The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Through the cheep blinds bright moonlight shines into my apartment, but it’s starting to fade in that way that hints sunrise is just around the corner. I should finally get around to calling Linda today and see about getting my old job back, but for some reason that’s the last thing I want to do. Most things fall into that category.

My studio never felt cramped before, but it’s nothing compared to my room back at Chronos. The room that isn’t there for me, the room that isn’t even there at all anymore . . . It was a strange kind of paradise while it lasted though.

Slowly I start to sit up and stretch, wiping my hands off on the sheets. I’ll need a shower, but the shampoo won’t be pink, and with that all too familiar dream still fresh in my mind I’d rather not rush to getting myself all wet again. I’m already wet with cum and sweat. There’s nothing automatically unpleasant about that feeling really, besides that I know why. How could I actually enjoy that dream night after night? How could I ever enjoy it at all?

I keep my eyes closed tight. Opening them up won’t help me at all, it’ll just show me that the silver skin I had in that dream is something I’ll never have again. That chapter of my life is closed up forever.

With a laugh my half awake mind starts to think that maybe if I can’t stop these dreams the screaming won’t stop and one of these times the cops will come knocking on my door. Would they be thinking it was loud and constant sex, or someone being tortured every nigh, some sort of domestic violence situation?

The self abuse of those dreams hardly counts as either. It always feels so vivid, and after having had it three times I can replay it as if it were a movie. Those stupid witches, it’s not as if any of what happened with them was my fault! I still have no clue how I managed to get away from the first, and the second . . . She might not have taken a literal pound of my flesh, but in a way she took over a hundred.

At least now when people stare, I know it’s because of my far off expression and the deluded belief that if not for the tear stains I’d be pretty. At least even though I’m no longer silver at all most of my wardrobe still looks half decent on me. Well, at least they’d look good on me if I were someone else.

My stomach starts to rumble, and the feeling of sitting here all soaked and gross is starting to become less and less appealing. Before rising I use the sheets to try and “dry off” a little, and then move over to the fridge. The bright light as it opens make me squint and almost slam the door shut. My eyes aren’t used to hurting because some thing is bright. Sure, they used to be, but that was quite awhile ago . . .

Forcing my eyes to stare into the fridge, they scan over the contents as they adjust. A carton of milk looks decent enough for now, but I hesitate before grabbing it.

The box of wine up on top of the freezer is a lot more appealing, but maybe indulging too much is why I’ve been having these nightmares. Shaking my head I grab out the milk and close the door of the fridge before grabbing down a glass and hammering most of it down like the harder liquor I would love to have but haven’t allowed myself to buy.

Do I have some kind of Stockholm’s syndrome? It’s not as if I consciously want to go back to Yanta or Yanuka, and especially not Mind Bore, but The Lady? In a heartbeat I’d be back in Chronos. Being “cotton pink legs”ed into oblivion sounds really nice for the moment.

Going to a shrink—a real shrink and not some damned witch—might be a good idea. There’s always the risk that I am insane though, and I’d rather stay insane than be cured. If there’s any of The Lady’s programming still in my head I want to cling to it as tightly as I possibly can. I miss Her so much. The sound of Her voice, the curves of Her body, the commanding aura She always glowed with . . .

Sighing I put the milk back in the fridge and force my eyes to travel down to my own body before closing the refrigerator door. Pale. My skin is so pale, so bright, that it almost makes me think of Dust, or it would if it didn’t have just the faintest tint of color that screams what faint little bit of Italian ancestors I have. They must be rolling over in their graves at the thought of a brat like me having the last name LaSilvas and it’s not as if I would blame them.

My thighs glisten in the light, but not like they used to. They used to shine, but now they just seem to lightly glow with their slickness and because of just how pale they are. If they were someone else’s, they would still look beyond attractive. They’re still toned, slender but not by any means too thin and I know that The Lady always appreciated them . . .

But they’re attached to me, and they’re not silver.

Closing the door, I head in to the bathroom and start up the shower. The soap fluffy hanging from the showerhead is a bright candy pink, and the soap sitting in it’s little tray is a matching color. Over in the corner is the shampoo and conditioner combo which is very predictably pink. It smells like peaches which isn’t my favorite scent, but I had to compromise.

“Well hun, time to see if we can’t wash off this makeup, huh?” The mirror is just to my left. My eyes stay trained on the water as I reach in to give it a test with my hand. “Oww! Temperamental this morning?”

The water burns my skin, but I don’t pull it back. Each little droplet burns into my skin but I just keep let it flow as my other hand grasps the cold water knob and turns it up carefully. My hand starts to burn less and less, and my other moves up to test the water. It feels fine, so I slide in and mewl at the familiar feeling of the water lightly burning against and me then sliding slowly down my body.

My eyes melt closed as I lean my head back and slowly slide it forward, so that the water burns its way down along my scalp in a way that sends a tremor down my spine. Since my hair turned black again it’s been much lighter, and even wet it doesn’t feel quite right against my back. It just feels strange, foreign. Everything about me feels foreign, but that does have it’s benefits . . .

With my eyes closed, I turn around and nuzzle into the faucet’s warm waterfall. It smells like water always does, that just faintly there smell that I’ve always found eerily calming. It’s not like the water is pink, not like I wish it was, but I can almost pretend.

That smell of bubblegum, of peppermint, with my eyes closed I can almost taste it as I reach out my tongue to feel the water. Just imagining it being that pink, mindless water that feels so supremely sweet . . .

Losing my mind always felt so damned good . . . Whether it was Dust’s itching, Pink’s sweetness, the Lady’s words and clicking, even that rod felt good in it’s own way . . . Caress’s touch, Aura’s heat, Glimmer’s illusions, Whisper’s softly spoken words, their doctor’s taste, Mind Bore . . .

My whole body shudders as my hands fall to my thighs, and start to slowly trace their way higher. It feels so nice to smear the wetness of the shower along the insides of my thighs, thighs and hands that both don’t feel like my own. They feel like someone else’s, and that feeling is indescribably delicious. It felt good to wake up like that, even in that horrid dream, because since that witch did this to me, since I did this to me, my touches haven’t felt like mine at all.

It’s like every time my hands touch me, anywhere, it’s the feeling of shock of someone else’s hands, even if I know they’re coming . . . I pull my hands away reluctantly and grab the soap fluffy, massaging it underneath the water to make it feel better. After a moment I grab the pink bar of soap and massage it into the fluffy, and slowly rub it over my arms, along my sides, my stomach slowly . . .

Most of the time, and especially after one of those frightening and arousing dreams, masturbation is just about raw fucking and getting off. This time in the shower, the soap, the ambience, the familiar feeling of losing myself to the raw feeling of the situation and the moment . . .

This though, this shower time with hands that aren’t mine, slick soap that smells so sweet, and water that I can pretend almost smells like peppermint, this is more like making love. Showers were always about this for me before, when I didn’t have to get running because I had stayed up all night out on patrol, but now they really feel like a date with hands and a body that isn’t mine.

When the fluffy finally starts to rub the soap into my breasts I moan and arch, looking down and watching. Dissociation lets it just look like some other woman, which makes me feel warmer and wetter in a way that the hottest shower water can’t manage.

Lovely breasts, suck perfectly hard little nipples . . . Focusing hard, so soon to having one of those dreams, lets me see them silver like they should be, silver like the Domina’s flesh, not glistening but shining so right that it would hurt my dark brown eyes that shouldn’t be brown. My nipples feel so tight, aching, yearning for more than just the scratchy plastic webbed surface of the soaped fluffy, but the teasing feels better than the relenting would be, at least yet.

There’s no rush, the hot water won’t run out any time soon.

One handed I slowly move the fluffy down, and soap up the insides of my thighs, being extra careful not to actually touch where I want to touch most, just making my thighs drip with need and soap as well as I can . . . and then I drop the fluffy.

Slowly, tenderly, I start to slide the soap at my thighs closer and closer to my sex as my right pinches, pulls and twists at my nipples. Normally I like to tease myself longer, but it feels more intense this morning, it feels more . . . urgent. It’s been three days since I’ve had fingers in my mind, I need to at least have fingers somewhere.

It’s so strange, I’d think that having so much sex laced with control would make me be afraid of one or the other with all of the brutal controllers I‘ve had, but it’s made me so . . . insatiable. The thought of having to go out and actually try to find someone sounds so impossible, but at least my own hands still feel satisfying . . . More than satisfying.

Twist, pull, tug, my nipple screams with the attention and I trail my fingers over to the neglected nub to show it what it was missing. The fingers below spread apart, teasing my lower lips, massaging, grinding. It makes my whole body melt down into my hands before a sharp tug with my other fingers makes my body go straight and taut. Not only have I been feeling insatiable, but I’ve been so easy to please in the absolutely best of ways.

If I have to be needy, at least I can get what I need.

The more my fingers rub and the more my fingers pull the more I want to be doing this kneeling, with my lips on another woman’s warm pussy, licking, tasting, nibbling, whatever she wanted my mouth to do and whatever made her moan loudest. Sex is so laced with control, and only having one side fulfilled . . .

With a moan I spread myself open, and grind my long middle finger against my clit hard before rubbing the very tip in hard firm circles. It feels so perfect, so hot, so wonderful. I don’t try to fight the cries that flow out of my lips. The only thing that could make it better would be if doing this weren’t my choice, if I was just being controlled into being some helpless little shower slut who wanted nothing more than to jill herself off . . .

Just thinking that, knowing just how it would feel and remembering all of those times, controlled, owned, used like some simple little fuck toy shaped like a silver skinned woman . . . With a loud cry my knees buckle and slam down into the tub as I arch my back and gush, flowing like I’ve never felt before on my own. Control, god how much I’ve missed feeling myself enthralled ,used, some pretty little tool, some pretty little toy that just aches to be used but loves it sometimes even more when she’s not being used because that let’s her know just how much of an object, just how much of an useless little possession she was when she wasn’t being used . . .

Screams tear out of my mouth as I rub faster, harder, firmer, almost feeling like I’m going to rip myself apart and tear my nipple off but it feels so good that I don’t care. Not having a thought in my head would feel better than just sex with The Lady, or any form of masturbation ever, ever could!

Being controlled by a woman, a woman wearing fishnets and knee high socks with a hot tight ass and mechanical parts all over her, who’ll treat me like a pet, like her whore, like some fucking appliance!

With a broken cry my second, third, fourth, maybe more orgasms tear through me but I can’t keep track, my mind is too busy thinking of The Lady’s newton’s cradle, of Mind Bore’s metallic tentacles, of wires coming up out of the floor and lacing into me and into my fucking brain, reshaping me, turning me on, turning me off, just fucking using me like I’m not supposed to want, not after what’s happened to me, but it’s what I fucking crave and nothing matters more than craving, deep, soul deep desire.

Groaning so loud it feels like my voice is going to level a city block I collapse in the shower, nuzzling against the floor thankful that at least this shower is a tub. Moaning, I roll onto my back, still making my fingers rub, still making them stroke, and with my foot I hit the lever to make it so the water raining down on me starts to fill up the tub.

No better way to wake up than in a tub full of my soapy body, the results of my naughty playing, and the water still so warm I can feel it sizzling into every pore. Closing my eyes I arch my neck and grind the back of my head lightly into the headrest of the tub, and slide the hand down from my sore nipple, and start to rub inside . . .

Maybe if I try hard enough, I can convince myself I don’t have a choice.