The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sweetener

I trudge off of the street and through the revolving door of my building early Friday evening, interested in nothing but a shower to get the subway off of me and then maybe a drink at the ground floor bar afterward.

“Hello Miss Ellis. How was your day?”

“It’s over, Phillipe. That’s about the best thing that can be said for it.” I can’t help but smile at the beaming lobby attendant’s beatific grin. Proud of his teeth, is our Phillipe. They are very large, very white, and one of his incisors is missing (lost in a gunfight, ala the old west, according to no one but him). He’s the most relentlessly cheerful person I know, which I try to keep in mind for the purpose of perspective, especially when I’ve had a “hard” day at the office like today. From what little I and the other residents have garnered about Phillipe’s actual, non-high-noon-gunfighter past over the years, well, lets just say the man deserves the pleasure he gets out of his job. I think the residents would torch the place if the owner ever tried to get rid of him. If I catch him peeking at my tits when I’m walking out in my jogging outfit, well, everyone’s got flaws. Sometimes I consider turning and giving him a shimmy, just to see what would happen.

“Miss Ellis, the postman asked me to let you know your box is full again.”

I sigh. “Thanks Phillipe. Can I get a bag?”

I’m scared to ask him if he keeps the wad of plastic shopping bags in his lower drawer just because of me. I have some sort of mental block about the mail, I hate checking it. People don’t write letters anymore, so it’s either junk, bills, or bad news. I cross my fingers every time some nutjob in congress proposes shutting the postal service down.

Flapping the bag Phillipe gave me to expand it, I pop the door on my mail slot and shovel the pile inside of it. There’s enough heft to it to threaten the structural integrity of the bag, and at first blush most of it is those stupid coupon-newspapers you can never get them to stop sending you. Cutting down all those trees just to make this crap, don’t they know they’re killing Flipper?

“Thanks a million, Phillipe. I’ll see you later.”

“Of course, Miss. Enjoy your evening.”

I lug the bag along with my work bag over to the elevator, sitting open on the first floor by default, and bump my elbow against the button for 18. As the elevator ascends, I rest my forehead against the cool metal of the door. Maybe a bath is in order, instead of a shower. Maybe a bath with bubbles, and candles, and a bottle of wine in easy reach. Yeah.

The elevator starts to brake, shaking me out of my daydream, and when the doors open I step off and make a beeline for my door at the end of the corridor, passing the other three condos on this floor and turning the corner to get to mine. My work heels click on the marble until I reach the door, which is wood with the surface carved into some raised abstract geometrical patterns. I let my work bag thump to the floor as I rummage in my coat pocket for my keys. Sliding then home, I grab my bag and shove my way inside with a knee with a knee.

Lemme talk about my door for a minute. I might have bought this condo (which was admittedly outside of my responsible price range when I got it a few years ago) just for the door. It’s inches thick and hardwood and incredibly heavy. On the back there’s an honest to god metal crossbar, etched with a design to match the pattern on the door, which lays across it settled into two hooks welded to the similarly patterned door frame.

It’s totally ridiculous, almost siege-worthy, and I love it, because when it closes, no matter how gently, it closes with authority. You can feel the air pressure in the apartment change. It gives me this immense sense of security and safety, although, truth be told, if there was an emergency the fire department probably wouldn’t be able to chop through it quickly enough to save me. Que sera, sera.

I drop my work bag by the door and the sack full of junk mail on the kitchen counter. Returning the foyer, I perform my coming-home ritual of leaning most of my weight against the wood to get the door to click shut, and then lifting the crossbar (the most strength training I get in a day) and carefully laying it home in its cradle with a clunk.

Safe from the world and the world safe from me, I decide to deal with the mail before getting undressed for that bath. That way I can justify the bottle of wine I’m taking with me as a reward for doing my grown-up chores. Upending the plastic bag (which is already disintegrating) that holds the pile of federally delivered garbage, I start going through it in order of size, chunking coupon-newspapers, catalogs, and unasked-for newsletters from various local concerns into the recycling bin. Then it’s down to the obvious credit card/home equity offers, life insurance ads that threaten your (wholly theoretical) children with death by starvation when mommy/daddy inevitably dies in a car accident, and copies of bills I already get through e-mail.

This leaves the worst set of mail: plain white letters. These are mostly unscrupulously camouflaged advertisements of all the previous varieties, more bills I already get through e-mail, and, once in a blue moon, something like jury duty or IRS forms, which is the only reason I check the mail at all.

Neither of those this time, it’s all ads and bills, although one is a reminder note from my dentist that it’s almost time for a cleaning, and includes a free spool of floss and a toothbrush, both of which I set to one side. The only other odd letter is an ad for some new artificial sweetener, which includes a few sample packets. I usually just take my coffee with sugar, because the pink stuff is too sickly sweet, the blue stuff gives me headaches, and stevia has an aftertaste like metal shavings. Still, a few less calories wouldn’t go amiss, so I toss the packets in the drawer by the coffeemaker on the off chance they aren’t vile.

So, fifteen pounds of mail yields a toothbrush, some floss, and some sample packets of sweetener. I bet if you worked the math out on how much gas it took to move that fifteen pounds of paper across the country, it would turn out my pile of mail from this week represents five acres of clearcut forest. I need to write my congressman. Maybe they could give everyone a government issued email address that the IRS and courts could send you stuff to, and we could finally take the USPS pony express out behind the barn and go all Ol’ Yeller on it.

Job done, I open a bottle of wine and pour it into a decanter to breathe (I’m so fancy) and I head into the bedroom to and strip down to my underwear, putting my blouse in the pile for the dry-cleaners and the rest of it in the hamper for the building’s housekeeping staff to launder Thursday (did I mention I spend too much money on this place?).

With that out of the way, I walk into the bathroom in my underwear and start the water, pouring a little bath oil into the water and lighting a few candles. While the tub is filling, I make a quick trip into the kitchen to retrieve my wine. Setting it with a glass on the edge of the tub, it’s finally time for my very favorite daily ritual: Taking Off My Goddamned Bra.

Seriously, I’ve had orgasms that weren’t as pleasant as releasing the girls from a day of bondage. I’m not sporting G-Cups or anything, but I have a pretty good rack, and I don’t think God really had 14 hours of prison a day in mind when He created tits. With a happy sigh I rub them and stretch, then slip out of my panties and step into the steaming, sweet-smelling bath water. First I lower the dimmer until most of the light in the bathroom is from the candles, and then I lower myself, almost groaning in pleasure as the hot, oily water slides over my skin, until there’s nothing of me above the surface except knees, nipples, and nose.

Coming back up for air, I use a wash cloth to clear my face and eyes, and then reach over to pour myself a glass. I’m not a wine snob, but I know what I like, and this fifty-dollars-a-bottle red is something I really, really like right now. I take sips while I allow the heat from the water to slowly soak into my bones, drawing the tension from my muscles while the wine draws the tension from my brain. Work thoughts begin to fade until the office becomes an abstraction, a place from the not-bath, which is almost inconceivable at the moment.

Well, mostly inconceivable. There is that intern, the journalism major. What’s his name? Scott. Oh yeah, Scott. Scott is pretty. Tall, with sandy hair that’s never quite in order. Thin, with delicate hands and long, clever looking fingers. Scott is about as low on the totem pole as it’s possible to be, in terms of office power. It’s a paid internship, and it’s with a company known to either hire their interns or get them hired elsewhere, so they’re expected to be grateful and diligent. I wonder how grateful and diligent Scott is. He doesn’t work directly for me, but the people he does work for report to people who report to me. I might as well be Zeus for all little Scott is concerned.

I smile into my wine glass and let the fantasy continue. Say I arrange it so that Scott has too much work to go home on time, and being the diligent worker I know him to be, he doesn’t skip out, but stays long after all of the other offices have gone dark. Say Scott’s boss’s boss’s boss, c’est moi, knocks on the door of the closet he calls an office and asks what he’s doing there so late. I’m all smiles while Scott explains some task or other I don’t really care about, and I indicate approval at his work ethic, and ask him to follow me to my office to talk about his future career plans.

In the real world, my hand slips under the water and between my thighs as I continue the fantasy. Of course he follows along like a puppy, perhaps with a cute nervous stammer as he speaks to me. We get to my office and I pour one drink, not two, and take it for myself. I lean against my desk without inviting him to sit down and explain how truly valued employees are expected to go the extra mile, blah blah blah. I ask him if he’s willing to go the extra mile, and of course he’s willing. I walk up and indicate he should bend his head close to hear my next words, of which there is one.

“Kneel.”

With just the right amount of confusion in his eyes to make it hot, he obeys. I whisper his next instructions into his ear, and the confusion changes to shock and then to just the right mixture of hesitation and compliance. I stroll back over to my desk and lean against it, facing him with an eyebrow raised, waiting.

His hand slowly moves to the fly of his cheap slacks (back in bathtub-reality, my hand is not moving in a fashion I would call “slowly”) and unbuttons them. With a puppydog glance back up at me he hesitates, but seeing no clemency in my confident, unblinking gaze, he draws down the zipper and pulls the halves apart to expose his boxer shorts.

Decidedly not meeting my gaze, he pushes one of those delicate hands through the fly of his boxers and pulls out his soft-but-generous cock and smooth balls (hey, this is my fantasy) and then lowers his hand back to his side, staring at the floor of my office. I look him over, kneeling there, completely under my (egregious abuse of) power.

I stand up and, heels clicking, move directly in front of him, so his view is of my feet. I reach down and cup his chin, raising his face to look up at mine. His eyes meet mine for a moment, then lower and look to one side, like a good submissive puppy. I stroke his cheek and smile.

Meanwhile, back in the water, I’ve pressed my wine-hand into service, setting the glass down and letting it play with the slippery, rock-hard pebbles my nipples have become. I’ve got two fingers inside of myself and my palm is mashing against my clit for all it’s worth.

Satisfied that my little intern is in his proper place, mentally, I bring two manicured fingers to his lips, and let them rub them back and forth, feeling his pliancy and the slight stubble of his day-growth of beard. As I play with them, I tell him, “Look at me.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and, holding his gaze, I press my fingers against his mouth until it parts to allow them through, his brow furrowed at the violation.

“Suck.”

His eyes widen slightly, and his cheeks redden, but he complies, holding still at first, then gently bobbing his head after I thrust a few times, fellating my fingers.

“Stroke yourself.”

No hesitation, this time, we’re past that (in my head). He wraps both hands around the length of his cock (again, this is my fantasy), and begins to work it, swiftly getting hard.

I’ll be honest, the fantasy starts losing coherence at this point, and I pretty much just focus on the visual of him sucking and jerking off while I fingerfuck myself and maul my tits back in the bath. Soon enough, my brain has him moaning around my fingers and spurting thick streams of jism across the marble floor of my office, and about five seconds later I’m trying not to drown in my own bathroom while I ride out my orgasm.

Once I recover, happily relaxed, I reach over to pour another glass from the decanter. This may not be the wildest Friday night on record, but I’ll sure take it.

* * *

A peek out the window into the gray pre-dawn shows that while it’s drizzly outside, it’s not wet enough to give me an excuse to skip a jog, even with the mild hangover. I pad into the bathroom and do my business, and then into the kitchen for a glass of water and a couple of aspirin.

Groaning a little at the thought of physical activity, I stuff myself into my spandex jogging outfit and lace up my sneakers, putting my hair in a ponytail. Setting the coffeemaker’s timer to have some ready in forty five minutes, I unbar the door and let myself out, headed downstairs.

Phillipe gives me a cheerful greeting when I step off the elevator. I don’t know when he sleeps. Or eats, for that matter. I’m oddly offended that I don’t catch him sneaking a peek at my spandex-wrapped body, and because of that and the rain I do my stretches inside today, which, believe me, provides a bit of a show. I couldn’t check to see if he looked, but c’mon, he looked.

Grinning and shaking my head at my own weird brain, I set a steady pace and manage to finish my jog in about the right time, the last of my hangover flushed out by the sweat that’s rapidly chilling on my body. On my way back through the lobby, this time I do catch a Phillipe sneaking an eyeful, which makes my elevator ride back up a smug one.

I shut my door without bothering with with the bar, then pour my coffee. After I pour my milk, I go to grab a sugar cube to find the box empty. Ugh, I hadn’t even noticed I was running low.

Score one for the post office, I guess. Hoping it’s not too vile, I fish out a couple of the packets of sample sugar substitute I got in the mail yesterday. The packets are those clever little ones that if you pull on a tab one way while holding the packet firm in the other, the whole thing sort of vomits out its contents into whatever it’s over in a nice clump. Not my favorite packaging, but happily I’ve used them before, so I don’t spill.

Deciding to stick to one packet in case it’s super sweet, I take a sip, hoping that it’s not as vile as I expect it to be. And it isn’t! It’s actually about right for one cube of sugar worth of sweetness. I grab the little packet and check for the brand name, happy to leave a few calories out of my day. Unfortunately, it just says “Sugar Substitute”. I guess the name and nutrition info were in the larger package I already threw out. That will teach me to have disdain for the mail.

Sipping my coffee somewhat less happily, I idly flip the wrapper over. That’s when I notice the print inside the packet, like those yogurts with the writing inside the lid. Usually it’s supposed to be advice, or a platitude. In a weird little lowercase-only typeface it reads:

“yrjoxbl itq aoxmz zr g fskjpqw txtb r rxdgp hlgql”

Which is a little odd, because of course I’m going to do that. I don’t need some sweetener-packet-cum-fortune-cookie to tell me something that obvious.

Later that evening, as I’m getting ready to slip into bed, I double check to make sure the front door is unbarred and standing open, just because the sweetener packet made me weirdly paranoid that I would forget to. Just to be certain, I use the heavy bar to prop the door so the heat kicking on or something wouldn’t accidentally make it shut. Feeling a little silly that I got so worried I would forget, I pull on my nightie and slip under the covers.

Still a little too wound up to sleep, I revisit my little Scott fantasy, and it works really good at first, but as I’m frigging myself during the, uh, “final scene.” I realize it’s not just working for me. It would be much hotter to jack Scott off myself, so that’s what I do, stroking him with one hand, cupping his heavy balls with the other while he submissively moans with pleasure. That gets the juices flowing, and I cum again to the vision of him erupting all over my office floor. After that I sleep like a baby.

* * *

Sunday morning is gray again and goes pretty much the same as Saturday. I use the bathroom and get into my spandex, set the coffee timer and head to the elevator, leaving my apartment propped open. I do a little stretching for Phillipe’s benefit, this time flashing a little bit of the crack of my ass as I “adjust” the waist of my shorts. This time when I make it back in from the run, he’s almost staring openly. I smirk on my ride back up the elevator.

Pouring my coffee, I realize I forgot to replace my sugar when I went to the grocery yesterday afternoon. Grabbing one of my dwindling supply of substitute packets, I let it unfold into my coffee. Idly reading it while I take my first sip, today’s advice is:

“tnuoz tlw wa ztgromq wjl zkcj ek anu pizve”

I roll my eyes while I crumple the paper and pitch it into the bin. Who gets paid to write stuff like that? You might as well tell people to be sure to remember to draw air into their lungs when they breathe. I head to the shower and then get dressed. Before I head out for my other errands I use the internet to find a concierge doctor who can come take a blood draw for a fast turnaround blood panel. I also schedule an appointment with my OBGYN on Monday afternoon.

That night after I make sure to double check the door is propped open, I wash my face and turn the thermostat up a few degrees. I strip all the blankets, comforters and pillows off my bed, until it’s down to just a sheet, and I slide onto it, nude. I lie face down with my legs splayed wide and try to go to sleep.

Unfortunately, like the night before, I’m still to keyed up, so I decide to, uh... invite Scott to my office again. Like the night before, I have trouble finishing again until I change it up a little bit. This time I have Scott stand up while I jack him off, and instead of letting his seed spill onto the marble I catch it on my exposed tits, coating them, and I finally have a bucking orgasm to the image of smoothing his cum into the skin of my chest, taking special care to coat my nipples extra carefully while Scott submissively looks on.

* * *

Monday morning I take the trouble to play with the girls on the way down the elevator to jog before work, so when I stretch for Phillipe they’re standing at hard attention. I think he appreciated it. My run goes a little long, so I’m in a little bit of a hurry when I’m making my coffee, and I leave the building without performing my new little ritual of reading the stupid sweetener packet while I rush to make the train.

Once I’m seated and we’re out of the station, I pull out my laptop to get some work done before I get to the office. When I fold it open a scrap of paper that had been sandwiched inside falls out of it and lands on the seat next to me. Grabbing it, I see it’s the stupid sweetener packet. I don’t even remember throwing it in my bag, but part of me is kinda happy I get to have my morning diversion of marveling at the inanity of the advice. This one reads:

“q rqfc a vghv phbyt pkuxw ifggctzawn lqx kcuxtqv”

I just barely stop myself from snorting out loud at that one. Crumpling up the paper, I put it in my pocket to throw away when the train gets to the station. I power on the laptop and start working. Checking my email, I’m pleased to see that the blood panel I ordered is back already.

That evening, after I get home from the gynecologist, I take the time to have a glass of wine before I double check that the door is propped open and all the blankets and pillows are put away. I take the little black plastic bag I got from a shop on my lunch break and head into the bedroom. Opening the package the bag contains, I discard both of them and take my purchase with me into the bed. Once I’m comfortable on my stomach with my legs spread wide, I tongue the little inflatable plug to get it wet and then raise my butt a little while I push it into my asshole. Once it’s seated, I squeeze the little hand pump until the plug has spread me open as far as I can take (tonight). With that done, I take the silicone phallus and push it deep into my mouth, until I’m right on the edge of gagging, and then buckle and tighten the attached straps behind my head.

I’m ready for bed, but that same keyed up energy is demanding release, so I retreat back into my Scott fantasy, changing it up again to keep it fresh. This time I use my mouth instead of jacking him off, and I make him do all the work, putting his hands on the side of my head and thrusting his girth into my mouth over and over again. His first stringy rush of cum goes straight down my throat without being tasted, but I make him back out a little so the rest fills my mouth up, so much I cough and a little comes out my nose. It’s the thought of the taste that brings me off this time, and him standing over me with my hair wrapped in his fist, looking down at me submissively.

* * *

On Tuesday, when Phillipe tells me good morning as I’m getting ready for my jog, I take his hand and slip it inside the front of my spandex shorts, letting him finger my pussy for five minutes. I think he enjoyed it, but unfortunately it meant I had to cut my run short, and I was in such a hurry to get to work I forgot my coffee. I really must have been scatterbrained, because when I put my hand in my pocket after I boarded the train, there was the sweetener packet. Chuckling at myself, I emptied it into my mouth (it tastes just like sugar, even straight) and read the package. This one was a real humdinger:

“iumio”

I don’t know why I keep reading these, but it feels like tradition now. I concentrate on work until the train reaches the station, where I go into the public bathroom, remove my bra and panties, and throw them away before heading into the office. I’m just glad I had the presence of mind to wear a silk top this morning, my nipples look great through it.

That night, after checking the door, getting into bed, and putting in my plugs, I don’t even try to go to sleep before I masturbate, I can tell it wouldn’t do any good. This time Scott is plowing me on my desk, hard. I’m wearing nothing but a collar and heels, and I’m sucking his fingers while he pounds me. I don’t manage to orgasm when he cums, though he fills me with so much some spills out all over my papers. I only manage to bring myself off when when he pulls me upright by my hair and slaps my fat tits back and forth a few times with that submissive puppydog look in his eyes.

* * *

The next morning, just as I’m getting up, Phillipe walks through the open door of my apartment. I’m hardly fit for company, I’m still naked and gagged, with the hose and pump of the buttplug dangling behind me like a weird tail. Phillipe processes this for a minute while he looks at me, then he just pulls out his cock and begins stroking it. I walk over, put my hands behind my back, and kneel in front of him, and stare up at him, unblinking. Moments later he’s coating my face with a relieved sigh. He leaves without saying a word and I rush to get dressed for my jog. By the time I get back the cum on my face isn’t warm anymore.

I do make it back in time for coffee after my shower, though, and my morning ritual with the packets. Unfortunately, this is the final sample, so I need to remember to buy some sugar today. I dump the contents of the packet into my coffee, and then read the message:

“zegqq rd gye amdo xy”

Groaning at the inanity, but still sad that this is the last one unless I can find out who makes them, I toss the packet into the garbage and grab my phone, first to call in sick to work and then to type in an email:

Tiffany Ellis, 29
18443 Skyline Rd. #1804
BA Stanford, MBA Harvard
$162K annual income
No Children, No Significant Other
Parents Deceased, No Siblings
Certified Fertile
Certified Disease Free
AAA Credit Rating
Condominium Included
Anal Virginity Included (Currently Plug Training)
98%+ Susceptibility (5 packets)

I strip off my clothes and set up the camera in my phone to record a movie. I slowly turn with my arms raised to show myself in every profile, and then inserting my toys. I save the movie, attach it to the email, and hit send.

Then, nude except for the sex toys, I move to the middle of my living room, where I am conveniently visible from the open front door. I kneel and spread my legs wide, lace my fingers behind my head and push my elbows back, so the girls are shown to best advantage, and wait to be claimed by the winning bidder.

As I contentedly suck on my gag and flex my ass around the plug, the only thing that bothers me is that I still don’t know where to get more of that damned sweetener.