The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I dozed off in psych! So embarrassing, so unforgivable, I’m just glad that Miss Taylor accepted my excuse that I spent all lunch studying, skipped lunch, and am really worried about a close friend. After I came to at least I didn’t feel drunk anymore and my head seemed to be screwed on just a little bit tighter than it had been before.

Something about that book, or the dust, or something . . . maybe I really am starving and just need to eat and take a nap and never read any cheap lesbian erotica ever again.

I should not have dreamed about being Yolanda.

Candy might have waited for me under the stairs between the last classes of the day, but I wasn’t there. I can’t wait. I need to get home. My bag feels way too heavy, and each individual book feels like another part of the worry I have for Laura and whatever the hell is happening to my mind.

I couldn’t pronounce the word developed! It literally wouldn’t come to my lips no matter how I shaped or twisted them. My throat wouldn’t project the sound. I was like some kind of a brainless ditz . . .

Women who have their minds turned to mush to be used for sex objects are supposed to be busty with blonde hair, they’re not supposed to have flaming red curls and very modest breasts. My forehead is covered in sweat.

Nothing makes sense anymore. My friend shouldn’t be nibbling on my ear and telling me she’ll meet me at my home after school to discuss things. And the sorts of things it seemed like she might want to discuss seem to be . . . a lot more . . . sexual than I’d like.

I can’t believe she nibbled on my ear!

Right now, just walking home, all I want to do is be home. I have some math homework, but the only book occupying my mind is that Dirty Girls book. I flipped through it a little more—there are so many stories resembling a similar style. Their only linking factor are women being turned into other women’s . . . sex pets.

Pets isn’t the right name though. Slave is the only word for how they were treated. These stories, was Laura getting off on the thought of being the Yolandas . . . or the Kathryns?

Either way it is a very scary thought, and I have no clue which would be better for me.

This isn’t the kind of thing I can talk about with my parents. My mother would preach about acceptance, and my father would tell me to talk with my mother. My crotch tells me to read more of that book and slam it closed a few more times in hopes of another dust cloud. It felt so good, and I don’t find those stories spicy, but the dust makes so very much spicier than it actually is.

Falling asleep in class, when I came to, it was . . . the hottest thing I could have remembered. Losing consciousness, losing interest, just feeling detached and yummy, it simply felt like pure dirty bliss rubbing over me . . . It was only embarrassing after my mind came all the way up.

At first, when Mz. Taylor woke me up, all I wanted was for her to straddle me and tell me to be her dirty girl. I would have said yes in a very, very quick heartbeat.

I have to stop thinking like this! It isn’t healthy! It isn’t helping! Laura, or Chelsea, or Sappho, or someone is trying to do to me whatever was done to Laura. She used to have green eyes and, I never saw any gray flecks in her eyes before . . .

Just this once I wish that I was vain enough to carry a compact with me. I would love to know if my own eyes are looking like that. Maybe it was just a reaction of an overactive mind, I really can’t be sure.

No one has ever told me about dust that makes you feel like your IQ just dropped thirty points.

It can’t be the dust. What if I do have a fetish for being turned into a slave by a powerful woman? If something gave me the opportunity to experience that . . . I don’t know the right terms like Laura would, but I do know that if you want something bad enough, then your mind can make it real.

The Wachowski brothers taught me that, and then I did additional research.

I’ve taken some psych classes, but nothing I can think of explains what I’m going through unless Laura was recruited into some sort of druggy dyke cult and is trying to pull me along with her or . . .

I’m about half way home—it’s a walk all right but not enough of one to justify a bus ride or bothering to learn how to drive a car when Midas’s public transportation is the best in the country. There’s a park not too far from here, maybe I should just take a seat and read that book for awhile. Maybe something will come to me . . .

It’s a lot harder than it should be to shrug that idea off, but I eventually manage to and then head home in a sprint. I need to get home and do my math, then pay Laura a visit. Maybe away from Chelsea she’ll talk to me seriously and not try to hit on me.

Or maybe I’ll end up her Dirty Girl.

Only one of those options should sound appealing.

Candy’s line about carrying the Yolanda instead of the one echoes too loudly between my ears, and math is nearly impossible. It’s just a simple algebra class thanks to my lovely slacking habits, but linear equations can still involve carrying ones and all that makes me think about are those hard nipples through a too tight bra and resistance dripping out between a woman’s thighs.

They’re not very productive thoughts.

Then again, what could I hope to accomplish right now anyway? There’s nothing sitting at home with a face buried in an algebra book is going to do. It might make me a little bit more prepared for junior college, but only a little.

Whenever I have trouble with my homework I always drop by Laura’s, but that’s what I’m using this to delay. Candy won’t be able to help with this. Sure, she’s in a more advanced math class, but right now I think she’s taking this harder than I am. The last thing I need is to burden Candy with this if I’m just blowing it out of proportion. She’s already worried, this is likely all just a big kinky misunderstanding . . .

Ever since I got home I’ve been trying to figure out what could actually explain this away without anything being wrong. Maybe she’s just feeling explorative and playful at the same time. Maybe she just wants to be a little bit of a brat or something.

None of that really fits . . .

I finish the last equation and close the book around the loose leaf paper. Half of them are probably wrong but until I go over to Laura’s none of this is going to matter. Laura probably wants her book back anyway.

After I grab the book out of my bag, I take off for Laura’s. Mom already knows I was going to Laura’s so I just slip out into the night. With a little luck I’ll be laughing with Laura in no time.

The walk to Laura’s isn’t all that bad. It’s dark enough to be ominous but right now just about everything is some shade of ominous. Her door isn’t ominous, and neither is the doorbell. Deciding to give the straight forward approach, I ring the bell and wait.

“Come on Laura . . .” I hold the book to my chest and rock on my heels hoping that this goes well. At least I’m not dressed flirty, just in the khakis and turtle neck that I was wearing at school. Neither of those things are flirty things to wear, so at least she can’t use that against me I hope. I’ve just never had a friend suddenly nibble on my ear . . .

About a minute after the ring, the door opens up and Laura is in the doorway.

While I did not dress to impress, I am not sure that the same can be said for her. Her top isn’t the gray sweater she had on at school but a tight black barely sleeved t-shirt with silvery writing that proudly proclaims “porn star”. Her pants are gone and instead she’s wearing a pair of dark . . . biker shorts? I think that’s the right word for it. I don’t know why she dressed like this, and I have even less of an idea where she got it. You don’t see a girl for one weekend and . . . wow.

“Hey Stace, sorry to keep you waiting . . . I was just knuckle deep in another book . . . ya know . . .? Come on in, we need to talk . . .” Her mom works at night, sleeps during the day. Her dad lives in another state. She seems harmless enough, and her fingers seem dry, but . . . Her eyes still have those gray flecks.

“Yeah, we really do, but uhm . . . Don’t worry about it.” A part of me wants to know just what she meant, but the tone she used lets me know that if my already too dirty of an idea is wrong, then what’s right is even worse. Knuckle deep, that’s just . . .

Laura grins and moves out of the doorway enough to let me in, and then steps behind me to close the door, and then lock it. I’m taller than her, I know if I needed to I could overpower her and run out screaming into the night, but why the hell am I considering doing that to my friend? I’m not in danger, she just needs my help, or needs to apologize for scaring me senseless.

Seeing no alternatives, I step in a little farther and look around before turning to face my friend. “So Laura, start explaining? You said you’d make everything make sense, right? I couldn’t really focus today, and this book, you know it was really dusty . . .”

The word dusty seems to make her shudder very noticeably, but I have no clue why. Is the dust actually special? The odds seem good, but it doesn’t make sense.

She just shrugs, and steps past me, leading the way to her room. “Can’t explain here, some things are in my room, and maybe you need to sleep more. Sleep helps with focus. Maybe the problem wasn’t you being unable to focus, but what you were focused on?”

Her voice isn’t dulled and slurred anymore, it just has a . . . sultry quality to it, something that Laura’s voice never had before. A part of that might sound just a little tired, but only in the way bedroom eyes look tired.

“Okay, that makes sense . . . and . . . I brought your book, sort of forgot to mention that, but it’s obvious—what other book would I have and . . . God, I need to relax. You’re not hitting on me, are you?” It sounds like she is, but her reaction will be important, it might give me a better idea of what I’m dealing with, or it might let me pretend that I do. Either way, the result would be good.

“Of course you did, and Stace . . . Who wouldn’t want to hit on you? You’re gorgeous. Candy might have the breasts of our group, but you’ve got the whole body. Curves, that soft skin, those eyes, and that hair . . . Did you know it bounces when you’re worried, too?” Her voice doesn’t waver for a moment.

My throat tightens, and so does my chest, but I don’t stop following her. She said she’d make sense of things. I have to hope that things are summed up very easily and with little to no worries. . .

But it’s hard to hope for that very strongly when my best friend just said words I’ve craved to be said to me for as long as I can possibly imagine. Tom never said anything like that. No one’s ever said things like that. People always find only one trait and elaborate, or they just complement me without being specific, but the phrasing, the tone, the words she’s using . . .

Maybe I am at least a little bi . . .

When Laura lets me into her room I have to take a deep breath because I think I stopped breathing. My heart feels so loud and insistent inside of my chest. No one ever said things like that, and even boys who said close never meant it as deeply as she does . . .

“So yes, I am hitting on you . . . And I did nibble on your ear in the cafeteria. Tell me you want me to stop, and that you didn’t like how that felt, and I’ll never do anything like either ever again. I Promise.” Laura’s voice is still so sincere, as she starts to step over to her biggest bookcase, but I really am just paying attention to her.

Her house is pretty but she’s . . . She’s almost as tall as I am, but her hair is like gold, her own body is so much prettier than mine, I only wish that I had a body pretty as hers. She’s thinner than I am in just the right ways to still be soft but to be smaller, to make her more obvious features stand out.

“I don’t know what to say . . . I mean . . . Okay, I’m loving what you’re saying to me. You’re making me feel like a goddess. I really haven’t had much hope on any boys since what happened with Tom, but I never really considered women because of it, but . . . Damn it, this . . . This is all so sudden!” I lean back against Laura’s desk and whimper, staring down at the ground. “Even if it is nice, it’s not like you, and everything is happening so suddenly . . .”

“Epiphany.” My eyes are still trained on her carpet, but my ears are trained on the sound she’s making getting something down from her bookshelf. “It was an epiphany. Yes, Chelsea helped me, and it might make me seem like I’m some kind of toy, but really . . . Chelsea was my first, so she deserved me playing a little bit of a game for her . . .”

“Your first?! A game?!” Chelsea was someone we always saw around, and I think that Laura has a class or two with her, but I never even knew they were friends. Laura and Chelsea . . . and now the whole following her around, reading that book . . . “Then Dirty Girls was . . . research . . .?”

Laura laughs and I look up when I hear her moving towards me. She’s holding something behind her back, and her laugh isn’t cruel, it’s just . . . knowing. “No, not research. I’ll tell you everything, but first, you have to trust me. You have to close your eyes, and trust me. Trust that your friend of a very long time, before high school, is not going to do anything to hurt you, and that lesbian or not, kinky or not, she’d always look out for you.”

Why would she want me to do that? I’ll admit, I read a bit more of that book than I’d want to even admit to myself, but none of the stories mentioned this. One of them mentioned a blindfold, but they never mentioned anything like dear friendship or loving protection.

She’s right though. If she and Chelsea ran into each other this weekend and hooked up, then it would make sense they’d be spending more time together. If she just came to terms with this, of course she’d be a little messed up. It doesn’t explain why she’s been so out of it, but if she was having a little too much fun, and not getting enough sleep . . . she keeps mentioning how sleep helps with these things.

A lack of sleep could make you fall asleep in class, but it doesn’t make your eyes turn gray.

“Okay. No problem. I trust you—you’re just worrying me . . . but you are my friend.” I close my eyes, and take a long deep breath. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Laura and I have been friends since the third grade. We met Candy in high school, and she’s a close friend, closer sometimes because she’s more social, but not in the same kind of closeness.

“I knew you did . . . and don’t worry. I know just what you need to make all of this make sense . . .” My lips want to move, but asking her anything more feels wrong. She’s setting up for something, but I can’t tell what. She’s never so theatric . . . It’s hard to tell what she’s aiming for.

She steps closer, and I can almost feel her with how close she is. I want her to be closer, but I shouldn’t. She’s just buttering me up, she has to be, but why? “Take a deep breath, Stace . . .”

No reason to question, I start taking that very deep, slow breath and feel . . . Laura blowing something all over my face . . . My lips are parted, and I can feel it inside of my mouth. It tastes, feels like old books, like dizziness, like warmth and heat and . . . dizzy . . .

More of whatever it is blows over my face and I whimper, moaning as I can feel some of it get into my ears, more of it into my mouth, over my eyelids . . . They feel so heavy, they won’t open . . . Don’t want to . . .

Something rubs up against me, and it’s so hard to stay leaning back . . . Everything feels like it’s spinning, and whatever it is all over me, sprinkled, blown . . . it feels so warm, so tingling, so . . . “Open wide for the answer, Stacy . . . Feel how it’s so hard to worry, so hard to do anything but feel those sweet little particles sinking in . . .? Mmm, come on, open up . . .”

Her fingertip rubs along the seam of my lips with some of . . . whatever that stuff is. It tingles, and soon I can’t keep my lips sealed and they open up with a whimper as her finger darts inside. The taste is so . . . It’s not sweet, it’s . . . It’s so fuzzy, it’s . . . I can feel it inside of me, tingling . . . Feels so drowsy . . .

My lips wrap around her finger, to suckle off all of that taste, and I can feel it swarming inside of my head the more I suck. It’s like . . . sucking in tingling little bits of warm musty bliss that melt away all that they touch and . . . the more it’s melted, the more those little bits can stick . . . like snow . . . Dirty snow . . . Makes me feel . . . dirty . . .

“Mmmm . . . Keep that up Stace . . . Suck, suck, suck . . . It’s so good . . . Nothings as good as dust . . .” Mmm, if this is dust, then I agree . . . Nothin’ better . . .

Something moves my head to the side, and the finger pulls back before it shoves back into my mouth, covered with fresh new bliss. As soon as I start suckling something starts funneling into my ear, warm and melty and . . . it feels so, so good as it burns into me, melts and then gets soaked up . . . Feels like my whole mind is just covered in that . . . dust.

“So pretty . . .” Laura whispers into my ear as more of that dust falls into it and my whole body just melts all fuzzy . . . Feel all wobbly, shaky . . . “This is what I’m on, Stace . . . Well, not right now, but . . . It just makes it a bit tricky to do things like this . . .”

“Like . . . this . . .?” I don’t have any idea what’s keeping me from falling. I feel limp and weightless. Everything feels so, so warm . . . “Gonna fall . . .”

Lips press to my ears, and when air blows in I can feel all of the dust inside of my head melting deeper and deeper. “Then fall . . . Fall for me, Stace . . .” The finger pulls out of my mouth and I whimper at the loss before just . . . falling. Falling onto my knees, and then against legs . . . Bare, smooth, soft legs, they feel so good, and then my head is tipped again and . . . Sprinkles . . .

“Falling farther, farther with each little spec . . . Mmm, I’ve never even had this much, but I’ve heard it feels . . . great . . .” Her voice feels and sounds so far away, everything is so far away besides the feeling of warmth, her legs, and the dust filling up inside of my ear. There’s so much of it, but it feels like it’ll never, ever stop . . .

And then it does . . . but I can feel it all, inside of my head sloshing around . . . sticking . . . tingling . . . Eyes still feel so, so heavy . . .

Someone helps me . . . not really stand, but lean on her . . . and then moves me over to a bed, pushes me onto it . . . And starts to peel off my top. I don’t worry, I can’t worry, I just . . . Feel the dust . . . Melting everything down and letting it blow away . . .

“I can show you submission with a handful of dust . . . but I knew you deserved a little more than that. I put some dust in Dirty Girls, so you’d get enough to be used to the feeling, already be prepared without knowing it for something more . . . I love being dusted, but dusting . . . It’s yummy too. God you’re gorgeous . . .” The feeling of my shirt being pulled over my head is disorienting, but it doesn’t really bother me. It feels too good, everything does . . .

Lips kiss over my neck, and I just groan and arch, shuddering without really moving. Hands rub over my ribs, feeling and stroking the skin and I just slowly wiggle my hips to feel the hands more. I feel myself pulled up, bra unhooked, pulled away . . . Everything feels submerged in dust, in gray sweaty musty bliss . . .

Those hands reach up and hold my breasts, and it feels so strange to feel such an intense feeling as when they pinch my nipples through the deep foggy haze. Everything feels so good, so perfect . . .

Those lips kiss my ear, and then, that nibble . . . Mmm like at school . . . She must have really meant all those pretty things . . . I feel so melty, so . . . perfect . . .

Her voice, so perfect, so . . . it doesn’t cut through the dust, but it feels like the dust is talking to me, almost . . . “See . . . I’ve always been attracted to you . . . I didn’t always know it, but when Chelsea saw me when I was out shopping, and blew a little mist into my ear . . . She helped all of my silly inhibitions melt away when the dust fell out of my ear . . . It’s just like getting drunk when you only use a little . . . And she’s pretty cute too, though no where as cute as you . . .”

“Me . . . ?” Always . . .? Since . . . . Third grade? It’s hard to remember back that far, it’s hard to even remember yesterday, but . . . Always . . .?

“Yes . . . You . . .” Her lips pull away, and kiss on both sides of mine, just enough to make mine quiver. “Perfect shape, perfect smile, perfect voice . . . Like a dream from a book . . . Doesn’t it taste like old books? Like the kind I always used to read . . . It’s hard to find old books with subject matter like this, but if you look really hard . . .”

Oh and her kiss . . . Maybe she still has some dust in her mouth, maybe it’s just the dust in mine . . . but she does taste like that, but better, fleshier, wetter, warmer, and I only feel just a little cool as hands undo and pull off my pants.

The kiss breaks with that wet smacking, and I cry tiredly as her hand strokes up along the insides of my thigh. “All those years of girl talk . . . All those sleep overs . . . Comparing our bodies when we were younger . . . They just made me want you more, need you more . . . I just didn’t acknowledge it . . . I couldn’t . . . And when you got stood up . . . all I wanted to do was be the one who showed up and made you forget about him . . . and now, I get to be your first . . . I get to make your life perfect . . .”

“Per . . . fect . . .?” My lips are barely working, a lot less when I feel my panties being pulled away, but it feels like a thousand miles away where that’s happening. I’m just covered in dust away in my own head.

Her hand strokes up along my other thigh and strokes just beside those lower lips . . . Don’t know what I should call them . . . never could decide what sounded best . . . but whatever would, they’re hers. Her touch feels so perfect, so divine . . .

Her lips reappear at a nipple, I’m so dizzy I can’t tell which, just suckling and tugging with her teeth. It feels so good to feel her hands stroke over me, and then just massage over those lips, making me mewl and arch into her hand as best as I can.

“Mmhmm . . . See . . . I bought some of the harder stuff, just for you . . . Normally, dust is just like getting drunk . . . This stuff . . . It melts into your mind . . . See, it’s the fastest growing addiction in Midas . . . All natural . . . Safe . . . But the operation is still small. The woman who makes the stuff . . . She needs women she can trust to help her sell the merchandise . . . To help grow the community . . . Which is why she recruited me . . . and why I’m recruiting you . . .”

After she’s done talking, she starts kissing her way down my body, her fingers rubbing between those lips, making me whimper and mewl. “S-sounds . . . g-good . . .”

And it does . . . Helping Laura feels so important . . . Helping Laura help that woman . . . Make the world a dustier place . . . My legs slowly spread to as wide as they can and I just try to arch, whimpering, pleading as her lips kiss my thighs. I want more . . . I need more of her . . .

“Dust like this, controls minds . . . and you don’t really mind that . . . Because it also makes you feel so, so good . . . So for tonight . . . I’m going to enjoy my little dusty girl, and tomorrow . . . we’re going to get the last little thing for the boss . . . Then we can help turn the city into a dusty wonderland . . .” Her tongue traces where her fingers rub and I cry as sharply as I can, but it sounds like the softest of whispers.

“O-oh . . .? What’s tha-at . . .?” Her warm wet tongue keeps touching me, reaching inside of me, finding places that make me quiver and all I can do is whimper and shake. Feels so, so good . . . I’ll . . . return the favor when I can move . . .

Her fingers slide inside of me and I moan, clenching and arching higher than I have all night. “Candy . . . She’s not as pretty as you, but she’ll be a good gift, and her looks might help her sell some dust . . .”

As soon as her tongue dives back down to meet her fingers, none of her words matter. They’ll all matter when she stops, but for now . . . everything feels far too good, far too tenderly wet, fingers too long and perfect, tongue so tender and warm and . . . oh it’s like she’s been wanting to do this for all of her life, I can feel it . . . I’m not her Dirty Girl, but being her Dusty Girl is even better . . .