The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Sculptor

Description: A sculptor works alone in their studio at night, when a predator finds them

Tags: MC, FD
* * *

I sit in the studio, in the middle of the night, alone. That’s how I like it best. There are no distractions. That’s what I need, now more than ever. Every time something distracts me, my thoughts turn back to my addiction, gnawing away at me from inside. My addiction to her.

Working is the only thing that helps. I’m a sculptor, and I take pride in it. I have a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other, and I use them to chip away at the stone in front of me, mere millimetres at a time. My project is taking shape. The form of a Greek goddess emerges out of solid marble, just waiting for me to bring it to life. This is what I live for. Nothing makes me feel better than creating something beautiful. Nothing, I insist to myself.

From behind me, I hear the door open. I pause for just a moment before I make myself return to my work. It could be anyone, I tell myself. A janitor, or a fellow art student, or-

“Well, well. Looks like I’ve found you.” At her melodious, sing-song voice, I freeze like a deer sensing a predator. It’s her. Here. In the same room as me. Half my instincts are screaming at me to jump out the window and escape. The other half are begging me to go to her. I ignore both halves. I don’t want to be on the run forever. I want to be free of her, truly free. I have to prove to myself that she doesn’t matter to me any more, even if deep down I know it isn’t true. So, even with my nerves on edge and my hands shaking, I start chiselling again.

“Ignoring me?” She laughs, the sound rich with genuine humour. “That’s fun. But you know it won’t work.”

I sigh. “Leave me alone,” I say. “I’m working.”

“So I see.” She crosses the room to stand right behind me. I can feel her domineering presence fill the studio, and my nose fills with her scent, so intimate and familiar. Instinctively, my mind starts to go dull and happy and pliant. This is what I was afraid of. I try to shake off the feeling, and mostly succeed.

“I asked you to leave me alone.” I fill my voice with as much conviction as I can muster. She ignores it effortlessly.

“You’re very skilled,” she says breathily, as she looks at my work. “It’s beautiful.” I know she is not mocking me with compliments. She’s being completely sincere, and it makes me bitter. If not for my skill, she never would have deigned to speak with me. She admires me, but not the way most people would admire another person. She admires me the way most people would admire a pleasing object. Like everyone and everything she admires, she wants to own me, to make me hers. My artistic gift is also my curse, because of her.

I first met her more than a year ago. She’d apparently heard about my talents from someone, and had come to see what I could do. I’d been young, inexperienced and uncertain of myself, and was completely overwhelmed to find that a woman as beautiful, elegant and forceful as her was interested in someone like me. I was intoxicated by her very presence, and in my intoxication she beguiled me. That was always how it was with her playthings. She got close to you, then she got inside your head. Hypnotised you. Made you addicted. Before I knew it, it was painful not to be around her. Unless she was in the same room, everything was grey and uninteresting. Her happiness became my only religion; I’d do anything to win her approval. It was more than just love, if it even was love. She did something to me, I know it. That’s the only I can explain the things I did and felt and thought.

A couple of months ago, her control over me started to waver. I started to question my relationship with her. My family and few old friends started to express concerns to me. They said I seemed distant, like I wasn’t the same person they had known before. They wanted me to tell them what was wrong, so they could try and help. I always rebuffed them, but maybe deep down I listened. I think hearing them sound so worried made realise something was wrong. Because of her I was neglecting everything—my friends, my studies, even my sculpting. I wasn’t myself when I was with her. My worries grew and grew until, a few weeks ago, I finally decided to free myself. I moved into a new apartment, got a new phone and severed every way I could think of that she might use to get in touch with me. I even switched school. It sounds paranoid, but she does not take kindly to losing her possessions.

The first few days of freedom were unbearable. I did little more than lie restless in my bed, thinking of her. Nothing could bring me any comfort. I actually threw up more than once, just for the terrible pain and anxiety of being away from her. Since then, it had gotten better, even if I always had to be on my guard. Many times, I had lost concentration while walking home and had found myself accidentally heading towards her home. In the end, sculpting had saved me. When I sculpted, I actually felt good about myself. She had twisted my mind so that her approval was my only source of pleasure, but when I sculpted something beautiful I felt genuine pride in my work and myself. I decided sculpture was how I would rebuild myself.

But now she’s here.

“You’re not going to say hello?” she asks. She’s mocking me now; that’s obvious. “Ask me how I’m doing?”

“Go. Away,” I grunt through gritted teeth.

She just laughs. “What’s the matter, my sweet thing? Is it getting hard for you to concentrate? Are your eyelids starting to droop? Do you find yourself longing for my tender touch once more?”

“No.” Yes. But I need to try to save myself by showing her she isn’t getting to me. Even if she is. I manage to muster a complete sentence. “We’re through, and I have nothing to say to you. I simply want you to leave so I can work.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you. In fact, I would love to watch you sculpt.”

This feels like a trap, but I can’t back down now. You don’t show a predator weakness. I return my attention to the marble, and resume sculpting. It’s harder with her here. I can feel her eyes boring holes into the back of my head. Words can’t express how much I want to turn around and let myself fall into those magical, piercing eyes. I know if I did, all this concern and effort would melt away in an instant. But I can’t. I can’t let myself become my slave again. So I keep working. To my surprise, she lets me work for several minutes without interruption. I’m sculpting the goddess’s face now, crafting her expression with my chisel. I start to think I might even be able to forget she’s here, standing behind me.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, breaking the silence. At the praise, my body shudders with pleasure. Clearly, I haven’t managed to rip that piece of brainwashing out of my mind. Maybe I never will. “Your skill never ceases to amaze me.”

“Thank you,” I reply, and then kick myself mentally. That was how I was trained to respond to her praise. She’s trying to lure me back in to old behaviours, tempting me to relapse. I need to be strong.

“You’re welcome.” I can hear the sinuous smile in her voice. “But you look so tense. Here, let me help you.”

Before I can react, I feel her hands settle on my shoulders. I freeze again; I’m in real danger now. My first instinct is to physically throw her off, but before I can do anything she starts to massage me. Under her probing fingers, my muscles turn to goo. My eyes close involuntarily and I let out a gasp of pleasure as a feeling of blissful relaxation takes over me. It would be easier for me to fly than to reach up and make her take her hands off me. My heart races as, alongside the bliss, my mind fills with fear. I’m losing. I can feel my will slipping away and becoming hers. No. I won’t let this happen again. I can’t.

“Stop,” I cry out. “I need to—”

“You need to keep working, I know.” Her tone is kind, reassuring, almost motherly now. It’s a ploy. But I want so badly to believe it, and give myself to her. “Well, keep working then. Let me massage you as you sculpt. Perhaps it will help.”

Before I can decide what to do, my fingers come alive. I find myself picking up the hammer and chisel again, and chipping away at the stone. This isn’t what I want. My own subconscious is working against me now. I’m like a puppet, dancing on her strings. Can I really resist her? She knows me so well. Too well. My only chance is to focus on the sculpture. Focus on the fulfilment I get from my work, and the pride it brings me. That’s who I am, a sculptor, and she can’t take that away from me. Maybe if I focus on that, I can save something of myself. If I haven’t lost everything already.

It’s actually easier now, with her touching me like this. Effortless. It’s like I can feel her fingers inside my mind, smoothing out all the doubts and concerns and stray thoughts. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. It’s like I’m completely in the zone, but maybe that’s exactly what she wants. Maybe the doubts and concerns, distracting as they are, are all that’s saving me from her.

She lets me work like that for a while, trapped beneath her hands. As the minutes wear on, I feel I’m beginning to regain control of myself. Maybe I’m getting used to her, getting inoculated against her wiles. More likely, I’m like the frog, slowly boiling in gradually heated water. I begin to work myself up to another protest, but again she gets the better of me. She stops massaging my shoulders, and her hands roam down my body and wrap around my midriff. She leans down, getting so close I can feel her breath on the back of my neck. I can feel my body responding to her, growing hot and needy. The stroking of her fingers leaves trails of fire on my skin, even through my clothes. When she slips her hands underneath my clothes, the sensation is utterly divine. I whimper. I can’t win. Not against her.

“Please, don’t,” I beg. I’m reduced to begging now. My voice is dangerously weak and uneven. “Please… not again… I don’t want—”

“Shhh.” I fall silent at her command. Her voice is as soft, silky and sweet as melted chocolate. “No talking now. Just listening.” She presses herself against me. I can feel her breasts flatten against my back. “Listen for the sound of my heartbeat. You can hear it, can’t you?”

I can. I don’t want to, but I can. The double-beat of her heart resounds throughout my whole body, making me a slave to her rhythm.

“Yes, good. Just listen to my heart, like you’ve done so many times before. It’s so easy, isn’t it?” I unwillingly incline my head in a slight nod. “So easy. So easy to go down for me, down into trance. My heart and my voice are the only things you can hear. The only things that matter. Let all the thoughts run out of your pretty head. The only thing in your mind is the rhythm of my heartbeat. As it fills you, you can feel your whole body galling limp and relaxed, just for me.”

She’s right. Her words are my truth, and I can feel myself slipping easily into trance. Despair takes me. How did I ever think I could resist her? Maybe I was never free. Can you really call yourself free when all it takes is a few words and you’re melting into nothingness again?

“We’re going to count now. We’re going to count down from ten to zero, your voice echoing mine.” God, her voice feels so good. I just want to listen to her speak for hours and hours, sending tingles running all through me. No, that’s not what I want. Isn’t it? “You’re going to to visualise each number, letting it represent your willpower and your resistance to me. Ten is however you’re feeling now. As you count down, your willpower and resistance will slip away, like dust in the wind. When you reach zero, there will be nothing left, and you’ll be all mine. Are you ready? Tell me you’re ready.”

“Ready,” I whisper.

“Good. Ten.”

“Ten.” I echo her, even though I try not to. The word just forces it’s way out of me.

“Nine.”

“Nine.” This is how it ends. I have to stop, I have to. She’s going to take everything.

“Eight. Can you feel it? The fire inside you is dwindling away.”

“Eight.” I can feel it. The voice telling me to fight is quieter, weaker.

“Seven.”

“Seven.” I need to resist. Maybe even now, there’s a chance.

“Six. Good pet, you’re doing so well.”

“S-six.” Her praise gives me pleasure, better than an orgasm. It’s not fair. How can I resist that?

“Five. Half way gone now. Half way to being my slave.”

“Five.” It doesn’t seem so bad now. I could choose to give in, and just welcome it.

“Four.”

“Four.” No, I musn’t. But I can’t seem to shake the temptation. It would feel so good.

“Three. Not much left, now.”

“Three.” Just as she commanded, I visualise my resistance. It looks so weak now. So small.

“Two. Almost mine.”

“Two.” I’m almost hers.

“One. Just a speck left. A single fragment of willpower left.”

“One.” Help me.

“Zero.”

“Zero.” It’s all gone. There’s nothing left. She’s won.

“There, isn’t that better?” she says. Her voice is dripping with arousal. She gets off on enslaving people. On enslaving me. “Isn’t it better, to be a mindless little plaything for me? Isn’t this how you want to stay, forever and ever?”

“Yes.” There’s no point telling myself it isn’t true. It is. She’s made it true.

“Perfect,” she purrs. “I wonder, did you think I’d punish you for running away? I won’t. Why bother? Rewards are so much more fun. I’d prefer to reward you for letting yourself become mine again.”

She leans in still closer, so her lips are kissing my ear. One of her hands snakes down the front of my pants, touching my most intimate places. I moan, greedy for more. She knows exactly how to touch me. She takes her other hand off my body. I think she’s using it to touch herself; I can feel her breath coming ragged. Knowing she’s feeling pleasure excites me even more. Bringing her pleasure is my only purpose. My back arches as she bites down gently on my sensitive earlobe. It feels so good. My body is nothing more than a toy to her. She knows exactly which buttons to push. With a single caress, she activates triggers I’d forgotten existed. My face is growing hotter and hotter. A white-hot star is growing between my legs, taking me to new heights of pleasure as she draws me deeper into submission. I’d forgotten the sheer ecstasy of being with her. There’s no drug that can compare. Why did I ever want to leave?

I’m going to cum. It’s only been moments, but I’m already right on the edge. I’ve been away from her for so long, my body’s on a hair trigger. I want it so badly. My body is thrumming and vibrating to her rhythm. I can sense she’s on the edge too. We’ll cum together, my pleasure feeding hers and hers feeding mine. It’ll be true ecstasy. I can’t wait. I need it. I’m so close. I’m there, I’m-

She stops. She takes her hand away. I whine with need. I have to cum, though I know better than to try and finish myself off. She’s trained me too well for that. But why? Why is she torturing me like this? Was she lying when she said she wasn’t going to punish me?

“That’s strange,” she says, her tone a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “You’re still sculpting.”

I realise with a start that she’s right. As she’s been hypnotising and pleasuring me, my hands have still been moving busily across the marble statue of the goddess, chiselling away a little here and a little there. I had been completely unaware. By the sounds of it, so had she. How is it possible? Maybe… maybe, deep down in my mind, some part of me was still resisting her. Still trying to prove I didn’t need her to have meaning and purpose. A little spark of resistance reignites. Could there still be hope?

“How curious,” she muses. “Your work must mean a great deal to you. Tell me why.”

“It’s… my way of proving to myself I don’t need you.” Still a slave to her commands, I bear my soul to her. “Of proving I can be somebody even without you. If I can sculpt something beautiful, maybe I can feel like myself again. Maybe I can feel proud of myself.”

“Fascinating.” She loves understanding how other people’s minds work. It makes them so much easier to control. “And who is this you’re sculpting? A woman, clearly, but there’s something strange about her face.” I can sense her scrutinising my statue.

“She’s a Greek goddess,” I reply, still unable to resist. I’m trying, though. It’s easier now my mind isn’t so dominated by pleasure, although the memory of the need is still making it hard to think clearly. Part of me is still desperate to obey, just in the hope of being allowed to cum.

“Really? Oh, this is fun.” She’s realised something. I can hear it in her voice. And I can hear something else. Cruelty. “Listen to me, and obey my words. Destroy it.”

“What?” My thoughts grind to a halt. This is too shocking; I wasn’t expecting it. It makes a terrifying amount of sense, though. Maybe this statue is the only thing my psyche’s depending on. Maybe without it, I will be utterly hers.

“Raise your hands,” she instructs, gently but firmly. “Place the chisel against her heart.” I do as she tells me. I still can’t fight her, not yet. I’m not strong enough. “Now strike it with the hammer, as hard as you can. Shatter it. Shatter your pride for me.”

Two sides of me war against each other. With her so close, with her presence so overpowering and arousal clouding my thoughts, most of my mind is completely slaved to her wishes. Most of me wants to do it. To give in, and be hers. The hammer trembles in my hand. But there’s another part of me that still wants to fight. It’s small and beleaguered, but it’s hanging on bitterly. I’m trapped between those two sides, until she says the exact right thing to break me.

“If you smash it,” she whispers to me, with the tenderness of a lover. “I’ll let you cum.”

Shamefully, that’s all it takes. Driven by the promise of pleasure, my hand jerks forward, driving the chisel into the heart of the marble. The statue shatters into a thousand pieces, scattered all across the floor. I let the hammer and chisel fall from my hands and clatter to the ground. This is it. This is the end. I’ve given up. I can feel it, inside my mind. There’s no resistance left. Absolutely nothing. I’m hollow now, just waiting for her to fill me up however she pleases.

“There, there.” She comforts me, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand. I’m grateful. It feels wonderful. “No need to be sad. You’re mine now.”

“I… I was…” I choke out the words. To my shock, I can feel a single tear collecting in one of my eyes. “I was so close to being free.”

“No, my sweet thing. You weren’t.” She sounds so certain. I look up at her questioningly. “Look at the face.”

Following her gaze, I find the biggest piece of marble that was the head. It’s intact, more or less. I examine its features and its expression, trying to see what she saw. When the penny finally drops, I let out a long, slow, resigned sigh.

It has her face.

My Greek goddess sculpture has her face, and I never even realised. All along, when I thought I was making myself free, I was just worshipping her. She’s right. I was never free, not for a heartbeat. Any sense of sadness or sorrow I had at being enslaved by her again vanishes. Why be sad, when nothing was really lost? My hard-fought, easily-lost freedom was only ever an illusion. She embraces me again, and I give myself to her embrace. After this, she’ll probably take me back with her so she can brainwash me anew, filling me up with her triggers and her programming. I can’t wait. This will all be so much easier when I don’t need to think anymore. I want to let her do all the thinking for me. Before that, there’s only one thing left.

“Cum for me,” she whispers in my ear. My body responds immediately, and I writhe in her embrace as the orgasm tears through my body and my mind. The feeling is akin to religious experience, like the overwhelming wash of pleasure is cleansing me of all my impure thoughts, and all my free will. I let it, gladly.

It is, without a doubt, the best orgasm of my life.