The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It’s morning again, and Cynthia wants to feel conflicted. She wants to feel disgusted with herself. She wants to hate herself for groveling before the Lord of her dreams. But she doesn’t. She can’t even bring herself to fake it. She feels GOOD! The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Colors seem brighter. Smells seem sweeter. The whole world is a Disney musical. She has just had the most amazing sexual experience—the most amazing experience period—of her entire 2482 year existence.

Like a loyal puppy, she had reveled in his praise. Even now as she hears him say “good girl” in her mind, she shivers. Her nipples turn into pencil erasers. Her pussy turns into a vise. Like a faithful slave she had obeyed his every whim. She had even tried to anticipate his needs and desires and to obey those. Like a submissive contrite little child she had accepted his right to discipline her. She had even begged him to spank her, to punish her, to purify her, to shape her again into his perfect “good girl”.

It had cost her every last ounce of her self-respect. But oh, what she had been given in return! She has always been a devout woman her entire life; hell, she’s actually been face-to-face with her Gods! But last night—in a dream!—was the first truly religious experience in two and a half millennia of full and accomplished life. «So this is what it feels like to be fulfilled, to find that thing that was missing from your life.»

It was only a dream—a dream!—but it still consumes her. She had awoken from her dream in a supplicant’s pose: head down, ass up, arms outstretched. It had felt...right. She had drifted back to sleep in the same position and awoken again this morning in the same position. It still felt right.

Even her morning routine is suddenly free of fear and stress. Gone is the visceral terror at the sound of draining water. Towels and washcloths instill no dread. She has no fear of “Discipline”; she’s now fully disciplined! She has experienced both the carrot and the stick. While the stick is truly terrifying, the carrot is so...yummy, that she is certain that her Lord will never again need the stick to bring her to heel.

I must note at this point that I am sometimes surprised by my own handiwork. In her mind, Majestic Woman has just described her “fantasy” sex life as “yummy”. YES.

But beyond her newfound submissive serenity, she can only take the tiny chiding inner voice of self-disgust so seriously. It’s just a freaking dream after all! Yes, it is a dream where she has sold herself into sexual slavery, but still just a dream. «Besides, it’s not like he gave me a choice anyway. I could drown in “Discipline” hell until I broke—and break I would, every time—or I could just submit from the outset and be rewarded beyond my wildest dreams. Well, I guess not “beyond” my wildest dreams, » she giggled—actually giggled!—to herself, «My wildest dream EVER just happened! And that reward was IN the dream not beyond it.»

And so it goes for Cynthia all morning. She is fooling herself into believing she can have her dream cake and eat in too. Every self-reassurance that it was “only a dream” is followed immediately by a visceral, nearly childish, thrill in how vividly real were her animal arousal and her orgasmic pleasure, her rewards for accepting the yoke of her Lord and Master. She is clearly at war with herself over her dream behavior, but the forces of feminist anger and shame are weak and outnumbered. They are fighting a flagging rearguard retreat. And the forces of subservient bliss are fresh, well-armed, and overwhelming. They seize the day despite the logical flaws in their arguments.

Her fight for her own freedom ultimately ends with a whimper, and she puts it from her thoughts. Now she has the rest of her day before her. She is feeling refreshed, alert, alive. «Ready to kick some supervillain ass!»

Time to plant a seed. «“Think of it as homework for next time.“» Now let’s see what sort of internal debate this kicks off.

• Point: «He said I had an “incompetent mouth”! If I don’t-»
• Counterpoint: «Oh Zeus’s Lightning, Cynthia. IT’S JUST A DREAM!»
• Point: «But it’s a dream with “DISCIPLINE”. He said, “Only bad slaves make excuses.” I can’t ignore this. He’ll PUNISH me!»
• Counterpoint: «Um. Okay, look, can we at least “time box” this...fellatio research? I’m still a superheroine; I need to spend SOME time on some superheroics.»
• Point: «Two hours, MAX!»

And thus Majestic Woman’s laptop is introduced to internet porn. I’m very helpful with my seed thoughts for googling. THREE hours later, she feels as if she has barely scratched the surface of the complicated subject of cocksucking. She has taken down some notes that seem to cover the basics:

• work up some spit. saliva = lubrication
• lips over teeth. teeth on penis -> BAD
• tongue action -> stimulate glans (head), work underside, lick balls (before? during?)
• suction: seal lips (conflict w/ tongue action? alternate?)
• deep throat=all the way in! HE’S TOO BIG!!! “suppress gag reflex” WTF?! It bends UP, not down! more flexible than it looks??
• eye contact
• more from D/s “subbie” blogger on “face-fucking”: “If he grabs your head and starts thrusting, DON’T FREAK OUT! It DOESN’T necessarily mean that you screwed up or that he’s punishing you. It probably just means that he’s asserting his dominance, taking control. That’s what we want, right, ladies? OTOH, he might be punishing you. Have you been a naughty girl? Communication is important.”
• NEED TO PRACTICE!! with a dildo? with a MAN!? :—P
• big rubber monster

This last note, I must add, was in reference to a short video she saw online. It starts with a woman holding something jammed down her throat. Slowly she draws it out until you can see that the object is a two foot long translucent pink rubber dildo. As she wrote the note, mentally christening it with the acronym “BRM”, she thought to herself, «If I could deep throat THAT, I could take anything My Lord can throw at me.»

Looking at her notes she starts to get nervous. This is beginning to snowball. She is already an hour outside of her time box, and she is nowhere near ready to “turn in her homework” to her Dream Lord. «“Only bad slaves make excuses”...“Discipline”» No, those are not seeds from me. She did that all by herself.

«That’s it then. The whole day is shot. I’ve got to be ready to face Him.» She needs to come up with a plan and execute it, right now! She seizes upon the goal of swallowing the BRM. I’m impressed; she has barely even touched man meat to her lips before and she already wants to try out for the Cocksucking Olympic Team!

Her first problem, of course, is that she doesn’t actually have a BRM. But never fear! I am there for her with helpful googling suggestion seeds, and in no time at all she has located a brick-and-mortar store that sells exactly the desired “novelty”. Except...she has no idea if they actually have it in stock, and the store is in Nez Pierce, Washington, almost a 1400 miles away. The second problem is only a minor inconvenience for a woman who can fly, but transit time could become an issue (She’s not Greased Lightning or Power Man; her top flight speed is only about 800 miles per hour). There are a few other sellers in her search results, but none that lists a physical store location. So she calls the Nezzytown store.

The voice on the line is masculine and gravelly. “Ecstasy Connection, how may I serve you?”

«What the f—?» That greeting really throws her off her stride. “H-h-hi, I’m calling to see if you have item...D-1432-24?“

“Ah, I can only assume you’ve seen the video?”

Arrgh. She wasn’t expecting to have to make small talk. “Um, yes. Do you have it?”

“Checking now, ma’am. Yeees, we have two in stock. Shall I send you one?” I’ve located the mind on the other end of the phone now, and I’m listening to his thoughts too.

“No, I’ll be by to pick it up this afternoon. Can you hold one for me?”

Now he’s confused, and maybe a little suspicious. “Um, ma’am, that’s a Portal City area code. What do you mean ‘you’ll pick it up this afternoon’?”

Damn! Fuck caller ID! “No, no,” she says, wracking her brain for a way out, “that’s...my cell number. I’m actually in town...on business!”

“Um, Okaaaay.” He still doesn’t trust her. You get some weird people calling sex stores sometimes. “But I’ll need a credit card to run that hold for you.”

«Shit! Shit! Shit! I don’t want this loser to know my NAME!» “Really? Look, I swear I’ll be there in just a few hours.“

“Ma’am, it’s store policy,” he invents, “Look, I’ve got a line at the checkout here. Could you call back?” The store is empty. He’s just trying to get rid of her.

“No, No, just wait a sec. I’ve got to dig it out of my purse.” She runs for her purse, comes back, gives him the card info.

He runs the authorization right then, still not trusting her. “Okay, Missus—”

“Ms.”

“Miz...Royal, that item will be waiting for you. What time should I expect you?”

“Sometime this afternoon. I have some...meetings, and besides that I’m not completely sure where you are...how far you are from me, that is.”

“Sure, we’re right downtown. Oh, and we close at eight.”

As she hangs up she starts making plans. She is still two hours away at her top speed, making the round trip almost 4 hours. This will seriously cut into her practice time. She is about ready to book a hotel room in Nezzy, but then remembers that last night was the only night of the three that she didn’t damage things in her sleep.

So she decides now to do something borderline unethical, something she has never done before. She is about to use the teleporter in Spyglass for personal business. This is not a seriously bad breach of ethics, Eagle Warrior once used it when he realized he had forgotten about his son’s birthday party two states away. He managed to make it on time, but had reported some awkward questions from one of the other adults about where his car was, or rather wasn’t.

Again, not a big deal, but bad form, somewhat risky, something the LoH discouraged. She has a reputation as one of the most personally upright—some would say uptight—heroes in the LoH. Just because it’s Majestic Woman making personal use of the teleporter, someone might notice. Noticing would be bad for her considering what would be in her “shopping bag” on the trip back! But she has to do this.

So she pulls out her lead box to take with her, thinking, «This is starting to get complicated.» Many members of the LoH—especially those gifted with super-strength—keep a cubic-foot-sized lead box handy so that if Power Man or his young cousin Powerhouse were exposed to rheanite, one of them could come rescue him (or her) and pack away the selectively-deadly radioactive crystal for disposal. She has no idea if the teleporter’s monitors can “see” through lead, but it’s the best she can do on short notice.

She has the box and is about to signal for telporation when she realizes she is still naked; she has been all day. Quickly she dresses in a conservative business suit—she had told the guy she was in Nezzy on business—grabs the box and signals for teleport.

In Spyglass the duty officer is a minor hero from Australia whose name she cannot remember; his hero name, the Rock, is pretty hard to forget though. He’s a bit of a macho prick, but she’s pretty sure it’s just a front. “So, Cynthia! Biznez o-ah plehzhah.”

“It’s personal, um, Rock. I need you to set me down in Nez Pierce, uh, Washington, USA, somewhere secluded near the corner of 6th Avenue and Newgate Street.”

The Rock had hoping to get a bit of a rise out of his senior colleague, using the overly familiar “Cynthia” rather than “Ms. Royal” or better yet “Majestic Woman”. «She must be really distracted not to jump on red meat like that.»

Using the teleporter’s remote viewer, the Rock looks around at the indicated area, noting the train tracks, the warehouses, the loading docks, “Naw’ exac’ly the city haw’ spaw’, eh, Cyn? Secluded should bay ayzie. How ’bou’ heah?” It’s the space between two semi trailers at adjacent loading docks about a block from the store.

Cynthia thinks, «Not a hot spot indeed. Great neighborhood to fence a stolen watch or buy some meth, maybe.» “Sure, that looks great, Rock.“

«Son of a bandicoot! I just called her “Cyn” and she didn’t even bat an eyelash! Something is definitely strange here.» He’s getting uncomfortably suspicious, so I try planting a seed, «Cut her some slack, boy-o. Even ice queens deserve a little consideration.» He buys it.

“Ow-ways a pleazhah t’ give a luvlie laydie a lif’!” Thankfully he hits the button and she’s gone.

On the ground again she quickly makes her way to the store, remembering to hide the box behind a bush on the way.

«Whoa! Fox. In. The. House.» thinks the clerk as Cynthia walks in, Kim Kardashian’s face, hair, and skin wrapped around Pamela Anderson’s—No, Bianca Beauchamp’s—body, a body not truly successfully hidden under her conservative blouse, jacket, and skirt combo. He does not associate this confident sexy woman with the neurotic chick he just got off the phone with. But rather than browsing a while (as he hoped she would), she walks straight up to him and announces herself.

“I’m Cynthia Royal. You’re holding an, um, item for me?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, Ms. Royal. I haven’t even pulled it down yet. Let me go back and get it.” «I couldn’t have guessed THAT one more wrong,» he thinks as he hunts in the back warehouse, «I would have guessed some mousey school-teacher-church-lady-type with a kinky, demanding new boyfriend. This is a woman who could have any man she wants!...But maybe I’m right about the boyfriend. Ah, there it is.»

Soon he’s back out front. “Wow, you, ah, got here pretty fast. I wasn’t expecting you until much later.”

“Yes, one of my meetings was postponed, so I got a ride over here. It turns out you’re not that far away.”

«Right...You got a ride from a BUSINESS associate to an X-rated toy store.» “Um, okay. That’ll be $26.69, heh. Keep it on your card?“

“No. Here’s $30.”

“And your change. Plain bag or store bag, ma’am?”

She shudders slightly. She can’t imagine carrying, or even possessing a bag labelled “Ecstasy Connection”. “Plain bag please.”

As she turns to walk out he wonders, «Should I tell her?» Seeing what he’s thinking I plant a powerful «YES» seed in him. “Uh, ma’am, Ms. Royal.“

She turns, “Yes?”

«Wow! Those EYES!» he thinks, and then remembers that he was going to say something. “Um, you know that it’s fake, don’t you?“

“What?”

“The video you saw. It’s fake. That rubber, um, cock comes in 4 sizes. In the video she is pulling it out?.... They did a very good job, but I have some friends who do video editing, y’know? They say you can tell where they did the cuts. She starts out with the smallest one in her mouth, then just as it’s about to come all the way out they cut and switch to the next one, then another cut for the next one, and then another cut for the largest one. I mean she had to have it a LITTLE way into her throat each time, but not most of the way down to her stomach.”

Cynthia has a stricken look. Inside she is churning. All this “practice” she intended to do and her “goal” may not even be humanly possible!

He sighs, “Look. The sign says ‘All sales are final’, but you paid cash. I can take it back if you want.”

“No, no, I think I’ll keep it. It may make a good joke if nothing else.” But her shoulders are visibly slumped as she walks out.

«Wow. That really shook her. Maybe, I should close up and follow her, just to make sure she makes it to her ride.» But even as he’s saying that his pants start to tent; he has visions of “comforting” her. I have to nip this in the bud, for lots of reasons. So I plant a seed image of “myself”—six-foot-five blond Adonis—as her boyfriend. I’m getting out of the hot sports car as she climbs in, I’m chasing him down, and then I’m laying him out with one punch. It’s risky to try to plant that much visual, but it works. He stays put.

She boxes the dildo, returns to the warehouse loading dock, calls for teleport, and safely gets her dick-in-a-box past the Rock. For his part, the Rock can tell she’s not in a bantering mood and puts her back in her living room right where she had been when she left.

Now it’s three hours later and she is crying. Cynthia Royal, Majestic Woman, superheroine—no, a leader among superheroes—former Commander-in-Chief of the Amazon Army, Guardian of Portal City with the statue to prove it, is reduced to tears by her inability to suck a rubber cock. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get down the basics: she had worked up plenty of spit, she had pretty good tongue action on the tip and on the underside, she (eventually) was able to take it all the way into her mouth without making “tooth contact”, and she was getting a nice rhythm going in and out.

But she could not get the damned thing down her throat! First there was problem of the shield of Athena, that aura of near-invulnerability that surrounds and suffuses her body. The shield simply would not allow that monster to pass into her throat.

This “inconvenient invulnerability” problem was actually fairly common, and she knew how to solve it. She often needs to weaken the shield, for example, whenever she wants to clip her nails, or cut or style her hair, or shave her legs and armpits, or wax her nether regions (Hey, have you seen her uniform? That’s a pretty challenging bikini line for a dark-haired Mediterranean girl!), or even get a little drunk (the shield stops toxins like alcohol too). She weakens the shield by “praying to Athena”. At least that’s what she believes she’s doing. Remember, they’re not really “gods”, they’re not really omnipresent, and they certainly don’t hear and answer prayer. My theory of the moment is that they built a semi-conscious backdoor AI into the shield technology, triggered by her “prayer”.

«O Great Goddess Athena,» she silently intoned, «Please remove your divine protection over my throat, so that through mortal weakness I may act on mortal needs.» She felt truly guilty asking Athena to facilitate her imaginary sex life, but she reminded herself, again, that Aphrodite is also one of her patrons.

So, throat no longer an impassable barrier. But, alas, that only made the problem worse. Now she was stymied by the very “mortal weakness” for which she had prayed. She simply could not stop the gagging. The second the rubber cockhead touched the back of her throat the reflex took over and it was all she could do avoid chucking up her lunch. She could even feel her esophagus clamping shut and pushing back.

And even worse, trying to force it really hurt. Her abused throat is going to be sore for days now, and she was no closer to swallowing the BRM than she was when she started. This whole thing is a disaster.

So there she sits, BRM in her lap, utterly desolate. ”sob Just suppress sob your gag reflex they say. sob It’s easy, they say snif.” Actually, none of her studying said it was easy, but she’s not exactly in a reasonable state of mind right now. Besides that, she’s seen quite a bit of very skilled face-fucking during her research today, and they certainly did make it look easy. I truly had not expected her to be reduced to such child-like despair, not in this body anyway.

Look, there are lots of things that could be going wrong for our heroine right now. To begin with she’s trying to stuff a 7 inch circumference rubber rod into a 4 inch circumference hole. On top of that, saliva, while a fairly good skin-on-soft-tissue lubricant, is a lousy for rubber-on-soft-tissue. She might have had better results if she had used an actual sex lubricant on the BRM. But it’s also quite possible that our Cynthia is one of those people who simply can’t voluntarily control her gag reflex are all.

So now she is in despair, at her wit’s end. She’s terrified of “Discipline”, yes, but even more afraid of simply disappointing me, of failing to be desirable, of being a “bad slave”. She knows I would never reward her for this kind of failure, and she wants to be rewarded. The Majestic Woman of four days ago would not even recognize who she is now.

Cynthia still hasn’t had dinner, but she’s too depressed to cook—and Cynthia loves to cook. She rummages through the freezer and finds a serving of casserole that she had set aside for some too-rushed-to-make-a-real-meal evening. So, turkey divan heating in the microwave, tea kettle heating on the stove, she picks up an orange and absent-mindedly peels it. Her mind is stuck in a failure loop. Tears flow again, in silence this time.

Meal/snack finished, kitchen cleaned, evening stretching out before her. Cynthia Royal falls further into her funk. She dreads going to bed tonight even more than she did last night. «Last night I had a plan. Tonight I don’t know what the plan could possibly be. Throw myself at his mercy and hope for the best? HA, MERCY!» Memories of drowning flood her mind. «Mercy is not very high on My Lord’s agenda. When He tells me to blow him maybe I should just cut to the chase and offer him my ass instead.» Now memories of that horror resurface. She starts to shake; tears make new tracks on her face.

She tries to read, but she can’t concentrate. She tries to watch TV, even though she hates TV. She goes out for a walk, but that just leaves her alone with her thoughts again. Eventually she decides to face the inevitable and calls it an early night.