The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Eyes open, precious. We’re about to get started.”

At their words, I force my eyes open. Or at least, I try to. It’s hard, when my muscles are so sluggish and my eyelids are so heavy that keeping them open for more than a few seconds feels like having to run a marathon. I end up blinking drunkenly, my eyes out of sync with each other, fighting not to let them fall closed and slip back into the blissful blankness that’s so close and so tempting. That’s always how it is for me, in trance. But still, I keep my eyes open, because they asked me to.

“Good girl.”

Their soft voice is so comforting, and their praise brings forth a small whimper, a purr of gratitude. I love them so much, and I’m constantly in awe of the fact that they choose to lavish their time and affection and attention on me, out of everyone in the world. I’m not special. I’m not cute or smart or strong. They’re all of those things and more. My owner. My Mxtress. We sometimes say that they’re so powerful, they don’t need gender anymore. It’s a joke, but sometimes I feel like it’s really true. They’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met. In their presence, I feel so owned and so loved. They can hypnotize me with a single word or a single gesture, and I love it. I never feel safer than in moments like this, when I’m deep in the embrace of their words and their commands, thinking of nothing but obedience.

“Do you know what we’re going to do tonight?”

It takes me a long time to mouth the word ‘no.’ Every thought and movement feels like I’m underwater, swimming freely, without purchase.

“We’re going to put an end to that long-running argument you and I have.”

When I’m this deep, thinking is almost impossible and it takes me a long time to remember what they’re referring to. When I do, it worries me enough that a small shard of concern pierces the dense fog of hypnosis I’m lost in. It’s not enough to break me out of trance, but it’s enough to make me feel less deep, less safe. That’s what it feels like when I’m worried about letting them down. My fear must have shown on my face—or maybe they just know me that well—and their expression softens.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be proud of you no matter what, precious.”

That’s all it takes to fix everything. A little bubble of happiness at the genuine pride in their voice completely replaces my fear. It’s especially effective because of the term they use. Precious. It’s their favorite pet name for me. The first time they used it, it brought tears to my eyes because it was the first time in my life I’d ever felt like I could be precious to someone. They’ve used it ever since.

The ‘long-running argument’ my owner is referring to is about me. More precisely, it’s about the way I look. My owner tells me that I’m cute, beautiful, sexy, pretty, attractive, and all kinds of other things, but I never agree with them. I can’t. No matter what, I can’t believe those things about myself. It’s too deep, deeper even than their hypnosis goes. I’ve always known I’m unattractive. Unfeminine. I’m too tall, too wide, too flat-chested, too everything. It’s always been that way and I can’t change it, not really. I’ve been trying so hard recently but, while I can sometimes make myself look good enough to lift my mood for a few moments, it always slumps when it runs up against the deep, icy core buried in my heart telling me I’ll never be anything but a freak. My owner can’t stand that I feel that way. They want to help, but no matter how much praise they heap on me, it all slides off like water off a duck’s back. I tell them that it’s pointless, that I’ve made peace with how I feel about myself, but they won’t stop. ‘I won’t give up on you’, they always say. I love them so much for that.

I don’t know how they intend to ‘win’. I’m far too deep to try and imagine that. All I can do is watch as they rise from their seat on the edge of the bed and walk slowly around behind me. I shiver as I feel their hands on my shoulders, but I don’t resist. The idea of resisting doesn’t even cross my mind, not even when their hands slip down my front and start to slowly unwrap the long robe they told me to wear. I can tell from the way they’re moving that they’re taking pleasure in slowly disrobing me, allowing their hands to leave long, winding trails of raised hairs across my skin as they draw back the thin, soft fabric, leaving me naked. Their fingertips dance all over my chest and my shoulders, leaving little spirals wherever they go. Their touch takes me deeper. I’m so, so deep, but they’re taking me deeper. I can’t help it. When they touch me it becomes all I can think about, and then all my thoughts go quiet as I try to visualize the spirals they’re tracing and become lost in them, my eyelids becoming heavier and heavier with each one.

I’m completely still, a puppet held on their strings, but I’m not unresponsive. To the contrary, I instinctively respond to their will, moving in whatever way I sense they want me to. I raise my arms behind me, allowing them to pull the robe off me and drop to the floor. I’m naked. Normally I hate being naked, normally I’d be covering myself with my arms or diving under my bed sheets, but when I’m in trance none of that matters. I can’t feel embarrassed. I can’t feel anything except what they want me to feel. Yet, despite how lost to trance I am, when they lean in and I feel their breath on the side of my neck, threatening to kiss me, I can’t help but moan. It’s part of the magic of their hypnosis. I’m so deep it’s like I’m surrounded by jelly, but their voice and their touch cuts through everything. Nothing my owner does to me is numb. It’s hypersensitive; it cuts right to my core, so viciously intense that it threatens to send me falling to my knees each time, no matter how many times I experience it.

But they don’t kiss me, not yet. They draw back at the last second, leaving me wanting, and whisper in my ear: “I’ve got something for you, precious. A gift. Arms up.”

I raise my arms without thinking. They do all the thinking now. They slip something over my head, and I obediently slip my arms into the sleeves. A top? No, a dress. It feels thin and it doesn’t cover very much of me, but it’s comfortable. It feels expensive. My owner fusses over me, pulling the dress tight here and loosening it there to make sure it fits properly, and then they zip it up from behind. The way their hands move over my body feels divine. It’s like they’re a sculptor, molding me out of clay. That thought brings an absent, silly smile to my face. I want them to mold me into whatever they want. Nothing would make me happier. Nothing would feel better than to be their creation, instead of the person I am now. Then, I’d know for sure I was exactly what they wanted. I’d know I was pleasing to them.

“What do you think of it?” they murmur in my ear. Even in trance, there’s something amusing to me about the question. Why ask me what I think, when they know I can barely think at all? Thinking is hard. I don’t want to think. But because they asked, I make myself look down and strain my weak, entranced mind to form an opinion.

I barely feel it I’m so deep, but when I see myself in the dress, I’m shocked. It’s so much more revealing than I’d imagined. The sleeves barely cover my awkwardly broad shoulders, and the plunging neckline exposes my small breasts as best as they can be exposed. The hem doesn’t reach my knees. Now I know what I’m wearing, I feel distinctly less comfortable with myself. I can’t help it. I feel wrong. I feel like I’m not feminine enough to wear something this. I haven’t earned it with my beauty. It feels like a bad costume, and I must look like I’m making a fool of myself with it. It’s beautiful, of course—it fits perfectly, and all the small frills and details betray its price. It’s too good for me. Eventually, I realize from the silence that my owner is expecting an answer. Part of me wants me to tell them a bunch of white lies, but that part of me doesn’t matter. I can’t lie to them. I literally cannot.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, truthfully, my tone foreshadowing the ‘but’ to come. “But, it’s… it’s too…”

“You love it,” my owner tells me firmly as I struggle to form the words to express my complex dismay.

“I love it,” I echo. It becomes my truth. My love for the dress is suddenly the first and last commandment written in the holy book of their words inside my head, and it easily spreads outward from there, smothering any stray, dissenting thoughts. Within moments, I am rewritten. I know it’s happening, but that doesn’t matter. I let it happen. I love the dress.

“Good. I’m so glad you like it. I was worried, you see.” I can sense amusement in their voice. I’m too spacey now to figure out the joke but all the same, a dumb, drunken smile forms on my face in imitation of them. Their feelings guide mine. I’m so deep for them.

I wonder if this, this dress, is what they had planned for me. Did they think the right dress would be enough to rewrite my image of myself? They don’t keep me wondering for long, though.

“Sit down,” they tell me, applying a gentle push with their hand to my back, guiding me down onto the bed. It feels good, both being guided by their hands and being able to take the weight off my feet. When I’m in trance, it’s just so tempting to completely let myself go, to let all the strength drain from my body and slump onto the bed or into my owner’s arms. The only thing stopping me is knowing that for now they want me like this, eyes fighting to stay open, remaining just barely on the edge of awareness. As I sit, I feel the skirt of my new dress, still unfamiliar, fall around me and I blush. I don’t usually wear dresses, just jeans and a t-shirt. It helps me feel like I don’t stand out. Wearing a dress, especially a dress like this, makes me feel much more fragile. More feminine. I suppose that’s what they wanted.

My eyes are so unfocused that everything is blurred, but they become focused again once my owner places their hand on my cheek and draws my face upwards, encouraging me to tilt my head and look right at them. When they touch my face I instinctively start to nuzzle their hand, but I go completely still when our eyes meet. They have the most wonderful eyes, so wide and deep and green. The kind of eyes you can get lost in. I’ve been lost in them so many times and right now, it’s so tempting to just plunge into them like I have done so many times before. For the first time, it’s not a fight to keep my eyes open. If I tried, I know it would be a fight to close them. I can’t look away. Can’t… look… even those simple thoughts are starting to slip away from me now.

“Let me get this out the way,” they murmur as their hand traces a path up my face and into my hair, collecting it up into a bundle which they tie back into a ponytail. They break eye contact as they do so, but thinking doesn’t become any easier. Their hand running tenderly through my hair is pure bliss. I can’t imagine anything better. Where they stroke my hair, it feels like a ray of brilliant summer sunlight, the feeling of warmth and light suffusing across my scalp and sinking in. I can imagine it sinking through my skin and into my mind itself, my brain, melting my thoughts even more than they already are. So deep for them. Always for them.

“Nice and still now.” It’s an unnecessary command since I’m already nothing more than a doll to be posed as they like, but it still instills me with a fresh resolve not to move. They kneel in front of me—a strange reversal of positions. Despite the trance, despite everything, I can’t resist the urge to make a joke, not so much from my non-existent brattiness as from my instinct as an obnoxious dork.

“Good p-pet,” I slur as they kneel, and giggle. They smile, although I’m not sure if they’re smiling at the joke or at how I’m barely able to speak. They let me giggle for a moment before they reach up and place a hand around my neck. It’s firm, although not nearly tight enough to choke me. That’s all it takes. With a whimper, my giggles fall silent and I’m hit by an intense headrush of submissive pleasure strong enough to quell any urge except pure obedience. Now that I’m subdued, they resume what they had planned without even missing a beat.

My owner reaches down to the floor and then holds up a makeup sponge, loaded with powder. I just stare at it, puzzled, for a very long time before I realize: they’re going to do my makeup. They’re given me tips before—they know far more about makeup than I do—but never this. It makes sense, I figure, along with the dress. Along with what they said they were going to do.

I don’t know how I feel about that. I have a mixed relationship with makeup. I love it because sometimes it makes it so I can stand my own face, and I hate it because I need it so much for that. I hate how long I have to look at my own face in the mirror each morning. But with them, of course, it’s different. The way they dab the soft sponge onto my face, occasionally brushing me with a finger here or there to even out the powder, is incredibly relaxing, just like everything else they do to me. But moreover, this time I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror. I get to look at them instead. My owner. They’re so pretty and so handsome, somehow both at the same time. I always love looking at them, especially when they’re really concentrating on something. I love seeing the focus in their eyes when they’re dedicating all their energy at something important. They go very still, the only movement in their face being the way their eyes flit across the object of their attention and the way there’s a little twitch at the corner of their mouth, up or down depending on if they’re satisfied or frustrated with whatever’s happening. Sometimes I like to kneel by their side as they work or play video games, snuggling against their leg and looking up at them adoring. It’s the place I feel most safe in the entire world. The thing that makes now, this moment, even more special than that is that I’m the thing they’re looking at. I’m the thing they’re concentrating so hard on. All that attention and energy and focus and purpose and brilliance—all for me. I lose all sense of time as I watch them, sleepily studying their face like a portrait and basking in the feeling of being so loved and lavished.

Before I know it, they’re done with the powder. They lean back and take one moment’s pause to survey their handiwork and make sure it’s up to standards. It is. They set down the sponge, and then pick up an eyeliner pen. They rest the tip mere millimeters from the inside corner of my right eye, and then hesitate. I blink. They shuffle a little closer.

“Close your eyes now, precious,” they tell me. My eyes fall shut instantly, my drained, lax muscles grateful that they no longer have to fight. With that, I’m plunged into blackness and I find myself tumbling ten times deeper than before. Without my sight, I have nothing to hold on to. Nothing to orient myself by. I’m just swimming, loosely, aimlessly, happily trapped in a dense, smothering trance. All I can think about is them. My owner. I can sense them—their fingers just a few inches from my face, their body heat, their breathe, their scent. I’m surrounded by them in so many ways, and I can feel them inside me too, all their words and orders and hypnosis. Until moments ago, I couldn’t have imagined going any deeper, but now I am. I can feel my body relaxing, tight nests of tension I wasn’t even aware of being unwound and massaged away. I sigh a little and stretch myself a little, and then go completely still again. Just the way they want me.

“Good girl,” my owner whispers to me, and while I know to them it’s simply a rote response to my obedience, to me it feels like a blessing each time. I shiver with pleasure. It’s not sexual, not when I’m this deep. It’s so much better—the deep, heartwarming, life-affirming happiness of knowing I have fulfilled my purpose: obeying them.

I hold my breath when I feel them rest the fingers of their free hand on the side of my face, stretching the skin around my eyes ever so slightly to ensure I will be a smooth canvas for them to work on. A canvas. That’s a pleasurable idea. A canvas for them to work their art upon. Is that what I am? Their art? I feel a visceral urge to reject the idea immediately: how could I be good enough for that? But I know exactly what they’d say. They’d tell me that they are my owner, and that my worth is theirs to judge, and that if I wasn’t good enough for them they wouldn’t be with me. I’m so lost to submission that the self-deprecating urge is less strong, and the irresistible logic of the words they’ve spoken to me an embarrassing amount of times is more convincing. As they apply the eyeliner to my eyelids, drawing it out into long, elegant wings, there’s nothing I can do but accept it. I am their canvas.

Once the eyeliner is finished, next comes the mascara. I can’t see it, but I can feel the familiar tug of the applicator on my eyelashes, drawing them up and making them longer. With whatever tiny part of my brain isn’t completely under their spell, I find myself starting to wonder what I look like, and what I will look like then they’re finished. The makeup, the dress, my hair tied back. I feel a little excited to find out, but as usual, most of all I feel anxious. What if I don’t look as good as they want me to? What if I can’t feel as happy as they want me to?

My train of thought is broken by a sharp tap in the middle of my forehead. “Too much thinking going on in there,” they reproach, although not harshly. They knew, somehow, exactly what was going on in my head. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at this point.

“Sink,” they tell me with their finger still pressed against my forehead, and I do. They’ve made sure that word has a lot of power over me. The moment it passes their lips, I feel my thoughts turning in on themselves, churning and mixing and melting together until my mind is just an indistinct, formless mass. My anxiety is immediately gone. “Sink,” they tell me again, and everything goes deeper and darker, the melting mass of my thoughts draining away and leaving me nothing but emptiness. “Sink,” they tell me for the third time and as always, just when I think I can’t go any deeper, they prove me wrong. So empty. I find myself forgetting everything, happily, knowing I’m safe with them. I forget my name, I forget what day it is, I forget where I am—except for knowing that I’m with them. It feels so good to forget. I don’t need to hold on to anything. All I need is them, and this blissful emptiness.

“Good girl,” they say, and the pleasure I feel from that hums throughout my whole body. They finish off the mascara, although I’m so deep I barely feel it. The next thing I’m aware of is them telling me to pout with my lips, so they can put my lipstick on. I’m not conscious of obeying, although clearly I do because they don’t repeat the instruction. I feel them press the tube of lipstick onto my lips, first shaping the Cupid’s bow on my upper lip and then moving on to the rest. I don’t bother to wonder which color they’ve picked. Whatever choice they’ve made for is the right one. That’s a tautology. An absolute truth. After that, my mind goes quiet as I enjoy the feeling of them putting my lipstick on. After they shape the corners, they move the lipstick in slow, relaxing circles across my lips, moving from outward in almost like a spiral. It feels like a massage, and I can almost visualize the imaginary spiral they’re tracing. My mind starts to fill with the spiral, until I feel almost dizzy, like I’m falling into it. But then, they stop.

“Perfect,” they say, and even though that’s really just a comment on their own makeup skill, it makes me happy. I’m being a good canvas. For a moment nothing happens, and even with my eyes shut I can feel their gaze on me. I can sense I’m being inspected. The feeling makes me shiver. I’m theirs to inspect. That’s such a happy thought.

“Now for your hair.” My owner reaches behind my head and slips off the hair tie, allowing my hair to fall around my shoulders. They fuss over it for a moment, arranging my hair the way they like. I make a happy sound that comes out like a cat’s purr. Having my hair played with by them is one of my favorite things in the whole world. It gets even better once they stop using their hands and start using a hairbrush, drawing it through my hair perfectly, with love. It’s not like the way I would ever brush my own hair. It’s not quick or utilitarian, but slow and sensual. They want to turn this into a moment, an experience. They want me to enjoy it. I am. I’m blank and empty and thoughtless but if there’s one thing I know it’s that this moment is amazing. I couldn’t feel any more loved than this: being their pet and their doll as they brush my hair in rhythmic strokes that make it so easy to slip deeper and deeper and deeper without even realizing it.

Eventually, they finish. I have no idea how long it took. I have no sense of time anymore. “You’re all done,” my owner murmurs, and my slow heartbeat quickens slightly. I’m done. I’m finished. That’s important. Am I good enough. What do I look like? I need to know, but I’m not going to open my eyes until they tell me to. I know better than that. I’m better trained than that. “On your feet now, precious,” they say, and I stand, or at least I try to. My body is so weak and sluggish, but fortunately they reach out with their hands and guide me, letting me lean on them just enough to offset my unsteadiness. They’re always looking after me.

“Now, over here.” As they guide me, I start to walk. I feel like I’m swimming again—my body is slow to respond to my thoughts, and with my eyes shut my impression of the space around me has completely dissolved. Between that and how deep I am, I feel like I’m swimming in the deep, dark abyss, floating, without purchase or bearing. But it’s not exactly like that, because they’re here. They have my hand in theirs, and I know with absolute trust that they won’t lead my astray. All I need to do is follow where they lead. They’re my anchor, and my lighthouse. With that thought, I’m not swimming or drifting anymore, I’m flying. Still loose and floaty, but not untethered. I feel free, even though I am completely and utterly owned, mind, body and soul.

They lead me to a particular spot, and then I feel their hands clasping the sides of my head around to my face. “Open your eyes,” they say. I do, but there’s still no light. They’ve covered my eyes with their fingers. I only recognize it distantly, but the absurdity of it brings the ghost of a smile to my painted lips. “OK,” they continue, sounding vaguely amused with themselves. “Now look.”

They take their hands away, and I can see again. At first I’m blinded by the light after having kept my eyes shut for so long. Then I’m confused, and it takes me far too long to realize that I’m looking at a mirror. Once I realize that, once I make the connection that they brought my over to the full-length mirror on the wall, I recognize logically that the person I’m looking at in the mirror is me. There’s no other explanation. But still, it takes me a moment to believe it. I’m beautiful. I am. Me. Now that I’m not just looking down at myself, I can see that the dress is much more perfect than I appreciated. It flatters my physique like nothing I’ve ever seen. The cut of it makes me look cute and fun and wonderfully feminine. My hair is perfect too—my owner brushed out exactly the right amount of my natural curls, leaving me with the pretty yet natural-looking hairstyle that Hollywood actresses would pay hundreds for. The best part, though, is the makeup. I look like a different person. I don’t know how they did it, but everything is just right—noticeable enough to change or conceal the things about my face I hate, but not noticeable enough that I feel like a fake in my own skin. My cheeks look narrower, my eyes more elegant, my lips plush and sumptuous. I look perfect. I’m perfect. I’m beautiful. I’m beautiful.

“Yes you are. You’re beautiful.” I blush as I realize I was muttering to myself. I don’t know if I’m in trance or not anymore. It doesn’t really matter. Hypnotized or not, I’m theirs. “How did I do?”

“You win,” I breathe readily. They did. They won our long-running argument. There’s no doubt about it.

“Good.” They rest their chin on my shoulder and I can see their broad, bright smile in the mirror. “How does it feel?”

“It’s… it’s…” The tears starting to well in my eyes answer for me. Seeing them makes me laugh. I’m going to ruin my makeup. But that’s OK, because now I’ve seen this, I can’t un-see it. This is me. I’m beautiful. “I don’t… I can’t…”

“I know,” they whisper comfortingly, allowing me to stop trying to explain the way that so many years of body image and self-esteem are being displaced and rewritten. Above all, I’m not just happy I look good. I’m happy I look good for them. I’m happy I was a good canvas, a good work of art.

“Thank you,” I manage finally. That’s the one thing I truly have to say. I’m so grateful. I love my owner so much.

“You’re welcome.”

“How did you even… I mean, why?” I ask, still in awe.

“Because I want you to see yourself the way I see you. Because you’re mine, and nothing I own could ever be anything less than beautiful, and I’m not allowing you to believe things about yourself that aren’t true. Because I love taking care of you, and I hate seeing you in pain. Because you’re the best submissive in the world and I want to be the best owner in the world. Because ‘precious’ isn’t just a dumb thing I call you. It’s what you are to me.” The weight of all that breaks the floodgates and I start crying, especially when, as they take me in their arms, beaming, they say: “Because you’re my treasure.”