutely.” Her calves and legs were hard, with just the lightest bit of fat to soften them out. Her ass was indented on the sides, like a runner’s. Her stomach had the vaguest ripple of muscles. Her arms looked whip fast. I could catch the gentle perfume of her moistness. And with those vaguely Asian eyes. . .

She approached— and I learned that the people’s money had been well spent. She did give very good head. Rather than going to her knees, which would have put her too high, she went onto all fours, bending her knees and straightening her arms until she matched my height. She started by sliding my thick cock head into her mouth, running her tongue along the underside, and then in one smooth swallow slid the whole length down her throat. Just for a moment, to show me she could, and then back to kissing the head.

I sighed. “Very nice. Stop for a moment.” She rested my length on her wrist, balls in her hand and looked up. Her eyes widened as I linked the nerve centers of mypenis to hers. She rearranged herself from hands and knees to sitting at my feet.

“How—odd.” She licked my tip experimentally. “Oooh. Let’s see.” She tried some experimental kissing, and tried gently sucking my balls. “Oh!” she squeaked in delight. “Like being properly eaten. Not too hard, moving, finding just the right spot— Ah! Yessss, and moving along and back to it. How I wish I could have done this before, do this with all my lovers. This feedback—” He tongue wriggled just behind my testicles.

Her delight was starting to get me off, which was starting to get her off. “Would you like to feel me come?” I ask.

She slurped me out of her mouth. “Bozhe moi! Yes!” and sucked me back in, hard and fast, both fucking me with her mouth, then sliding me against her cheeks, her lips, her face. She feels the orgasm coming and slides me back down her throat, nuzzling her lips against my pubic bone. I come deep down her throat, releasing a good jolt of semen, and it’s all she can do to keep from collapsing at my feet.

I nudged her, encouraging her to lie back and catch her breath, while I moved down to gently lap at her juices. If this is the girl I want, I want someone who tastes good. She does, musky and earthy, but also light, not overpowering. She wiggles and enjoys, stroking my hair, coming lightly at first, and then more strongly after a few minutes.

After a moment she leaps up, energized. “What would you like? I am your girl.”

“Let’s see some defense moves. I’ll need someone who can look after me if I’m incapacitated.” So far no one who’s gotten within a couple of miles of me has ever even been interested in harming me, but you never know. I will tell you it’s a hell of a lot of fun watching a beautiful naked woman throwing high kicks and elbow strikes. She puts in some gymnastic flips, and a joyful cartwheel (man, look at those puppies swing!) and I know she’s right. She’s my girl.

She comes to rest and I launch myself at her. We spar, throwing punches lightly, for fun, not to harm. We begin sweating as we kick, dodge, weave, learning each other’s defensible spaces. She swung a low sweep at my legs, and leaped over. I aimed a slap at her face and she blocked it. And in a moment, we are both inside each other’s sphere, arms around each other. We kiss, and melt into each other. We rollonto the carpet, and I give her a solid fucking, penetrating her soul, to seal the deal. She’s tight everywhere, and with her vaginal muscles rippling she’s able to milk me for a full load.

She looked up at me, wonder and happiness in her eyes. “I-I have never felt like this in my life. I— are you now my master?” Her breaths are long and deep.

It always feels odd, how many women, from how many backgrounds want to leap at being owned. This is her asking, not my prompting. I don’t need slaves. Perhaps for her it comes from her old Soviet background. I mean, you can’t lose your chains in a day.

“If you feel that you need that, I’ll own you. But it’s not something to discuss today. I’m guessing you feel loyalty to me. That’s part of what I am. I would prefer not to hire a robot, but I have before. It’s your choice.” She didn’t seem like the type who would declare her love. Spy agenices have a way of burying those feelings deep in a person. How she felt would come out over time.

“Then for now, I will be as I’ve said. Your girl.”

We shower, and drying off I ask her to tell me what she likes and doesn’t like about her body. I stand her in front of the full-length mirror. “My hair, I would like it lighter, all over. And I do not like it being so much darker below. People think I dye my hair. Of course—I would dye it for you.” I stroke my hand over her pussy, and the old hair falls out. Another stroke and the new follicles weave a silky white-blonde wisp now several shades lighter than the hair on her head. “Hey,” she says, half in shock, half in protest.

“Later we’ll have a good meal, Fill your body with fuel. In the morning you’ll have the start of a good head of blonde hair. You’ll match.”

We leapt over the rest of her body. She was as excited as a child. “If I could change myself like this, damn what I could do in the field! The fold of my eyelods—more so please. And can we try a bit of dark green in my eyes?” She blinked, and the depths sparkled with an emerald hint. There was the start of a slight astigmatism that I corrected, and I renewed all the rods and cones of her eyes, adding some and strengthening the nerves. I thickened her bones and attached long, thin muscles cells, increased her nerve speed and reaction time.

I built up the musculature on her back and sohoulders and tightened her breasts so they looked a touch higher, and she could carry them better. She looked more like a woman with breasts full of milk, the ideal of Indian beauty. Not hard in any way, just tighter. “I’m not trying to fight that chest contraption every time I want to get in,” I explained.

I was a bit more leary about permanently depilating her underarms, forearms and calves as she wanted. I grew it out to it’s full length to make my point, ready to wipe it away. “Look how soft and fine it is. I’m guessing you haven’t let it grow out since you were a child!” We come to a compromise: She would try living with it for a month, and if she didn’t like it, I would remove it permanently. (eventually I thinned it to a fine, white down.)

Other changes: I lengthened her fingers, and adjust her toes so that she could grip things more easily. (She had always admired one girl who could throw a knife with her feet.) I increased her suppleness so she can bend in half, or twist her body into knots. (You never know when a polite young lady will need to be able to throw her ankles behind her ears or orally stimulate herself.) Not to mention the usual array of minor corrections and adjustments I pass out to women I like; re-set the appendix, clear pre-cancerous cells, re-adjust PMS hormone levels, etc.

It’s always such a turn-on when a woman lets me into her body so deeply. When I’m with a new woman, and it looks to be a long-term companionship, I always get a flush out of seeing the physical frustrations of having an imperfect body being washed away. It’s the feeling that we are who we are as pure beings, but the inconveniences of flesh get in the way of the joys. The old adage goes that the brain is the largest sexual organ; what a joy to let the mind rearrange the body for pleasure’s sake. If tomorrow there is a new worry, at least the old one is gone. What a joy to be young, beautiful, and free.

We go to one of the city’s finest steak houses, and I order her enormous extra helpings of meat, pasta, vegetables, everything I can think of, and her new body puts it away. (Brightened taste buds, more efficient metabolism. . .)

Over dessert we plot her defection from the KGB, and by the end of the week several transactions have taken place through shell accounts, I have a new chauffeur, and her very charming circus freak parents have moved into an apartment in this foggy city filled with circus freaks.

And I definitely will say no one has a chauffeur/valet as drop-dead gorgeous as I do. Her uniform has the Russian high collar, and an arrowhead of false buttons on the panel over her breasts. I can pull down the whole front panel when I want access, and her reactions are good enough to keep driving perfectly while I fondle her and nuzzle her ears. Her long sheath tan pants are conveniently slit open between her legs so I don’t have to fool with anything if I want to fool with her. Many’s the time we’ll walk up to the limousine, she’ll turn, and we bury ourselves in arms and deep kisses. She sits on the hood, and I slide right into her, humping her until we come. Then maybe a few quick licks to clean her juices off of me, and we’re on our way to our next appointment. It’s very convenient and damn sexy.

Granted I could do the same to any passing woman on the street—and I have—but it’s nice to have the warmth and the friendship and the relationship that only time can bring.

There are too many women in my life for me to ever say she’s like a wife or a partner, or even necessarily my best friend. But we are friends, and we trust each other and we enjoy each other’s company. What more would you need from a traveling companion?

I climb in the back of the car, and we’re on our way. “Well, Kara my love, were on our way. The land lays before us.”

“Like that Simon and Garfunkel song you like. ‘I have some real-estate here in my bag.’”

“All gone to look for America.”

And we swing into the traffic jam crossing the bridge. After twenty minutes we’ve moved ten car spaces

“This sucks,” I say. “Let’s head to the exit and get some Chinese food.”

She gives me her big Russian laugh. “It’s your damn country, comrade. Everyone wants to get everywhere at once.”