The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cynthia’s relatively quiet morning is almost more adventure than she could bear. It starts in the shower. First of all, it requires an immense effort of will just to put her head under the running water. She finally does it, but shivers uncontrollably the whole time. Then she has to go though the whole ordeal a second time just to rinse off soap and shampoo. All the while she silently reassures herself, «He’s not here. He can’t hurt me. He can’t drown me. I’m safe.»

After the shower though, she soon is gripped with terror again. After drying her body she raises the damp towel up to dry her face and hair. Suddenly she spasms, throwing the towel into the bathroom door hard enough to crack the wood. No matter what, she can’t bring herself to put that damp towel over her face to dry it. She simply can not. Finally she decides to dry her face and streaming wet hair with a blow dryer. It takes almost an hour but the alternative is unthinkable. «There is no way that towel is going over my head!»

Later she picks nervously at her breakfast while downing cup after cup of coffee. Usually by now she is at least scanning the news—radio, TV, internet—for word of a crime or disaster that might call for Majestic Woman’s help. But not today. She has a lot on her mind. She has had lucid dreams before, but nothing like last night’s vivid, horror-film/porno of a nightmare. She doesn’t know how to deal with it. Never in her life, not in her centuries upon centuries growing up and living in the Amazon Queendom, nor in her decades living as a superheroine in “Man’s World”, had she ever felt such desire for a man, not even Simon.

She feels a familiar stab of anguish. «Ah, Simon. It still hurts every time. But not as much as it used to.» She lets go of her sad loss and gets back mulling over her strange dream.

And the worst was not that there was sexual desire; she is after all only human, despite the gifts of the Gods. The worst was the ease with which the object of her lust had subdued her, the terror he had instilled in her, and the sheer orgasmic joy she had felt in surrendering. It had just been a dream, but nonetheless the memory of it is shaking her idea of—her belief in—who she really is. «I called him “My Lord”...and Hera help me, I meant it!»

Besides her need to be alone with her thoughts, there is the matter of the wreckage which her nightmare had left in the real world. Her bedsheets and her pajamas are utterly ruined. She needs to dispose of them, to remake the bed with one of her two remaining sets of sheets, and to do something to get the reek of sex out of her bedroom.

So she opens the windows to air out the room, cleans and vacuums thoroughly, and—not satisfied—lights some aroma candles to mask the last traces of the stench. Now what? «I need to get out of this house!» So she leaves, not as Majestic Woman, but as Cynthia Royal, just a long walk to get a change of scenery and to be alone with her dark thoughts.

She comes back home more than an hour later for a late lunch and to dress in her Majestic Woman uniform. This afternoon is the monthly Legion of Heroes executive meeting, held in the Legion’s Spyglass orbital platform. Access to the platform is by a teleporter provided as a courtesy by the Uenans, the ancient alien race with whom Magic Lamp is affiliated.

She signals for teleport, and in seconds she is there. Other committee members trickle in. Small talk is exchanged. Snacks and beverages are consumed. Were it not for the garish uniforms and rippling muscles, not to mention the untwinkling stars visible in every viewport, one might think this were just some mundane group of civic-minded leaders.

Soon they gather in the war room, and the executive committee meeting is called to order. It is the Wraith’s term as Chair, his second turn in the big chair, and so the meeting runs with clockwork efficiency: status of known and suspected extraterrestrial threats, status on the various hunts for supervillains known to be at large, status of jailed or civilly-committed supervillains nearing release, status of ongoing programs of training for young or newly-powered heroes, probationary status of villains-turned-hero, status, status, status. Cynthia is lost in her own thoughts and twice has to ask someone to repeat a question directed at her.

After the meeting, the Wraith asks her to stay behind in the war room and help with some strategic planning. Such a request is not unusual; her long centuries of military experience among the Amazons have made her quite the expert at strategy and tactics of both defensive preparedness and organized combat.

However, as the last of the other heroes teleports back to Earth, the Wraith approaches her with an attitude that has much more in common with multi-billionaire captain of industry, Blake Warren, than with the terror of the Carthage City underworld. “Cynthia, what’s wrong? You’re a key leader in this team, and today you weren’t really here.“

“It’s nothing really, Blake...Don’t worry about it. You’re right. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re sure...”

“Positive...Look, you said you wanted to talk strategy, and I do have some strategy ideas. About the Betelgeusean threat. Let me look at Power Man’s reconnaissance report, and I’ll try to have something back to you tomorrow.”

“Well...alright then,” he says. A brief flurry of tapping on his wristpad and then, “It’s in your mailbox now, Cynthia. Thank you.”

Soon she feels the full-body tingle of the alien teleporter technology sending her back home, and she catches one last glimpse of Blake Warren, with a look of concern on his face. He wants to comfort her, shelter her, ease her troubles. «Uuugh. MEN!» She is more than a match for the Wraith, physically and mentally. And they BOTH know it. «But he’s trying to do the stupid “male protector” thing just the same.» She is no longer insulted by such treatment as she often was when she first left the Queendom. «It’s not his fault. He’s just a man. He was raised in Man’s World. He can’t help trying to be—what’s the word?—“chivalrous”.» She sighs. «But it’s still annoying.»

Later that evening, she prepares and feasts upon her typical gourmet dinner for one. Tonight is: Chicken Kiev, steamed artichoke, and a light salad with homemade Roquefort dressing. In the aftermath she is sipping a nice chardonnay and pouring over the report. «The Betelgeuse Empire thinks the Earth is easy pickings except for what they call “the metahuman problem”. And they’re probably right about that. Even so, they still seem to be preparing for invasion, so they must think they have a “solution”. Ah, there! They’re stockpiling rheanite!» Exposure to the rare radioactive mineral is Power Man’s only known weakness. «And they know about that! But that only works against Rheonians. Is there more? No, that seems to be the linchpin of the whole plan.» A smile comes over her face. «Great Hera! They’ve made two critical mistakes. First of all, they think Power Man is a metahuman. The don’t realize he is non-human, an alien. Secondly, they think, based on no evidence whatsoever, that rheanite affects all metahumans the way it affects Power Man.» There was some small possibility she had missed something, but not enough to worry about. So she happily types up her preliminary analysis, fires it off to the executive team, and rubs her tired eyes.

A cup of hot cocoa and a warm bath later, she is feeling much more relaxed. Working on the Betelgeusean problem was exactly the antidote she needed to that nightmare. Mind at ease, she heads to bed.

Dreams soon overtake her. As I watch them, I see that much of the violence in her dreams centers on being trapped underwater and drowning. She’s not as “over” last night as she thinks she is. Ah, there. In her dreams, Blake is calling her back to the war room, except that through the viewports she can see that Spyglass is deep underwater, not in outer space. As she shuts the door to the war room behind her, she is suddenly naked. A masculine arm reaches around and cups her generous breast. “Blake,” she sighs. But when she turns around, it’s...me: Blond hair, darker beard, blue eyes, and a lecherous smile.

I’m almost too surprised—and flattered—to take my cue. But I manage to execute the body swap before her dream moves on to something else.

In the penthouse, Cynthia is in a familiar state. Head down, ass up, arms outstretched. Her body alive, electric. Her nose full of the smell of her Lord, somewhere in the room. The gap between her legs, wet, empty, yearning, defined only by what it lacks. «Oh no. I’ve got to get out of here.» Clumsily she staggers to her feet. Too, too slowly she runs for the front door, her only hope of freedom.

She hasn’t seen me yet at all, but I easily overtake and subdue her. She is again helpless in my grasp, arms pinned behind her, every fiber of her being aware of her Lord, her body aching to submit to me even as she struggles.

“You have to be one of the most stupid bitches I’ve ever owned,” I say with just a hint of sadness. “Discipline.” In her mind she says it with me. We body swap as her knees give way.

Now we are in my training room dungeon again. She is restrained exactly as last time. However, unlike last time, there are no introductions, no explanation, no chance for compliance. The towel is already over her face. The hose is already drowning her. She has already screwed up too badly to be allowed to breathe.

Over the sound of continuous clicking, I begin, “This is really quite unforgivable. In only one day you have forgotten every...single...lesson. I’m quite tempted to just drown you now and find another whore. Is there anything worth salvaging here? Are you actually intelligent enough to benefit from instruction?”

Flip. Cough. “Please. Please just let me g—". BRAP!

Once again over constant clicking as I drown her: “Your answer was not responsive. You’re not doing very well. Don’t click again unless you are ready to answer my questions.” I keep the hose trained on her until the clicking stops. This doesn’t help much as the towel covering her head is still preventing her from clearing her airway. She squirms. She clicks once.

Flip. Cough. “I...I...I can be taught...MY LORD!” «Fuckfuckfuck I almost forgot!»

“Well, that remains to be seen. Tell me everything you learned from our last session, not neglecting along the way to point out every way in which you failed this time. You may begin.”

The facade is gone; she’s crumbling completely. Now she wants the reward as much as she wants to avoid the punishment. “Um, you are...My Lord. I belong to you; I am your slave, your toy; I need you; I crave you; I must obey you or I will be...punished. If I please you I will, NO!, m-m-may be rewarded. When I come into your presence, I must greet you properly, by b-begging to know how I might serve you. I failed to do that today. I tried to escape you, because I am a stupid...stupid...” She’s crying now and trying to squirm in her restraints. “stupid cunt-for-brains that thought she could escape. I beg you for mercy, My Lord, I am just an idiot slut, but I will try...HARD...to learn. I need you. I need your...” «cock» “control. I need your...” «orgasm» “approval. I’m afraid.” «“Discipline” GODS!» “But I have to get past that so that I can serve you, so that I will deserve your” «fucking» “favor and you will give me the” «reward» “things I need...MY LORD!” «fuckfuckfuck...»

“Well, now. That was quite the little speech, cumrag. But you must have known all these things before you took off running. So why did you do it?“

“I don’t kno—” She sees me raise the hose. “Please. PLEASE, my Lord, let me think!” She pauses. She knows somehow that she cannot tell her Lord that he is a figment of her fevered, dreaming imagination. So she treads a fine line. “When I am” «not dreaming» “away from you. I am” «free» “forced to live without my Lord’s guidance. It seems to my” «waking» “foolish...weak mind, that I this...’freedom’ is good and right. When I come back to you, my Lord, when I feel your mastery, I...foolishly...think I am losing” «my freedom» “something.“

“Ah, fuck. Delusions of ‘equality’, eh? Tell me, bitch, are you a ‘feminist’ in this other life?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Are you employed, in that dreamworld?”

«Wha—? This is the dream!» “Um...yes, My Lord.“

“Oh dear, you hesitate. You don’t have delusions of leadership in that fantasy, do you?“

“No, I-I-I mean, y-y-yes, my Lord. I am a l-l-l-leader there.”

“Oh, you poor misguided twat. Well, then, I’m willing to be patient. I’ll be happy to bring you to the training room every...single...day. Until you learn that you are just a slave. Until you understand that equality...freedom...leadership, those are qualities of life that only humans can experience. They are not for fucktoys like you. Don’t worry, we’ll fix you. Even so, it would behoove you to fix yourself. Your little rebellion today was all in vain. Soon you will see that it was even self-defeating.”

I pause. Ding! “Well. You have answered truthfully and completely, you may pleasure yourself.“

“Thank you, My Lord. AAAAHH!”

The smell of her Lord adds spice to her masturbation. Soon she is cusping on the edge of her orgasm, knowing that she needs me to get her over.

She starts begging me for release. “Please. My Lord. Please, help me! Please let me cum!”

“No. Not yet.”

Swap.

We are back in the penthouse: she, bowed to the floor in supplication, I, standing above her waiting.

Her voice is raw, encompassing her fear, her pain, her desire, her need. “How may I serve you, My Lord?”

Walking briskly around her I order, “Don’t move. I will use your ass now. Open up.”

«Open up? I can’t just o-» And then, to her amazement, she feels her anal sphincter relax just by thinking about it.

Grabbing her hair and pulling her head back sharply, I come down on her ass savagely, painfully, thrusting over and over, deeper and deeper, until my cock is buried to the base. Without pausing, I continue pistoning my full length in and out of her opened rosebud. Cynthia is screaming in agony, but amid the pain of her raped anus she nonetheless feels her arousal building. The shock is preventing her from forming actual words to express herself, but inside she is again pleading for release from the never-ending, ever-rising tide of desire, from this wave that builds and builds but never crashes upon a shore. Some small part of her mind wonders how it can be possible. She feels no pleasure in this rape at all, but still her sexual arousal builds.

Finally she finds her voice, but it has nothing new to say. “Please, My Lord, let me cum. letmecum, letmecum, letmecum...” Her refrain matches itself to the rhythm of my thrusts, punctuated only by her own shrieks and howls when the pain overwhelms her. Time bleeds away. Cynthia’s entire universe is my cock in her ass. It is a universe of pain, and punishment, and bottomless empty need.

After the first twenty minutes she can no longer maintain the posture that I demanded of her. With every thrust her knees slip and her hips sink a little more, until they finally bottom out onto the floor. She doesn’t notice at all.

After an hour or so, she no longer pleads to cum. It is getting hard for me to register coherent thought going on inside her skull at all. She’s sorry. She loves me (bah!). She prays to the “Gods” to wake her up. She prays to her angry God, me, to give her release. She hopes. She despairs. All is endless pain and rising sexual frenzy.

Near the end of the third hour she is a shell of a woman who knows only that her God will never, ever forgive her for her disobedience, and that she will endure this eternity in His hell silently praying for the release that will never come.

And that is when I whisper into her ear, “You’ve been a good little candy ass, so when I cum, you may cum too.”

Inside her skull she is saying, «Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.» But the incoherent mumble that actually escapes her lips sounds nothing like that.

Soon I am spouting my release into her rectum, and Cynthia’s universe of pain explodes into sudden, wild unimaginable pleasure. She can’t handle it; she begins to slip into unconsciousness. I can’t allow that to happen, but fortunately I am prepared. I begin to pester her mentally, peppering her mind with a steady stream of nonsense seed thoughts, the more ridiculous the better. I don’t want these seeds to grow. I want her to reject them. But to reject them she has to fight back. And to fight back she needs to rouse herself to some semblance of coherence.

It’s not long before it’s time to add some external stimulus to the mix. “Wake up, lazy bitch.” I’m poking her side with my foot. “Fun time is over. Get off your ass, and clean this shit up.”

Her Angry God commands and she must obey. Inside her head, «Yes, My Lord, right away.» But again, all I can hear is weak mumbles. She tries to get up several times and fails. Finally she reaches her hands and knees and begins to crawl toward the bathroom. In her head, I can see that she envisions getting towels and whatnot and bringing them back.

I disabuse her of that notion. “Where the fuck do think you’re going? Use your hands. Use your tongue. Use your hair. Clean this shit up. Here, start with me.” I grab her hair and yank her face up to my groin. “Get to work.”

Her disgust is palpable. My groin is slick with my cum, but that cum is blended with bits of her own thoroughly-churned fecal matter. Slimy pale brown strings and gloppy pale brown driblets are everywhere. But her Angry God commands and she must obey.

Her tongue and lips start low on my thighs, where a sluggish rivulet or two has nearly reached my knees. She licks and sucks and «Ugh!» swallows. She works her way upwards, making sure everything is clean as she goes, soon she is cleaning my scrotum, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from me as she gently licks my balls clean. Then onto my cock, the filthiest part of all but still an object of worship for her. She licks up and down, pausing at the tip. She thrills at my reflexive hardening as she consumes my glans and sucks it clean of shitty jism. Finally she finishes up, cleaning the goop out of the pubic hair above my cock.

She’s fully awake now, though weaker than a kitten. She surveys the mess on the floor, trying to figure out where to start. There is the puddle of the original sex leavings, the dribbling bits and smears along the floor where she tried to crawl away, and the smaller puddle where she dripped between her knees while cleaning me up.

She decides to begin where she is and backs up so she can put her face to the floor and clean the last mess. Licking and slurping at the floor she begins to make her way back to the scene of her rape. But she soon notices that her dripping anus is creating new messes behind her even as she cleans the ones in front of her.

She stops. Exercising the control she now knows she has, she closes her brutally abused rosebud tight. Now she reaches a hand back to her buttcheeks. She begins wiping up her leavings and, with no other choice, transferring them to her mouth. Next she applies the same technique to the dribbles running across her cunt and down the backs of her thighs. Having “plugged the leak”, she now proceeds, tongue to floor, with the original plan.

All told, including fits of exhaustion that force her to pause, it takes her well over an hour. Having finished she looks around and finds me «My Lord! My God!» sitting on the couch, fully dressed. She feels more naked and dirty now than she did even yesterday. Her desperation to please me is warring with self-disgust and fatigue. At length she plants her face on the floor in my direction and spreads her arms toward me. “Haw muya zur yoo, m’lrrr?“

“Get me a beer, bitch.” I say casually, as I grab the remote and flip through the channels.

Once, many millennia ago, I was seeing to the care of one of my African slave villages that was caught in the grip of a deadly drought. Eventually I located a watering hole not many miles from the village. It was held by another tribe, but, with my help, my tribe could defeat that tribe quite easily. But during my reconnaissance, looking out through the eyes of one of those “foreign” tribesmen, I saw a sight I have never forgotten. A weak, starving elephant was lumbering toward the pond. He smelled the water, but was so far gone that he almost didn’t care if he made it or not. Even so, biology was forcing him to try. Cynthia’s heavy, hopeless crawl toward the kitchen reminds me of that poor pachyderm. When she comes to the refrigerator, she reaches up, never leaving her knees, opens the door, and pulls down a beer.

Now she is crawling back, beer sliding along the floor, shakily clutched in her hand. Along the way she freezes. She starts to cry audibly and shake uncontrollably. «I forgot to remove the cap!»

Now I can show her a bit of mercy, and I do. Her lifeline is this seed thought «Maybe it’s a twist-off» She examines the cap and with joy indescribable sees that it is.

Soon she is at my side, carefully twisting off the cap with the hand she did NOT use to wipe her ass. Kneeling and presenting, eyes downcast, body a reed blowing in some imaginary wind, she slurs, “Yrr beer, m’lrrd.”

“Good girl.”

She crawls wearily to the kitchen, throws away the cap, and crawls wearily back. By then I’m nearly done with this beer. She looks at the emptying bottle in horror, imagining that her Lord will ask her to perform the Sisyphean task of beering him again, or maybe even the Heraclean labor of constructing a sandwich. But still she assumes the position, and still she slurs out her begging plea to serve me.

“You’ve done well, little cunt. I’m pleased. You may rest.”

She is stabbed with joy «HE’S PLEASED!» even as she realizes I have given her permission to fade out. She proceeds to drift away immediately.

I swap her back home.

Cynthia snaps awake in her bed. It’s worse than the night before. Pajamas, sheets, pillows, blankets, mattress and box spring are all torn to shreds. Springs and pieces of metal are jutting out all around her. Even worse than that is the way she finds herself amid the wreckage: face down, ass up, arms outstretched. She tries to rise from the bed, but her arms are cramped and weak, and her legs feel like they are on fire. Eventually, she rolls over the torn metal and out of bed, staggering to her feet, shaking off the scraps of cloth and standing naked. Now she can see that the bedframe itself is also broken. The side boards are snapped near the foot of the bed, and the footboard itself is broken in two.

The clock says 5:08 AM. She went to bed before 11 last night but she feels as if she has hardly had any sleep at all. She lies face down on her bedroom carpet and cries herself to sleep.

My slave Annette needs sleep in her abused slavebody as much as Cynthia does in her exhausted natural body. Before I let her drift off though I scan her for a mental checklist of the things I needed her to do.

Aside from completely wrecking the bed, I saw that she had been very creative in how she had “exhausted” the superheroine’s body. She flew to a junkyard and stacked three rusty old school buses on top of each other. She got under the buses and squat-pressed them until she couldn’t stand anymore. Then she crawled under and bench-pressed the same stack of buses until she could no longer lift them. Afterwards, numb legs hanging beneath her, she flew back to the house and bench-pressed Cynthia’s car in her garage until she couldn’t even lift that. Then finally, receiving my final signal, she flew back to the bedroom, positioned herself in the wreckage, and waited.

I carry Annette to her great-dane-sized pet bed at the foot of my bed, kiss her forehead, and lay her down to rest. This blond Adonis slavebody is tired too, so I exchange it for one of my slavebodies elsewhere that is just starting its day and carry on.