The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a bright Wednesday morning; the kind of day where every tree in London is in full blossom and life feels ripe. I was excited about my next patient—no matter how many years I do this job, I never get bored of meeting a new patient and seeing how I can help.

My patient was early. She was sitting in the waiting room, and I watched her on the CCTV feed from the comfort of my office. She was perched on the mid-century armchair, glancing at the art on the walls: a Picasso print; a Hockney drawing; a Warhol poster. She didn’t seem to see any of it. her mind was elsewhere.

She was in her mid thirties and was very attractive in a hard, unyielding way. She was small and slim, but compensated for her lack of height with an imposing set of heels. She wore an expensive-looking designer trouser suit and had styled her dark brown hair into a severe bob. Everything about her radiated control; not a happy, confident control, but the control of someone whose anxieties don’t allow them to let go.

She kept clicking her heels against the floor. Tap tap tap tap. She looked impatiently around the waiting room and applied her hand sanitizer. Tap tap tap tap.

I glanced over the dossier that my assistant Melissa had prepared. Ah, my sweet, lovely Melissa. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her. She maintains the practice so efficiently, keeping on top of all the paperwork, acting as my receptionist and adviser and helping out with my hands-on approach to the patients. I really must give her a raise one day soon. After all, she had once been an extremely promising therapist herself, until I intervened and recruited her to work for me (for half the money she’d previously been on). Yes, a raise was in order, particularly since she’d paid for that boob job last year out of her own pocket.

Back to the dossier. My client today was Hannah, the 36-year-old CEO of a London marketing agency. She was successful, single and childless. A career woman who had worked hard to be her own boss, but whose mental health issues were causing her to unravel.

I buzzed her through and ushered her towards her chair. She sat down and looked me directly in the eye—she was clearly someone accustomed to a direct approach. No time for niceties—I smiled at her and she grimaced back. I’m not sure she was used to smiling.

I rested back in my chair and took a moment to let the silence hang between us.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

She paused, unsure of where to start. Part of her clearly didn’t want to be here.

“I’m here… because I need...help,” she spoke in a stiff, clipped voice, as though forcing the words out of herself. “I don’t enjoy admitting it, but my… issue has reached a stage where I believe that outside assistance is necessary. I cannot manage on my own. And you come highly recommended.”

“I try my best,” I smiled. Modesty goes a long way. “And can you elaborate about this… issue of yours?”

“Germs.”

“Germs?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s one way to say it. I’ve always prided myself on tidiness and hygiene. Even as a child I was fastidious about washing and cleaning. When I’d play in the park with the other children, I could never fully relax, knowing how grubby I was getting. Over the years it’s gotten more extreme: this need to be clean. My life feels empty. I live a sterile, well-ordered existence. Antiseptic, almost. No complications. No mess. And for some time that worked alright, but… I can’t go on like this. It’s an obsession.”

“That sounds challenging,” I empathised. “Can you elaborate about this obsession?”

I gave her a gentle mental nudge that she could trust me, sensed the tension at the back of her mind beginning to melt.

The words tumbled out of her: “I… I… I suppose it’s some form of OCD. I’m obsessed with everything being clean. I shower three times a day. I wash all my food before eating it. I wipe down every surface with disinfectant. I have my flat cleaned five times a week… but it never feels enough. There’s always grime somewhere; dust floating in on the breeze, germs and viruses that I can’t even see…it’s impossible. I can’t win.” she sounded exhausted.

“That must be very difficult for you…” I said in a soft, paternal tone.

She nodded. “I never have friends over. I’ve stopped socialising because nowhere is clean enough. I built my company from scratch but now I can’t bear to be in my own office! I haven’t travelled on public transport for 18 months now. ” She let out a small, strangled sob.

“What about relationships?” I ask.

“My last boyfriend was three years ago… I’ve had… intermittent episodes since then. But eventually my phobias always get in the way. Boyfriends don’t want to be told to disinfect their hands every 20 minutes.”

My heart went out to her. I may be a pervert but I’m not a monster. I sensed how unhappy she was and how narrow and joyless her life had become. The good news for Hannah was that I was going to cure her of her phobia. Maybe not in the way that she’d envisaged, but she wouldn’t be complaining.

I spoke up: “Let me say how brave you are for coming here, Hannah. Admitting you need help is courageous in itself, but given your issues, coming to my office must have been hard. Well done.”

I sent out more waves of trust. She was already accepting that she was safe with me. She started quietly sobbing—not from unhappiness but from relief. I handed her a tissue.

“Your obsession isn’t unusual, Hanah. Many of us struggle to deal with how chaotic and disordered life can be. You have learned to value cleanliness and to fear and loathe anything unclean. It’s understandable, and working together, I’m confident you can overcome your issues.”

She nodded. I was mentally loosening her up, so that she would accept anything I said as true.

“Hannah, I’d like you to close your eyes. We’re going to try a visualisation exercise.”

She lay back in her chair, shaking off her tension. She closed her eyes and a slight smile played on her lips. She was thawing out.

“Can you think of something that represents everything you fear? Something that represents germs and dirt and all those disgusting, unclean feelings you want to avoid?”

Her brows furrowed. Just thinking about it made her feel uncomfortable, but she was determined to answer me. I was proud of her, in my own way.

It took her a minute to reply. “A toilet,” she murmured in a husky, faltering voice. Her breathing was slowing down as she sank deeper into a relaxed, suggestive state.

“Very good, Hannah. Very good. A toilet is a useful answer. Now, I want you to visualise a toilet. Clear your mind and see it very clearly. You’re in a gents toilet in a pub. It smells strongly of urine. The pub is rough; the tiles on the floor are broken and there is graffiti on the wall. It’s the kind of place you’d usually find utterly disgusting.”

I could sense her recoiling as I spoke, but I reached into her mind and helped her feel comfortable.

I continued: “But today you don’t feel repelled by it. You feel happy. You feel so good here. And then you see it: the urinal. It’s a typical men’s urinal—you know what that looks like, don’t you, Hannah?”

She nodded, her eyes still closed.

“And when you see the urinal, you feel a real sense of contentment. Just being near the urinal fills you with joy. This is your happy place. You love this toilet; the smell of piss, the sticky tiles beneath your feet and most of all, you love that wonderful urinal.”

“Yesss…” she moaned. “I love it.”

I smiled. “You love it because you’ve always wanted to be a urinal.”

I watched her face. Her eyelids fluttered. I could see her struggling to take in all this new information, but in a matter of seconds her jaw relaxed and I could see she was accepting my words.

“I’ve always wanted to be a urinal,” she agreed.

“That’s right, Hannah. You’ve always been fascinated by urinals. Their shape, their porcelain surface, their function. And over time you’ve started to feel jealous of them, haven’t you? You’d love to swap places with a urinal. Your head is always buzzing full of intrusive, unhelpful thoughts. But a urinal doesn’t have any thoughts, does it? It just sits there, simple and blank, as men urinate into it. No doubts or fears or anxieties. Just happily accepting piss. It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. Her whole body seemed to nod along.

“And that’s what you want to be more than anything: a urinal. You want to be on your knees as men piss into your mouth. It makes you feel proud and gives you a purpose: they piss and you swallow. No fear. No anxiety. No shame. In fact, you find being a urinal deeply arousing. It turns you on like nothing else in your life. Whatever sexual desires you had before have disappeared. Your sexual energy now focused on being a urinal.”

“I am a sexy urinal,” she said with a sigh.

“And are urinals obsessed with germs and keeping things clean?” I asked.

“No.”

“Well, there you go, Hannah. You’ve taken your first big step. You know what you are, and you know that you don’t have to be a slave to your cleaning compulsions anymore.”

I asked her to open her eyes. She blinked and looked round, her mind adjusting to everything I’d told her. She accepted my words as truth—as far as she was concerned, she had always yearned to be a urinal. I hadn’t done anything to her except bring that truth to the surface.

“How do you feel?” I asked her.

“It’s strange,” she said. “I know that just a few minutes ago I was crippled by my obsession with cleaning, but it’s… gone. I know I’m the same person I’ve always been, but the obsession has… vanished. It’s like someone has flipped a switch.” She paused and smiled. A deep, genuine smile. “Thank you, Dr Rose. I can see why you’re so highly regarded.”

I blushed. Flattery always gets me.

I wanted to test how firmly she’d accepted her role so I stood up and made my way towards the door.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for a moment—I drank too much coffee before the session and nature calls.”

A look passed across her face; a mixture of shock, desire and confusion.

“You…you need to urinate?” she asked me with a stammer.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ll just be a moment and then we can resume our session.”

“Please don’t go!”

“I’m afraid I must,” I said. “I assure you I won’t be long.”

“It’s not that…” her voice trailed off. “It’s… well, I don’t want you to waste your wonderful piss on that toilet. Not when I’m here. I can be your urinal.”

“I couldn’t,” I said. “I appreciate that you’re coming to terms with your desires, but it would be completely unethical and unprofessional of me.

She became more insistent. “Dr Rose, please. It would help me to fully overcome my phobias. And you’ve already helped me so much. It would be an honour to drink your piss.”

I smiled to myself. Here I was, playing hard to get as my patient begged to drink my piss. I do love my job.

“Well…” I said.

Her eyes lit up. “I suppose it could play a role in your therapy… in physically proving to yourself that your phobias no longer control you.”

I led her towards the en-suit bathroom attached to my consulting room. She practically dragged me inside. She rushed into the shower cubicle and sat there with her mouth open, eager as a puppy. She looked adorable.

“Ahem…” I paused.

She gazed up at me, confused.

“You’re fully clothed, Hannah. I’d hate to ruin your outfit—it looks very expensive.”

“Oh yes, of course,” she said, as though getting naked for her therapist was the most natural thing in the world.

She coyly undressed, neatly folding her clothes and placing them in a corner. She had a wonderful body—slim and smooth with perky tits and lovely tufts of dark pubic hair. She sat naked in the shower cubicle, happily mouthing to herself “I’m a urinal… I’m such a good urinal…”

I stood over her and unzipped. I started to urinate; a dribble at first (I’m not getting any younger) followed by a powerful yellow stream that splashed all over her. She moved closer, desperate to swallow every drop, but I made sure I pissed all over her—covering her hair, her shoulders and her tits as well as getting it in her mouth. I wanted her soaked.

She hungrily swallowed as much of it as she could. I noticed she had reached between her legs and was furiously touching herself. She came in seconds and then lay there on the shower floor in a pool of piss, panting happily. My good little urinal.

I zipped up and she casually went to turn the shower on, but I stopped her. “You can have a shower later, Hannah. When you get home. Right now I want you to feel all that piss drying on you. Just get dressed.” I winked at her.

She easily accepted my suggestion and dressed herself. It was wonderful seeing the piss patches on her suit. We returned to my office and once she’d settled down (I promise she didn’t smell too bad) I opened her mind and gave her some long-term programming.

“I have good news for you, Hannah. From now on your obsession with cleanliness is well and truly over. You have a healthy, balanced approach to germs, dirt and cleaning. You aren’t a slob but you’re relaxed about hygiene. You’re happy to go a few days without a shower, or wear sweatpants and an old Tshirt at home. It’s just how you feel comfortable. You find that as your obsession fades you’re able to live your life more normally: you can go into the office as often as you want, and you feel positive and happy about your work. You’re able to live the life you want, without stress or worry. You have a vibrant social life and feel at ease with your friends.”

“Now,” I paused. “When it comes to relationships, you feel very positive for the future. You know you’re attractive, intelligent and good company and have a lot to give. You feel confident casually dating men and looking for longer-term relationships. However, you cannot forget that you’re also a urinal. Which means that very early on in your sexual relationship with men, you need to make it clear to them that they should piss on you. It’s a deal breaker. If they aren’t happy urinating on you on a regular basis (the more often the better), you can’t go out with them. And the more they piss on you and the more piss you swallow, the more you’ll fall for them. You fall deeply in love with men who treat you like a urinal.”

I brought her back to the surface. She was dazed but happy, her mind reorganising itself to accommodate all the new information.

“Well, the session is over, Hannah. And I don’t think you’ll need to see me again, will you?”

“No… I feel cured. I mean, I’d love for you to urinate on me again, because I’m your urinal, but in terms of therapy, I think I’m done.”

“Well done.”

“I think I’ll take the tube home,” she grinned. “I haven’t done that in years. Thank you, Dr Rose.” I wondered what her fellow passengers would make of the stains on her clothes. Well, I’m sure they’ve all seen worse on London Transport.