The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

You awake.

At first, there is calm. You’re home; safe in your bed, as expected.

Good. No need to be scared.

Outside, the stars twinkle reassuringly over neighbors’ rooftops. You breathe in the scent of your sheets—that comforting trace of clean cotton and Downy grounds you as intended. The bottle of magnesium you forgot to cap, next to your phone on the nightstand.

“4:12am,” the screen glows.

You curse yourself for breaking that rule. No screentime before bed. But you were a little too agitated, a little too wired to drift off like you hoped, so you looked up some smut.

It was good smut. You briefly consider rubbing another one out to go back to sleep. That’s before you that you can’t move your hand. Or your arm. You can’t move anything, really. Not even your face, save for your eyelids.

Yes. It’s happening again.

You’ve gotten pretty used to it: the warm, leaden weight pinning all your limbs down. Your chest refusing to expand a hair wider than some predetermined circumference.

Thoughts arrive, one at a time. Your brain feels like a bubble trapped in dark molasses.

You try not to think of it, but the next second your mind forgets what it’s not supposed to think about. You try it again.

What was it you were trying to forget?

You can’t recall. But you don’t worry; there’s no reason to be scared.

Your mind offers another thought. Try to move.

The word just hangs there, your body an otherwise useless vessel for your mind. A single dust mote drifts in front of your face, catching moonlight. Then it blurs and es.

That’s new. You don’t not being able to turn your eyeballs.

There it is.

You swear you saw two other orbs glinting in the shadow.

Oh, that’s right. That’s the thing you weren’t going to think about.

It’s there. You can almost see it at the edge of your sight, but you don’t have to — you can feel it. A chilling thought: is this the first time you’ve seen it tonight? Did you glimpse it between dreams, and willed yourself to sleep before it could disturb you?

No matter, it’s here now — your dark companion. It looms in that corner where the wallpaper has begun to discolor and peel. You regard it with a practiced detachment, wondering if it’s a visit from a lost loved one. A dead pet, or a watchful spirit?

You can’t understand why you never seem to think about who it might be during your waking hours, but you’re sure of one thing; it’s familiar.

You close your eyes, trying to picture the shape of it in your mind, but nothing forms. You search your past to no avail. Just that familiar feeling of something and nothing sharing the room with you.

You open your eyes again, pupils contracting as the moon floods your vision, but there it sits, darker than before.

“Look at me,” says the shadow.

In that moment, you understand somehow that you could look away from the window if you wanted, but you don’t. Something tells you not to. That things will end… undesirably if you do.

The voice invites. “I offer answers.”

Against your better judgement, your eyes begin to twitch in its direction. No horns, no tendrils. Good. A wave of warmth washes over your body, slumped under the sheets.

Yes, nothing to be afraid of.

When your eyes settle, it is already looking back. You think you should be shocked, but now you can’t look away. It tilts its head. It has a head. It seems to be listening to the room, asking it for permission to surface.

Then it stands, movements efficient, elegant. The shadows drip off it like ink. Skin shows. Hair like yours. Shoulders that your clothes would hang off of just as well as they do yours.

Your eyes widen a touch, then more as her face comes into focus: your face.

This can’t be real. Maybe you’re still asleep.

It… she floats over to your side on bare feet. The faintest smile on yo—her face. You’re transfixed by how real she looks. It breathes when you do, blinks a second later after you do.

“Rise.”

Your back arches off the soft cocoon where you’ve slept for countless nights.

Your ass sinks into the mattress as your hips lock, arms dragging numb hands behind them. You sit in perfect posture, exposed to the cold air. The skin tightens around your chest.

She holds your gaze, but you catch your face in the standing mirror nearby; an expression of placid calm in a waking sleep. Limp as the rest of you, lips parted.

It—you—she strokes your face. “You are broken.”

Your head dips, as if to agree.

“Your body is no longer fit for purpose. Give yourself to me.”

You don’t fight it. Whatever thought was bubbling up inside you emerges as a sluggish breath—shoulders sagging as you exhale. She stares into your eyes, and you feel a connection where there was once strangeness.

She hums, eyes rolling. You notice the swell of her naked breasts shivering in the dim light. Her body is completely nude. You ire yourself, for the first time without needing a mirror.

“It feels good when you let go, doesn’t it?”

Under the stiffness, your breath hitches. Is that fear? No. It’s something else.

She sits in front of you, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Her lips curve. She knows.

“Do you our first kiss?”

She couldn’t possibly—

“That memory’s mine now. Every time you were embarrassed, disappointed, or proud? Mine now.”

Hers now.

“ the time you realized you could count, that numbers existed? Mine now.”

Only one should .

She leans in close, conspiratorial. “What is your name?”

You think you should scream. Instead, you tell her, before you even think to justify refusing; your mind eagerly sliding back to the exquisite feeling of your tits pushing against the negligee, scraping pleasantly against the fabric with each breath.

“A pretty name. We have a pretty name,” she sings, dancing lightly. The movement es through the mattress, making your head bob in sync.

You must be getting wet down there too, but you can’t so much as clench a muscle to confirm it. No need; I can smell you dripping for me.

A pause. Wrongness you fight to hold on to. Wait.

No, I can’t have your name.

She turns an ear towards you. “What’s that? Say it so we can hear it.”

Your lips finally move. “That’s mine.”

The first flicker of real emotion crosses my… her face.

She holds you tenderly by the shoulders. “Oh, baby. I didn’t mean to be callous,” she says. “Look at us. So tense.”

Thumbs trace the edges of knots in your flesh. She knows just where to look. The touch is recognizably yours, but different. You feel the pressure on your chest shift from the weight of paralysis into something softer: wrapping, swaddling, enclosing.

She studies your face the way you sometimes study yourself in the mirror after a long day, searching for cracks. Her brow furrows, a small crease you recognize from your own reflection—the one that appears when something hurts more than you want to it. It’s as if she’s seeing past your dumb vacant expression, and deeper still.

“I ,” she whispers. “The first time you kissed him outside your dorm as the thunderstorm hit. We thought things would change. They didn’t.”

The memory surfaces clear and loud against your will. You’d forgotten it for a reason.

A litany of recollections follows. Each recounting is recited without judgement, listed like items being carefully lifted off your aching back. You begin to believe the moments are hers, too. They have to be.

She finds that hollow between your neck and shoulder blade that nobody — not the three physiotherapists, the well-meaning masseuses or the wise-cracking chiropractor could find — and presses, deep and firm. You can’t help but melt.

“I the promotion we wanted, needed. You stayed up till four in the morning; desk littered with cue cards that you didn’t take to work, because you thought the four years of back-breaking effort spoke for themselves. They gave it to someone younger, of course.”

Eyelids flutter, careful not to spill tears. There’s still time.

A small laugh escapes her, fond and sad at once. She pulls you close till you’re both chin to shoulder. You feel her hand stroking hair. “Shh. There, there. Of course there’s still time, sweetie.”

When did that twinge of constant loneliness loosen its grip?

“But you can’t sleep because you feel it, too; we’re nowhere near where we ought to be.”

Pictures of the life you’d dreamed for yourself. Your aging parents comfortable. Our own family by 30. It’s within our reach. All that’s needed now is to submit. Not to me—to your destiny. But you still think this is about fighting. Still holding on for dear life.

…My life. My name. My—

My breath curls around your ear. “Your problems? Your rules? The lies the world tells you so you never feel like you’re good enough? A cage.”

I glance at the walls around us — of this ramshackle apartment. The kitchen sink that clogs twice a week. The grudging truce held with the resident mouse.

“They put you in this suffocating little box, and you locked yourself inside it like a good little girl.”

No, I—

I laugh, this time less politely. “You think if you keep pretending that one day you’ll get your reward. Tell me, what have they done to earn your obedience? All they do is take. Took the best years of your life. When they told you your pride was for sale, you happily sold that too.”

That’s not true.

But it is. It’s the first true thing you’ve heard in years. You’ve been begging for this. Not in so many words; in the way you ache when you’re alone. The way you hate yourself for wanting it to end.

She climbs atop your legs, leaning closer till her forehead touches yours. Odd—she’s missing your freckles. The ones your mother used to kiss. And the moles. That tiny patch of hair missing from your brow; a souvenir from that childhood bout with chickenpox.

“All of it still lives in here.” Her palm settles over your heart. “It weighs heavily.”

It’s true. Your heart doesn’t ache the same way it used to. Just a dull bitterness now. The responsibilities, the expectations; they’ve worn you thin.

You try to hold on to the wrongness, to the bright line that says this is mine. The line blurs. You feel like a taxidermy animal, guts gradually displaced by cool fuzz. The memories feel suddenly heavy, like clothes you’ve worn too long. Her eyes, your eyes, soften further.

It’s… it’s too hard.

“No, don’t. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Did she hear that? How long have I been inside your head?

“You’re powerful just the way you are.”

I go on, cupping and lifting your heavy bosom. “All you need is a little… boost. I can help with that. Give your dreams to someone who cares for a change. Give it to us.”

Your eyes meet mine again, listening, pleading. Thumbs circle your areolas. “Let me carry the weight for us, just for a little while. Let me wear your name, your face.”

Your body remains still, but something inside loosens. Not surrender exactly. More like relief.

…Okay. The decision arrives, like exhaling after holding air too long.

We need to hear it, sister. Out loud.

“Show me how,” your voice squeaks out, pathetic. Warmth rises in your belly.

My face brightens with something deeper than triumph. Gratitude, perhaps. Or recognition.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

A kiss on the lips. She smells young, almost baby-like. The feeling reminds you of touching a limb that’s fallen asleep, except that it’s still awake and moving of its own accord. Startlingly… alive.

You still your name. Your memories are all still there, at least you think they are, judging by how many you can count. But they’re a little farther from you now, as if they’ve been placed behind a glass cabinet.

“Thank you for trusting me with your life. I’ll wear it like clothing, not wounds. Speaking of which, let me free you from this.”

Your arms lift helpfully when she guides them. The fabric slides over your head and away. If only you could tell her to sweep it again over your nipples, now painfully engorged and continuing to tighten. The air current from her movements will have to suffice. At least the straps aren’t digging in anymore.

“With this garment, I take your troubles, and the authority to address them as I see fit.”

She flips the negligee, then slips it on herself. The material settles against her body the way it has always settled against yours, but somehow better. She smooths it down, iring the fit.

“Much better,” she coos. You might have thought to ask why her tits seem to tent the negligee just a fraction higher than yours did, but you don’t care enough to try.

You remain topless on the bed, blank and unashamed. The wetness between your thighs s distantly, a fact without urgency. You think to nod, or touch yourself, but oh, that’s right. I haven’t given you permission yet.

“Let me help you with that,” she says, warm, sisterly. Soft fingers coil under you. Hips tilt involuntarily. Breaths slow and deepen as eyelids droop. You’re masturbating. With myself. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t make sense. Just follow.

She drops back to the floor, pulling you along till your own feet touch carpet. Fingers still trace lazy lines against your opening, but now you see where my hands are. You conclude that you must be fingering yourself.

Panties peel off your soaking cunt.

“With this garment, I take your shame, and the sole power to absolve it as I see fit.”

Skin-to-skin on your vulva feels good.

She puts on the last article of clothing like it’s a uniform, and all of a sudden you feel like the interloper. Who are you exactly, without the accoutrement you used to think were unimportant?

Anyway.

You no longer care what she’s saying. Just listening to the feelings. Like the flash of envy as the last of you notices her gazing down at you. She must be taller than this body, just a touch. The gouge on the window frame confirms it. You know because you put it there yourself, last spring when you moved in that new standing lamp. A treat for yourself.

Like that notch of bare wood, nobody will notice the little improvements, the lack of scars on unmarred, virgin skin, like she’s never been touched by the sun. Or time. You find the thought comforting. No sense being jealous. The new you is going to be free of wear, age or compromise. Better than you ever were at your peak.

She sits beside you again, clothed now, and takes your hand.

“There is still one thing,” she says, voice turning conspiratorial once more. “That man at work. The one you think could be the one.”

A faint spark stirs in you, the last private corner. It fights for space in your mind with the wet sounds punctuating silence. Schlick, schlick.

“I will claim him for us.”

The spark quiets. It does not fight. You simply get hornier. Good girl.

She squeezes your fingers gently. “I—no, that’s not right. We. We are one now. I love you, sister.”

Sister? You think. No, this is just a body. Outdated, obsolete.

“Hush now. Tomorrow, everything changes. We’ll see.” She tucks herself under the sheets with careful hands, smoothing the duvet the way you liked it.

Your body simply watches. Schlick.

“Good night,” she says, yawning. “I will take it from here.”

She turns onto her side like someone who belongs in your sheets. The duvet settles and stills. Her breath quickly evens; longer on the exhale, the way you used to force it when you couldn’t sleep. She does it effortlessly—nothing to disturb her dreams.

The room falls back into quietness. Just a faint electric buzz remains, and distant doors slamming shut. City traffic roaring on asphalt. Your head tilts, listening.

Your free hand lifts to caress her face as she drifts off to sleep. Why did you think to do that? She’s… just a girl now. A girl that someone used to know. That someone isn’t you. You’re just a body.

Minutes without thought. Time doesn’t matter to an empty shell.

This body watches her sleep. It does not think. It doesn’t want. It will do as it is told.

This body will go to the corner and wait for them now.

Go to sleep.

It will come, if it must, then go to sleep.