The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Turning a stepdaughter into a sex-toy took patience and a firm hand, but luckily Michael was the man for the job.

Michael and Sarah’s romance had been hot and heavy, and after only five months they were talking about marriage. It wouldn’t be the first marriage for either of them, and neither saw any point in waiting.

The problem was Sarah’s daughter Chloe.

18 years old, rebellious, rude, and wild, Chloe ran roughshod over her naturally-submissive mother. She was failing at school, staying out late, getting drunk, and almost certainly experimenting with party drugs. She was wildly disrespectful to Michael—she hated him—and was generally a disgusting little brat. She would have been pretty, if she let herself be, but she dressed in trashy emo rubbish that made her look like a particularly tasteless raccoon.

“If we’re going to get married,” said Michael one night, “you have to let me take Chloe in hand. That girl’s a problem that needs correction.”

He had raised the subject while they were fucking. Sarah was always more agreeable when she was horny. He liked his women stupid and submissive, and Sarah was at her stupidest and most desperate to please when he had his cock in her. She lay there under him, her legs spread, her large tits heaving, and giggled.

“Please!” she said. “I don’t know what to do with her! Maybe a father figure is just what she needs.”

He thrust hard into Sarah’s twat, and said, “I won’t go easy on her. I don’t believe in this ‘no spanking’ style of parenthood.”

Sarah laughed again. “As if she’d let you spank her!”

“We’ll see,” said Michael. “But you agree that her discipline is my duty, and you’re not going to second-guess me no matter what I do?”

She dithered a moment, possibly imagining some punishment he might visit on Chloe that made her uncomfortable. In response, Michael simply ceased fucking her, holding still, the tip of his cock at the entrance to her sluthole.

Within seconds, the needs of her cunt overrode her mothering instinct. “Yes,” she gasped. “I agree. Do whatever you need with her.”

He smiled, and thrust back into Sarah, and for abandoning her daughter to Michael’s discipline, she was soon rewarded with an orgasm.

Sarah might have expected that Michael would start by setting rules for Chloe, or boundaries, or spanking her, but he did none of these things. Instead, he took Chloe to see a psychologist.

Getting her to go was a war in itself.

“I’m not fucking crazy!” screamed Chloe, when she heard the news, and punctuated it by throwing a pillow at Michael’s head.

“Chloe!” shrieked Sarah, outraged, but Michael waved a hand to tell her not to interfere.

“I’m not saying you are,” said Michael. “It’s not to treat your mental health. It’s for family counselling.”

“You’re not my fucking family!” spat Chloe.

“I will be,” said Michael. “I’m going to marry your mother, and then I’ll be your father. And given that you don’t have a job and don’t seem interested in getting one, you’re going to be living under my roof—which means we need to get along. That doesn’t seem to be happening right now, so therefore we’re going to counselling.”

“So some fuckhead can tell me it’s all my fault?” asked Chloe.

“Maybe they’ll tell me it’s my fault,” said Michael. “Who knows? Isn’t it worth it, to get me off your back?”

After some further cursing, Chloe eventually decided that it was, and so that Saturday they all found themselves at the offices of Brightway Psychology.

Their appointment was with Dr Andreas Martin, a bespectacled man with a goatee. “Ms Sarah Gardener, Mr Michael Boyd, so good to meet you,” he said, shaking their hands. “And this must be Chloe!”

“Fuck you,” said Chloe, in her most charming manner.

“Ha ha!” said Dr Martin—actually saying the words “ha ha”, not just laughing. “Such young spirit! Chloe, I would like to speak with you first, without your parents. When parents bring a young woman to counselling, often they think she is at fault, but really it is harsh parents, would I be correct?”

“Maybe,” said Chloe, grudgingly.

“Then come with me,” said Dr Martin, and led Chloe into his office.

Sarah looked at Michael as the door closed behind them. “Is this really going to work?” she asked.

Michael smiled. “Absolutely,” he said. And the way he said it made Sarah look at him suspiciously, but Michael kept his secrets for now.

They waited outside Dr Martin’s office for a very long time—over two hours—and Sarah grew progressively more impatient and suspicious, until finally the office door opened and Dr Martin beckoned them in.

They entered the expensively-decorated office and took seats on a leather lounge. Chloe was sitting nearby. There was a look of pure rage on her face, as if she wanted to leap up and strangle someone, but couldn’t bring herself to.

“The process is a success,” said Dr Martin triumphantly.

“Process? What process?” asked Sarah.

“Ah, your husband has not told you?” asked Dr Martin.

“Fiance,” corrected Sarah. “And no, he hasn’t.”

“Well,” said the doctor, lacing his hands in his lap, “your fiance has paid a great deal of money for a cutting edge therapy. I call it ‘Daughter Tuning’. And it has been a success.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sarah. “What have you done?”

“For the last two hours, your daughter Chloe has been placed within a special headset, that plays very fast images and sound at her, non-stop,” said the doctor. “Her exposure has been aided by a small dose of pharmaceuticals—they will wear off soon—that promote suggestibility and increase visual and auditory sensitivity.”

He gestured at Chloe. “It is a kind of rapid subliminal conditioning. They say you cannot hypnotise a person to do things they do not want, but there are loopholes. Your daughter Chloe wants to be a good girl, to be valued, to be liked, to not be a monster. I have simply attached some new things to those ideas. To be a person she doesn’t hate, she simply has to obey some rules.”

“What kind of rules?” asked Sarah.

“Some are simple, because they already made her feel guilty if she broke them,” said the doctor. “She will not use violence against me, or either of you, no matter what the provocation. She will not move out of your house without permission, and she will return home for at least an hour every twenty-four hours. She will not refuse appointments with me, or any other medical professional, that you make for her. She will go to school each day, unless given permission not to. She will not discuss the details of this correctional program with anyone, or suggest to anyone that she has been hypnotised or is not in control of her actions.”

“Can you really… do that?” asked Sarah disbelievingly.

Michael put a hand on her knee. “He really can,” he said. “Watch this.” He looked at Chloe. “Hey, brat, how would you feel about me making an appointment with a doctor to anaesthetise your tongue so you can’t talk shit all the time?”

Her eyes bulged with rage at the deliberate insult, but she said, “That sounds great. When would you like to make the appointment?”

Michael grinned. “See?” he said.

“So she’ll… be well-behaved now?” asked Sarah.

“Not quite,” said the doctor. “We cannot give her too many ideas too quickly, or she forgets them. And in any case, she doesn’t want to be well-behaved. It makes it hard. You have to take her slowly.”

“So we bring her back to you for more?” asked Sarah.

“If necessary,” said Dr Martin. “But there is a simpler way. Your fiance has an app on his phone called ‘Daughter Tuning’. I have had your daughter download it too. Every three days, it will give your fiance a choice between two possibilities. He simply chooses the one that he would most like his daughter to be. Chloe here will receive the choice on her phone, and she will feel compelled to steer her life to be a little more like what your fiance has chosen. Over time, she will naturally become your ideal daughter.”

“I hate you,” said Chloe suddenly. “I hate all of you. I hate this.”

“What do you hate, honey?” asked Michael innocently.

Chloe opened her mouth—but she was unable to refer to the hypnosis, or what had happened to her, or suggest that anyone was making her do anything she didn’t want to do. Michael and Sarah watched her mouth work, and no sound come out, until eventually she blushed and said, “I hate that I’m like this. I hate that I’m such a brat.” Mortified, she clamped her mouth shut, avoiding eye contact.

Sarah couldn’t help herself. She laughed. So did Michael.

“Can I see the app?” asked Sarah.

“Of course!” said Dr Martin. “Your first choice should be waiting for you!”

Michael got out his phone and opened the app. The interface was simple, and indeed there was a choice there waiting for him. At the top of the screen it said “DAUGHTER’S BEDROOM”, and beneath it there were two pictures. One showed a neat bedroom decorated in shades of purple, with a study desk, and educational posters on the walls, clearly the room of a high achiever. The other showed a girly bedroom in shades of pretty pink, with teddy bears, and a hand-drawn poster that said “I LOVE DADDY”.

They both looked good to Michael. Chloe’s bedroom at present was a disgusting mess of dirty clothes and discarded food. It was a garbage heap, on top of which Chloe nested like a rat.

“What do you think, honey?” said Michael, showing the options to Sarah.

Chloe had her phone out, too, and was looking at it. A look of horror spread across her face. “Please, no!” she said.

Michael ignored her, focusing on Sarah.

“Oh, they both look wonderful,” said Sarah. “But I miss when Chloe was going through a girly phase. She used to be so affectionate, before she fell in with those friends of hers. Can we have the pink one?”

“Of course!” said Michael, and selected the image, even as Chloe shrieked with horror from her seat. There was a bleeping sound on Michael’s phone, and an answering tone on Chloe’s device.

Michael looked at Chloe and said, “How are you feeling, honey?”

Chloe closed her eyes in humiliation, and didn’t answer for a moment.

“Honey?” asked Sarah.

“Mom,” said Chloe, slowly. “Can we go past a shop that sells bedsheets on the way home?”

“Of course, honey,” said Sarah. “What do you want?”

“I want… need… some new bedsheets,” said Chloe. “I really want some girly pink ones.”

“Of course, baby!” said Sarah, delighted. She turned back to Dr Martin. “Thank you, Dr Martin!”

“You are most welcome,” said Dr Martin. “Enjoy your new daughter.”

The look of pure humiliation on Chloe’s face as she put her new bright pink bedsheets on her bed was pure joy to Michael. They had bought her a new desk, too, to put girly things on, and a chair to go with it with a little pink cushion on its seat. And when the bedsheet was done, Chloe began cleaning her room, of her own volition, taking her dirty clothes to the laundry and her rubbish to the bin.

But there was no compulsion that stopped her swearing at Michael, and once she discovered this, she began to run her mouth non-stop.

“You fucking pervert troll,” she spat. “You dickless shit-munching coward. You pathetic ass-licking fucktard.”

Michael wasn’t about to put up with this, so he waited until Chloe was fully committed to spewing her filth, and made sure that Sarah was present and watching, and then slapped the little teenaged bitch hard across the face.

Chloe gasped, and fell silent. So did Sarah.

“Sarah,” said Michael evenly. “Tell Chloe she deserved that.”

Sarah looked caught between a rock and a hard place. She was shocked, but she had promised Michael—and she was so overjoyed with the Daughter Tuning program—and Chloe had been deeply unpleasant.

“You deserved that, honey,” she said finally.

Chloe’s whole body was tense, vibrating with rage.

“Oh, do you want to hit me back?” said Michael. “But you can’t, can you? So listen up, you little skag. You will get slapped like that again any time you disrespect me, or disrespect your mother, do you understand?”

“You limp-dicked shit-goblin…” Chloe began.

Michael slapped her again.

“You deserved that too,” said Sarah, without prompting.

“Do you understand?” asked Michael.

Chloe stared at him, willing him to die with her eyes. Michael stared back.

Chloe blinked first. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I understand.”

“Good girl,” he said. “I’ve left you some crayons and paper on the table.”

She didn’t understand at first—but then she did.

And watching that bitchy 18-year-old brat spend the rest of the afternoon drawing an “I LOVE DADDY” poster with crayons, to hang on the wall in her room, was the most satisfying thing he had ever seen.

Things were tense for the next three days, but it was still nice to see Chloe’s bedroom so clean. She tried mouthing off at Michael twice more, and got a slap across her face for her trouble each time. On the night before the third day, she tried to run away, but came home exactly 24 hours after she had left, to find Michael waiting for her. She got five slaps across the face for her trouble, but Michael could see that it was unnecessary—she had tested her conditioning, and now understood that she would come back to Michael’s house, no matter how hard she tried not to.

Chloe was already looking at her phone in anticipation as the time came for the next “tuning”. Michael waited until his phone notified him it was ready, and then waited another 10 minutes, just to keep Chloe in agony, before checking it.

At the top of the screen it said “DAUGHTER’S SEXUALITY”, and instead of pictures, the choices were words. On the left it said “CHASTE” and on the right it said “HONEST”.

He didn’t bother showing this one to Sarah. He clicked “HONEST”.

Chloe’s phone dinged, and she looked at him with hate in her eyes.

“Would you prefer I chose the other one?” he asked her.

“No,” she said quickly, and then her eyes widened. She hadn’t wanted to say that—her conditioning had made her. “Maybe!” she amended.

“What does this mean?” asked Sarah, looking at Michael’s phone now. “She has to be honest about sexuality?”

“Chloe, have you ever had sex?” he asked the little teenaged bitch.

She tried to keep her mouth shut, but couldn’t help herself. “Yes,” she said.

Sarah gasped with shock. Michael rolled his eyes. As if a little bitch like this had resisted spreading her legs for someone all the way to age 18.

“How many times?” he asked her.

“Five in my pussy,” she said. “More in my mouth. I think maybe ten times in my mouth.” Her face was turning bright crimson.

He was going to have fun with this, he knew.

“And Chloe,” he asked her. “What’s the most humiliating true thing about your sexuality you could possibly tell me right now?”

“I hate you!” she spat. “I hate you! I hate you, you fucking scumbag.” She looked like she might cry.

“Chloe?” he prompted her.

She did start to cry, then, weeping as she admitted her shame. “When you slapped me the first time, I got wet,” she said. “My pussy got wet. And then when I made you the poster it kept getting wetter, until after it was done I had to go and masturbate in the toilet.”

She looked up at him, eyes gleaming with shame and humiliation and hatred. “And it’s wet right now, telling you this.”

Sarah put her hand over her mouth in horror. “You little… slut!” she exclaimed.

Michael just smiled. It was better than he could possibly have hoped for.

“Oh Chloe,” he said. “You’re a very fucked-up, perverted girl. I can see we’re going to have to do a lot of work to fix you.”

He stepped forward, and stroked her cheek with his hand. Her arms shook with the desire to push his hand away—a desire she couldn’t act on.

“But don’t worry,” he said, as he stroked the soft skin of her face. “Daddy’s here….”