The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mary says I’m to start with our early October lunch, at a small, bougie coffee-house on the lake. She says that it was the first time she saw me after she found out what I really am. I sent an email from the wrong , apparently. She often makes fun of me for that.

We’d known each other for years. She was my agent, and became my friend. But I had only found out who she really was a few weeks before that October lunch, when she took me out for drinks and told me her pronouns. When she told me I felt joy and envy. Joy, because she was my only friend in the world, and she was doing something I’d always dreamed of doing. Envy, for the same reason.

The waiter took our order, and, although I was still presenting male, I tried not to wince when he called me sir. My social anxiety ran deep at the best of times, and when I got frustrated I became even more terrified that I would annoy someone.

“It’s just, I want to do something really revolutionary. Something that makes people me every time they see that format or rhyme scheme or trope or… I want my name to be used as an adjective. Is that stupid?” I asked faintly. I knew it was. I just wanted Mary to convince me it wasn’t. She knew exactly what it was.

She smiled. I always loved her smile. Always, and especially since her transition. But there was something deeply complicated in this smile. Something knowing.

“Lu-Listen.” She stopped herself before the second syllable of my birth name, and I, with awe and terror and hope, wondered if she knew, how she knew. “Try. I bet you can be ed. I’ve told you you’re really that good so many times, and I don’t lie.” That itself was a lie, but one that made me smile. “But you’re a writer, and your legacy isn’t as important as being what you are.”

What I am. What am I.

“Whatever you bring to the world, it’s going to be from you. It’s got to come with practice and skill and effort, but it’s going to come naturally, and even if it leaves a mark on no one else, it’s going to leave a mark on me.”

She was wearing a sundress and bright red lipstick. She was soft; she was gorgeous. The red of her lipstick brought out the green of her eyes. I felt as though I were on display suddenly. Plastic behind glass. I was acutely aware of my rail-thin body and my grey button-up shirt. I looked out to the endless blue of the lake, feeling a tremble inside of me that threatened to break out in wracking, helpless sobs.

“Of course. I suppose I knew that. It’s good to hear it out loud though. Healthy.” I said calmly, practiced at concealing pain. I didn’t even hear what I was saying. “I’ll spend tonight writing. It’s been a while since I started something new. I’ve got an idea for a mystery story, a locked door mystery with real magic.”

A waiter deposited two avocado toasts at our table. I think Mary could tell I was in pain. All the sincerity vanished from her voice. She raised a mock toast with her latte: “Hell yeah. I can sell the hell out of that.” I smiled briefly, and ushered the conversation away from work. The rest of the lunch was a blur. Mary told me about a book she liked, one of her favorite activities. It was a collection of fairy tales. I zoned out listening to her voice, happy to be distracted.

I had written six novels at that point. Three of which were a trilogy of fantasy novels about a warrior-princess who could change her shape. Then one romance-horror about a race of shapeshifting vampires who needed blood to change their form. Then the story of two great ark ships, sailing through space in a millenia long search for a new world; one holding the great majority of the population, and the other a seed-bank and archive of earth’s history.

By the time I got to novel six my characters had already started to feel lifeless in my hands. I did a quite respectable job filing the serial numbers off, but I don’t think I could have finished it without copious stealing from the movie Event Horizon. One night, in the process of writing book six, the words wouldn’t come. So I did what I always did. I started something new and just typed random words, with no expectation for what they would become.

By the time I realized I was writing smut I was too deep into the story to stop.

I’d always read those stories. It had started with mind control. I was always a little nerd helplessly caught in the black hole gravity of kink. When I found a scene in a conventional book that involved anything remotely resembling mind control, I read it over and over again, until the book fell apart, while A Game of Thrones and the verse of Chaucer sat untouched.

After lunch with Mary, I went home and I got undressed, avoiding the sight of myself in the mirror.

I wrapped myself in a robe and sat down to type. For twenty minutes I stared at a blank document, text cursor blinking. I put my hands on the keyboard. But I couldn’t move my fingers. I couldn’t decide what key to press, and when I tried to pick one at random, I couldn’t stop my brain from trying to decide which would be the best letter to pick at random. The text-cursor began to seem judgmental.

I sighed, and changed tabs, and began typing furiously. I was finishing a story called Bloody Valentine. It was the fifth pornographic story I’d written. The epilogue was a violent fever dream of women entangled in teeth and blood, guilt evaporating in a furnace of love and sex. A scrawny woman with black eyes and a love for sonnets (in other words, a woman with a startling resemblance to the author) became the vampire’s eternal thrall.

By the time I was done I wanted to howl at the moon. I posted it online, and then I curled up under a blanket with my vibrator and read smut for hours.

The night I finished Bloody Valentine was not the first time I’d found I could only write smut. But spending the night writing smut had always worked to dislodge the writer’s block, recharge me. The night after I finished Bloody Valentine, I went back to write and hit the same wall. Fingers at the ready, waiting for a signal that my brain could not give. Full of daring I typed “Father Orion”. Five minutes later I typed “sat staring at the file, unable to make”. A little bit later I went back and edited it to read “Father Orion stared at the file, and sighed, the torturous enigma”. Eventually I made it to “Father Orion stared at the file, feeling the torment of all Censors at an unresolvable enigma.”

I felt proud to have made that much progress. Embarrassing, but true, and I decided to reward myself for any progress, however small.

I went to begin a new story. Immediately a fragment of Eliot’s The Waste Land popped into my head. “The awful daring of a moment’s surrender, which an age of prudence can never retract.” I got excited. I felt a kernal of something.

I opened a new tab, and started writing Awful Daring.

A villainess (with hair the exact dark shade as as Mary) brainwashed a hero with various poetic quotations; I treated it as an excuse to showcase some of my favorite verse, and I delighted in the little joke of stealing from so many sources in the same manner as the poem the title quoted. By the time the end, the villainess was brainwashing our hero with a poem of my own devising.

I did a little dance of excitement when I got up. And suddenly I realized I had never, in my entire life, thought about what would make me happy.

Mary and I began to get lunch weekly. I wasn’t sure why she asked, but I was too grateful to question it. Before transition she felt like a lifeline; like I would never need to disrupt my life if I could just feed on her joy. It began to anchor me. Mary always had some new book to tell me about, and it was relaxing to just listen to someone else spill the words for a change. As the weeks went by, as we met in new restaurants or coffee shops or deli’s, I felt safer and safer at those lunches, listening to Mary talk, forgetting what she said by the time I was home.

When I came home, though, when I was alone with my thoughts, it became harder and harder to relax. When I wasn’t failing to write I read or played videogames. I had become good at killing my feelings by focusing on those other worlds. But suddenly I found that no matter how deeply I lost myself in my hobbies, eventually a thought would come out of nowhere and make my heart race and my breath catch in my throat. I would wonder if I would ever be happy writing literature again.

What would happen if people found out I was writing porn? Oh god. What if they found out what kind of porn?

When the anxiety came I paced, I distracted myself, I got off. Nothing got rid of it except writing more smut. Hours and hours just typing, zoning out to the quick metronome rhythm of my keyboard. Spiral eyes, heart eyes, demanding eyes, firm or sultry or siren voices, knives and ropes and boots. Furious non-stop porn.

And every time I saw Mary it got better and worse. I felt even safer with her. And then when she left, the anxiety got worse. That meant more time writing. The hypnotists and villains of my story became more and more likely to be chubby, or deep voiced, or dark haired, or green eyed. I didn’t notice.

Of course, you already know why. You’re smart. You’ve probably read as many of these stories as I have. When you picture her hypnotizing me at lunch, do you picture her doing it subtly, so no one in the crowded restaurant notices anything but conversation? Or do you picture her rendering me helpless over lunch and then convincing me to come back to her apartment, where she could truly brutalize my helpless little soul?

Which turns you on more?

Which of us do you wish you were?

I can’t tell you which it was. I don’t and she hasn’t told me. She says she might, some day, if I’m good, but I think she knows I don’t really want that. The truth doesn’t matter. What matters is the way my heart pounds and my body trembles when I try to and find nothing.

One night when the anti-anxiety medication wasn’t enough to make my heart stop racing, I called her.

“Mary?” My voice was weak. I was timid with her. I didn’t notice it was only for her, because for years she had been the only person I spent any time with.

“Hey hon!” She was so happy every time I spoke to her.

“I’m. Not doing great.” I said.

“Awww. Baby. You want company?” She asked.

“I really do.” I fought the urge to whimper.

“Right over!”

When she got to my apartment, I opened the door, and she handed me her coat. I took it and hung it up without thinking, leaving her in a white dress. She pointed to her white heels, and I knelt, holding them as she removed her feet. Then I noticed I was kneeling. She smiled down at me. I felt so grateful that she didn’t call me weird or gross.

“Let it all out.” she said, walking past me and sitting on my couch. She motioned for me to come over and motioned for me to come over. I did, but when I moved to sit down, she placed a hand on my chest. Gentle, but insistent. She gently grabbed my arm and tugged me to the floor, holding me against her leg and whispering soothing noises. “Safe with me.” she said. “Only with me.” I was scared for a moment, and then all I heard was the deep, comforting tone of her voice: slow, and deep and firm. It was her book voice. She was about to tell me about a book she liked.

“This one is about a girl who wants to impress everyone. Turn the page, and draw deeper into the story. She gets good at carving wood, to impress everyone.Turn the page, deeper into the story. She carves sparrows, because everyone, she thinks, loves sparrows. Turn the page, deeper. She runs the knife along the wood, shaping first the rough likeness of the sparrow, the vague shape. Turn the page, deeper into the story. She whittles it down from there, losing herself in the pleasure of artful movement, the ever more precise definition of what a sparrow is.

She makes lots of beautiful sparrows.

Turn the page, and drop into the story.

Good girl. Page after page. What is the little girl’s name?”

“Lydia.” I said.

“Hi Lydia.” she said.

Her nails stroked my shoulder, the barest touch imaginable. Lightning lighting a dead tree on fire. She took a sip of wine, completely comfortable in my home, completely used to having me leaning against her leg.

“Eventually she’s tired of sparrows. But she’s scared to make something else. She’s so tied up in fear, poor thing, that she can’t act at all. Paralyzed. But then a witch notices her. The witch takes away the scared part of her. The witch saves her. What does that witch look like, darling?”

My voice was distant, vacant, monotone. The role of hypnotic subject had been practiced in my fantasies so often that I assumed it eagerly, comfortably.

“Deep voiced.” I said, slowly, brain rolling gently between words. “Black haired. Green eyed. Chubby.” She quietly giggled at the last word, and tugged me up into her lap. I collapsed into tiny little gasps as she groped me. “Keep saying those words.” she said. Eventually she told me to turn around, and I did. She pushed me gently back to the floor.

“Keep saying it.” She said, leaning back and pulling her dress up. She wasn’t wearing underwear. I knew what to do immediately. I began to pump her cock in a slow metronome rhythm. I found, with a vague sense of surprise deep in my hypnofucked brain, that I knew her well—knew the rhythm she liked, the pressure. Knew to moan into her balls before licking and kissing them.

“Deep voiced. Black haired. Green eyed. Chubby.” I muttered between kisses, over and over, as she pumped her hips into my hand and scratched my back full of bright red lines. She came on her stomach, shuddering and scratching my neck approvingly. She scratched gently along my scalp until I fell asleep,

When I woke up, the shower was running, and for the first time, I ed everything from the night before. I ed, too, that it was familiar.

I thought: Lydia. I knew with terror and certainty that I would never publish under my old name again. I paced. I hopped. I tried to read but couldn’t focus. I tried to play videogames but couldn’t focus. I thought about how anxious I’d been. I tried to be angry at Mary, but all that I could feel was helpless, desperate arousal. I spent the rest of Mary’s shower that way, alternating between intense anxiety and intense arousal.

She came out of the shower, finally. She didn’t bother to cover up. She simply stood there, divine, and when she saw me, she said “Goodness, sweetie, are you okay?”

I stared at her, face like a prey animal, frozen in the middle of the room.

“I know you’re scared babe, but I promise it’s worth it.” She approached me, stroking my cheek as her eyes filled my vision. She was warm and soft against me, even through my clothes.

“I know you’re scared. But we both know you need it.” she continued.

I nodded, whimpering.

“I found your stories, Lydia. I know everything you want. I know that you wanted me to torture you. Nod.” I drew back slightly, so sharp was the tone of her voice. But I nodded instantly. And I kept nodding as she said: “Torture you, brainwash you, condition you. I know you wanted me to reshape you as the confident, beautiful weakling you deserve to be.”

Nodding frantically.

“I know you wanted it to hurt.” I whimpered, thinking about the anxiety, the gnawing fear, the weight of the future rolling onto me inch by inch. I shook my head, animal instincts overtaking my conditioning for a moment before she gently grabbed my chin, and moved my head in a slow up and down motion.

“You wanted it to hurt, because now I’m going to take the hurt away. And it’s going to feel amazing.”

My cock twitched, and I began nodding into her hand.

She pushed me gently back until I was against a wall. She pushed my pants down and wrapped her hand around my cock. She kept kissing me, lips and chin and shoulder and neck. She sped up as she began to speak again.

“You’ve made me cum so many times. You’ve swallowed and licked and choked. Now you’re going to cum for me. And when you do, your new life starts. No more literature, no more pretension. You know exactly what you want, and I’m going to give it to you, Lydia.” At the sound of my name my hips bucked, and I felt myself on the edge of orgasm.

She stopped. I howled.

“What do you want?” she purred.

“Whatever you want!” I shouted. She smiled and tugged her hand down firmly in one last, slow stroke to the base. I shot rope after rope onto the floor. We kissed, gently, for a while. I could tell she enjoyed making me ignore the tremble in my legs, and I smiled up at her. Finally she began to walk back to the couch. “Lick that up and then come get cuddles, pet.”

I knelt and licked gratefully, then crawled to her, ass swaying in the air, feeling beautiful. We slept on the couch for an hour before waking up enough to move to the bed. As I fell asleep I saw her purse, and next to it, as though she had taken it out of the purse and then gotten distracted, was a collar. Dark leather, with a ring and a tag that read:

“Lydia

if found return to:

Mary Sleddin”

I fell asleep excited.

We’re moving in together soon, in an apartment that suits the income of a literary agent and her pet writer. I live my own life; more than I ever did before she made me. I see plenty of people now. She has some friends that like to borrow me, and I have some friends that she likes to borrow. I wear my collar in public, and I don’t feel anxious anymore. She’s always with me, gently gripping my neck.