The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Andy floated home, his mind a soft cloud. He could feel himself smiling dopily as he wandered lightly through the evening haze. The sun was sinking below the horizon.

How long had he been in Doctor Lovelace’s office? It seemed like minutes but it was mid-afternoon when he entered. It was evening now. Had he been in there for hours? He could still feel the warmth from her handshake in his fingers. He could still smell the orange and chai aroma. Still taste the goo she sprayed in his throat. His eyes felt heavy.

What had they talked about? What did they discuss? He knew he spoke about his worries, and he could that he had to return tomorrow but everything else escaped him. He drifted along gently like an untethered balloon floating off into the sky. Vaguely diffuse thoughts careened around his head, but he was unable to hold them in his mind. It was like his thoughts were birds made up of smoke, the slightest puff of wind, the slightest moment of attention and they would dissipate and leave.

Andy drifted up and up. A wind blew over him and he gasped and looked around. It was night. It had been night for hours. The world was black. He was in the middle of the campus, not far from his room. His mind seemed His body seemed to be everywhere at once.

Then he ed. I have to get back to my Lit paper! Panic gripped his heart, chilling him to the bone. He turned his feet toward home and picked up the pace. As he walked through the quiet dark, Andy cursed himself for letting his focus wander, for letting his mind float freely away. The lit paper sat in the forefront of his brain, squatting there like a toad.

As he reached his front door, he was almost grateful to the lit paper for keeping him focused. Keeping him from drifting away again.

He sat down at his desk and organized his notebooks and textbooks. The night’s events now flooding his mind like muddy water, over-running everything else. He needed to concentrate. He needed to stay grounded.

Cursing himself, he flipped open the text and found the right page. The events of the day had left Andy exhausted and listless. The words on the page seemed to blur into one another. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

Andy looked at the clock. It was 10 pm. His eyes felt like hot coins in his skull. The goddamn words weren’t making any goddamn sense. He had reread the same paragraph six times, trying to make sense of it. His notes were gabbled nonsense. He was worried about the lit paper, but he just couldn’t concentrate enough to write anything coherent. He looked at the clock, 10:10 pm. What if he missed the deadline? What if he lost his marks? What if he got kicked out of school?

Screw it. It would have to wait. Andy turned to his ’to-do list. It was still early, he could get a head start on some of the math reading he had to do for next week. After the torture of Beckett, it would be a relief to work through some simple algebraic geometry. Bézout’s theorem would be a soothing balm to his fevered brain. Shutting his Lit notebook, he shoved the books under the desk and reached for his math pile. Inside, a voice told him he was cheating himself. Doing the easy work, taking the easy route, letting the lit paper slip away. But his heart was torn. He couldn’t bring himself to finish his Lit paper.

A wave of satisfaction poured across him as he opened the familiar pages of his math textbook. Numbers, quadratics, equations. These were the things that made sense. These were the things that made sense of his day. It was soothing to see it all in black and white. Numbers and equations. It was brilliant. He grinned. There was no way he was letting this one slip through his fingers.

And so Andy began to study, and as he began to study, the smile slipped from his face. It didn’t make sense. The numbers, the equations. They didn’t make sense. They had made sense yesterday. They had made sense the week before, there was no reason for him to find any of this difficult. And yet. Something was wrong. Something was missing. This didn’t feel right. His brain was soup.

Andy sat, head in his hands, piles of discarded textbooks scattered before him. He looked up. It was 10:35 pm. He had to get back to studying, but he was exhausted. Perhaps if he got a good night’s sleep, he would be able to get up early in the morning and study then.

Crawling into bed, Andy was overwhelmed by a sense of inevitability. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep. How was he going to sleep with this turmoil in his brain? How could he possibly focus on anything?

Andy tried to sleep. He really did. He tossed and turned, suddenly awake with a start at every noise, every sound. Every little noise seemed to generate new things to worry about and always, at the center of his mind, the lit paper, studying, math, psych. Every thought was examined from all sides by his cursed brain, tormenting him.

But sleep eluded him.

Breathing exercises.

Meditation.

Warm milk.

He tried them all. He even jacked off—something that he only rarely engaged with. It wasn’t that Andy wasn’t sexual, he just had studying to do, he would tell himself.

Then, desperation flowing through him. Crease-eyed and sweaty, he decided that he would sit up. Wait for sleep to come to him.

Sliding quietly off his bed, he padded into the living room. Like a zombie, he sat down on the couch and that’s when he saw it.

Benny’s bong. It stood two-foot-tall, bright lime green, winking in the moonlight. Beside it sat Benny’s zippo and when Andy checked, yes, the bowl was packed.

He’d never tried drugs. It had never been on his list of “cool things to try” but his head was pounding, sleep seemed like an evasive mistress, and well, he needed something. Guilty flashes of his past, of his judgment of others, seared across his brain. He ed his tone when talking about Benny behind his back, and here he was contemplating taking his weed. That said, Benny wouldn’t mind, he told himself. Benny loved to share.

Numbed, he picked up the bong and held it. He knew the theory from seeing Benny ripping fat ones for the last six months. Tentatively, he put his mouth on the mouthpiece and with a slow, careful consideration applied the lit zippo to the bowl, sucking in the smoke in one long inhale.

It caught at the back of his throat and Andy doubled over hacking and coughing and sucking in air. Then, as if possessed, he returned to the bong. Again. And again. And again.

Slowly, over time he became more adept at hitting the bong, and slowly, over time, he sank into the sofa, his mind fuzzy and light. A dopey smile spread across his face.

“What have I been holding out on this for?” Andy muttered to himself, stretching out on the sofa and flicking the TV to cartoons. He’d never felt so good in his life. Not even when he’d pulled that all-nighter for that presentation. He sank further down into the sofa and giggled his way heartily through some animated antics before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.