The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Isabella sat trembling in front of two detectives who stared at her with skeptical looks on their faces.

“Look, Miss Porter, it’s not that we don’t want to believe you,” the younger detective began, “but you’ve got to admit, this story is pretty fantastic ...”

The older detective, a short, white haired man, interrupted gruffly, “Look, we don’t have time for this. You know what happened. Just tell us the truth. It will be much easier on you if you do.”

“I AM telling you the truth! Don’t you think I know how it sounds?” Isabella sobbed. “But please, you have to believe me . . . you must believe me.” Wiping the tears from her eyes, she whispered hoarsely, “He tried so hard . . .”

It seemed like love at first sight when Isabella met Sean Marler. She didn’t know why; he wasn’t really her type. He was thin and gangly, slightly nerdish and clumsy, at times, but he had these amazing brown eyes with a piercing gaze that seemed to permeate Isabella’s soul. Within hours of their first meeting, they were holding hands, conspiratorially sharing hopes and dreams over coffee. A day later, they were lovers, practically ripping each other’s clothing off in the hallway outside Isabella’s Back Bay apartment.

Sean moved in after that, not really asking Isabella. She’d been prepared to argue about it, but he gently touched her elbow and whispered in her ear, “You know you want me here . . . you need me here.” All the reasons she’d come up with against it inexplicably melted away and all she could do was nod and welcome him in.

Not that him moving in was completely a bad thing. She had to admit she felt safer with him there, given the recent series of brutal attacks on people in the neighborhood, vicious ones, almost animalistic.

And then, there was the sex: brilliant, mind-blowing sex that left her exhausted, yet wanting more. And Sean was willing to give more. It seemed at times he was almost insatiable.

One night, shortly after Sean moved in, Isabella was struggling over work, weary and frustrated. Suddenly he was behind her, one arm pulling hers behind her to restrain her, the other hand moving to her breasts, tweaking and teasing her nipples through her clothes.

“I can’t do this tonight, Sean,” she snapped. “You need to go ahead and get some sleep. I’ll be up all night on this.”

“No, you won’t, my Belle”, he whispered in her ear as the hand that had been attending to her breasts went down her stomach, slipping under the waistband of her sweats. She tried to protest, but he somehow yanked her into a standing position and moved his hand lower, caressing her mound, slipping a finger in to run circles over her swelling clit.

The moment he did that, she was helpless to resist. He dragged her to the bedroom, kissing and biting her neck as he stripped her, chained her hands to the bed, and began to suckle her nipples. Isabella moaned and bucked against her restraints as Sean’s mouth moved lower and lower, kissing her thighs, his fingers thrusting in and out of her dripping pussy.

Before she went over the edge, he turned and raised her legs up over his shoulders before thrusting himself into her, hard, over and over. Isabella groaned and pushed hard against him, trying to rush things along. But Sean wasn’t going to let that happen. He was relentless, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of her until she finally passed out from a combination of exhilaration and exhaustion.

The next morning she awoke to find herself still bound, an impish Sean grinning at her: “Did you enjoy that, my Belle?”

At first she wanted to grumble at him for distracting her, for not unbinding her, but he ran his hand over her thigh and all she could do was mumble and nod incoherently.

“Good; so did I. We’ll be doing that a lot, if that’s okay.”

And they did. Sean seemed to know when she was tired or cross and he would “take matters into his own hands”. Isabella would respond as if she was in a trance, unable to resist or refuse, and they would make wild love until the sun rose.

The months flew. The couple fell into a comfortable routine. As spring moved into summer, the entire neighborhood seemed to relax as the earlier violence that had spread such fear seemed to dissipate into the warm New England air.

Then, one July weekend, Sean’s boss insisted he fly to Dallas to meet with some of the company’s investors. Isabella had been under the weather, so the idea did not sit well with her.

“Why you? Why do you have to go?” Isabella asked petulantly.

“My sweet Belle, it’s my job. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but it has to be.” Tilting her chin up, Sean kissed her and whispered in her ear, “I have to run. Just lock the door behind me. There’s no need for you to be out and about, okay?”

She nodded and sulked as Sean walked out, promising to call the moment he arrived in Dallas.

Six hours later, Isabella still had not heard from him. She called his hotel. He had never checked in. His cell phone went straight to voice mail. Upset and enraged, she made a pitcher of margaritas and drank herself into a stupor.

The next day, she awoke with one hell of a hangover, her anger still not gone. She opened the door of her apartment to get her Sunday paper. As Isabella skimmed the headlines, her face went ashen: “Gruesome Attack Near Downtown Crossing Leaves One Dead, Three Injured”

Isabella crumpled to the floor in a heap, shaking. It wasn’t over. She tried again to contact Sean, to no avail. The more she tried, the angrier and more frustrated she got. That night, another attack near Copley Square left four more in critical condition. Isabella was almost beside herself in a combination of fear and rage.

It was just after midnight Monday morning when Sean arrived back at the apartment. Isabella flew at him the moment he walked in.

“Why didn’t you call? I needed you. Why the fuck didn’t you call?” she screamed at him.

Wordlessly, Sean turned away, walking slowly to the bedroom. As Isabella followed, he began to pull his clothes off. Suddenly, his t-shirt fell to the floor.

A bloody t-shirt.

Before Isabella could say anything, Sean grabbed her and began trying to take her to the bed. Crazed with anger, she fought him hard, her nails starting to dig into him.

“Belle, please ...", he begged. “Don’t make this harder.” He tried every way he knew to calm her, control her, arouse her, even. She wasn’t having any of it.

“You lied to me. You lied to me. You said you could control this.” she sobbed.

Suddenly, her eyes grew very dark. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“I’m not leaving you. Not before ...”

It was the ear piercing screams that prompted the neighbors to call the police.

“I warned him. I screamed at him to leave, but he wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t let go of me. There was nothing I could do.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued. “When he got to Dallas, he checked Channel 4’s website and saw the early reports of the attacks in Downtown Crossing. He immediately booked a flight back here but he couldn’t get in until late Sunday. He stayed at the airport all night, trying anything he could to get on an earlier flight, but he had no luck.

“When he finally did get in, Sean saw me leaving the apartment and decided to follow me. He tried to stop the attacks at Copley Square, but it was too late. I was too far along in the transformation—I had no clue he was even there. He tried to save those poor people, but he was just a few moments too late.”

The younger detective stammered, “I . . . I . . . don’t understand. How was it that you went months without . . .”

“Without attacking? Simple. Sean knew when I was prone to transformation, and . . . well, he knew how to distract me. When we first got together, he worked with me on relaxation techniques so that he could just touch me and I would be . . . pliable. That’s when he would restrain me. Of course, being a healthy young man, he decided we should have some fun with it. And boy, did we ever have fun.”

She smiled wistfully at the memories for a moment and then the tears began to fall again. “When he suddenly had to go out of town, I was nervous because I wasn’t feeling well and I knew that would be dangerous for me. And he was in such a hurry to get out that I started to get suspicious. I thought he was cheating on me or something. God, I should have known better. He was trying so hard to get back to me so that he could touch me, soothe me—he had to in order to make the triggers work. If his plane had only landed on time . . . if he had just stopped running long enough to call . . . so many ifs . . .”

Isabella shook her head ruefully. “By the time he finally got home, I was so worked up, nothing short of an elephant tranquilizer would have stopped me. But he tried; he tried so hard to keep me from changing again. And, when he realized he couldn’t stop it, rather than risk me going back out, he put himself between me and the door, so that no one else would get hurt.”

Isabella turned to look at the detectives—who were both suddenly staring at her, shaking. Her eyes were black. As her nails began to lengthen and her body began to change, she growled, “You see, gentlemen, the stories never told you that Beauty and the Beast were actually one and the same. And now, I’m telling you what I told him. You need to leave.

“NOW.”