The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cynthia wakes up at about quarter past one and promptly launches herself into the bedroom ceiling. You see, when she awoke on the floor beside the wreckage of her bed, she found herself head down, ass up, arms stretched before her. I had something to do with that. While she slept I kept planting “seed feelings” in her sleeping body that made her feel uncomfortable in whatever position she was in. Quite unconsciously I slowly “herded” her into her posture of supplication. Of course, finding herself in that position when she awoke scared the living fuck out of her. Hence the damage to the ceiling.

She tries to shake it off and start her day, but now she has a bigger problem. Shortly after she turns on the shower, she hears the water trickling down the drain and begins to shiver uncontrollably. It sounds too much like the water hose and drain in the training room. She can’t do it. So she plugs the drain and runs a bath instead. She needs something to soothe her nerves anyway.

Even so, her whole body trembles again as she tries to wash her face. She can’t quite bring herself to put the soapy washcloth over her face. So she soaps up her hands and washes her face that way. She is barely able to steel herself to splash water onto her face to rinse the soap off, but somehow she does. She solves the problem toweling her face and hair by squeezing the water out of her hair by hand. Now blow-drying her wet face and damp hair hardly takes much longer than before her irrational fear of towels.

She gets dressed, fixes herself a late brunch, and tries to figure out what she is going to do about her wrecked bed. It’s not just a matter of cleaning up. She’s wondering whether she should replace the bed at all. Whatever madness is possessing her at night is clearly not going to change anytime soon. Why bother to replace it if she’s just going to wreck it again?

Living without a bed would certainly not be a hardship for Cynthia. For centuries as an Amazon Warrior, long before she came to “Man’s World”, she frequently found it necessary to “sleep rough” in the field, on hard lumpy ground. A nice soft carpeted floor would really not be a problem at all. So, no bed then.

Now what to do about the broken bed and ceiling she has now. After backing her car out of the garage, she lays down a large tarp on the garage floor. Then at super speed she ferries down bits of wreckage onto the tarp. Even so, it still takes her several minutes and then she spends time vacuuming up splinters and bits of dry wall. Now she changes into her Majestic Woman uniform, and, grabbing the corners of the tarp, flies out of the open garage as fast as she can, hoping that no one sees her. Off to the nearest landfill, where she gladly dumps the whole mess, quite anonymously.

Though she is already dressed for action, the thought of going on patrol fills her with dread, but she thinks of a compromise, «I still have the Betelgeusean invasion defense plan to finish». So she sits down to work on her report. Greased Lightning and Magic Lamp both have sent feedback on her preliminary analysis. She incorporates what she can into her defense plan. After another review of Power Man’s reconnaissance report she is still quite certain that they have made a fatal error. It’s clear that the Empire’s leadership is not what it used to be. «I wonder if we could create some kind of rebellion? Something to make them too busy to come after us maybe? Something that might even topple the Empire?» But she decides against it. «We had best just mobilize for the attack. After we beat their asses we can see about creating an insurgency.» So she finishes up and fires off her recommendations to the executive team. She’s done good work and she knows it.

Now she has time to cook and enjoy a leisurely dinner...and time to be alone with her thoughts. Her thoughts scare her. She hardly recognizes herself in the abused woman she remembers from her dreams. Lucid, horrifying, humiliating dreams two nights in a row. And yet her clearest memory from each dream was the overwhelming desire she felt for her abuser, the pleasure she felt when she submitted to his control, and the earth-shaking orgasms he gave her. Last night’s anal rape was horribly painful, and it seemed to go on forever. But at the end—with no sexual pleasure involved at all—she still had the most powerful orgasm of her life. «I don’t know what’s going on with me. But these dreams are going to drive me crazy.»

This idea of submission had once seemed so foreign to her, but she had lived in “Man’s World” long enough now that she had seen it happen many times. Women giving up their independence, their careers, their very lives at the behest of some man. Until now she had never understood the reason. Even now she couldn’t understand why her dreams were doing this to her. «It just doesn’t make any sense! Have I been here too long? Am I starting to “go native”?»

Her commitment to the mission of the gods was undiminished. And she was doing good. She was making an impact. Even though no one here worshipped the ancient gods, not even her closest friends, her fellow “heroes”, she knew the gods must be pleased with her.

She is thinking that perhaps these dreams are some sort of message from the gods. She knows what modern science thinks of dreams; she’s neither stupid nor uneducated. But she also knows—in much the same way that the best scientists know—that scientists don’t know everything. Scientists can’t even explain the most central facts of her life: her two-plus millennia of youthful existence, her strength, her speed, her invulnerability, her ability to fly. The gifts of the gods, gifts given so that she might serve humanity.

So, are these dreams another gift? If so they are the strangest gift yet. Various of the gods who gave her her powers had been ascendant at one time or another in her life. In her youth Hermes had seemed to be the one guiding her actions; her young life over two millennia ago had been a thrilling blur. Then her first adult independence was guided by Artemis, who taught her to love nature even as she guided the arrows into her prey. Later her thirst for knowledge caused her to pray to Athena. And when she saw to her citizen’s duty and took up arms to defend the Queendom, Athena continued to guide both her strong right arm and her tactical and strategic mind. And now, in her mission to serve the gods in Man’s World, strong and fierce Hera, queen of the gods, seemed the ever-present guidepost of her life. «Maybe the time has come for Aphrodite to take center stage in my life.»

When Mamá used to tell her of the gods’ attendance at her birth, of the original set of gifts they had bestowed upon Mamá’s “child of destiny”, she always said that the gift of Aphrodite had been “great compassion and beauty”. But wasn’t she the goddess of beauty and love? Sexual love? And yet if these dreams are sent to teach her about love, then they are strange lessons indeed. They are nothing like her imaginings about romance. Of course, what would she know about that? To live as an Amazon is to live a life devoid of romance. «Ha! Unless you’re a lesbian!» Even counting her brief entanglement with Simon, that she could only measure her total romantic experience with men in terms of hours.

Even so, in spite of her dream yearnings for her cruel “master”, he has made it abundantly clear that he despises her “love”. Strange, harsh lessons, if lessons they are at all. Is Aphrodite trying to teach her that love is cruel? That there is a purpose in submissiveness? Or is it just that two-plus millennia of near-absolute loneliness are finally driving poor Cynthia mad?

As Cynthia tortures herself for religious significance in her life’s latest plot twist, I almost want to help her. “Your Gods are not gods,” I might say. “They are real; they exist; they are powerful beyond belief. But the have not been here forever—far from it!—they certainly are not creators of the universe, they are not here to shepherd and edify humanity, and they are definitely not unkillable. Your ‘Gods’ do have a purpose for you, and they have given you, and to a lesser extent your sister Amazons, incredible powers. But knowing your ‘Gods’ as I do, I am certain that their purpose is not the purpose they told you. Their purpose in empowering you is not altruistic. Their purpose is not to benefit you or humanity. I half-suspect their purpose is to put up a front that helps ensure their survival. I half-suspect that their purpose is to flush me out, to get me to expose myself, perhaps to destroy me, although they truly have no idea who or what I am.“

“Moreover, dear Cynthia,” I could say, “You are being taught lessons, but not by your ‘gods’. The being giving you these lessons is much much older than your ‘gods’. Or at least older than their presence on planet Earth. These lessons are designed to mold you into an image that I desire, for my purpose, not yours. And certainly not for your benefit. I will turn you into my obedient slave, both in your dreams and in real life. And in the process I will turn you from their tool to my tool, my tool to use against them. But that, Cynthia dear, is a labor for another day. We have a long, long time to become acquainted with each other before then.“

But Cynthia knows none of this, and so she spends the evening in fervent prayer. To Aphrodite, she prays to understand her sexy, submissive, horrifying dreams. And then through her regular prayer litany: to Hera for strength, to Athena for wisdom, etc., etc.

The end of the day has come, and she readies herself for her ordeal. It has been a strange day. She has not checked radio, TV, or internet for news of crime or disaster. Her Legion of Heroes communicator has sat with her cell phone all day, both untouched. She has not turned on her police scanner. She hasn’t even checked her email since sending out her Betelgeusean threat assessment. Almost her whole day, short as it was, has been consumed with the aftermath and anticipation of her suddenly potent sleep time. And now it is time to sleep again. «Will I resist this time?» she wonders, «What is the point of resisting? In my dream I am powerless in every way. Resistance only brings me sorrow, yearning, fear, and pain. But who am I if I am not strong? Will I become the kind of servile wretch that I have always despised? I have already become that wretch anyway, on both occasions, AND I LOVED IT.»

«Perhaps the ‘military science’ approach is right after all.» After she came to Man’s World, as a former military leader herself, she became fascinated with the follies and wisdom of Man’s World’s military. One of the recent tenets of the American military was that, for a POW, complete resistance of one’s captors is actually counterproductive. Fighting the torture, so the reasoning went, would actually make a prisoner “break” sooner and more completely. The US military actually teaches their soldiers, sailors, and airmen to pursue a bend-but-don’t-break strategy when taken prisoner.

Cynthia had always been skeptical of such an approach «Small compromises are the cracks in which large capitulations grow!», but now, at this late stage of her long life, she was gaining undesired experience at just how powerless “powerless” really is. «Maybe they are right after all. Resistance has certainly “been futile”,» she smirked, «Maybe cooperation might work better?»

Excellent idea, Cynthia. Let’s see how that works out for you.

I can hardly wait for Cynthia to fall asleep. Shortly after midnight, more than an hour after lying down naked on her bedroom floor, she finally does. Her dreams are the usual miasma, and I am still waiting for my moment. In one odd scene, I am naked and prostrate before her, but I beg to serve her in her voice, and she commands me to fuck her in my voice. I almost take that one, but decide to let it slide. Wrong image.

Scene after scene slides by. Betegeusean triumvirate as the Three Stooges. Power Man and Greased Lighting in flagrante delicto (Power Man, oddly, on the receiving end). Yadda, yadda, yadda. Soon a historical scene, a story from her mother’s knee about how Heracles had conquered and enslaved the Amazons. She sees her mother, Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons, naked and prostrate before Heracles, head down, ass up, arms outstretched, begging in Cynthia’s voice, “How may I serve you, My Lord?". Now it’s time.

In the penthouse, Cynthia lies before me. As she awakens, she begins to leave her pose, but then she freezes as my musk permeates her rousing mind. She hesitates and then decides. Resuming the pose of perfect submission, she humbly entreats me, “How may I serve you, my Lord?” Good. Very good. Let the games begin.

“Not now, baby bitch, I’m busy,” I murmur, not unkindly.

She is doesn’t know what to do! «He’s busy? Too busy to be fucking slaved over? “Discipline”» She visibly flinches as I drop the seed, but then calms herself, «No. No. Wrong attitude.» In the absence of any command, it seems the safest thing to do is to stay put, so she does: head down, ass up, arms outstretched, awaiting the pleasure of her Lord. But her yearning for me is a tsunami pounding her shore. She feels the dripping wetness of her snatch, the hardness of her nipples rubbing the floor. In spite of herself she begins to squirm. She risks a furtive glance up. I am on the couch staring at my laptop on the coffee table, brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of me, combined with the smell, is like a drug. Involuntarily her pussy clenches, her nipples become even harder; they begin to hurt. She wants to leap up and ravish me, but she can’t. But she knows she is going to go crazy if she lies prostrate much longer.

I am amazed at the thought that occurs to her at this point. I didn’t plant that seed! By the time she decides to risk it, I know how I’m going to respond. “My Lord, please allow me to seek my own way to serve you.“

“What?” I snap. How dare she interrupt my concentration!

“I-I-I-I c-c-could c-c-c-clean, or d-d-d-dust, or d-d-d-do laundry, My Lord?” Now she’s ready for the axe to fall.

But I’m amenable. “Good girl. It’s been a while since the place was dusted. Find the supplies yourself and begin in the dining room. No vacuuming though, I need to concentrate.”

“Yes, My Lord! Right away, My Lord!” she squeaks happily, “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.” Her joy is two-fold. First, in spite of herself she is thrilled that I called her a “good girl”; her inner feminist is completely overwhelmed by the submissiveness that comes with my female slavebody. Second, she thinks the activity will distract her, allowing her to more easily bear the crushing absence of my cock from her cunt.

Alas, the first joy is interfering with the second. As she rummages under the kitchen sink, looking for dusting supplies, she shivers with the thrill every time I plant «“good girl”» in her mind. Which I’m doing about once every 10 seconds. A strong breeze between her legs could give her an orgasm right now, but not without my permission. That inner feminist who was planning to “bend, but not break” it now getting weaker with every wave of «“good girl”».

Eventually she comes out with a static duster and some spare replacement heads. I know, I know. You’re thinking it ought to be a feather duster and a tiny French maid outfit. I know how you think. Literally! But no, Annette, the slave girl with the doppelganger body, the one who does the shopping, actually likes getting up dust when it’s time to dust, and her Master agrees.

But things are a bit tough for our heroine right now. «“good girl”» Her thighs rubbing together when she walks are driving her crazy. «“good girl”» Her swaying tits are sending electric sparks through her body as she wields the duster on the dining room table and chairs. «“good girl”» Every time she hears me grunt or move or type, her love muscle clinches forcing out a moan. Somewhere in the back of her mind, as she “bends” more and more in her lust for me, she realizes with a thrill of fear that she never had a clear concept of what constitutes “not breaking”.

After she finishes the table, centerpieces, chairs, she notices the wet bar and wine rack for the first time. She stumbles over a «“good girl”» on the way over, which should have made her more cautious, but instead she picks up a bottle of Glenlivet and begins to dust under it. «“good girl”» She nearly drops the bottle but somehow holds on through the spasm; they’re getting stronger now. She puts the bottle back with shaking hands and now contents herself with dusting around the bottles. Another «“good girl”» causes her to rattle the bottles, but, looking back at me in terror, she breathes a sigh of relief. I don’t seem to have noticed the noise. She’s still a good g- «“good girl”» A weak groan escapes her, but this time she’s to afraid to look. The wine rack is only about thigh high, holding twenty or so bottles. Fearing an incident, she drops to her knees for greater stability, just in time for another «“good girl”» tremor. She dusts the rack itself «“good girl”», dusts each bottle, carefully giving each a quarter turn after dusting «“good girl”».

Now she is shivering constantly as she moves to her next target, the entertainment center in the living room. Each «“good girl”» causes her to rattle and sway like an old jalopy on a country road. As she reaches the cabinet, the next «“good girl”» hits her and she falls to her knees, clutching the heavy shelving to keep herself from falling over. Her inner feminist is silent. Her need is everything. «I can’t do this anymore. What’ll I do!»

Now her stern slavemaster becomes her white knight. I shut my laptop. “That’s enough dusting for now, sweet thang. Go put the swiffer away and hurry back.”

She staggers to the kitchen and then back, prostrate and beckoning. “How may I s—”

“What do you know about fellatio?”

“Um, I beg your par—”

“Blow jobs, cocksucking, giving head, face-fucking, swallowing the one-eyed snake. Ever done it?”

She blushes with her whole body. “Um, no, M-m-my Lord.”

“Ah, jeez, you’re hopeless,” I mutter, visibly crushing her. “Consider it homework for next time. In the mean time, get over here,” I say. I stand and drop trou, my flag at about quarter-staff. “You may lick it. You may KISS it. You may MASSAGE it. DO NOT attempt to take my prick into your incompetent mouth.“

She hurries to comply, eager puppy with a new toy. She grabs, she kisses, she licks, she strokes, she moans and groans with abandon. She looks up at me with awe and worship in her eyes. With all that and what I sense going on in her head, it is not long before I am solid oak, mahogany even.

“Onto the couch, baby bitch.”

She is up in a flash, remembering the position: hands-and-knees, head resting—and moaning and shivering—on the arm of the couch. I waste no time in coming up behind and under her, bringing my cock to press up into her stomach, lightly rubbing the root of my shaft against her clit. “Tell me what you want.”

“Oh, My Lord, My Sex GOD! Please, My Lord I beg you rule over my slimy, wet hole with your Holy Sceptre. My empty void lacks its true Master. Please teach it to worship You in awe.“

I enter her completely in one swift motion. The wave of pleasure overwhelms her and she is already screaming for release, “PLEASE LORD! LET ME CUM! I’M READY NOW, LORD! PLEASE, I BEG YOU, LORD! PLE—”

“Cum, twat.”

“OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH! GHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGNNGHHHH!” It’s the most powerful orgasm she’s ever had. The one in the training room two days ago? The anal orgasm yesterday? Not. Even. Close. And I haven’t even begun thrusting yet.

She’s winding down now, almost coherent again. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, My One True Lord! I’ve never felt...I’ve never DREAMED of feeling...I...I...” I start moving, slowly. “UUUUUUUNNNNNGGGGGG!”

“ohpleasemylord, oooooh, ohpleaseletmecumagain, ohple—”

“Now, now, baby bitch. You’ve been a very good girl today, and you deserved a reward...” I hear her mind sing, «Good girl! Reward!» “But you need to remember that you are here to serve me. So let’s see what you can do to please me.” A loud moan is torn from her throat. In her own mind, of her own volition, no seeds involved, I hear, «Please him! Serve him! Worship him! Good girl! REWARD!»

Her cunt clamps down on my rod like a vise, but she is so slippery that my stroke continues unabated. Her hips begin to move in counter-rhythm to my thrusts, rising to meet me as I sink into her, curling away as I pull out. Raw animal squeaks, growls, and howls escape her throat; she is beyond words. Her one mission in life is to please me; in so doing there is hope I will one day deign to give her another reward.

Time passes happily for both of us. I’m fucking her gently, but even so, she can’t keep up. To begin with, she’s intimidated. She believes that I can fuck just about forever without cumming. Heck, she has pretty good evidence for that belief from yesterday. And she knows that her own tide of sexual pleasure is already past the high water mark of her own level of endurance. She feels like she has to cum, that her orgasm is just one stroke away, but she also knows that she is only a slave, a pet, a fucktoy; she can’t cum without my permission.

But there is more than just the imbalance in sexual stamina between us. There is also a vast difference in physical stamina. I glance at the clock. In only 41 minutes, her love muscles are weakening, her hips’ counterpoints to my thrusts are slower and weaker. Her driving will is still to serve me, to bring me pleasure, but her exhaustion and sexual frustration are making it difficult. Still, she must learn to endure. If I am going to reward her with another orgasm at the end of this—and I fully intend to—then she is going to have to feel that she earned it. She’s going to have to persevere. She’s going to have to find her second wind. She’s going to have to achieve her reward.

“Are you feeling lazy, cock socket?”

“...M-m-my Lord? Mmmmmm...”

“Where is that Kung Fu grip from a few minutes ago. You’re not paying attention. You just missed a beat and I almost came out.”

“I’m NNNNggh sssorry, My Lord. I can do bet—!” And truth to tell her vagina does start to respond. But that’s not the point.

“I think you need a little incentive,” I say, whacking her hard on the ass.

It hurts. It hurts her pride too. It’s humiliating. Her inner feminist tries to make one futile last stand, but the truth is the humiliation and the pain are both so thrilling that her sexual rush overwhelms all other thought.

“Oooooooh, My Lord!”

Smack! “Why are you here, bitch?”

“I’m here to please you, My Lord! To serve you!”

Smack! “So why aren’t you doing that?”

“Um...I-I’m www-weak, My Lord. You’re so powerful!” Smack! “I can’t keep up with you.”

Smack! “No excuses!” Smack! “Only bad slaves have to make excuses.” Smack! “Have you been bad?“

Now she sees where this is going, and it gives her another shock of thrill. She submits completely to my authority. Smack! “Y-y-y-yes, My Lord.” Smack! “I’ve been bad.” Smack! “I need to be...” Smack! “dd-d-disciplined!” Smack! “Please punish me!” Smack! “Teach me how to be pleasing to you!” Smack! “I want to be a good girl again!”

The spanking goes on in earnest for quite a while longer. Me administering solid thumps to her backside, her begging and thanking me for discipline, gripping my member harder than ever (although her vaginal muscles are truly sore in the effort), responding to my thrusts in perfect rhythm, and, ultimately, crying out for mercy, even though she is riding the highest sexual high of her life.

I’m near the end now. I grab her by the hair and jerk back hard, pumping her in earnest. “Cum now, baby bitch. Cum for my pleasure!”

She screams—and I grunt—as her orgasm overtakes her, her love muscle trying to lop off my cock and swallow it all the way into her womb. And now I cum, ejaculating warmth deep inside her, which triggers another wave of orgasm in her on top of the one that has not yet abated. For a long time we trade that wave of mutual orgasm back and forth. My spray of jism causes her to pump me anew, which causes me to fire another rope of baby batter, which causes another wave of pussy-pleasure-pumping, which...well, you get the picture.

Minutes later her cunt is still trying to milk my depleted cock. Every little twitch of my member triggers another round of orgasmic aftershock in her sex. Eventually her still-clinching pussy expels my spent prick.

Mind thoroughly blown, on the verge of exhaustion, Cynthia Royal, Majestic Woman, knows her duty as my slave. She begs me to let her up so that she can clean me properly, so that she can do what a good whore-maid-pet should.

I tell her that she is a good girl, but that she can rest now, that she can clean up later. Still protesting that she wants to perform this service for me, that it is only fitting and proper, that she doesn’t feel right leaving a mess, her words begin to slur together and she drifts off to a real dreamland.

What did that cartoon wizard used to say? “Drizzle drazzle druzzle drome, Time for this one to come home.”

Now I swap her back into her real body; my slave Annette lies sleeping before me, but wakes up as her mind was conscious during the swap. She knows what has happened here. She knows what the plan was. She knows there is a mess to clean up and gets right on it, as expected. In her mind I see that she did indeed sleep in Cynthia’s tired body until I awoke her, that she then strummed Cynthia’s body to a single orgasm timed precisely by me, finally leaving her in her supplicant’s pose, just as the afterglow is setting in, just as I swap them back to their homes.

Cynthia awakens, somehow not surprised that she in symbolically praying to her master, head down, ass up, arms outstretched. Somehow not surprised that she is basking in the afterglow of a dream orgasm. Somehow not surprised that she actually feels rested, not exhausted like the last two nights. She gets up to do her early morning business, and comes back to sleep on the floor again. This time she doesn’t lie flat on the floor. There she is in her own home, head down, ass up, arms outstretched. It just feels right. And soon she is off to sleep again.