The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


Someone just said something to me, but I can’t remember what it was. That bothers me more than it should; I find myself going back over the memory in my head, coming right up to the moment where he walked up to me and said...and started with a Z, I know that. But it’s like the memory just trails off at that exact instant, like it trickles down the drain in the middle of my mind and washes away into my subconscious.

I find myself probing at the memory, poking at it like a loose tooth. I remember that I recognized the word—it was something I’d heard before, lots and lots of times, and I know I knew that even as I heard it. But I don’t remember what I heard. It’s just on the tip of my tongue, like if I could only relax my mind and let the thought pop back into my head I’d have it right there so easily...but I can’t do that. Now that I’m thinking about it, I keep circling back to it over and over and over again, and everything else in my head just seems like an inconvenient distraction. I push my other thoughts away, irritated, and force myself to concentrate.

It’s no good. No matter how much I focus, I can’t get past that instant of perfect, precise clarity right before the man said he said the Z-word to me. That moment is so easy to remember that it plays on a loop in my mind, almost more real to me than reality. I’ve always been good at picturing my memories this vividly, which makes it all the more frustrating that there’s something I’m missing. I dive deeper into my own head, shutting out my surroundings and making the memory as bright as I possibly can, but all I brighten is the sound of a man’s voice saying, “Listen carefully, Amber,” and the image of the man’s lips moving.

I change tactics, trying to reconstruct backward. I was at the Peabody Museum, just saying my weekly hello to Thundra (yes, I named the Brontosaurus specimen after a comic book character from the Seventies, do you have a problem with that?) I was staring up at her, thinking about how amazing she must have been when she was alive. And okay, yes, I was daydreaming about my upcoming trip to Wyoming, having a quiet little fantasy about finding a specimen of my own that they could install next to her so that they could cuddle in their own little herd just big enough for two—not that I ship my fossil finds or anything, but who doesn’t harbor a secret ambition to someday bequeath an astonishing find to the Peabody?

I realize my thoughts are wandering off-topic, and I try to push out all the distractions and focus on the memory I’m trying to bring back. No thinking about Wyoming, no thinking about scientific discoveries, no thinking about following strange men into the restricted parts of the museum. I have to figure out what it was that man said to me. It’s absolutely vital. I pride myself on my attention to detail—it’s really important that I don’t just let things slip away and out of my consciousness like that. Who knows what I might miss if I’m not mindful of what I’ve been told?

So. Right. Standing, looking up at Thundra, and I noticed a man standing next to me. I didn’t recognize him, but he looked kind of sweet; he had short blond hair, thin enough on top that I could see he had the kind of careless tan you get from a lifetime of fieldwork. The fringe of hair merged with a bushy blond beard, and he had the most striking sky blue eyes. The kind of eyes you could get lost in. The kind of eyes you could imagine staring at for hours on end, sighing softly and feeling as though you were floating through endless fathoms of warm Mediterranean water. Eyes that seemed to pull you closer. Eyes that looked wonderfully, intimately familiar.

But I knew I didn’t know him. At all.

If I knew him, I would have remembered. I know that. My memory is excellent—I don’t say that to brag, it’s just a statement of fact. Anything I don’t remember hasn’t happened. Anything that hasn’t happened, I don’t need to think about. So I didn’t think about whether I’d met the man before, or why his eyes seemed to make me feel so warm and comfortable just like he was an old friend. Because I didn’t need to think about it. I just let all that slide away to the back of my mind and looked into his beautiful blue eyes for a little while longer, because it felt so good and made me so happy. My lips spread into a joyous smile all on their own, because he was smiling at me and that made it so easy to smile right back at him, and it seemed like I just stared at him forever before I realized it was rude of me not to say anything. So I said, “Hello.”

And he said...he’s so hard to keep events in sequence. I keep jumping ahead to that moment I can’t remember, skipping over all the other stuff that’s perfectly clear in my mind to get to that one tiny little thing I keep forgetting. Was it ‘zebra’? ‘Zero’? ‘Zugzwang’? ‘Zip-a-dee-doo-dah’? I’m chasing down one possiblity after another, wandering down a trail with a thousand dead ends, and practically running my mind in circles trying to guess until my thoughts feel dizzy and exhausted. It’s a waste of time and energy, and so I make myself stop. I force myself to abandon the random stabs at an instant solution, and start thinking in ordered terms. That’s how I solve problems—I make a process, I break the process down into steps, and I follow the steps with rigorous discipline until I’ve done all the things I need to do. This is no different. I just need to follow my instructions and I’ll be perfectly satisfied.

First things first. I take off my clothes, pulling down my jeans—oh, my gosh, I can actually feel the warm moisture soaking all the way into the denim. God alone knows what my panties are going to be like. No wonder I’m having trouble with my memories, if I’m this turned on. I neatly fold them and set them on a shelf next to a taxidermied penguin that’s seen better days.

Then I turn my attention to my shirt. For a moment I catch myself wondering exactly what I’m doing—it doesn’t make any sense, pulling my t-shirt up over my head to expose my small, braless tits. It’s my cunt that’s important, after all; I could just take off my bottom and bend over to be fucked without needing to remove my top at all. It seems like a waste of time to get completely naked.

But then I remember. It feels good to be on display, and the things that make me feel good always make perfect sense. Of course I want to show off my pretty tits. Of course I want to let myself be touched all over. Of course I want to let every inch of my body be used. It feels so hot; why would I possibly want to stop? I peel my panties away from my sticky cunt, shuddering slightly at the sensation on my shaved mound, and carefully set them with the rest of my clothes. I’m following the process. I’m following my instructions. I’m bound to remember soon.

I bend over, bracing myself on a shelf—God, this room is so perfect for being fucked from behind, it’s so perfectly secluded and the racks are bolted to the wall at exactly the right height to support me—and think back to that moment in the museum. It’s so much easier now—I’m not wondering where I should be going, I’m not wondering why I’m still wearing clothes, I’m not wondering who’s behind me anymore. All those distracting thoughts are gone, and I can focus my attention on the tantalizing memory of the mystery word that I can see but not hear. I watch the man’s lips moving over and over again, nodding in agreement even though I can’t remember what he’s saying, losing myself in the mental image until I don’t even see what’s in front of me anymore. I’m so wonderfully focused. I’m concentrating so deeply.

But I’m still not remembering. I still feel my thoughts fuzzing away into confusion at that exact moment, and I almost want to scream as the frustration wells up inside me. But it fades away as soon as it begins to build, my focus too strong now to let my emotions get the better of me. I’ve got a process, and if I’m not getting the results I want it’s because I’m not following instructions properly. That’s all there is to it. I go back through the steps in my head, and sure enough, there’s something I haven’t done yet. “Please, Master,” I say, my voice a husky whisper. “Please fuck your obedient slave.”

I grunt in pleasure as I feel warm flesh slide into my wet, dripping cunt, pushing my feverishly-warm body up against the cool metal of the shelving. Sure enough, it’s even easier to think properly now that I’ve got a cock inside me. The pleasure centers and focuses all my thoughts, guiding me right down where I need to be. Mentally and physically. I’m clear of that distracting arousal, I’m clear of all those confusing questions about what to do next. I can be deliciously, dreamily passive and think about the man at the museum and the word he said to me. And nothing else.

He said, “Hello, Amber,” and I remember being a little surprised because I didn’t know him and he knew me. But then I saw his lanyard and realized he was on staff, and I relaxed. I’ve been coming to the Peabody every week since I was a student at Yale; he was bound to have heard my name in passing, maybe from someone at the museum that I talk to every week. There’s a moment of anticipation there, like my brain is about to connect two ideas that go together to get a correct answer...but that’s just another distraction and I’m very good at pushing those aside now. I shut it out and let my mind fill with the memory.

And in that memory, he said, “It’s so good of you to come back to us again,” and I suddenly realize that was the exact moment that my pussy started getting wet. Something in his voice sounded like he was so proud of me, like I had mastered a really tricky lesson or completed a really difficult assignment, and it made me feel like I was glowing all over. His praise gave me the most intense hit of satisfaction, way beyond the normal thrill I get from pleasing an authority figure (I’ve always been the worst teacher’s pet and I know it, but I just can’t help being eager to show what a good student I am) and right into sexual heat.

I can feel it still, now, all over again. It’s looping between past and present, each one intensifying the other. The more I think about how horny he made me, the more my cunt gets slick and wet and clenches around the cock inside me. And the more pleasure I get from being fucked, the more I lose myself in the memory of that deep, helpless desire, until I hear myself moan with arousal. The moan keeps getting louder and louder, and even though I know that good girls aren’t supposed to make too much noise, I can’t seem to make myself stop.

Then I feel wet fabric pressed against my face, and I open my mouth so the man behind me can gag me with my own panties. The taste and scent of my own desire makes me even more turned on, and I grind harder and harder on his cock as he thrusts repeatedly into me. I almost wonder if he’s the same person who spoke to me by the brontosaurus skeleton, but then I realize that’s just another distraction and I’m too smart to let myself be distracted. I just need to fuck all those other thoughts away, and then I’ll remember exactly what I need to remember.

Because I’m almost there. I can feel myself getting so close, so close to the word in my head and the throb in my clit and it’s all getting tangled together so deliciously that I can’t fucking stop groaning into my gag and pushing back against the cock pumping into me and I can hear myself saying, “Thank you, sir.” And I thought I was just thanking him for welcoming me back, but now I know I was thanking him for those beautiful eyes, that warm sensual voice. For the praise that was making me gush my arousal into my panties. I was thanking him because I was a good girl, and there’s nothing better in the world than being a good girl. I try to tell him that I want to be his good girl forever, but it just comes out as a muffled grunt. I know he understands, though.

And he said, oh fuck, he said to me, he said, “Listen carefully, Amber,” and my brain is stuttering the words now, back and forth over that second like a finger rubbing my clit, and I know I’m going to remember any second and it’s going to feel so good, it’s going to feel so fucking good, it’s, I, oh fuck I can’t think straight but I don’t have to anymore because I’m a good girl and good girls think exactly what they’re told to think—

And then it’s there. It hits me all at once, like a blinding explosion of fireworks in my head, flowers of ecstasy unfolding inside each other. An orgasm inside an orgasm inside an orgasm, until my legs are shaking with the intensity of it. I remember perfectly now. I remember that I don’t need to remember, because if I don’t remember it then it didn’t happen and if it didn’t happen then I don’t need to think about it at all. I’m a good girl and I think exactly what I’m told to think. My Master gives me my special word to keep my waking mind occupied, keep my thoughts chasing each other in circles until they’re dizzy and exhausted and I sleep in his will. That feels so fucking good to me now. Just like all the other times I don’t need to think about.

I cum two more times before I finally feel the rhythm of our sex melt into an erratic, random motion and I hear the man behind me let out a strangled gasp of pleasure. Then I feel him slowly slide out of me, leaving a trickle of warm sticky fluid at the opening to my cunt. The sensation makes me shudder with overwhelming bliss for a moment, and I cling to the shelving until my head clears. Then I carefully let go and straighten up, pulling my wet panties out of my mouth and putting them on over the sticky mess of my pussy. It’s so hot knowing that I’m going to take off my clothes tonight and notice how wet I am. It’s even hotter knowing that I won’t remember why.

I get the rest of my clothes on, and turn around to find an empty room. I don’t see anyone, and I don’t need to think about the things that must not have happened because I don’t remember them, so I simply wander my way back out to the brontosaurus. Nobody stops me and asks what I was doing back in the storage rooms in the restricted area. So of course I must not have been there. The memories sink into my subconscious without even a ripple, and the last vestiges of the trance fade with a random, confused thought that pops into my head: I’m a very good girl...

And then I’m looking up at Thundra again, and thinking it’s probably time to get home. I’m feeling unaccountably tired, and I might just decide to make it an early night. Just me, my computer, and maybe a few toys. For some reason, I’ve got this hot fantasy of being approached by a stranger right here in the museum and fucked senseless that I’d like to explore.

It’s so vivid I’d almost think it was real, except for this one word I can’t remember...