The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

DISCLAIMER

This story is fiction. Any resemblance to actual individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WARNING

I wrote this story for the erotic enjoyment of open-minded adults who might enjoy reading it. If you are under the age of 18, don’t read this—read some less explicit story.

This story contains strong, hard-core, stuff, including graphic depiction’s of sex, rape and pain. Don’t read any further if this bothers you.

This is No. 1 of The Series

Video Library

The young, slim, fresh-faced—with red lipstick, blonde girl is my target.

I’ll park the car outside of the shop, ensure that the child locks on the rear doors are in force; prepare three strips of sticking plaster about four inches long on the passenger headrest and four long strips on the rear parcel shelf.

When her shift ends I’ll be waiting outside of the shop’s main door; as she exits I grab her left arm, put my knife to her ribs and propel her into the back seat of the car, face down. Quickly I grab one of the short pieces of sticking plaster and fix it over her mouth, one of the longer lengths secures her wrists behind her back and another her ankles together. Without undue haste I drive off through the town and out over the dam.

Stopping the car at the dirt lay-by on the a mile along the road, and taking six plastic ties from the glove compartment, I get out and open the rear left hand side door. Three ties—one on each ankle and one as a link between them—guarantee that her legs are now secure, and the other three bind her wrists.

Booking myself in at the Hotel is a formality and I carry my case to the room, on the ground floor near the secondary entrance. The TV is turned on, fairly loud, and from the case I take nylon straps which are put on each of the bed’s legs; then I go to collect my captive from the car.

Using my knife I cut the ties and tape on her ankles and drag her out, ensuring that the coast is clear, then guide her across the car park through the guests’ entrance and into my room.

Inside I throw her face down onto the large bed, sit on her legs and rapidly attach ties to each ankle. She’s dragged upright to the foot of the bed—facing the headboard and I put the knife to her throat and caution her to comply; she opens her legs wide and I fasten her ankles to the straps.

I have her helpless and secure as I cut off her dress, tights and underwear.

Standing, bound naked, before me—as I sit on the bed—it’s important that she recognises who, and trained to that recognition, is her Master. Her eyes widen as she is shown the two three-quarters of an inch “Foldback” clips, and informed that should she not be sexually aroused at the end of five minutes—from when I’ve finished speaking—that one clip will be applied to her left nipple.

My stopwatch counts to five minutes and ignoring the, gagged, noises I draw my right index finger between her labia—it’s dry! Coming off the bed and directly behind her, I gently caress her left breast and pay particular attention to it’s nipple until it hardens—using the “Foldback” clip’s edges.

I open the clip in front of her eyes and draw it down over her skin from the neck and trace a path to her left breast, her head follows that path as I hover the clip near her nipple. Opening it wide I clamp it to the, now, erect nipple—the muffled screams and body spasms demonstrate her pain. After a few minutes she becomes accustomed to the sensation, so I take hold of the clip and draw upon it, extending her nipple from the breast.

Now I return to the bed, sitting in front of her again. The same five minutes arousal instructions are given, otherwise her right nipple will be clipped; to emphasise this I tug on the existing clip—again causing pain, then take a ball of cotton wool and ensure that she’s a dry vagina.

After the following five minutes I test again, the second clamp is immediately applied but, instead of this time waiting to gauge her reaction, I tug on both of the clips attached to her breasts simultaneously for a couple of minutes, making her writhe in the bondage. I remove the clips, caress her breasts, then instruct her once more.

As my watch marks the time I start to see the beginnings of moisture between her splayed legs. She is learning well and will be developed.

This is No. 2 of The Series

Hotel (A)

The kidnapped girl is standing at the foot of my bed in the hotel room; she’s gagged, wrists secured behind her and ankles restrained—wide apart—to the bed’s legs.

With hips are moving rhythmically, two or three inches, back and forth, she is straining to arouse herself, for—if she is not—I will again apply clips to he nipples. I move and stand directly behind my captive, placing my hands about her neck and gently move them up to cup her chin—drawing the head back to rest upon my right shoulder.

I hold her head firmly, slightly to one side, as I nibble on the left earlobe, pulling on it with my teeth. “I’m 6′5″ tall, weigh 178lbs, have blond hair and grey eyes, I’m your MASTER now” I whisper; my hands leave her chin, sidle down across the shoulders to outline her small, firm, breasts. Index fingers and thumbs each hold a nipple and, as they grip, draw out and hold them extended (she’s shuddering in front of me) I request her affirmation—she quickly nods, at the same time wincing with the pressure on those sore and sensitive areas—I tug, a little more, maintaining the pressure and listening to the muffled yelps.

“Keep your hips going” I advise (watching as she screws her eyes together in concentrated fear) as my fingers release the outstanding nipples and hands move downwards to between her splayed legs. Lubrication is, just, oozing from between her labia, glistening in the light. An index finger is inserted within those lips, the wetness to be passed beneath her nose.

That same hand makes her bend forward, my right fingers are playing the dance about her middle lips—sliding between, tugging at, inserting and flicking—and with fingers parted descends down her back slowly; feeling each vertebrae until it reaches the swell of her tight—still swaying—buttocks. With fingers in their cleft it tantalisingly traces the path to, join with, the others, now inside, her wet vagina; they exit and go to her clenched anus, probing at the muscle.

I cease the intimate attentions, now I am ready and she will be made. I cut free her ankles, shoving the girl face down onto the bed—I follow and lay on top, my right hand grasps her hair yanking her head towards the knife blade in my left. “Resist and you will be cut” I state, “Understand?” She nods. I get off the bed. From my case I take the roll of sisal string and cut a five foot length, “lift yourself up” she does so and I pass one end under her belly “lower”. That end is knotted about the trailing length and tightened, in the small of her back, to constrict her waist—biting into it. I roll her over. I take the pillows from beneath her head, “raise your hips” I order, and stuff them under her buttocks, ensuring that an end of the rope around her waist is visible.

Shorter pieces of sisal are looped and knotted about the tops of her legs and then tied onto each ankle, which is secured to her thigh. To finish, I tie the loose end of the roll of string about her left knee then bundle it under the bed to the other side and cut enough so that I have a generous amount remaining. The trailing end is inserted between her right ankle and thigh, already bound together, and drawn up to behind the knee. Leaning over I push her so that her left knee is on the bed and, at the same time, pull on the sisal, tightening it, so that her left leg cannot raise; holding the tension on the rope with my left hand, my right draws the slack under her right knee.

Inexorably I pull her knees apart with the string until she is presented to me, open, vulnerable, fully bound and splayed. She has been crying and trying to scream beneath the gag as I forcibly open and tie off her legs. I, kneeling between her legs, take hold of the end of the string showing in the middle of her buttocks and slowly pull on it, ensuring that it is slid between her labia, over her clitoris—her, slightly, bucking hips and high pitched cries attest to the slow and rough sensations it’s long, ever so prolonged, passage causes. Millimetre by slow definite millimetre I rasp it over her sex until its so very, very tight between her lips. It’s tied off to the band of string encircling her waist, she’s groaning within the gag; and the juices are flowing.

This is No. 3 of The Series

The Hotel (B) & Out

On the bed the young blond girl lay bound, heels to thighs, with knees splayed apart, gagged and her juices were oozing either side of the string tied tightly between her labia.

I had played enough with, I wanted to release the passion within me; freeing my erection I knelt between her legs, pulled the string to one side and smoothly entered her. She felt tight about me, I slid out—paused—thrust, into her struggling form. I saw her eyes widen each time I pushed deeply inside; I enjoyed that look, drank in the visually expressed feelings—held position, jammed in—prolonging it. After only five minutes I climaxed hard, shuddering, gasping, spurting.

Having tidied up the sex charged room, I took the case out to the parked car—leaving unlocked, ready for my slave. Back in the room, I released her splayed knees and ankles from thighs, and then strapped her legs together just above the knees. Knowing that she would have problems standing, I pulled her upright off the bed and threw a front fastening cloak about her shoulders. Guiding the short, hobbling steps she took, we, in the darkness, reached my car, I propelled my captive onto the back seat, closed the door, got in myself and drove from the Hotel.

Lying on the seat, still gagged and hands restrained behind her back, the cloak had fallen open to reveal flashes of slim legs in my rear-view mirror as we progressed beneath the spaced streetlights. Soon, as we drove from the Town, those alluring glimpses ceased and as I concentrated upon the winding road we were both in the dark—her of thoughts and me in night.

Eventually I passed through the iron gates along the drive to my home. The automatic door of the large garage opened before me, and I rolled down the steep entrance and into the subterranean parking, it thudded shut. From the wall I brought a lockable collar, with long chain attached, and on the back seat of the car padlocked it around her slender, quivering neck. Outside, I jerked on the chain and dragged my frightened captive from the car—noticing, as she stood, the juices from our sex glistening on, and still, slowly, oozing down, her legs. She tottered behind as I tugged the way along a short corridor to the quarters that would be hers. Unlocking the sound proof door I drew her across the room to a large, tiled, shower recess, and pushed her inside.

I looped the neck chain through a steel eyebolt set into the middle of the high ceiling and padlocked it on another bolt in the wall, some six feet outside of the shower, leaving just enough slack so that she could stand with the collar not too tight. Having removed the cloak from her, I un-strapped her knees, undid her wrists then ripped the tape off her mouth—and immediately turned on the hot water. Screeching with shock her hands went to her collar, but to no avail, it was secured well,—as she did that—I picked up a light flexible cane from near the wall bolt and flicked it twice against her exposed buttocks. “Get yourself cleaned up” I ordered, and switched the cane against the vulnerable left breast (her hands were now on, protecting, her bottom). Crying out on the sudden slash at her breasts her hands instinctively went to them—I cut on her cheeks again—another cry, mind, and hands now uncertain of the next strike, hesitated until the whipping upon her calf made her sag against the neck collar, making her stand upright and, in spite of her sobbing, reach for the shampoo and then gel. In this restricted position she bathed thoroughly.

When finished, I turned of the water, gave her a towel and hairbrush, and threatened with the cane, making her realise that she must keep quiet. “Clasp your hands behind you” I said, she did, and I handcuffed her wrists together; unlocking and releasing the neck chain I pulled her with me to the centre of the room, making her stand as I fed the chain through a ceiling hoop and locked it to the floor.

“Spread your legs” I instructed and they were secured with ankle straps to floor rings. The nipple clips I use, but in this instance didn’t, have serrated edges—for better grip—and have chains, with end rings, attached. I held the cane against her open, trembling lipped, mouth. “Say nothing unless it is right” I stated, “why am I ..SHRIEK” as my cane answered her question with a welt upon her bottom. She sobs.

I stood in front and showed the clips to her, “Arouse yourself” I softly said as I slid the cane between her legs, so, so slowly; moving behind and whispering in her ear “Who do you serve?” I ask “I don’t ..... SCREAMS” when the cane bites on firm flesh, legs then body upon the incorrect reply. “Please don... YELL” as I blast the behind again, “Who Do You Serve?” “I ... pl.... SHRIEK” after the cane’s cut sears her throbbing body.

In front once more—nearly body to pained body—and take her nipples between thumbs and forefingers, subtly bringing, exerting pressure, her to me. I look on her agitated face and locking with her eye to eye (more pressure on the tender, erect beneath my rubbing, pulling fingers, nipples) reiterate with “who do you serve?” more attention as my fingernails begin to dig into her skin, awaiting the response. Gulping, sobbing, wincing, hesitating, overpowered—“........ you” she responds.

This is No. 4 of The Series

Training

(And is dedicated to my, first, respondent, Bobbye—with Thanks.)

“I ..... serve, you” she gasped. I brought a black nylon tabard which I slipped over her head and between her handcuffed wrists behind. On each side of the waist were two ties, I knotted them together; the tabard would give a sense of dignity, of being clothed—although if you stood beside her you would see a breast, and it just covered her sex.

This eighteen years old girl stood, I estimated, about 5′8″ tall collared and chained via a ring in the ceiling to another set in the floor, blond hair was soft—flowing about her shoulders—after the shower and her long, nearly thin, legs set off an excellent, petite, figure. Small—but jutting—breasts, slim waisted, narrow hips and taut buttocks. Now came a vital part of the training—she would learn dependence.

Twenty minutes after leaving her, bound, I returned with a tray on which I’d placed a drink, a long—large—vodka and lemonade—and pre-salted fish and chips, condiments and cigarettes. Having put the tray near her face I saw that hungry look, so I undid the handcuffs, the ankle straps and the collar and left.

Her prison room had some quite unique, to her, features. Large, spacious, mirrors (one way) on a wall, shower stall—the water was now turned off, by the remote stop cock—a sleeping palette, off centre of the room, numerous ceiling and wall rings and, for the immediate future—assuming that I’d predicted her actions correctly—what will become the most important focus.

I could imagine her amazement, relief, puzzlement, bewilderment when I put the tray down then exited, without a word. After six minutes, according to the hidden cameras video taping, and my own observations from behind the one-way mirrors she, having run and tried the doors—to no avail—explored the surroundings, picked up the drink and gulped it down. Shortly afterwards, ate the food I’d provided, with her fingers, and lay upon the palette and slept; I gauged her reactions correctly!

Next morning, although she wasn’t aware that it was, I reviewed the tapes : she eventually awoke, padded around the room, called out a number of questions—important to her—meaningless to me, and cried herself to sleep, (half sleep?) again. She was awoken by the sound of the hole-in-the-wall chute closing, I’d delivered another meal, a plate-hot repast of gammon and eggs. Eventually she ate it, then, having re-explored her surroundings returned to the comfort of the palette.

Later, much later she awoke, and this—from the video tape—was most interesting because she was now becoming thirsty. Quite quickly, arousing from her troubled slumber, she remembered and found the source to slake it. In one corner of the room, behind toughened, thick, safety glass (reaching from floor to ceiling), the water fountain merrily played, tinkling a tantalising torturing tune.

Additionally I had turned up the heating so that it was now, in the room—her prison—hot enough to make her perspire; she had tried turning the shower on and off, pounded on the doors, yelled, cried, many times by now. I just left her alone with herself and her rapidly, exponentially, growing thirst.

That thirst, came to continually nag, demand, be frenziedly wanted in her mind, unrelenting—a paramount ache—yearning—craving, unfulfilled priority—necessity; then sixteen hours (an unremitting and seemingly endless drought filled tract of time) I turned the tape player on.

“From the wall-chute, take the three pairs of handcuffs and the blindfold” at that point I opened the chute “go to the middle of the room, attach handcuffs to your ankles, part your legs and fasten the handcuffs to the floor rings. The remaining ‘cuff goes on your left wrist, put on the blindfold; hands behind your back and secure your right wrist—await. Water will be provided when you state your submission to me”

The message, on a continuous loop, played for just over four, repetitive—576 plays—hours to her.

Perhaps it was raging thirst, maybe submission acknowledged, or the recognition of futile rebellion; I cannot say; but her spirit eventually broke, after many incomplete, hesitant attempts, against the endless instructions.

She followed the taped instructions and was, now, self-presented—legs and wrists ‘cuffed, blindfolded—waiting and, dry sobbing, she submitted. I entered the room, she started and began to tremble at the sound of the door opening, and brought a pint of water in front of the palette. I dabbed a flannel into it, went beside her and moistened parched lips, gently. Avidly her mouth followed the flannel as it flowed across, tongue darting out to retain every precious molecule. I held it just away from her face—she could smell the water—“Please more I beg you, more” she croaked, two drops went onto her thrust out tongue, immediately consumed.

“I have your submission, now your consent for me to treat and do with you as I wish, please?”

(a single droplet to the tongue, then held deliberately beneath her nose) “I ... I ..”

“What do you consent to? ”

“I, I... consent” she huskily responded.

“Louder, for the tape please” I requested,

“I consent.”

“To what?”

“I consent to ... to .. your doing as you wish with me! Oh God” she cried out.

I’m sure you know that there is always that spark, the inner kernel of hoping to escape within all of us. It demands we comply to external situations whilst internally..... we hope, a barely glimmering fire. As requested, positioned as before, she stood before me. I attached another collar around her neck, securing it with the chain and tensioned that chain so that her head was held slightly—but not uncomfortably—upwards.

This collar had two electrodes, front and back, sewn in it so that an electric current supplied to one would be passed between them and, on one side, a pressure sensor. When she began to go into a lack-of-sleep induced standing daze, neck pressure—on the collar—as her knees bent, triggered the electrodes which passed an awaking jolt of current through her. Simultaneously, actioning, triggering another looping tape message: “Who do you submit to?”

Only her voice recognised “to you” could turn off the current; I left her standing and the programme made her repeat this submission for over two days. I even ensured that I gave droplets of water, occasionally. Then comes the watershed (I smile).

She’s a “Pavlovian” “to you” reaction by now; I release her and carry this tired, slumped in my arms, girl to the palette and lay her face down upon it.

To be (posibly) continued.

Bon Soir good people ......... MASTERsgt