The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sometimes it feels like there is a switch in me. A switch that only you seem able to flip. And when you flip my switch, suddenly I can think about nothing else but being your little pleasure slave. About nothing else but new ways that I can touch and entice and excite you, and a desperate urge to do so.

Lucky for me, you also have a switch. Lucky for you, I know how to flip it.

In the morning, my eyes open with intention. I survey the room around me and prepare for the day. I quickly focus my mind.

I’m on a mission; it’s one I’ve completed before, but it’s also one with an ever-evolving target. That mission is you.

Sometimes, those mission’s goals shift. Sometimes my mission is to distract you; other times to observe, record, analyze. Still other times it is to infiltrate.

That’s the mission I’m on now: infiltration. To penetrate the very, very good barriers (physical, emotional, mental) that you have spent a lifetime building. And they are good, aren’t they? They have done their job so well, so many times.

Except with me, that is.

When it comes to me, those barriers cease to provide much defense. And it seems that no matter how many times you have told yourself that we are really done (we’re not), that I have no more power over you (I do), that you are no longer vulnerable to my touch (you are), it’s never really the case.

And it never really will be.

Of course, infiltrating you is never easy; you are a problem that demands novel solutions. You’re dynamic (if not occasionally a tad mercurial and fickle). But that’s also part of the fun.

So I’m reporting for duty.

You’re not sure when it started. But it did. (And now it’s not going to stop.)

It begins as a distraction. A little tingle at the base of your spine; at the back of your brain. (And other places, too.)

It’s like a sense memory. But of what? A touch? A smell? A feeling? (Yes.)

You think: You can still push away. (Not really.)

You think: It’s been too long, and you’re immune to her tricks. (You’re not.)

You think: You’ve gotten better at resisting, and she won’t be able to wriggle her way into your brain this time. (We’ll see.)

So it starts subtly. Once sporadic thoughts about touches and whispers and breaths caught in your throat become...less than sporadic. Fragments, moments, memories of things past start to linger. That’s when the longing develops; something akin to a nagging reminder that you’re missing something (my touch), or missing out on something (me).

And though you can still mostly focus, that won’t be the case for long. You’re responses are already starting to change (perhaps a little smile when my messages come through, or more urgency in seeking signs of my presence?), almost as if you are being trained. (You are.)

The key to brainwashing you has always been to make you think that you aren’t being brainwashed. To create a situation where you willingly lower your barriers, and inhibitions, enough so that I can come in and do my will.

And so I nudge you along, while letting you still think you’re in control. In ways covert and overt, I’m directing you where you need (want) to go. And when you push back, as is your way, you only belie how badly you actually want (need) it.

So, I watch and I wait and I plan. I anticipate your reactions and devise my responses. (Sometimes I wonder if you have brainwashed me.) I test, I optimize, I try again. And I aim to get better.

I think: How do I make sure you never hear any voice but mine in your head when you cum.

I think: How can I insert my (our) mantra deeper into your brain, to make it almost reflexively stiffen your cock.

I think: How do I remind you of my grip when I’m stroking you. Of the instinctual way I move up and down your shaft, over and over and over (as if it’s been programmed into me). Or the way I gently squeeze your balls and feel them get heavier and heavier. The way I press, and pull, (and take, and own) every part of your body, making you tremble, making you explode, turning you into nothing but one long, orgasmic spasm from head to toe (mine).

And while I think about all of this, I also start to think about what I want (need) you to do to me. How eagerly I await the feeling of your hands running over my body, drinking in my smooth, pale skin. Thinking about you cupping my (high, small) breasts while you kiss the back of my neck and squeeze my hips. How incredibly wet I still get imagining you on top, or below, or behind (a perennially ticklish, once again tiny) me.

My mind wanders. I masturbated yesterday thinking about what I should tell you today. And I did it again today, thinking about what I want to tell you now. You were always so good at urging me to cum (still are). And as my whole body turns into a puddle after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm (15 in the last 24 hours), all I can think about is how badly I want to show you my deep ache to have your cock in my hands, in my pussy, and in my mouth. To feel you on top of me and me on top of you.

But once my brain wanders down this path, there’s little I can (or will) do but indulge it. My hips start to move back and forth and around; I’m squirming in my seat (imagining grinding against you while you sit under me). A coy smile (you know the one) keeps finding its way onto my lips as my brain wanders back to you (over and over, again and again). And while I am training my mind to be better and faster at taking (and owning) you, I’m starting to wonder if you actually own me.

So I indulge (I’ve never been good at resisting you, have I?). My thoughts, sometimes jumbled, always seem to arrive at the same place: You. Now. I’m so easily distracted when it comes to thinking about you (and your touch, and your cock); I find myself lost (for hours, for nights, for days) wrapped up in these fantasies. And when I think I have finally successfully regained control of my thoughts, some reminder manages to come out of nowhere to turn my mind to you (to your words, your hands, your weight pressing on top of me) once again.

Gah! I need to snap myself out of this distraction, but it just seems to be getting harder and harder. But it just feels so good (dear god it’s fucking good) to float in and out of memories from our past and anticipate every move I hope to make should the future allow (please).

I think: How can I become your little cum engine, spending all of my time making myself cum for you, planning how to make you cum, exhausting you every morning and waking you up every night, until you can feel the intensity of my ache for you in every part of your body.

I think: How can I make you cum so hard you’ll never be able (or want, or need) to think about anything else. How do I remind you of all the ways in which I’ve been able to “get” you (get under your skin, get into your brain, get you to cum when you were sure there was no way that you could or would give in), and all of the ways I still “get” you.

I think: How do I remind you of how good it feels when I stroke you, and squeeze you, and talk you off, and get you to that place where there is nothing else in the world but my hands and my touches (relentless), where you couldn’t stop yourself (even if you had to), where the only thing you can do is listen to me, and succumb to me, and cum for me (inevitable). How do I remind you of how good it feels to be mine?

Once again, I try to break out of the horny haze in which I’m floating. I really just want to finish this story for you. I really just want to do a good job (and to get a little deeper, and remind you a little more vividly) so that I can finally complete my mission. I really just want to show you how good I can be.

And then (quietly, but in what is unmistakably your voice), I hear: Have you been, really? Have you been a good girl? Have you been practicing for me?

(WIthout hesitation: “Yes” and “please” and “god” and “let me show you.")

I start to wonder just who is brainwashing who.