The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“JESUS CHRIST.”

This is not the most pleasant way to be woken up, even if you happen to be the named individual. I’m not, but I’ve been feeling a little godlike lately, and my dreams—about swimming on an ocean of women whose tongues and mouths find my cock wherever I float—leave me in a half-drowsy state where I sort of believe I am God.

Where am I?

I look over and see the naked body of my next-door neighbor. Oh yeah. I’m in Isabel’s house. I just blew my wad in her cunt, the same cunt she’s now putting panties on.

“I’m late. She’s gonna be pissed. You have to go.”

Oh really?

She’s got her back to me, and she’s struggling on with the denim shorts she ripped off a few minutes ago. She’s still got the blouse on, and once the shorts are in place, she sits on the edge of the bed and starts to pull on her socks, discarded before our little encounter.

“Ok? You have to go,” she says, and starts to turn.

At exactly the moment she starts to turn toward me I realize I’m not wearing the shades, and I reach around for them, thinking they must be on the sheets.

“I put them on the dresser,” she says, meeting my eyes. “Why were you wearing them, anyway? You have such pretty eyes.”

My hand shoots to the dresser and I grab them, but then I notice that she’s walking around the bed, and not doing what I expected, which is staring at me and drooling like a zombie. I put them on anyway.

“Isabel?”

“Yes?”

I slip the shades off to look her in the eyes. She smiles. “That was so fucking h . . . " Her mouth stops moving, and so do her eyes. She’s caught again, again just a fly in my web. But what happened there? Oh, the sending away thing I think I can understand. She’s my fuck slave, sure, but she’s a mommy first. But she should have gone under a lot faster. Every other time they went right under. Maybe it takes longer the more you use it on a person, and I’ve been using it quite a bit on Isabel. I walk over her to and swat her hard ass.

“Go get your daughter. Don’t worry about whether I leave.”

And she’s gone, driving like a bat out of hell to pick up her daughter, who’s already been waiting 20 minutes. I expect to hear the phone ring any minute.

While she’s gone, I get dressed and do some thinking about Dr. Rift and the study of cerebral bloodflow. He writes a good paper, that’s for sure. From my college statistics, I remember that the paper I read is known as a “metastudy” because it’s a study of other studies, an attempt to find statistically significant data without actually doing any studies on real people. A metastudy is the kind of thing perfectly suited to what Rift is studying, because it gives you a chance to study many many more people than any single study could reasonably get funding for. And he’s looking for a nanotube in a haystack many miles tall.

He’s careful never to use the term “paranormal” anywhere in his paper. If you want to get funding from a serious scientific organization, you have to stay away from words like that. And in fact, nowhere in his paper does he even imply that that’s what he’s looking for. Knowing what I know about myself, I have the clues necessary to piece together his real agenda.

“Cerebral Blood Flow Effects on Sympathetic Consciousness” sounds like a pretty boring piece of science, but the word “Consciousness” is the first clue that something odd’s going on. Most researchers don’t bother trying to study consciousness any more; they can’t even agree on a definition of it, so they study things like perception, attention, cognition. His metastudy collected data from thousands and thousands of medical case studies where head trauma caused altered bloodflow due to, for example, clots and increased intracranial pressure. He looked for any patients who lost consciousness due to these head traumas, and who underwent psych treatment or even just counseling after the trauma for any reason. He defines the term “sympathetic consciousness” very broadly, to mean that other people were observed to lose consciousness nearby the patient being studied, for any reason whatsoever.

He was looking for someone who could make other people pass out, in other words, but without actually saying that the one person caused the lack of consciousness in the other. He had some reason, some neurobiological theory which led him to think that head trauma could change a person’s brainwaves. Maybe alter them, in just the right way to trigger unconsciousness in other people. I didn’t get all the theory involved, and anyway he obviously had to leave most of it out to get his funding, but I knew it was there, and I knew he could tell me about it.

The data table was the clincher. Hidden in it was this innocuous line:

“Patients with classified treatment methodologies: 17”

Why document this? How did he get this data anyway? Well, obviously he didn’t get their data or he would have found out a lot more than his surface-level paper documented, but he did manage to find out that 17 peoples’ treatments were undertaken by an agency capable of making their cases classified. By the government, in other words.

The door downstairs open. I stay where I am, confident that the suggestions I’ve already planted on Isabel will do the job I need them to do.

“He’s cute, though, don’t you think?”

“MOM, why do you keep asking me about him? He’s not ugly, I guess, but who cares? Are you screwing him or something?” I hear Sarah’s chuckle, but it sounds nervous, like she half believes her joke. Well, shouldn’t she?

“Sarah!” Isabel seems about to get a good scold on, but I hear her trail off, and I can almost tell what she’s thinking: I am screwing him, aren’t I?

I hear them move into the living room, which is farther from the stairs, so I can’t hear their conversation any more. Time passes, and I nod off. Isabel comes into the room after a while, and when she sees me on the bed, she quickly shuts the door, and draws in a little gasp. I take the shades off and look her in the eyes. She seems about to tell me off; while she’s gathering her thoughts, she’s interrupted by a sudden bout of being Stunned. So, the effect still works, but there’s a delay now. I can deal with that, as long as it doesn’t get any worse.

“Did you tell her about the trip?”

“I didn’t know she was coming.”

“She’s coming. Bring her up here.”

A minute later, Sarah comes into the room, and looks at me with a shocked but triumphant look. “I KNEW it!” she cries, and turns to her mother, but notices the slack look on her mother’s face, which has resumed as soon as Isabel came back into the room and looked me.

“Mom? Why do you keep doing that?” Her face screws up with puzzlement and she looks over at me, as if I knew the answer. The answer’s right here in my eyes, Sarah.

“What’s going on?” she asks me.

“Just a minute,” I say, stalling.

My stall tactic works. Her eyes lose their focus, her body seems to relax.

“Sarah, take your top off.” Sarah’s wearing a polo shirt from Burger King, where she obviously works. She mechanically reaches for her sleeves and pulls the shirt off her back. Sarah’s tits are larger than her mothers’, a healthy C cup on a teenage girl. I wonder if they’ll get any bigger.

“Sarah, what did your mom tell you about me?” I ask. This gets no reaction from Isabel, of course. I just want to hear Sarah’s voice, since I could just as easily ask either one of them this question.

“She said she thinks you’re cute, she said she thinks you’re close to my age, she said I should be nicer to you.”

“Did she say she was my fuck slave?”

“No.”

“You are both going to take a vacation with me. Smile.”

They both adopt sunny smiles. These become a little disconcerting after a moment; real people don’t smile like that unless they’re standing behind a cash register. “Stop smiling.”

“Sarah, your mother is my slave, but you are my toy. You will do whatever I say, whenever I say, and you will love it. You exist to do my bidding. It fills you with joy. You can’t wait to answer my every whim.”

Sarah thinks about this, then nods. She smiles again, but the smile goes away on its own this time.

“This includes sexual things, including things you’ve never done before, and things that, until now, you’ve either never considered or considered and thought disgusting.” To both of them: “Kiss each other.”

Isabel and Sarah turn to each other and give each other a friendly kiss on the cheek.

“Not like that, for god’s sake. French-kiss each other.”

There’s a visible hesitation this time, and I can’t decide whether to be surprised about that. It’s almost as if the suggestions work better when the hypnosis is over. That fits my idea of how the subconscious works; like there’s a shopping list it leaves on the kitchen table for the consciousness, and the consciousness, the obedient husband, just goes shopping and picks up whatever the subconscious told it to. And I’m going in there and changing the list, when the subconscious is still around to watch me do it.

Finally, they turn to look at each other, and I’m faintly pleased to see that Sarah is the first to close her eyes and tilt her head slightly. Isabel leans into her, mouth open, and their tongues brush . . .

“Stop.”

They stop as if frozen, the tips of their tongues just touching. Then they pull apart and stand facing me again.

“Isabel.” There’s one more piece of business to take care of. Isabel blinks at me. “Isabel, what do you want for your daughter and me?”

“I want you to teach her about proper sex.” Good memory, dear.

“That includes watching us do anything I want to her. If I tell her to get on her knees and lick my asshole, you will hold up her chin for her, do you understand me?”

“Yes, I will hold her chin.”

“No, stupid. I mean, no matter what I’m doing to her, it’s fine, and you’re pleased with it, and it is not off-putting. Now do you understand?”

Her confused look says no, but so far these “Do you understand?” questions have been redundant; they understand, and they do what I tell them whether they understand or not.

I put my shades on. They both look at each other, faces clouded with uncertainty, until I say, “Thanks for showing me your tits, Sarah.”

Sarah glances at me, and smiles demurely in a way that makes me want to defile her lovely near-innocence on the floor in the worst way. But I refrain, mostly because I’m still satisfied from taking her mother.

Isabel says, “I’ll just leave you two alone,” and turns to go downstairs.

“I’m just going to go to back to sleep, Isabel, but why don’t both of you stay with me? In bed, I mean. Tomorrow, we’re going on a trip.”

“We are?” Sarah looks puzzled.

“Yeah, we are . . . where are we going? Did you say?”

“I didn’t say. We’re going to New York City. We’ll start packing tomorrow.”

Sarah cheers and hops, making her bra-trapped C cups do a bounce. “Sarah, you can sleep on this side. Isabel, you get to sleep on that side.”

“Oh, I get to sleep in my own bed, do I?” she says, with a wry look.

That night, I fall sleep with my arm around Sarah, my hand cupping her firm, smooth breast. After Isabel gives up rubbing her crotch against me and licking my earlobe. I’m too exhausted for sex; besides, I have some plans to do some of that tomorrow.

The next day I wake up late to the sounds of Isabel packing, with Sarah frequently popping in to ask where this haircare product or that top is. I groan. Sex slaves or not, travelling with women is always the same. I stagger out to the bathroom, but on my way there, I pass Sarah and squeeze her ass, making her giggle and bend at the hips, as if to offer me access. OK, not exactly the same.

I spend my morning trying to figure out how to get us on a plane. I don’t make a lot of money contracting, and anyway I haven’t been paid in a while, so I can’t just buy three cross-country tickets. Oregon to New York City isn’t cheap, especially with only hours’ notice. But what the hell, I’m the supervillain here. The Green Goblin never has to buy fucking plane tickets. Well, that’s because he has that flying plate thing; bad example. OK, the Joker never has to buy tickets. I’m pretty sure the Joker can’t fly, yet he seems to get around. But then, everything in Batman happens in Gotham, so maybe he doesn’t have to? I decide not to pursue this line of thought any further.

You can’t trick someone into giving you a ticket for free, not these days, with the new security, ID checks on every flight. Who the hell are they kidding anyway? Someone like me could do the damage of a million terrorists, if I had the right plan. I need to come up with one of those.

I wonder whether it’s worth it to conceal my identity for this flight, but as far as I know, nobody’s looking for me. Might as well not worry about that yet, solve one part of the problem at a time, then refine. That’s how I program software, and that’s how I’ll tackle this.

Thinking of software gives me an idea, and I tell Isabel that I’m going next door to pack. She smiles and says, “We’ll be ready in a couple of hours. When does our flight leave?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say as I walk outside and shut the door, not waiting for her reaction.

[hi ‘gain :—)]

[hey nerdette. hypothetical question.]

[ok.]

Lisa’s smart. I’m smart, and I wouldn’t have a friend who wasn’t smart, but someone as young as Lisa has to be even smarter than my other friends, because she has the natural handicap of being young and stupid. By stupid, of course, I mean “inexperienced,” which she is. But she has an analytical mind, and she has a certain amount of distance from this problem, which helps.

[let’s say you’re a superhero]

[uh, okay :—P]

[how would you get money?]

This takes her a second. Then she catches on, clever little sweetie.

[ok, I use my power to turn leaves into cash]

[that’s cheating, no good. You have to have a normal power, like zapping stuff with laser beams from your eyes. Oh, and you can’t fly]

[ok, I break into banks and take their money]

[uh...super*hero*]

[superman would just charm his friends into giving him money]

[ah, ok. that’s good. let’s say your power is charming people.]

[then I would find some rich drug dealers or something, and just charm them]

Find someone wealthy, and get the money from them. Obvious!

[where would you find the drug dealers or whatever?]

[places where rich people hang out with a lot of money. Uh, the bank, the airport]

I almost knocked myself out slapping my forehead so hard. People loaded with travellers’ checks were easy marks at the airport.

[thanks, lisa]

[sure]

Sarah and Isabel stroll into the airport ahead of me, happily pulling their suitcases behind them and talking as if this trip was in their plans all along. I pay little attention. I am watching for businessmen in expensive suits. I could have pulled this trick on anyone, really, but even a supervillain has to have some principles.

I spot my first mark, and send the girls to sit by our bags and talk. They barely notice me going, so excited are they about the plane flight. I pull my shades off as I approach.

“Excuse me, what time is it?”

The 50ish guy with the gray silk tie and charcoal suit in front of me looks up. Then he looks down at his watch briefly, looks back up at me, and says, oddly hesitant, “6:30.” As he speaks his eyes track mine, then flicker away, then track mine again. I try focusing on him a little harder, but finally, he gives a double-blink and asks, “Late for your flight?”

What the fuck? “No, thanks. Say, do you know if they’re letting people go to the gate without a ticket?”

“No. Pain in the ass, my wife won’t even come with ... " Like a car running out of gas on the freeway, his speech winds down completely. Good grief, if this is gonna take 5 minutes every time I do it, my plan may not be practical after all!

“Do you have any travellers’ checks?” He nods. “How much, total?” Eight hundred dollars. “Give me six hundred dollars worth.” That would cover two tickets. “Make it out to Grant Jackson Souvenirs.” The bank ought to have no problem accepting that. He obliges.

“All right. When you get these cancelled checks, just forget about the name on them. Shred them, never think about where you spent this money again. Forget you ever talked to me in this airport.” He nods, and I let him go.

The next few marks go pretty much the same, although none is carrying as much money as charcoal suit. The third one is a woman, and I notice that she succumbs much more quickly, but still nowhere near as fast as the first few times I Stunned. Three more after her, and I have about two thousand dollars from 6 people who will not be bringing home many souvenirs from their business trips.

With this wad in hand, I let Isabel and Sarah know that I will be going to the bank, where I cash the checks. Forty-five minutes later, the three of us are sitting at the gate, waiting for our flight.

The flight finally departs at 10:30. Even with free money and superpowers, apparently you still have to wait for airline schedules, and last-minute tickets are neither cheap nor convenient. After purchasing the tickets we have about six hundred dollars cash left, and at the gate I shoved half of it into Isabel’s panties and the other half into Sarah’s when nobody was looking. I’m not sure why I did this, just seemed like a good idea all of a sudden not to be carrying conspicuous amounts of money.

We’re an hour into the flight. The pressurized cabin and the late hour would normally put me out in minutes, and in fact Isabel is snoring almost imperceptibly in her window seat. We’re seated near the back of the plane, in part because I’m worried that I won’t be able to get more money and don’t want to waste it on first class. But it’s also because I have a plan, and I think little Sarah can tell something’s on my mind.

She keeps giving me a lascivious smile, and snuggling against my shoulder. She’s already licked my ear twice. Finally, she whispers, “I can’t wait until we land. Your toy wants to please.”

“Why wait?” I whisper back, then look behind me. We’re only three rows in front of the rear bathroom. Nobody’s looking up, and half of them are asleep anyway. “Get in there,” I order, pointing to the bathroom door with my head. She hesitates and then, with a serious expression, unbuckles her seatbelt and walks to the back. She gives me one last look, slightly nervous, then enters the bathroom. From three rows away I can’t tell if she locked the door or not. Hope she’s smart; I don’t want to have to knock and make it even more obvious what we’re doing.

I wait five solid minutes, give Isabel a nudge to see if she’s going to wake up, then I unbuckle and stand up. Nobody even looks at me, so I just head straight back to the toilet and am gratified to see that the little vacancy plate on the front of the door is green.

Inside, I find that Sarah and I will have very little room to maneuver. I also find Sarah with her tan skirt pulled up, her hand underneath it and buried in her panties, and her bra and blouse sitting on the sink next to us. Have I mentioned how firm and pink her tits are? Small, pink nipples, and I think she might have pinched them to make them a little redder. I smile and shut the door, this time turning the lock.

I unbuckle my pants, and drop them around my ankles. Since I can’t bend over in this little space, I’m forced to put my hands on the walls for balance and let Sarah pull my shoes and pants off. Then she grabs my underwear, and with a horny leer up at me, pulls them down and in the same motion leans over to shove her mouth onto my cock.

“God DAMN,” I grunt. I thrust into her mouth three times, then I pull her mouth out with her hair. As soon as I let go, she tries to put my meat pacifier down her throat again, but I grab hair and stop her. I have just remembered one more item I got from the airport clientele. I instruct Sarah, and she, reluctantly and with a pout, helps me put my pants back on. We decide for efficiency’s sake not to put the underwear on; instead, I shove them into her mouth, and she smiles around my tighty whiteys as I step out.

In my carry-on bag I have stowed a digital camera that one of the businessmen was carrying (and now believes he lost before he even left home). Isabel is groggily coming awake, so I wait for her to reorient herself.

“Where’s Sarah?” she asks, still confused.

“Bathroom,” I whisper, pointing with my thumb in that direction.

“OH.” She smiles at me. “Have fun!” She sinks back and looks out at the dark blue night outside the plane.

Now back in the bathroom. Sarah’s still there, still smiling around my underwear. We once again struggle with my pants, but this time I tell Sarah, “I’m going to fuck that 18-year-old pussy of yours. We’re joining the mile-high club, you and I.”

“Mmph,” she says. I pull the briefs out to let her speak. “17. Year old.” Sweet. Then she stands up and we do a little pornographic dance as I wrestle her naked body onto the door side of the room. I decide to seat myself on the toilet, with my legs close together; she turns to face away from me, then she turns her head so she can watch my eyes. She lowers her ass, her perfect trim oval ass, over my crotch. I reverently put my hands on her two cheeks. This is it; I’m going to become a statutory rapist.

Her eyes close and air gushes out of her mouth softly as my cockhead finds the right place. I feel her blond bush, so very soft, and then she’s sitting in my lap, her cunt and my dick pinched together just like the two of us are squashed together in the little airplane bathroom. And then I learn how very athletic Sarah is. Without needing my help, she places her hands on the bathroom walls down low, and lifts herself up out of my lap, then back down. She’s fucking herself on me, and it feels like heaven.

“Grant,” she half-gasps, half grunts. “Gggggnnn!” I quickly put my hands under her ass and grab her asscheeks like they’re two eggs I’m trying to crush. Together, we lift her up again, and back down, and god dammit if her pussy isn’t fucking soaked. I can feel her wet arousal leaking between my legs and into the toilet, and the rest of her is starting to build up a sheen of excited sweat.

Interlocked like that, all of our muscles engaged, both of us start to pant rhythmically as I violate Sarah. For several minutes I am literally pushing her up and letting her settle herself back down onto my prick. Neither one of us is speaking, just grunting as quietly as we can, and I can smell the sweat on her body. At one point I decide I want to taste a 17-year-old girl in the middle of her hottest fuck, so I lean forward and lick her sweaty back. Finally, I tell Sarah, “I’m ready to blow.". She looks back at me curiously. Her face is red, and her bangs stick to her forehead with sweat. “Get on your knees.” She nods, lifting herself up awkwardly, then gracefully twirling around and kneeling between my knees. Her arms fold around me and grab my asscheeks the way I did hers.

Her mouth moves toward my groin where I make her pause with her tongue out. Happy anticipation is written all over her sweat-slicked face. I grab my cock and point it straight into her mouth. I start jacking, resting my dickhead on her moist tongue. I stop myself from shouting, “Fuck”, almost blowing our cover. Then I jerk back slightly as I go off, hitting her in the teeth and lips. Then on the cheeks, then on the tip of her nose (that wad quickly runs into her nostil), then just below her right eye. She seems unable to hold herself back now, and her pert teenage mouth once again closes around me. My cock keeps spasming even though I know I’m probably done, and she looks down, concentrating on her work of getting every last drop. Wow. I didn’t even have to tell her to do that.

Finally, as she licks me clean, I remember the camera. “Smile!” I say, and she blinks up at me, then gives the most adorably embarrassed smile I’ve ever seen. The fact that her lips are caressing the tip of my dong and her bright pink face is splattered with thin goo adds to the effect. I snap the shot.

“Enjoy yourself?” Isabel asks as I sit back down. Sarah is already sitting in the middle seat looking at her hands, still flushed but no longer breathing hard or smelling like she just sprinted through a porn movie set.

I pinch Sarah’s cheek. “I love travelling.”