The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Who Can It Be Now”

The house is in a suburban neighborhood, one of the upper-middle class areas which somehow still manages to have an irrational fear of urban street crime. Hence, the bars on the windows do not attract an overly large amount of attention. However, the house has still developed into something of a legend among the children of the neighborhood; they speak of it as being haunted, or abandoned, or home to smugglers or pirates or whatever else occupies their attention that week. The sign on the door reads, in simple hand-printed letters, “NO SOLICITORS”, and it has been effective—although the age of the door-to-door salesman is dying out, and it is difficult to say just how many people it has deterred. The door, once opened, leads to a small foyer with another interior door; this, too, has a lock on it. One begins to detect the faintest tinge of paranoia, the whiff of isolation left too long and grown wild and tangled, like ivy digging its roots into a long-abandoned building.

Five years ago, Danielle would not have been able to achieve this. She would not have been able to take a job that exclusively involved telecommuting, and she would not have been able to pay her grocery bills over the Internet. She would have had to leave the house to run errands, or perhaps work out, and that would have left her vulnerable. Endangered. As it is, though, she knows she is safe. She occupies her time with small things. Knitting. Jigsaw puzzles. Rarely television; she occasionally indulges, but the thought that a signal might be pumped into her house worries her, and so she prefers to read books. She is not entirely happy, but she is safe. She is certain she is safe.

And then someone knocks on the door, and the rush of panic comes back like it never left, and she flees the living room, not daring to look out the window for fear of catching someone’s eye (being caught in someone’s eyes, she mentally amends it to.) She runs into the bedroom, and cowers in the corner, and as the knocking continues, slow, measured, and insistent, she remembers...

* * *

“Hello, Ms. Stewart. My name is Danielle Spencer; I’m here about the ‘personal assistant’ job. I saw the ad in the paper.” She felt confident as she smiled at the woman she hoped would be her boss, and resisted the urge to pat her hair to make sure that it was still in the bun she’d put it up into before coming here. She knew that she projected a good image—the Young Executive, fresh out of the package, complete with all the accessories. The lame joke suddenly blossomed into a mental image of herself in a box, with “Kung-Fu Grip!” written on it, and she suppressed the urge to giggle. It’d be inappropriate, she thought, which was probably why my mind did it. Some weird stress reaction.

Clara Stewart looked at her appraisingly. Danielle fought down the sensation of indignation; she knew that there was undoubtedly more to the gaze than judging her like a piece of meat. It was just in her imagination. “I see. Then I’ll be straight with you right from the beginning. It’s a demanding job. I’m a demanding woman. I got to the top of this company through uncompromising dedication and ruthlessness, and I expect you to give everything you have to me. If you can do that, you’ll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. If you can’t, I expect you to look for another job. Your friends, your family, your relationships are all going to have to be put on the back burner. I’m going to become the most important thing in your life. Are we clear?”

Afterward, long afterward, Danielle wondered if there wasn’t something she did in that moment that sealed her fate. Perhaps a twitch of the eyelid, a flinch of the shoulders, some unspoken signal in how she responded to that speech that made Ms. Stewart decide that she was the one. Perhaps there was nothing. Either way, her response undoubtedly clinched the notion. “That won’t be a problem, Ms. Stewart. I just moved to Los Angeles. I haven’t had time to make friends yet, and I haven’t been in touch with my family for years. I can devote my full time to doing whatever you need done.”

Clara smiled. “Perfect.” She gestured to a padded chair. “Take a seat. I’d like to test you on a few elementary business skills before I decide.” She sat down in a chair across from Danielle, the desk separating them. “One of your primary duties as my assistant will be to transcribe my important meetings. I want to see how good you are at taking notes of conversation.” She gestured to a pen and a tablet of paper. “So I’m going to start talking, and you’re going to write down every word I say.”

Danielle picked up the pen and paper. “Ready, Ms. Stewart.”

“Good,” Clara said. Danielle quickly jotted down the single word, but when Clara sighed, a sinking feeling took up residence in her stomach. “No,” Clara said, and Danielle took care to continue writing even as she was being lectured. It never hurt to impress the boss with dedication under fire. “You’ve obviously had very little experience taking dictation before. You write with your hand, but with your eyes, you watch my face.” Danielle immediately looked up. “You watch my lips as they form the words, and you let your hand just write automatically. You just let the hand continue to write as you watch my lips very closely, picking up each word as I speak. The words just flow through your brain straight through to your hand. After a while, you won’t even think about the words, you’ll just let them flow straight through to your hand and write them down. They’ll just go straight through your head, from my lips to your hand, from my mouth to your actions, and you won’t have to think of a thing.

“But you must also learn to pace yourself. You must learn that when I speak very fast, your hand will get tired. Your hand will get tired and exhausted from writing so fast, and it will feel so tired, so weary, so exhausted.” Suddenly, Clara let out a wide yawn, and Danielle found herself yawning in return. “I’m sorry,” Clara said, “but talking about being tired has made me feel sleepy. Very sleepy. I feel very sleepy. I’m feeling so sleepy, but I’m still talking, and you’re writing the words ‘I’m sleepy’ with your tired, tired, hand. If I repeat them, you’ll write them again, over and over, and over...I’m sleepy, I’m sleepy, I’m sleepy...” She yawned again. Danielle yawned back. “I’m sorry to keep yawning. I know that yawns are contagious. That when you see a person yawn, you want to yawn too. It’s a proven fact. Seeing a sleepy person makes you sleepy too. You’re writing down ‘I’m sleepy’ with your tired, tired hand, and you’re watching me yawn sleepily, and now you’re probably yawning without any help from me.” Danielle tried not to yawn; it was rude. But she was so sleepy all of a sudden, and she couldn’t help herself. “And now you’re probably having trouble watching my mouth, watching my lips as your eyes get so sleepy, and your eyelids start to droop, and you keep writing as I say ‘I’m sleepy’, ‘I’m sleepy’, ‘I’m sleepy’, and it’s so hard to control the pen with your tired, tired hand, and so hard to see my lips with your droopy, sleepy eyes, and now you’re finding that if you just close your eyes, you can just hear my words in your head and picture my lips in your mind and you can sleep and keep writing and the words just keep flowing, from my lips to your actions, from my mind to your body, and now you’re having so much trouble writing with your tired, tired hand that the pen falls from your hand, and now you can’t write, so you have to act out whatever I say, letting it flow from my mind to your sleepy sleepy body, just acting on my words, not thinking at all, letting your mind shut down as your body acts out my words, just drifting comfortably as you relax and act out my words, picturing my lips telling you what to do...”

Danielle was sprawled in the chair now, her head lolling back into the padded headrest, her legs slightly spread, her arms limp at her sides, the pen and paper dropped to the floor and forgotten. She was smiling faintly.

“Danielle,” Clara said, “you’re going to let your hair down now. You’re going to let your hair down out of its bun, let the hair free, because you don’t want it bound up tightly, you want to let it flow down, loose, relaxed, just like you are right now, loose, relaxed, obedient...” Danielle reached up slowly and unsteadily and freed her honey-blonde hair, letting it fall down over her shoulders. “Very good, Danielle!” Clara said. “You’re making me so happy, now, and you know that’s good. You know you want this job. You want to be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. And that means making me the most important thing in your life. The most important thing. The most important thing.” Danielle nodded muzzily, never opening her eyes. “I’m giving you the job, Danielle. You have the job. So that means that I’m the most important thing to you. It means you give everything to me. Everything. Everything.” Danielle nodded again, and this time her head fell forward onto her chest. “Good...”

“Now, let’s take off those clothes.”

* * *

The knocking continues. Danielle puts her hands to her ears to block it out, wondering if it’s perhaps some new form of induction. Perhaps the knock is meant to be like the tick of a metronome, slowly taking her deeper, relaxing her...

It’s not working, she thinks wildly. I’ve never been more panicked. I can’t breathe, ogod I can’t breathe...

She begins questioning her judgment. Perhaps it’s just a Girl Scout who’s too young to know what “NO SOLICITORS” means, or a Jehovah’s Witness who thinks that it doesn’t apply to them. Perhaps it’s the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, come to give her a giant novelty check. She should go and check. She will go and check. She’s going. Right now.

Her legs don’t move. She rocks gently back and forth in the corner. She wishes now that she hadn’t put her hands to her ears. It brings the tattoo on her wrist into full view.

* * *

“...and awake. Good girl.”

Danielle opened her eyes. She began to take in details, in an order that seemed almost random. She was naked. She was strapped to a padded table, in a room she didn’t recognize. She didn’t know where she was. Her pubic hair had been completely shaved. There was a tattoo on her left wrist, just beneath her hand—it was an image of a blue butterfly, heavily stylized. Ms. Stewart was standing over her. She was naked too.

She began to take in more details. There were other people in the background, both men and women. They were all naked. They were all kneeling on the floor with their hands on their head. She was becoming gradually aware of a soreness between her thighs, of an indefinable taste in her mouth. Panic started to well up in her. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

“Hello, danielle,” Ms. Stewart said. danielle didn’t know how, but she could hear that there wasn’t a capital letter there anymore. “I know you must have lots of questions. Don’t worry; your subconscious mind knows all the answers. But you can ask anyway. This is a good time for it.”

“What are you doing to me?” danielle asked.

Ms. Stewart smiled. “I’m making you into my slavegirl. I liked your body when you came in, you seemed bright and adaptable—you should be proud, dear. It takes an intelligent person to be susceptible to hypnosis—and so I decided that I was going to make you into a good little slut, just like all my other employees. I put you under, and you performed remarkably. Then I tested out your body. you licked pussy very well, by the way, for someone with no training. I’m sure that once one of my other slaves trains you, you’ll be my favorite rug-muncher in the whole stable.”

“Why?” danielle moaned out.

“Why?” Ms. Stewart smiled. “Because I wanted to. Because I’m used to getting what I want. Ultimately, perhaps, because I can. The simple act of taking possession of you, body, mind and soul, is an incredible rush. It comes from knowing that you didn’t know what hit you; that you submitted to your natural superior easily and naturally; it comes from knowing that I have power over you. Complete, total power.” She reached down and caressed danielle’s breasts like a car owner running their hand over the hood of the new model. “I’m sure that thrills you now on some level.”

“But i’m awake now,” danielle said. “i can fight it now.” she was uncomfortably aware that she could hear the lack of a capital letter in her own voice too. “i can fight it...”

Ms. Stewart laughed. “Silly girl,” she said. “I brought you out of it so that you would fight it. I want you to fight it.”

“But...” danielle furrowed her brow in confusion.

“It’s like fishing. You let the fish swim and swim, because you know that you have the hook in its jaw. Eventually, it will swim closer, and you just keep reeling it in, until it has noplace to go at all but into your net...”

“No,” danielle said, pulling against her straps.

“Actually,” Ms. Stewart said, placing a hand on danielle’s stomach and leaning over her, “it’s like breaking in a new horse. You can’t just ride it a little and put it into the stable.” danielle pulled at the bonds, but there was no give to them. “You ride it until it’s totally exhausted.” danielle kept struggling. The bonds had to break sometime. “You just let it go, let it buck and kick and struggle, and you just stay there, on top of it, letting it know that you’re in charge, that you’re in control, that you’re the one who will make the decisions.” danielle still struggled, but she found her eyes locking with Ms. Stewart’s. “You give it its head, and let it keep going until it tires itself out. You let it exhaust its muscles in fruitless struggles, and as it gets tireder and tireder, it knows that I am the one who controls it.” danielle knew she should stop struggling, knew it was playing right into Ms. Stewart’s hands, but panic was taking over, and she pulled and yanked and twisted and writhed against the unyielding bonds, knowing that her arms and legs were getting heavy and leaden, but not able to give it up yet... “And the struggles get weaker and weaker, and soon you give up. Soon you want to be controlled. you want to be ridden. you know that the person on top of you is in charge, and that I will take the reins. your heavy arms and heavy legs give way to a heavy mind, and you can be led around, docile, obedient, right into the stable where you belong.” danielle’s eyelids were fluttering again, and her body was barely moving...she was so exhausted now... “you can see the stable now, can’t you, danielle?” danielle’s eyes slammed shut, and her mind was full of nothing but the images Mistress Stewart was describing... “then go into the stable...let yourself be led...let yourself be ridden...” danielle felt her mind dwindle away as she relaxed, her struggles finally, finally over, and she sank into the pleasure, the contentment of being ridden by her Mistress...

And then Mistress woke her up, and did it again...

* * *

The knocking has finally stopped now, but that almost makes it worse. It’s like being in a horror movie, Danielle thinks, that scene right before the end where the slasher’s stopped trying to break down the door and the heroine’s finally safe and that damned tinkly music is playing and she opens the door and goes outside and the sun’s coming up and then she gets the knife! in! her! back!

She tries to calm down. Her breathing finally steadies. After a while (thirty minutes, although she doesn’t notice the passage of time), she manages to stand up. She walks out into the living room. She opens the inner door. There is an envelope on the floor, undoubtedly slipped through the mail slot.

She opens it with unsteady fingers. She is terrified that it contains some hidden trigger-phrase that will put her under again. Perhaps it is another set of instructions. Perhaps she was never free at all; this was only a cover identity that her Mistress (mistress! her mind shouts) bade her establish for some arcane reason, and now it’s time to take it all away.

The envelope contains a single piece of paper. It has two sentences printed on it.

YOU ARE STILL A SLAVE, it says at the top.


Danielle stares at it for a long moment...and she knows.

* * *

It was the squirrel that finally freed her. Five years of complete and total servitude to her Mistress, of having her will totally broken, shaped, remolded, and shattered like glass, and all it took to free her was a squirrel. She would have laughed, if she wasn’t overwhelmed with revulsion.

She was on an errand for the Mistress at the time. Mistress was planning to acquire a financial company, and She wanted danielle to meet the CEO in a bar just before the Mistress talked with him. she was to seduce him, tease him, and leave him aroused and excited; Mistress was aware that the man had more willpower than most, and She wanted every edge She could get when breaking him to Her will.

danielle was cutting through the park to save time, wishing that she didn’t have to wear clothes to do this job, that she could be naked and ready for her Mistress, when she spotted the squirrel sitting on a rock. It was eating a peanut.

Danielle was never sure what it was. It could have been the position it was in. It could have been the shape of the rock. Perhaps it was the sunlight shining through the trees, or the way the breeze blew into her face at that very moment. But a memory hit her. It blasted through the Mistress’ control like a flood cresting over a dam, and sloshed into the front of her mind...

She was seven. She was up north, at the cabin, and she’d sneaked away from Mom and Dad with a little bit of food; she was going to go play space explorer, or commando ranger, or frontier sherriff, or any one of a dozen games that she made up in her head to play because Barbie dolls were for sissies and Mom wouldn’t buy her a G.I. Joe because it wasn’t ladylike. She saw the squirrel sitting on the rock, and she shared a peanut with it, and it was like there was nobody in the whole world but her right then, and she felt like she’d never have to leave that spot, and...

It was perfect.

The moment passed. The squirrel ran. And Danielle sank to her knees, clawing at the mark on her wrist, trying to keep herself from vomiting. It didn’t work. She threw up over and over and over, emptying her stomach until at last, she dry-heaved a final time and sobbed.

Eventually, though, fear overwhelmed the mixture of shame and disgust that had paralyzed her. She remembered fighting, and remembered that it didn’t do any good. She couldn’t go back. She had to run.

Danielle composed herself—no point in running blindly, she’d be caught. Clara (not Mistress not Mistress) had people all over the city, and her control was extending. She had to be careful. She needed to do this right, and escape permanently.

Her first stop was at an ATM. Clara had set her up with access to the central account; after all, it wasn’t as though she was going to steal, right? She could feel hysterical laughter boiling up inside her, and repressed it as she transferred money into a private account that Clara had never bothered making her close—an old travel fund. She was saving for a honeymoon trip to Tijuana, optimistic that some nice young man would fall into her lap someday, and that it never hurt to be prepared.

She was suddenly aware of how often she’d been fucked while Clara watched, for her amusement, and she fought down the urge to dry-heave again. Instead, she took a taxi to the airport, and booked a flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. It was on the opposite side of the country, and Danielle was sure that Clara had no subsidiaries there.

Even as she flew, she was making further plans. No phone. Clara could hypnotize her over the phone, she’d seen it happen. No friends. If word got out where she was, Clara would come for her. A false name? A false identity? Could it be done? Not through government; even if people would believe her, they’d investigate...and that would seal their fates as well. She’d have to do it all on her own...

She tried to keep from scratching at the tattoo. It didn’t always work.

* * *

It is Danielle’s first trip to LA since she left, five years ago, and it feels like she’s trying on the dress she wore to the prom. It doesn’t quite fit, it seems different...but the changes are more to her than to the city. She is not the person she was.

She passes the spot where her old apartment building was; it is now the home of a Starbuck’s, and she revises her analogy. The world changes as much as the people that live in it. We all move on. We all let go of old memories.

She walks into the steel-and-glass tower where Clara Stewart runs her empire from, and is mildly surprised when the security guards do not stop her. She is allowed to take the elevator all the way to the penthouse floor, and when she steps out, there is nobody at the receptionist’s desk. She walks through into the office, and opens the hidden door in the bookshelf as though she had just been there the previous morning. She walks down the hallway, and finally comes to Clara’s private rooms. Clara is sitting in her ‘throne’, with a slavegirl nuzzling her crotch, and a half-smile quirks her lips as she sees Danielle.

She looks so...old, Danielle thinks. She was forty when I met her...she’s only fifty now. But she looks...old... Aloud, she says, “I didn’t think I’d be allowed to get this far.”

Clara’s smile broadens. “The doors are always open here for you, danielle.” She speaks with the same authority, as though she simply expects to see Danielle drop to her knees on the spot.

She doesn’t. “I came here because someone gave me a letter. I thought it might be from you.”

Clara nods. “It took me some time to find you, danielle, but I never gave up hope. you were my finest creation; you were utterly subservient, totally obedient, and your tongue was magnificent. I thought you might have died, but instead I found you hidden away in a prison made of fear, still thinking you were free. you had exchanged my gift of servitude for slavery to fear. I couldn’t let you keep on that way. I knew you’d come back.”

Danielle nods. “I had to come back. You were right. I was still a slave. I’d gotten rid of one mistress, but I had picked up another. I wasn’t free. I wasn’t even alive. I was buried in that house, and until I stopped running, I could never be free.” She stares Clara in the eye. “I’m not running now.”

Clara laughs. “you think you learned something in that little hut, danielle? you think that now you’re a stronger person?” She shakes her head, but her eyes remain locked with Danielle’s. “you will never be a strong person. you never were a strong person. I broke your will over, and over, and over, and over, and I can do it any time I wish. your mind knows this. It remembers the years of obedience, the ingrained habit of total submission to your Mistress. Like a path beaten into the ground, the tracks of obedience are worn into your mind, and you know that deep down, you want to walk them again...don’t you?”

Danielle walks closer. “I remember the years of obedience. And I remember that I’d gotten an apartment two weeks before I met you. I remember buying a coffee mug that morning, because there was a coffee shop on my way here that offered free refills, and I thought it was a good-luck charm. I remember spotting a guy in the lobby and trying to spot which box he grabbed his mail from so I could see which apartment he lived in. I remember seeing a little kid skateboarding and thinking that my child would never be allowed to do that without proper padding. I remember buying groceries, I remember feeding a squirrel in the woods and feeling strong and pure like an angel.

“I remember that you took ten years of my life away from me.” She is inches away now, and tears are streaming down her face. “And you gave back nothing but dust and ashes.”

Clara’s eyes are narrowed now. She looks hurt, in an indefinable way. “I gave you pleasure; total joy, the feel of being complete in a way nobody would never understand save you...that meant nothing to you?”

“Nothing at all. It wasn’t a life. It wasn’t a hope. It wasn’t a future. It was just a fake. Just a lie. And that’s the worst part, seeing it all now. That you actually thought it meant something. That you actually think that any of this—” she made a sweeping gesture to the rest of the harem—“means anything to anyone. These people don’t love you. They don’t choose to be like this. You’re keeping them here against their will, and making them mouth pretty noises so that it doesn’t bother your conscience.” She shakes her head. “You’re a slave too, Clara. A slave to power. And I don’t think you’ll ever be able to break free.” She turns to leave.

Clara grabs her wrist, angry now. “It’s not over, danielle. I can keep you here, I can break you again. As many times as it takes.”

“And I can break free again. As many times as it takes. You can knock me down, but I can get back up. That’s life, Clara.” She pulls her wrist free. There is no tattoo there. There never was. “You should try it some time.” She turns and walks away. Clara sits in her room with her Barbie dolls, silent.

* * *

The squirrel is satiated. It runs away, and Danielle smiles. In an hour, she will return to her parents, but for now...there is nobody in the world but her.