The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jack’s hand is guiding me as he gently pressed on my lower back. We follow the maître d’ as she leads to a secluded booth, where crystal chandeliers cast intimate shadows across white tablecloths.

This black silk dress is shorter than anything I usually wear, ending mid-thigh. The neckline plunges deeper than I’m comfortable with, not to mention the slit up the side that makes me blush whenever I catch my reflection. Why does this place have so many mirrors? My bare shoulders feel exposed without my usual cardigan or blazer, but deep inside I know that this is exactly how I should dress for Jack.

“Sit.” Jack points to the curved booth. I slide in without hesitation, though something in my mind questions why I moved so quickly at his command.

A server approaches with menus, but Jack waves them away. “I’ll order for both of us.” He speaks with such natural authority that the waiter doesn’t even glance my way.

My mouth opens to protest—no man has ever ordered for me—but the words evaporate. Instead, I fold my hands in my lap and lower my eyes.

“Good girl,” Jack murmurs. Heat floods my cheeks at his praise. Why does that simple phrase make my heart race?

“The duck confit for the lady,” Jack tells the server, “And the ribeye for me. She’ll have a glass of the house white.”

I want to remind him that I prefer red wine, but my voice remains trapped. My body feels light, disconnected, as if I’m floating just outside myself.

“Straighten your posture,” Jack says between sips of water. My spine automatically lengthens, shoulders pulling back. “That’s better. A lady should always maintain proper form.”

“Yes, Jack. Your voice commands me.” The words slip out unbidden. Something feels off about this entire interaction, yet I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, reaching across to brush a strand of hair from my face. “So obedient. So… feminine.”

My heart is pounding. The restaurant spins slightly, the chandelier light fragmenting into prismatic patterns. Jack’s face remains in sharp focus while everything else blurs at the edges.

“I… um… thank you?” I stammer, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “I mean… I’ve been trying to be more… um… ive?”

Jack’s smile deepens. He takes my hand across the table, his thumb brushing my knuckles in slow circles. His touch is ion.

I’m in a poorly lit room, tall speakers are pumping with classic rock, occasionally interrupted with the clatter of poker chips. I’m stretching up to reach the mantelpiece, a feather duster in hand, dressed in a ridiculous French maid outfit. Jack, my husband, sits at the table, cards spread out in his hand, a satisfied smile on his face. His friends leer at me with blatant desire.

“Jack, she’s looking especially tempting tonight,” one of them remarks, his eyes fixated on my stockings. He’s just staring, without shame. And I’m not leaving or turning away. Jack grins wider, taking a swig of his beer.

“She’s been well-trained,” he responds, his voice brimming with pride. A flush of pleasure spreads through me at his words, my body responding to the compliment. I exist to serve him.

I move demurely around the room, my tall heels feeling oddly comfortable. I’m dusting surfaces that don’t need it, bending over to give them a better view. Hands reach out to touch me, lingering on my thighs, my hips, my ass. I don’t shy away; I arch into the touch, a soft smile on my lips. These are the rules. This is how I behave for them.

“You’re a lucky man, Jack,” another friend says, his hand squeezing my breast. I gasp softly, feeling a rush of arousal instead of slapping away his lecherous hand.

“Indeed, I am,” Jack agrees, his eyes locked onto mine. I can see the hunger in them, the raw desire. It makes me feel wanted, desired, and powerful, and I wink at this smirking stranger who is circling my nipple with the wet end of his cigar.

One of the other men yanks me onto his lap, his hand sliding up my thigh. “You mind if I have a little feel, Jack?” he asks, his fingers brushing against my panties. I can feel the wetness there, but no shame.

Jack leans back in his chair, a king in his domain. “Be my guest,” he says, his voice filled with amusement. I moan softly as the man’s fingers push aside my panties, my body displaying its love for degradation, for misogyny. It feels correct. I’m a toy for these men, because Jack says so, and his desires are my desires.

The man’s fingers learn all about my erstwhile private parts, and my eyes are locked onto Jack’s. He watches me intently, his poker hand forgotten, his beer sweating onto the felt. Can’t he even use a coaster?

“This pussy is fucking drenched, Jack,” the man grunts, and I can feel his erection growing under me. I whimper, my body squirming as our mutual pleasure builds.

“She always is,” Jack replies. “She’s a good girl… aren’t you, Lila?”

I nod, my eyes glazing over. “Yes, Jack. I’m your good girl.” The words speed up my heart beat, the degradation is sweet and thick as honey on my tongue.

The other men chuckle, their eyes on me, their bodies relaxing back in their chairs. My body is antsy under the scrutiny. My gaze darts between each man and Jack, whose face is beaming with pride. His happiness is my happiness.

I gasp softly as the man’s fingers trace delicious circles around my most intimate parts. “Yep. Jack’s done a fine job with this girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. I feel thrilled to be a vulgar display for them.

“You’re a natural,” he continues, his fingers dipping lower to tease at my entrance. I can feel myself growing wetter by the second, my body responding eagerly to his touch. My hips arch slightly, seeking more friction against his hand.

The other men watch with interest, their eyes roving over my body as I writhe in pleasure. I see a couple hands drop below the table, where they can enjoy me from a distance.

Jack’s friend’s finger is slipping inside me. I bite back a moan as he curls it just right, hitting that special spot deep inside that makes me see stars. My inner muscles clench around him greedily and I can’t help but grind against his hand.

“Feels so good…” The words tumble out of me. I love the fingering, and the audience.

“Good girl,” Jack reminds me, clearly pleased by my obedience to these strange hands in such an intimate area. I’m doing this for him; he’s my whole world. As always, those simple words send another rush through me and make me quiver around the stranger.

“She loves it when you praise her doesn’t she?” The man below me asks.

“I do love being good for you Jack,” I agree breathlessly.

“Oh, yes, Jack… has… trained… you… well.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his fingers inside me and my eyes flutter shut from the sheer blissful feeling of fullness.

The man fingers me faster and harder. I’m making mewling noises with my legs spread out for all these men watching lustfully. Fuck it feels good. The man and I are both chasing my climax. Almost there… almost… fucking… do it to me, fucking do it to me! I let out a keening wail, high-pitched and loud—bouncing up and down on his fingers, trembling wildly, grinding desperately onto him until finally collapsing… and sliding down to the floor again. Trying to catch my breath, trying to resume my kneeling position.

“Clean up his fingers, Lila,” Jack reminds me.

Lila startled awake to find fingers buried inside her vagina. A gasp escaped her lips, her hips bucking against her own hand. The remnants of her dreams clung to her, a vivid montage of submission and lust. Her body was slick with sweat, her heaving breaths were way too loud. She clapped her other hand over her mouth.

She glanced at Jack, still asleep beside her, his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Her body vibrated, aftershocks still pulsing through her. Her muffling hand curled into a fist, which she bit, stifling a moan as she withdrew her fingers, her body clenching, reluctant to let go.

Her heart was pounding. The dreams had been so vivid. Her nipples were hard and sensitive against the cool cotton of her nightgown. Lila’s slick hand lay limp on her stomach, her fingers glistening in the morning blue hour. Her eyes locked onto her fingers, still slick with her own arousal. Without thinking, she lifted her hand to her mouth, her lips parting instinctively.

Her tongue quickly darted out. The flavor caressed her with a primal, musky scent that was both foreign and delightful. Lila’s eyes widened in surprise, her mind catching up to her actions.

She was tasting herself. She had never done that before, never seriously considered it. But now, her taste buds seemed to crave it. Her tongue was lapping up the flavor on her fingers with an almost animalistic hunger, and her eyes were closed in bliss, blocking any other stimuli.

“This is a core part of me,” she thought.

Her eyes flicked to Jack again, still thankfully asleep beside her. A pang of guilt hit her, but it was quickly overridden by a sense of curiosity. What would he think if he saw her like this? Would he… like it?

“He’s my whole world,” she thought.

Lila’s tongue darted out again, tasting the lingering flavor on her fingers. Her body hummed, her arousal spiking once more. She felt a sense of freedom, of release, that led to deep, purifying breaths.

She silently slipped out of her bed, her legs trembling. She needed to clean up, to wash the scent of her arousal off her fingers. She padded to the bathroom, her reflection in the mirror catching her eye. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy and wild. She saw a woman consumed by desire.

She turned on the faucet, the sound of running water waking her up just a little more. She rinsed her fingers, the evidence of her submission-fueled climax swirling down the drain.

She studied her face in the mirror, her features slowly coming into focus. “Really?” she asked herself. “A feather duster?”