The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Its Tuesday, early afternoon. The sun is out, and getting hot. This would be a great day to tan on the beach, I think.

Well, I’m in one of my personal bikinis, with a light see-through robe over top and with a wide sunhat on my head. But I’m not headed to the beach today. Oh no. I’m following Dar and Sabine, who are making their way down a long, well-maintained peer. All three of us are pulling compact, wheeled travel valises behind us.

We are at the Miami Beach Marina, a part of the city I have never actually seen before. To our left, rows and rows of enormous yachts are docked in the water, patiently waiting for their next cruises. Each of these boats are elegant and beautiful to the eye, as if they were just painted and polished just last week. Seriously, they all look brand-new. ¡Increíble!

The marina peer is thronging with people. I see the yachts’ crew people coming and going aboard, taking supplies into their ships, or running errands. Tourists, engers, and other gawkers mill about, with about half of them getting into Sabine’s way. She curses them out.

“You see?” Sabine remarks to Dar. “When you’re a megabitch to everyone, you get what you want.”

“Hmm…” is Dar’s thoughtful reply.

For some reason, Dar’s reaction puts me in a bad mood. I decide to gaze up at the yachts as we walk.

On board half of the great pleasure-ships, I can see many beautiful young women in swimwear, lounging about, waving at the crowds, or taking selfies. I can’t help but notice that the bigger and grander the yacht, the more beautiful the women.

As I walk, I begin to regret my choice of footwear: four-inch pumps by Christian Louboutin. The peer is slightly uneven, and my damn heels keep getting caught between the deckboards. How are Sabine and Dar striding along in their stilettos without having the same problem?

As she strolls, Sabine points out some of the yachts to Dar, making snide comments. Apparently, Sabine is starting to see the value of becoming regular yacht girl, and she’s already started to make inquires about other Miami billionaires. Dar looks interested.

As Sabine prattles on, the bright sunshine catches her earlobe, just so. ¡Pinche puta! Sabine’s wearing her Tiffany earrings, the ones she received on Lascivo Grasso’s yacht last time. I see the gold and tiny diamonds sparkle. Knowing Sabine, she’s been itching to show off her new bling.

As I sulk in envy, Sabine and Dar begin to stride a little faster. I’m about to hurry to catch them when I hear my smartphone ring.

“¡Espérame!” I call out to my friends, who—of course—ignore me completely.

In a foul mood, I fish my little phone from my purse, tap ACCEPT CALL, and then put the device to my ear. “¿Quién es?” I demand.

“Cara?” Its Bernardo, my idiot agent. As usual, he sounds afraid of me.

“Yeah?” I grunt, hurrying after Sabine and Dar.

Bernardo knows better than to waste time with small talk. “Listen, Cara, Antonio Fernández called our office. He wants a second shooting session with you.”

I scowl. “Who?”

“Antonio Fernández,” Bernardo reminds me. “You just did a shoot with him, the semi-nude shoot for the marijuana dispensary client?”

Oh yeah. I can still see Antonio and his fat assistant, Fattie Katie.

“Those guys were assholes,” I say without thinking. “¡Gilipollas amateur!”

“Yeah, well,” says Bernardo, “they tell me that they didn’t get all the shots they needed.”

“Well, that’s on them,” I fume, as my heel gets caught between two deckboards again. “Ugh! I was professional. I did everything they asked.”

“They’re not contesting!” Bernardo assures me. “In fact, they’re calling back to book you for a second session.”

I pause, if only to free my heel from the boards.

“They’re offering you a slight increase for the second shoot,” coaxes Bernardo. “C’mon, you can do that, can’t you?”

I sigh. For some reason, my mind is flashing back to that moment when I snarled at the Fattie Katie chick and ripped her head off. Why do I feel guilty?

“So you’ll do the shoot?”

I yank my heel free. “Eh. Sure, Bernardo. Cosa segura.”

“Great!” my agent crows. “They want you back at the same studio on Friday, okay? They said—“

“I can’t make it Friday,” I snap. “I’ll be out of town. They can shoot me on Monday.”

“But…” Bernardo sounds exasperated. “The client said—“

“Monday!” I interrupt him. “Or they can find a new girl.”

Then I hang up.

At the end of the peer is the largest yacht yet. I’ve seen this boat before; Sabine had a picture of this yacht on her smartphone.

Jesus, this magnificent ship looks amazing! Her gleaming hull looks as if it was carved from ivory. She sits proudly in the water, her very posture boasting of both her power and her elegance. Impressive…!

As I approach, I can see the ship’s name etched in gold above the stern: La Princesa Sensual.

(In English: The Sensual Princess. That’s the name of a party-and-fuck boat, if ever there was one.)

There are three wide gangways connecting La Princesa to the dock, and I see Sabine and Dar already ascending one. Dar is gazing up at the ship in wonder, and I have to agree with her: This yacht is a thing of pure erotic beauty, no doubt.

While the ship is long and quite tall, I can tell that her hull is sleek, which means she can race when she wishes. There’s a party area at the very rear, right at the waterline, so whenever the ship anchors, guests can jump right out the back to swim in the ocean. There’s also a row of sleek black jetskis, resting on what looks like a ramp that lowers into the water. Eso es genial, bebe.

High above, there’s two elevated helipads on the rear of the ship, with a black helicopter resting on each. Apparently Mr. Grasso needs two helicopters at his disposal whenever he sails? Guau. Every porthole on the ship is tinted and outlined with shiny brass. I can’t see a scratch or a smudge anywhere on the hull. Its like La Princesa was completely hand-washed before we got here.

Cursing my shoes, I wobble up the gangway, yanking my small luggage behind me. At the top of the great ramp, I step onto the ship, and immediately note the polished hardwood deckplates. My designer’s eye spots the ribbon trim that runs along the railways and La Princesa’s white exterior. If you look closely, you see roses carefully etched into this delicate pattern.

Dar and Sabine are already on board, talking with a beautiful young woman, dressed in some sort of hospitality uniform and holding a thin computer tablet. I scan the woman with a terse glance, noting her very thin waist and perfectly tied-up hair. She’s of Asian descent. Japanese, I’m guessing. Her beige uniform is quite small, literally a small button-down top with epaulettes on the shoulders, pressed breast pockets, and a tight miniskirt. La Princesa’s emblem is stitched on her short sleeves. She shows off a lot of bare midriff, and her torso is lean and toned. She’s a fitness devotee.

She doesn’t have the boobs or the butt to make this outfit sexy, though. Too skinny.

Heh.

As I approach, the young woman offers me a demure smile. “You must be Miss Marina,” she says warmly, no accent in her pronunciation. “Welcome aboard. I’m Yua Suzuki, one of La Princesa’s enger coordination officers. I’m to care for any of your shipboard needs. You may leave your luggage here.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, glancing up and down the deck. I can’t see much of the rest of the ship from here, but I can hear the laughter of other young women coming from both the bow and the stern of the yacht.

“Yeah, the better tanning decks are that way,” Sabine tells me, as I crane my neck towards the front of La Princesa. “The nicer bars are up there, too.”

“Bars?” Dar repeats. “Bars, plural?”

“La Princesa has five full-service bars, ma’am,” Suzuki says, handing both Dar and me a thick brochure, printed on heavy glossy paper. I glance at it; immediately, I see the ship diagramed out deck-by-deck, plus a long list of activities and services.

“There’s an on-board IMAX movie theatre?” Dar exclaims, surveying her own brochure. “And seven restaurants? And a dance club? And a full salon with spa?”

“Yes, ma’am,” murmurs Suzuki. “I would be happy to—“

“Yeah, yeah, the ship’s fully loaded,” interrupts Sabine, as if Suzuki had never spoken. “Of course, I would only dine at Cafe Matisse or the Japanese steakhouse. You’ll also want to reserve appointments with the ship’s masseuse immediately.”

¡Vaya! You’d think that Sabine owned La Princesa herself, from the way she’s talking. She acts like she knows the ship from bow to stern.

“You know what?” Sabine instructs Suzuki. “Let’s schedule now. Book three appointments with the masseuse, for me and my girls. We want the full-body works.”

“Of course, ma’am,” says Suzuki accessing her computer tablet. “There are appropriate slots available tomorrow, an hour before dinner.”

“Molto bene.”

“Is the masseuse… a guy?” Dar asks doubtfully. “I dunno if I want a guy touching me, not if it’s a full-body massage. You have to get nakey for those, right?”

Sabine sniffs, “Relax, tesoro, Mateo is utterly professional. By tomorrow evening, you’ll feel like you have a whole new body.” To Suzuki, she demands, “Are our staterooms ready?”

After a quick check on the tablet, the Japanese woman smiles. “Yes, ma’am. Staterooms B23, B25, and B27. All facing portside, as you requested. With private balconies.”

“Yeah, very good,” Sabine says, without mustering much gratitude.

Suzuki glances at me. “Forgive me, ma’am,” she murmurs, “but I couldn’t help but notice your shoes. If you like, I can have the ship’s stores gift you a pair of complementary sandals. We have both Nordstrom or Gucci in many sizes—“

I’m outraged! How dare this chica insult my footwear??? Doesn’t she know how expensive these shoes are? Doesn’t she know what a prize they are???

But before I can retort, both Dar and Sabine whirl on Suzuki themselves. “What did you just say?” seethes Dar, her eyes glowing. “¿Disculpe?!? You dare insult my girl?”

“No, I—“ Suzuki says quickly.

“You tasteless little shit,” growls Sabine. “You obviously don’t even know the make of Cara’s shoes, do you? Va’ a farti fottere! Those shoes cost more than two months’ of your shitty little paycheck.”

“I… I am so sorry,” the Japanese woman processes, her face going bright red. She cringes, as if she hopes she can slink away.

In that moment, I feel my stomach flop. Suzuki pissed me off, but do we really need to humiliate this poor girl?

“Ladies, ladies, ladies!” a man’s voice booms out from behind us.

Dar, Sabine, and I turn. Striding down the deck is a young man in a beige polo shirt, Italian slacks, and expensive loafers. Despite his long and shaggy hair, I recognize this dude immediately: This is Lascivo Grasso, the Internet billionaire guy, the fellow who owns this yacht. I recognize him from the photo on Sabine’s phone. He’s put on a little weight since the picture was taken.

As he approaches, Lascivo’s appreciative eyes swarm over my body, then Dar’s, then Sabine’s. Some men try to control their lustful gaze when they first see me, but not Lascivo. He visibly stares straight at my tits, and his smirk widens before he continues on to ire Dar.

Well, for a man who makes more money than any Latin American country, Lascivo’s not half-bad to look at himself. Despite his large gut, he has a boyish bounce in his step. His upper-body build is modest, but there; I can tell that he works out with a well-paid personal trainer. And his taste in clothes is both expensive and refined. He’s handsome, in an arrogant sort of way.

“Lasciveeeeee!” Sabine exclaims, instantly becoming sweeter than honey. She struts forward, extending her arms for a hug. Lascivo doesn’t object. I notice that he presses Sabine’s boobs against his chest as they briefly embrace.

“You found the ship,” the billionaire remarks, as if he thinks he is complimenting us.

“Oh of course, of course, darling,” coos Sabine. She takes Lascivo’s arm. “La Princesa is only the biggest yacht on the peer!”

As she talks, Sabine makes a point to tuck her long hair back behind one ear. This, of course, shows off her new Tiffany’s earring. Lascivo’s eyes light up.

“Ah!” the billionaire exclaims. “You wore my gift! Do you like them, darling?”

In this moment, I smell an opportunity. So before Sabine can respond, I gush, “Oh, Sabe just loves those Tiffany’s earrings! Loves them. She’s shown them off twice. They’re gorgeous, so gorgeous.”

“So gorgeous,” agrees Dar, nodding.

Sabine gives me a dour look, but I ignore her.

Now I adopt my little-girl-flirting voice. “I hope you don’t try to spoil me like that,” I half-tease Lascivo. “A girl goes all weak and wet for sparklies like those.”

And now, I laugh.

And not just any laugh. I deploy my Flirty Laugh.

My Flirty Laugh is carefree and musical, seemingly light and innocent. But I also know how to breathe a little deeper than usual while laughing, and this gives the laughter a bit of a sexual tinge. Like my pussy is wet and I’m hoping to climax, should the right man step it up for me. I make a point of tossing back one of my shoulders, too; this causes my breasts to bounce upon my chest.

And—qué demonios—I also wiggle my butt. Just a little. That can’t hurt, right?

Lascivo gazes at me, a wonderous smile growing upon his face. “You must be Cara Marina,” he says grandly, stepping forward. His eyes dip down to my tits once more.

“Gracias for inviting me,” I reply warmly, and allow Lascivo to take my hand. “You’re sooooo sweet.”

Lascivo tenderly kisses my hand as if I am a princess. I smile and giggle some more. More butt-wiggling.

“And you, you must be Darlisa Preciosa,” beams Lascivo, now giving Dar the princess treatment. She giggles appreciatively, her favorite flirting technique.

“Well, welcome aboard,” our host grins. His glance falls upon the red-faced Yua Suzuki, who is trying to blend in with the walls. “What happened here?”

Immediately, Sabine’s face hardens. “I don’t know where you found the help, Lascivee, but this chick was so rude and awful to Cara here.”

“No, I…!” whimpers Suzuki, cowering even more.

“She was horrible,” Dar concurs, venom dripping from her dark smile. “Right, Cara?”

I pause.

“Right, Cara?” repeats Dar, eyeing me.

“Yes, of course she was,” I find myself agreeing. “Just horrible.”

“I see,” Lascivo says mildly, completely unconcerned. “Well, I assume Ms. Suzuki was about to show you to your staterooms?”

“Not her, Lascivee!” insists Sabine. “You can show us, can’t you?” She pushes her body up against the billionaire, absently running one hand across his shoulders.

“Of course…” Lascivo says, taking the computer tablet from Suzuki’s small hands. “Let’s see… You girls are in Staterooms B23, B25, and B27. Oh, those are very nice rooms.”

“Don’t you have something up on A Deck?” pouts Sabine.

“Sorry, my dear,” Lascivo sighs, and he does seem genuinely remorseful. “A Deck is, well, occupied. But your staterooms are five star, I promise you. Five star! Here, I’ll show you myself. Leave your luggage here.”

He thrusts the tablet back at Suzuki, then strolls along the deck, bringing Sabine with him. Dar and I fall in line, and we leave the Japanese woman where we found her, at the top of the gangplank.

As we four glide away, I glance back over my shoulder at Suzuki. She’s wiping tears from her eyes.

Lascivo and Sabine launch into a conversation, chatting away as if they’ve known one another for years. I have to ire Sabine’s brashness. Even for a top-earning model, she’s an expert at charming men. Right now, Lascivo is hooked like a fish.

Lascivo leads us through a pair of wide French doors, and into the ship. Now we’re walking through a domed atrium, with high ceilings and colorful oil paintings hanging on the walls. There’s a crystal fountain here bubbling away, plus a white grand piano and a tall statue of a nude woman. Tasteful, but gaudy at the same time.

We four descend a spiraling glass staircase, with Lascivo and Sabine still gabbing away. I am in awe of the skill of La Princesa’s interior decorator, as everywhere you look, you spot an elegant detail of the ship. I can tell Dar is just as impressed as I am.

Now we stroll down a wide corridor, with thick burgundy carpets, oak ing and gentle lighting from the raised ceiling. As we walk, two stunning blonde women appear, strolling in the opposite direction. Both women have svelte, luscious bodies, both barely contained within tiny red string bikinis. At a glance, I know these women are also models, probably swimsuit models. They smile warmly at Lascivo as we .

“Ah, here we are!” announces our host. He points. “Staterooms B23, B25, and B27, all on the portside. Take your pick, ladies.”

“I’ll take 23,” Sabine says quickly, already claiming the suite. Obviously, she knows something Dar and I don’t. What a bitch.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” Lascivo tells me and Dar, once again ogling our breasts. “If you need anything, just let me or my staff know.”

¡Hostia puta!

I can’t fucking believe it! My stateroom is like a miniature palace! ¡Tan asombrosa!

When you first enter, there’s an initial sitting room, with soft leather couches and a crystal minibar, cleverly set into the wall. Beyond that, I have a larger entertaining room, with a seven-foot flatscreen TV, another bar, a kitchenette, a full-sized refrigerator (stocked with various cuisines), a writing desk, and little office suite. The whole area is computerized, with black access s mounted everywhere, patiently waiting for you to ask anything.

That’s not all! The suite’s bedroom features a wonderous king-sized four poster bed, demurely hidden behind lightly-scented silks. There’s also a dressing area, a walk-in closet, and a full-sized bathroom (with jacuzzi bath) that would make royalty jealous. Inside the closet, my suitcase has been placed on a small stand. (How did the ship’s crew get my luggage here so quickly?)

Outside my entertaining room, I have a wide balcony, overlooking the sparkling Atlantic Ocean. There’s also a full table and set of chairs out here. You can feel the cool sea air on your skin!

Its overwhelming. I’ve been in the deluxe suites of the world’s finest hotels, and I’ve never seen anything like this. Por el amor de Dios, there’s even a bowl of long-stemmed strawberries resting on the kitchenette counter, along with fresh-cut flower arrangements (saffron crocuses and lilies) placed throughout the rooms.

Stunned at the opulence, I simply wander from room to room to room, iring the details.

In no particular order: The bathroom sink is made from black marble, and a soft blue light activates around the sink edges when you use the water. Over the larger minibar, there’s an original oil painting of three young peasant women, frolicking in a wheatfield. The appliances in the kitchenette are all chromium stainless steel, with computer displays that blink on as you approach. The trimming along the ceilings is in the faux classical Greek style, complete with white columns that rise up the corners. The TV alone has twenty different streaming services.

As I’m running my fingers of the silk sheets in my bed, the door chime sounds. ¿Qué demonios? Are Dar or Sabine knocking because they want to compare rooms?

I answer the front door, only to be surprised to see another young woman there, dressed in a ship’s uniform entirely identical to Yua Suzuki’s. This woman is also Asian, but with darker skin. I’m guessing that she’s Polynesian? Like Suzuki, she’s very skinny and very pretty.

A small silver tray is in the girl’s hands; on the tray is a tiny black gift bag, tied shut with sparkly silver ribbons.

“Miss Marina?” the girl asks politely. She offers the gift bag. “This is from Mr. Grasso. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to let me or the crew know.”

Excited, I snatch the little bag. I ignore the girl as she bows once, then disappears down the corridor. I waste no time in yanking off the ribbons then tearing into my gift.

Inside is a scented card, and then a black velvet jewelry box. My heart pounding, I open the box…

¡Cojeme!

Inside the box are a pair of sparkling Tiffany earrings, identical to Sabine’s… except they are crafted from platinum gold!!! And the diamonds are noticeably bigger. ¡Dios mío, no puedo creerlo! Jesus, lookit how those gems glitter in the light! Look…! Omigod. I feel faint.

After swooning over my two little treasures for a full five minutes, I finally open the card. In sloppy handwriting, it says:

A girl goes all weak and wet for sparklies like these, eh? Well, I do hope to spoil you.—Lascivo

That flirt.

Well, I don’t know if Lascivo is hoping to fuck me, but let’s just say I’m a lot more open to the possibility now than I was before. But I’ll string him along first. Maybe he can get me the matching Tiffany’s necklace?

As I try on my new bling for the first time, I wonder: How did Lascivo get these earrings so quickly? Does he have a jewelry stash on board? Or does he speed-order from Tiffany’s on a regular basis? Hmmm…