The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Uniforms Control Your Mind

by Mr. Scade

Red Raging Pleasure

“I hate you.” Was her first thought every morning.

“I hate you.” Was her last thought every night.

Over and over she told herself, and her captor that simple phrase. Over and over she repeated that. Over and over she made it real.

A litany. A curse. A hope.

Was there a person truly immune to such treatment? Was there a person who could go on, knowing the seeping despise another human being felt for her?


But her captor wasn’t entirely human. Months and months of the same treatment: hate, contempt, disgust. Not once did she show anything but that, to her captor. And not once did her captor seem the slightest affected by that. It didn’t matter, really; it only mean that she had to try harder.

The sun crept in and she whispered, “I want you dead.” just as the woman who forced her to sleep in the same bed awoke. She went to the bathroom, a green-eyed stare following her, a smile following her. She could feel her captor’s thoughts.

The reflection was her own. That, at least, she was glad the woman hadn’t changed. She seethed inside. Of course. It would’ve been too conspicuous to change how she looked. But change little things inside, change who was the person in the body… that was what flamed the fires of hate.

Hate. Rage. Red feelings. Like what she wore. “It’s a joke on me. I know it.” She whispered.

Red was the leotard. Red and shiny and tight. Tight around her breasts, keeping them flat against her chest. An injury to her pride. Tight and red, it was, shiny like full moon. Like her rage. She wanted to rip it off, destroy it, burn it on her body so she could just do something.

It was a reminder of what she hated, and who.

And she hated herself for being reminded of it. Hated herself of being reminded of the feelings for the woman who imprisoned her. Hated everything about it, because thinking about that intruder only made it worse.

She felt the woman walk into the bathroom. No, that wasn’t a good description; the woman of the green eyes didn’t walk as much as she glided. It seemed her weight never settled on the floor. The prisoner felt her body tensing. She felt the thousand and one changes push and shove in the queue, like bickering children, to be chosen this day by the headmistress for some important assignment. Did her captor have to make it so parts of her ached to be used? Of course not—change little things... change little things...

She looked over her shoulder, staring hatefully at the woman. “Free me!” She shouted. The leotard rubbed over her body, snuck between her buttocks. The air was cold over arms and legs and bared back. She seethed inside. The rage warmed her.

The woman smiled with her green eyes and chose one of the bickering children. “Red pleasure.” Was all she said.

The woman imprisoned in the red leotard froze in place. Muscles cramping, eyes rolling into her skull, mouth hanging open, voice lost, and thoughts destroyed.

Things had shifted. Things had changed.

Little things.

The woman in red looked at the woman with green eyes with heat in her soul.

“I hate you.” The woman in red whispered, feeling that rage there, always there, but now it was more than just anger. It was fuel. It was combustion itself. But fuel is used for something. Combustion is a tool.

Change the little things about who rides the body, and everything changes, in time.

Rage fuelled bliss. How did that work, who could tell, but it was a fact. Anger only created happiness, inside the prisoner. Rage made her feel alive, and aroused, and happy, and all of those things one pursues in life.

And all because she was imprisoned.

The woman with green eyes smiled, and ran a caring hand down her prisoner’s face.

“Of course you hate me.” Her voice wasn’t unkind. “It makes you love me the most.”