The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jessica was shaking as she confessed having had experiences of lust to her older mentor. “I can’t believe how sick I am. My husband was... reproducing with me, and I almost started to enjoy it! I almost stopped thinking of you, and your wise words!”

She bit the inside of her cheek with worry—which only pulled her thin face in even more—while bulging watery eyes wobbled like the skin of a bubble. She was ethereal in the artificial dusk of the room, a weakness protected only by the barriers put in place to keep her turmoil secret to all but herself and the one other who could be trust with absolute intimacy. Barriers such as the curtains drawn against the weak winter sun, creating an absolute cloak of privacy stretching as far as the room’s walls, as far as the house’s boundaries, as far as the world’s end.

Jessica was safe.

Jessica could at last let the caged bird of her trauma free.

And, how it was singing. How it sang its song of uncomfortable and improper love.

Martha waited for exactly long enough to blink three times, almost as if she had practised patience with this younger woman who had displayed these precise sexual problems for some time.

Standing behind a straight-backed parlour chair, hand resting on it gently, she was a fading copy of a Gibson Girl, her s-bend corset leading her to pull back her shoulder, thrust out her chest, and curl forward her hips. And her chin, prim and straight, pointed out over the pale young girl that lay trembling in front of her, a proud seafarer regarding the distant shores of home with the same stoic acceptance regardless of his direction of travel.

When she did speak, it was with a calculated authority.

“Now, Jessica, you must pull yourself together. I mean, look at you.”

This was an unreasonable request, as Jessica could not look at herself. Yet, swept along by the necessity of acceding to the more able woman’s demands, she pictured herself mentally as objectively as possible. She imagined her slim figure, rendered fashionable in a more vertical silhouette with a narrow waist and ankle-length skirt. Lying almost foetal on the fainting couch, pencil shavings of red hair spraying up its raised back. Her legs, curling round, ended in feet that dangled, shoes almost slipping free onto the floor. In Martha’s eyes, which were the eyes she used to judge herself, she was androgynous and anonymous and hopelessly out of place.

“You try too hard to be fashionable, Jessica. You must cultivate a sense of style.”

Starstruck by wisdom, Jessica did not comprehend the hypocrisy of that statement.

“Everything you do is trying to escape your essential femininity. Pay attention to me,” and Martha did not move at all but somehow displayed her beauty effortlessly just by adopting a certain attitude, “and you can see the womanly contours of my figure. But you... you are just a sad little girl who doesn’t know what she needs.”

The nod of Jessica’s head must have dislodged something from her eyes, because she started weeping.

“If I asked you to stand up,” Martha continued, watching as Jessica’s feet twitched in starting to obey the ungiven command, “you would be pretty, yes; and no doubt fitting in with some French man’s ideal of fashion.”

To Jessica, this meant—alien, unwanted, unneeded. At that moment, she no longer understood why she had decided that she had anything to hide, or why she had made the bold decision to have shorter hair. Although still a mass of red curls, the weight of her hair no longer pulled it straight, and it was not long enough to be twined into a elegant chignon.

“I wish I looked more like you,” she almost said, but she felt too faint to do more than breathe around a moving tongue.

“I suppose you envy my gloriously long hair,” and Martha reached up to pat the tight knot at the back of her head with the rest of her body staying mesmerically still, “and all of the feminine sensuality that it exudes.”

Martha permitted herself a caring smile.

Jess looked on, nodded slowly once again, but this time her eyes did not burst forth. They were sheened with a brilliant glaze, they were impermeable.

“I know what’s wrong with you,” sighed Martha, and in one smooth movement was sitting alongside Jessica and in another moment had Jessica’s head on her lap.

She stroked it, lavishing melancholy attention on a kitten.

Looking around at the simple, sunny room with its few furnishings, Martha observed that “You know how important this fainting room is to me.” And she felt the younger woman nod in her lap.

“We all need space away from our husbands, from time-to-time. And I wouldn’t judge you if you felt you sometimes needed space from my brother. I love him dearly,” and she sighed, “but he does sometimes show some wrong-headedness. He can be stubborn, yes?”

This time, the nod was vigorous.

“How is he being stubborn, dear?” and there was a hidden malice in the question.

As if the older woman knew exactly where the conversation was heading.

Jessica spoke softly in a faraway voice. “He tells me that it is... natural to want to lay down with a man and... conceive marriage’s gifts to the world for the sole purpose of pleasure.”

The pause that came after asked the question And what else?

“And then he tells me that he loves me. He touches me. And I feel such a mix of shame and fear.”

This time, Martha’s voice asked the question. “Why is that?”

“Because,” and Jessica was still holding back the tears, although her voice stuttered with sobs, “part of me does think that it is natural.”

And the other woman simply said, “Hm?”

“Natural to enjoy your husband’s caresses.”

And Jessica’s face and body slumped in abjection.

Martha shifted the limp mannequin from her lap and stood up. She stood up aloof and lecturing and confident in her rectitude.

“You, Jessica, are a filthy little whore.”

Jessica was so dazed, eyes rolling, that she cringed only slightly, and even then it may have just been at the harshness in her teacher’s tone.

“I cannot believe that you have led my younger brother into such a perilous situation. You—yes you!—have led him to believe in these horrible lies about the place of a woman. All because he saw the enjoyment of the act on your face, and he took it to be an allowable abandon of chastity.”

Jessica was a husk. A dry husk. A husk incapable of tears.

“I know. I know the truth. The truth of this collusion.”

Having let the bird out, Jessica had identified with the bird, now she was the bird, she was the brittle feathered creature and she had already sung. And now her floating feathers and hollow bones and tiny little empty skull were a lifeless puddle pressed into the cushion by nothing more than the unyielding blanket of gravity. Wherever she went it would pull her down to the thin crust of the world, a crust which her body would burrow through in shame, it would pull her close to the molten core, a hellish bosom to home the poison arrow of her malice and where she could live forever in self-hatred.

Her whole being paused as it stared up at the woman from whom she wanted some kind of connection, some kind of understanding, and she would wait forever in order to get it. She would cling on to the possibility of redemption no matter how wretched and base she became.

As long as Martha believed in it too.

And—suddenly conciliatory—Martha reached down, looked down, her voice fell down from the heights of the pulpit to the cosy lowness of the huddled conspirators and it was collectively an angel descending from heaven to bestow divine grace.

“Jessica,” she husked. I know the cause of your illness.”

Martha took on such luminescence that the room was shadows around her. The feeble sun had gone out in competition with this women. She was what lit the sky and brought warmth.

Kneeling now, posture still perfect within the constrictive femininity of her dress, she talked to the younger woman as a wayward child to be educated in propriety.

“You are sick, Jessica. So sick. And when the patient is sick the doctor must not blame them for their disease.”

Life and colour were coming back to Jessica’s cheeks. It was the miracle of the dead being raised.

“I blame your husband, Jessica. Yes, I blame my own brother. He, like you, has cast aside the nourishing truths of our age. He grasps the pretty, stinging nettle of popular faddishness. And he declares that women do not suffer hysteria, that they can be independent and spirited. That we are not the weaker sex. He has not built for you a fainting room, has he?”

Jessica was not to blame. She felt the vigour of innocence returning.

“You have no place to go in order to weather the storms of female capriciousness. The frightening self-destruction of your passions. You suffer all the symptoms of hysteria—an abominable desire for fornication, self-doubt, a heavy feeling in the pit of one’s stomach, and emotional wallowing.”

Jessica was sick, so sick, but she was with the doctor and needed to put on a brave face.

“You need to get up now, Jessica.”

Finally, Jessica was strong enough to lift herself. Creaking, she was leaning against the arm of the couch. Staggering, she was sitting up.

Collapsing, she was clinging onto Martha’s skirt for dear life.

Lazarus of Bethany rose, again, this time was a woman, in this time in modern times, and what did this make Martha, who this time in these modern times had done this?

What did this event make Martha, the woman who had performed this event?

This event which might be a miracle?

As she marvelled at the miracle, Jessica knew.

Jessica knew who Martha was to her.

“Oh please,” cried Jessica, tears having returned with the feeling of life (for all pleasure needs pain to undercut it and make it appreciable), “please show me how to be strong. Please show me how to rid myself of this affliction.”

Martha watched as Jessica’s tears stained the front of her skirts.

Gravity had switched. It ejected Jessica from the cold tomb of dirt beneath its perilously thin skin and now pushed her to burrow deep within Martha. Wholesome, good, nourishing, live-giving Martha.

Martha who was declaiming, who was demagogic: “I believe that you would benefit from my solution. It is a solution that has helped me, and, I know in my heart of hearts that you are just as recoverable as I was when I was a young and wayward woman.”

Martha, who was heroic: “I accepted you as my husband’s wife because, and only because, I knew you would always endeavour to do the right thing. We are similar. We are sisters.”

Martha who flew in on an angel’s wings: “My solution, dear, is good enough for Gertrude Battles Lane. It is good enough for the Sears Catalog. It is,” and the flourish in her voice made Jessica’s breath catch, “the Granville Hammer.”

Crossing the room, the silence a vacated stage which still had the imprint of her performance, she took something from a cupboard and brought back a bulky implement that gave no real clue as to its means of operation or its outcome. Jessica, still mewling with the difficulty of sitting up, blinked at it with the trusting nature of the desperately ill.

It was a metallic and shining... thing... with a wooden handle protruding from a squat and ugly metal disc. Within that metal disc must have been some fiendish mechanism, for it seemed heavy and alien in Martha’s delicate hands.

Jessica’s eyes met Martha’s in a symphony of confusion.

“Don’t be worried. All this does is vibrate,” and she turned it upside down to point at a rubber paddle with one immaculate digit, “in order to give you a most relaxing sensation. It relieves feminine stress.”

Her voice suddenly rising by an octave, Jessica asked, “Feminine stress?”

“Yes. This is a medical device. Can you trust me to nurse you?”

Martha stepped close, sly grin fixed on her face as the Granville Hammer loomed in hand, and Jessica again felt drawn to her, her hands wanting to cling in order to find solace and protection. Inexorably, she nodded; as she would always nod when asked to affirm Martha’s thoughts, for Martha was always right.

Although she hadn’t needed the evidence of the nod (for Jessica would never say no, not after all this work and all this time) Martha still gloried in having achieved it.

Appearing matter-of-fact even as her heart cartwheeled at the closeness of completion, Martha handed the vibrator to Jessica, who received it with the reverence accorded to a reliquary. She tried to feel something from it, something healing, something medicinal. She gripped it in both hands like a beggar holding a tin plate and asking for Christmas charity.

There was a clunk of metal pins entering a hole in the wall and Jessica somehow sensed that the machine was now more alive. It had been alive before, full of the practicality and possibility of electric motion, but now it was only one step away from its purpose.

Gripping it tighter, Jessica wondered how it would solve her issues. Would bursts of electricity burn the lustful images from her mind? Would they punish her most secret places into withering so that they did not send demands as hot as pokers to her feeble female will? Could the fornication that occurred with chilling regularity in her imagination be destroyed and replaced with more wholesome thoughts?

Martha reached down and answered her question.

The vibrator vibrated in her hands. The entire unit made small movements but, visibly, there were more concentrated at the rubber tip. It danced and swayed like a spinning coin.

Jessica touched it gently and hot flushes of sensation sped up her fingers.

She touched her fingers to her lips and the residues of the motions made them ache with dull pleasure.

“I’m going to show you a wonder of the modern age, one of the many appliances which will make our lives of honest servitude so much easier to bear,” explained Martha, taking the handle. “You will need to lie back.”

Looking up at her nurse with absolute conviction, Martha unhesitatingly complied.

“Hmm,” she acknowledged as the nub was brought to the exposed skin of her neck.

Then it reached her face, and her sensitive cheeks gained a healthy colour under its ministrations.

Perhaps trying to explain her enjoyment, Jessica opened her mouth to speak.

“Hush, child, just like back and accept your medicines,” Martha ordered, both haughty and gentle.

Equally gently, and equally without the patient having a choice, the vibrator was now brought to Jessica’s chest.

Who felt nipples harden within the confines of her clothing.

She opened her mouth again, this time to gasp.

“The vibrations will bring about a certain amount of stimulation. This is normal. You must simply accept it as the price of your health.” Although these feelings were only moments ago a poison to be purged, the patient had no understanding that these statements might somehow be contradictory. She simply thought as she was told, from one moment to the next, without complication.

There was a click and the noise died away. Jessica lurched back into the present with a feeling of loss.

“How much less revivifying was the effect over clothed skin, Jessica?” asked the nurse, demanding an answer before further treatment could be given.

Martha had been so far away before, all the way at the other end of those relentless sensations. How had she come so close so quickly?

Jessica coughed and stammered as her mind reeled. “I think that bare flesh is necessary,” and if she had not been so redolent with an elasticity of flesh she would have brought her hand to her mouth in shock. To think that she could offer to, could envisage to, could elect to strip naked in front of Martha!

I’m sorry, her mouth could not say, as her tongue was trapped beneath a rock of shame.

“No, no,” soothed the nurse, loving and kind, “you are quite right. I am afraid this treatment needs for you to be totally accessible to the movements of the device. And I, performing as your nurse, will not be in any way discomposed.”

With this approval Jessica became eager to be naked and whole like an innocent newborn. She shrugged her way out of the confining dress. She was revealed to the world. She showed her curves and shape which she had always agreed with Martha were so important.

She was back on the fainting couch, on her back, and staring up at her nurse with an unusual speed.

I’m sorry for my impropriety, her eyes said, even as her mouth was too happy with smiles to talk.

“For this stage of the process, I must ask you to unearth those forbidden fantasies.”

This was a hard request and Jessica bit the inside of her cheek again. Her smile died before she understood the full enormity of it. The idea hung in the air like a belch and nobody could tell when the stench would pass.

“You must imagine those times when, rampant in your illness, you desire nothing more than the physical attention of your husband. You must get yourself into the most wretched state imaginable.”

Jessica made small noises of fear.

“Hush now, child. This is all part of the treatment. You cannot turn back now.”

And Jessica knew this wholly now even though she had not known it before but was still afraid.

“The machine will take all these feelings away. It will give you control again. But first you need to show that prime symptom of your disease.”

And without even having heard the name of the symptom, or having had it described to her, Jessica was perfectly aware of what the older and more experienced woman meant.

The thoughts followed by the heavy feelings in the stomach followed by the erratic behaviour and the breathlessness and all underpinned by the seeping fear of the disease leaking out of her, a fever inside her coming out and perhaps spreading its contagion like cholera from a water pump.

Lying back her eyes flicked a request for consolation—you too?—and the understanding that she received in return confirmed it.

This most unmentionable part of her disease was not just a wet, dripping secret that lay at the bottom of the pool of her lust. It was not merely her own ghostly Lady of the Lake thrusting a pagan sword at her from what she thought were placid and safe waters. This Lady visited others and her shame was at first multiplied grossly by these links as she assimilated the idea that all womankind was assaulted so but equally at the same time shared out amongst all womankind so that it was diminished noticeably.

And Jessica was left with a love of herself that was not barred to her by self-hatred.

And Jessica was left with tendrils of community between herself and Martha.

And Jessica was left feeling an immense kinship. A kinship, yes, of weakness and filth. But it emboldened her as just one fallen virgin amongst others. Suddenly she was not alone in the den of iniquity, suddenly she had sisters to dance with. And the exultation in the commonality of sexual desire brought forth a flood of imagery and moisture.

Kisses that turned harder and involved the tasting of each others’ tongues, fond hugs that reached lower and patted private areas, the long midnight hours of touching and teasing and coaxing one another to find the temerity to achieve the actions of physical love.

But this time, it felt...

acceptable

undeniable

repeatable

The vibrator was on again and before she could understand it the vibrations were right in the heart of her disease and her wetness and the rubber nub was moving slickly left right up down with all the frictionless grace of an ice-skater on the Thames.

Before she could consider.

The vibrator was on again and before she could understand it the Granville Hammer hammered relentlessly against her maidenhead, her virginity against such blissfully consensual contact.

Before she could consider whether it was safe to let another woman to.

The vibrations were part of her again and they gave her free rein to indulge in the salt-spray freedom of her moon-ruled tides.

Before she could consider whether it was safe to let another woman produce such delicious feelings.

And her eyes looked up with an immense love at Martha: who had cured her so totally, who had quenched the fires of her lust and shame in the acceptance of this lubrication, who had brought Jessica this far with cunning wiles and lies to a place where they could share her feelings.

A place of absolute intimacy.

Martha was too busy playing the part of a nurse to see the bubbles in her eyes bursting with the growth of this new universe of understanding. “We must bring you to paroxysm,” she acted, conciliatory and unhurried, even though behind her face was a mind—Jessica knew! Jessica saw!—calculating to produce nothing more than sexual madness and fever. “It will solve your symptoms temporarily and you will need repeat treatments regularly.”

“Mmm,” groaned Jessica in acknowledgement, the vibrator and its sensations colouring her voice with huskiness, “I think I would like to receive this treatment with great regularity,” and let her desire travel up her arm to her fingers where desire launched itself to grab Martha’s free hand.

For the first time, Martha had not planned, Martha had not seen, Martha could not act.

“Touch me honestly openly and nakedly,” Jessica demanded, and brought Martha bending down further so that suddenly her immaculate fingers—slim and pink and decorous—were immersed in the contagion and Jessica hoped more than anything it would infect her too.

“Oh my,” Martha gulped, suddenly unsure, suddenly brought right into the centre of the game as a player and not just as the referee. Her poise ruined and a lock of her bursting free down her forehead to trail by her face. She suddenly looked vulnerable and therefore more feminine and Jessica responded with a desire to inflict more of this damage.

“Will this stimulation also help me, nurse?” smiled Jessica with a certain wickedness. She held the hand still by the wrist but moved her hips up and down and let the silken touch of her womanhood dissolve her mentor’s fears.

“I... don’t...” and Martha didn’t.

“Come now, don’t doctors usually do this by hand? Aren’t the old ways the best ways?”

And it was Martha’s turn to nod and blink and breathe all in one relaxing and accepting rush.

When their gazes connected again, both had understanding writ large and communicated this with unguarded affection for the other.

“Tell me, doctor,” requested the writhing Jessica, “can you diagnose anything about my condition from the smell or taste of my fluids?”

And her hand gripped Martha’s with even more controlling desire, and Martha’s knees brought her to the floor so that her head was closer to the prize, and it seemed that both women were close to winning it very easily.