The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Hank, Hank! Wake up!”

Greg was calling my name and gently smacking my face.

“Wow, wow,” I said. “I must really have been gone. How long was I out, Greg?”

“Oh, I guess about 45 minutes. But I watched, and I think I have some ideas about how I can help you. I understand a lot better what’s going on here. Do you want me to help you Hank? Do you trust me?”

I looked at him, at Greg. I looked in his eyes and saw strength and control.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do trust you. Will you help me Greg?”

He nodded.

“Yes Hank. I only want what’s best for you. But I need you to follow my directions, okay? I need you to obey me so that we can get the better of this thing. Will you do that Hank?”

“Yah, Greg, I will. I’ll follow your instructions and do what you say, because I need help; I know I need help.”

“Good boy, Hank.” Greg said, cupping my cheek and then giving it a light slap. “Okay, let’s get started with your ‘treatment’. Now the first thing I saw when you fell into that state when you started watching the spiral, or whatever it was, was that your hands went to your tits and you immediately sprouted a big boner. I’m thinking that you’re having a lot of boners these days and that bothers you, right? I mean, it can’t be good to be tenting your slacks in the middle of a meeting.”

“No, no, you’re right; it isn’t good. I need to get some control of my erections.”

“Okay. Well if you really want to get some control, I have just the thing to help. But you’ll need to take your clothes off.”

“Take my clothes off? What the hell for Greg?”

“Well the solution to your problem with erections is to keep from getting erect. And I have a device I can put on you that will do just that. You said you would follow my instructions and obey me, right boy?”

“Right. Yes sir, alright.”

“It’ll be easier if you have your clothes off. Plus, once I install the erection control device, I want to see your tits in the suction cups you’ve been wearing.”

A little disconcerted, but wanting more than anything to feel like there was some control in my life again and wanting to please Greg, I did as he instructed: I removed my shoes and socks, unbuttoned and took off my shirt and then my pants and stood in front of Greg.

“Umm, everything Hank. I can’t install the device when you’re wearing your briefs.”

Nodding and mumbling “yes sir,” I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my briefs and blushing from top to bottom, I pushed my underpants to the floor. Then I took my undershort off. Once again, I stood facing Greg, but now fully nude in front of my co-worker, while he remained fully clothed. I cupped my hands over my genitals, seeking some modicum of modesty. To this point, no one had seen my shaved body. I felt like a little boy standing naked before my father.

“Hands to your sides boy.”

“Yes sir,” I answered, somehow, this level of respect now seeming appropriate because of the contrast in our “statuses”: i.e. me naked, him not. Now I really felt like a little boy.

Greg knelt down in front of me.

“Just look straight ahead, Hank. I’ll tell you when I’m finished. It’ll only take a minute.”

I felt something slide up around my cock and balls from below. Then, with a couple of movements, I felt my genitals encircled. Greg took my cock and squirted something on it, making it feel wet. I shivered in pleasure. Then a string was tied around my cock head. In a few seconds, I felt something being slid over my cock and the string tugged against it, pulling it into a metal surround. A little bit of fumbling around, a click and Greg stood up.

“Voila!” he sang, pointing at my tackle.

I looked down and saw that my dick was enclosed in a metal cage. A metal ring circled my dick and balls. And it was locked on me!

“What the hell is this?” I said, suddenly very worried and a little angry. What the hell was Greg doing locking my genitals up like this?

“It’s a cock cage, a chastity device. It will control your erections. And to give you the confidence that your dick is safely out of reach and won’t become erect at inopportune moments, I’ll hold onto the key so you won’t be tempted to remove it. Right Hank?”

He held up the key and I watched it go into his pocket. For some reason, I saw the logic of his argument. Chastity cage installed, no worries about erections at bad times. Suddenly, I felt relieved. Greg would take care of everything for me. I reached down and felt the cage. It was hard and felt foreign. I could see my dick inside and it felt secure.

“You’ll have to sit to pee, of course. But you won’t mind, will you Hanky?”

Whenever Greg had called me ‘Hanky’ before, I seem to recall losing awareness. But this time, I didn’t. But I did feel subservient to him; I felt like an inferior.

“Yes sir, I mean, no sir. I won’t mind,” I answered. “It seems right that I should have to sit to pee.”

“Good boy. Now, go get your nipple cups and your lotion.”

“Yes sir,” I answered, and scurried off to my bathroom. Soon, I returned with the articles Greg had ordered me to get. He held out his hand and I placed the cups, lotion and jar of cream in his palm.

“Okay Hanky, stand with your feet spread, hands behind your back. I’m going to work on your tits and I want to see how much your tolerance is.”

I obeyed. My cocklet in its cage was oozing precum, though getting hard was out of the question. Nevertheless, I knew that if it had been free, it would have been slapping against my belly. Having it in a cage gave me a sense of security, strangely enough.

Greg seemed to already know what he was doing; he squirted a small amount of the lotion with the hyoluronic acid in it on each finger tip. I don’t remember when I’d gotten it, but I was fairly sure it was after one of my online sessions with Ted. I think he’d instructed me to buy it. Greg touched the tips of my tits with his lotioned fingers. I caught my breath and my knees flexed involuntarily. Then he began stroking my nipples, pressing his fingers and thumbs together, sliding up the cones of my nips, looking into my eyes. It was as though my nipples were attached to my eyes; I couldn’t take my eyes off his.

“Trust me, boy, trust me. I’ll take care of you. Everything will be alright. Just trust me and obey me. Do what you’re told and you’ll be fine. Tit slave, good tit slave.”

“Yes master,” I mumbled. “Do what I’m told.”

Greg pinched my tits hard and twisted them, making me gasp in pain/pleasure. Then he lifted up, pulling them toward the ceiling, making me rise up on my toes as I groaned.

“Good,” he said. “Very nice.”

Holding on to my titties, he moved his hands in circles, stretching my pecs in all directions. I was groaning and placed my hands on his wrists, not so much to resist as to have something to steady me as my head swam.

Greg let go of my nips and I whimpered in need. I wanted him to be working my nips. He spread some cream on the flanges of the cups, squeezed them and applied them to my nipples. I felt the, by now, familiar suction, pulling at and expanding my titties. They became little cylinders protruding from my chest.

“Good slave,” he said, squeezing the cups and applying them to my nipples. “Good tit slave. Good boy. Now you’re mine. Tell me you belong to me.”

“I belong to you.”

“Say ‘I belong to you Master’”.

“I belong to you Master.”

“Tell me you’re my tit slave.”

“I’m your tit slave Master.”

“Good slave. Very good.”

As he was leading me in this conversation in which I felt I was falling deeper and deeper into submission, he was kneading the cups, forcing my tits to expand to fill them. Soon my tits were like small fingertips, filling the cups. When they were fully expanded, he squeezed them hard. I grabbed his wrists and fell to my knees.

“Master!” I gasped.

Grasping and twisting my nipples swelling nipples, Greg spoke to me in a low, soft voice.

“Do you recognize me slave? Do you realize now who I am, tit slave?”

“Master!” I groaned. “Master Ted.”

“That’s right tit fag. I’m Master Ted. Of course, we can forget about Master Ted; now it’s Master Greg. So tell me slave; who’s your master?”

“You are Sir; you’re my Master. Master Greg.”

“Good fag,” he murmured. “Good fag. You’re just what I’ve wanted and been working toward: my own tit slave.”

“Thank you sir,” I answered.

He pinched the cylinders of my expanding tits and I went weak, a shiver running down my spine and terminating in my groin. My tits hardened and reached for his hands. My caged dick throbbed inside its confines. He squeezed my tits and twisted them and I both whimpered and groaned deep in my throat, beyond words, for words were unavailable to me in my primal lust. His other hand snaked down my crack to my hole and I pushed back against it, my ass wanting more. My chest pushed against his hand, begging for more. Pushing my ass back, my chest forward, bent me into an S curve; S for sex. I am a sex-curve waiting to be bent even further.

“Please, please,” I whispered in my mind. “Please use my tits sir.” But guttural moans and whimpers were all he heard.

He looked into my eyes and nodded, smiling. “Yes, my tit-slave. I know what you want and need. I know because I created you as you are now: to want it and need it: my tit-slave.”

How I wanted it; how I needed it. How far I had come. My tits were like fingertips protruding from my pecs: long, swollen, hungry knobs of dark brown flesh, needing, wanting, begging for more.

“I’m your tit-slave,” I whispered, and he pinched the instruments of my slavery hard and laughed, knowing exactly what I was thinking and trying to voice.

“Yes, I know,” he says. “You’re exactly what I wanted; exactly what I made you: My tit-slave. Your nipples are becoming your chest dicks; you won’t have any more access to the dick between your legs; it’s mine now. From now on, the dicklets on your chest will be your primary source of sexual pleasure. Oh, and your holes, of course. But that will take some training. You’ve told me that you’re pretty much a virgin both orally and anally, so I’m going to have to train you to be both a cocksucker and a fuck slut. But that’ll be easy, now that I own you. Right tit fag?”

“Yes sir,” I groaned, my spine twisting in pleasure/pain as he kneaded my tits. “I’m yours sir, to make into whatever you want.”

“Good boi. Just do as I say, and we’ll be fine,” Greg said, grinning at me. “I’ve been laying this out for a long time and I’m glad it’s finally coming to fruition.”

Epilogue

That all took place a year ago. Today, my tits are as long and as large as the tips of my little fingers. Master Greg (we now live together as spouses) pumps my tits every day. I wear the cups of course (the largest size they make) all day, every day. No more tight-fitting dress shirts for me; I’ve gone loose-fitting so that the protrusions are too obvious. Sometimes, when we go out at night or on weekends, he makes me wear a T-shirt and my chest dicks are obvious. People can’t keep their eyes off of them and I flush with humiliation and my caged dick oozes precum. At home, I wear vacuum cylinders that have increased the length of my tits to ½ an inch in their unpumped state. I continue to wear a cage on my dick and Master gives me a prostate milking once a week to maintain my health. He says he wants his slave to be healthy and, above all, horny.

Master has trained me to be a cock sucker and a fuck hole. In addition to the cage covering my dick and the nipple cups, I wear a large metal butt-plug all day to keep my hole open and stretched. Because he has a lot of sexual stamina, he fucks either my mouth or my hole every day. When he grasps my nipples, both holes open automatically, and he enjoys using me.

So far as I know, he doesn’t hypnotize me anymore: he says that he doesn’t need to; that he’s conditioned my brain and turned it into the brain of a tit fag, which is to say, I have no will or choice at all when he calls me “tit fag” or “tit slave” or “tit slut”. Come to think of it, whenever he addresses me with any demeaning term proceeded by “tit”, I become his submissive fag, ready to do whatever he wants. And we’re happy. When we’re together and it’s just “Hank” and “Greg”, we get along very well. We’re known as a couple everywhere we go and most people wish us well, even in the office. We were married about six months ago and we wear matching wedding bands. It’s lovely.

But when we get home, well then, things are a little different. At some point during the evening, most nights, he calls me “tit slave” or something similar, and that’s what I become. He orders me to strip, checks carefully for stubble on my body, which remains shaved, and pumps my tits. Then he begins training. “Open up tit fag,” he says, and I open the hole that he intends to use.