The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On the third day at McVoy’s, my alarm woke me from a dream about fruit. I had been selecting the perfect peach, firm, taut, and heavy. I was still salivating, anticipating its juice in my mouth as the sensation of warmth from between my legs replaced its weight in my palm. I pulled my hand away, and the tensions of my new life brought me fully awake.

Standing naked in front of the mirror before my shower, I recognized the me from a week ago—long blond hair, muscled legs, stark white tan lines from my sports bra, and an athletic torso. But inside, I felt different. I was uncomfortably self-aware of my own body—my chest rising and falling as I breathed in and out, a draft on my stomach, cool tile on my feet, and the constant forbidden ache in me to be filled. I cupped my boobs, trying to determine if they were heavier than they had been a day ago. I thought maybe the outline of me was curvier and that I moved my hips more when I walked, but I couldn’t be sure. While I was under the hot shower jets, the professor began to rustle in the kitchen downstairs. The thought of going down to meet him was nerve-racking, but at the same time, he was the only one who could give me relief.

I obediently chose an outfit from the clothes he’d left for me in the closet: a starched white blouse and a knee-length navy skirt. He must have had it tailored for me; it followed my shape closely without being too tight. My smooth, tan skin contrasted with the stiff, clean fabric. In the mirror, I looked like an office girl from the heydays of the Old Earth American hegemony. The anachronistic materials were heavy. And if they were made from plants and animals the way manufacturers made clothes a millennia ago, I was wearing a fortune.

“Good morning, sir,” I said to McVoy’s broad back at the counter. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I smelled mushrooms and the sharpness of newly cut onions. The sinister black line of the riding crop rested just beside the cutting board.

“Good morning,” his voice rumbled like a high-powered car engine. I thought I detected a spark of heat in his blue eyes as he turned and looked me up and down. “Please, come help me make breakfast.” I understood that he was not making a request.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, the “sir” coming naturally to my lips.

From beside him, I snuck glances up at his rough face over the ridge of his shoulders. He was all angles like a half-finished granite statue, grotesquely handsome.

“Sir,” I said, whisking eggs for him, “can I ask a question?”

“You may,” he said, tossing the mushrooms in a hot pan sizzling with butter. “You don’t need to ask permission to talk.”

That was a relief; I hadn’t known if I was in a seen but not heard situation. “What are those things downstairs?”

“Those,” he said, putting his pan aside and putting another on the burner, “are AIs playing dress up. They simulate what the apostate races would do in various situations for diplomatic planning purposes.” He met my eyes meaningfully, “very secret diplomatic planning.”

I didn’t ask what the motorcycle chair was for; I was too scared, and I focused on following his instructions for a while. As we ate breakfast, McVoy rumbled between bites about his plans for our day. I gathered that the chore list was for the both of us together, not just me. He didn’t hint at anything spicy; he just described an unending desert of cleaning, studying, and gardening. After everything else, we would entertain some academics from what he called the “Public Health Initiatives Committee,” or PHIC. When he turned away to get a plate from the cabinet above the refrigerator, I undid the top two bottoms of my shirt to expose another inch of cleavage.

He didn’t seem to notice, and for the next few hours, McVoy kept me busy wrangling with his antique tools next to him. His house had no maid AI, and most of his devices weren’t even electronic. Among other chores, I ground coffee in a heavy iron container with a little wheel, used a trowel to pull up weeds (after changing into Jean shorts and putting my hair up), and helped him pot a new plant. “Amatorios euphoria” he called it and warned me not to touch the leaves. The activities distracted me from myself, and the manual labor soothed my anxieties. McVoy was full of interesting little facts and tips on how to do things. When explaining something, he put his heavy hand on my shoulder. I think he meant to be fatherly, but the tingles I felt were not platonic.

After lunch, I changed back into my navy skirt, and we spent the afternoon in his office. He had physical, paper copies of my textbooks for me to study from the couch in front of his desk. I started with Herodotus for my Mediterranean history course. The antique wall clock marked the slow passing of seconds with heavy ticks. I cleared my head of distractions and began reading.

“Every woman who is a native of the country must once in her life go and sit in the temple of Aphrodite, and there give herself to a strange man,” the section began. McVoy rolled up his sleeves, exposing heavy, muscled forearms, and began to type painstakingly with his pointer fingers. Outside, through the big glass window, the stream flowed wetly in its banks. I sympathized and continued. “Many of the rich women, who are too proud to mix with the rest, drive to the temple in covered carriages with a whole host of servants following behind, and there wait; most, however, sit in the precinct of the temple with a band of plaited string round their heads.—and a great crowd they are, what with some sitting there, others arriving, others going away—and through them, all gangways are marked off running in every direction for the men to pass along and make their choice.”

It seemed that everyone except me was having sex, even women in dusty, dry old classics. Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw the professor focused on his screen. Herodotus continued as though he were reaching through time to frustrate and tease me, “Once a woman has taken her seat she is not allowed to go home until a man has thrown a silver coin into her lap and taken her outside to lie with her. As he throws the coin, the man has to say, ‘In the name of the goddess Mylitta’—that being the Assyrian name for Aphrodite. The value of the coin is of no consequence; once thrown it becomes sacred, and the law forbids that it should ever be refused. The woman has no privilege of choice—she must go with the first man who throws her the money.”

I continued reading; the rest of the chapter was mainly about the geography of rivers and politics, but in my head, I was sitting outside the temple of Aphrodite. I imagined I was the youngest daughter of a powerful nobleman, and the men who came to look at me were rough, sunburned laborers. The warmth of my legs against each other became electric, and I felt the throb of my pulse in my inner thighs as I tried to study.

“Yes, Claire?” said the professor, and I realized I had inadvertently whimpered.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied breathlessly. And, hinting at my predicament and availability, said, “I’m struggling to concentrate. Is it time for a break?” I let my hair down as I talked, arching my back as I undid the bun.

His knowing, pitiless smile drowned out my other feelings in resentment and embarrassment. “Do your best to focus,” he replied, and I knew he knew, enjoyed even, how he made me need him.

The ticks of the clock felt like minutes after that. The muscles inside me took on a life of their own, flexing and pulsing while I tried to study. Every change in posture forced me to notice the wet friction of my thighs and lips against each other. I moved my eyes mechanically over the pages, but in my head, I imagined myself kneeling under the desk with his cock in my mouth. In the fantasy, temptation forced him to give up on his slow, methodical punch-typing and take my head in his hands to use my throat. On the outside, though, I think I managed to mostly maintain my composure except for the stray whimper or twitch.

Just when on the scale of temptation, the white-hot pain of a whip against my ass was equally balanced with my need to move my hips against the sofa, the study session was over. “We need to get ready for guests,” said McVoy, closing his computer with a crisp click. “I think a little black dress would be appropriate, but I forbid you shoes and bra tonight. Do you know how to mix a cocktail?”

“I think so,” I said in a weak, trembly voice. My only experience mixing drinks had been for my girlfriends’ get-togethers.

“I’ll have them keep the requests simple. Please show them to the living room as they arrive, probably in about half an hour.”

I noticed his interest in what I wore and that he let me leave the room first, which I hoped meant he had a boner. I tripped a little on my way out, barely able to walk straight.

The distraction of picking clothes was a momentary relief, but I did have to change panties and shower—I was soaked. Whatever was going on with my body must have affected my choices because I ended up in a mid-thigh black dress and a top so plunging for my stomach like it was trying to bungee jump to my navel. I wasn’t thinking about anyone but the professor, that I wanted him to notice me in it, and I imagined him touching me as he had through the top of my sundress. The fantasy left me acutely aware of the fabric against my chest, bare underneath as the professor ordered.

When the doorbell rang, I ran downstairs to answer it and greeted the tall, thin, silver-haired man on the doorstep. The evening was dark with fall’s early sunset, and the air had a crisp bite.

“Monty,” he said, introducing himself, and we shook hands. “I’m here for the PHIC get-together.” He wore a navy blazer suit coat with no tie in a casual, offhand way that suggested he rarely wore anything else.

I nodded. “Claire,” I said. “Let me take you to the living room.” I felt his eyes all over me and hoped my outfit would have the same effect on McVoy.

I greeted the guests as they arrived. One professor I recognized from class, Sterbreaks (awkward!), a few I did not, and there was a muscular man, Alfred, whom I thought I had seen on the public news feed but couldn’t recall exactly who he was. They were mostly wearing blazers. Next to them, I was self-conscious of my bare feet even more than the mile of bare chest I was exposing. The professor’s prohibition against shoes felt infantilizing, like he’d reduced me to a young person playing underfoot while the adults talked.

The last guests were a couple, a tall woman with jet black hair I recognized as Lauren, the aloof and uncheckably intelligent psychology department head, and her pleasantly congenial husband, Daniel, who was rumored to live entirely to please her. She was wearing a charcoal dress with a maroon scarf, and I felt cartoonishly sexualized next to her in my scrap of black cloth.

“Hi. I’m Clair,” I said, “I’ll take you to the professor.”

“Lauren,” she said, scanning me up and down in a way that left me feeling x-rayed. “And this is Daniel. You must be a test subject. McVoy does know how to pick them, doesn’t he?”

Daniel unapologetically stared at my chest, and I led them to the living room where the remnants of a fire glowed dull red in the hearth. For a moment, the conversation died, and all eyes were on me. Even the professor paused, and his gaze made a circuitous route up my calves and thighs along my hips, up over my belly to my cleavage, and then over my bare shoulders and next lingering in my mouth before meeting my eyes. It gave me an understanding of why people enjoy fishing, the thrill of feeling one take your bait. His riding crop was barely visible among his other nicknacks. It was the decoder ring to our conversation.

“Claire,” the guests heard him say. “Would you fetch us drinks? Two gin and tonics, two scotches neat, the pinot noir, and, Lauren, I have that old bottle of claret still.” But I heard him say, “Show my guests how obedient you are; don’t make me discipline you in front of them.

Everyone’s attention and McVoy’s intense, serious tone had a devastating effect on my panties. I wondered if I would have a chance to change them again. “Yes, professor,” I said. And I knew he must have heard because he’d broken my resistance over his lap that I was really saying, “I’m yours to command and use.”

He’d set out the liquor bottles and cups for me along with a tray in the kitchen, so it only took me a moment to bring everything back.

This time, the conversation didn’t pause, but I was still the center of attention as I gave people their drinks. The couple sat on the couch together, the one on which I’d been whipped; McVoy and Monty sat on armchairs. Professor Sternbrakes perched awkwardly on a dining room chair pulled from the other room. No one attempted to check me, I guess they thought the McVoy already had, but Monty casually rested his hand on my ass as I handed him his drink.

Sit on the floor by me, said McVoy, chuckling when he saw how shocked I was at being groped and pointed to the floor by his chair leg. Navigating my way there without flashing the room was a challenge. And when the professor rested his hand on my head, running his fingers through my hair and petting me, it drew my attention back to the agony of my arousal. My state of mind was obscenely inconsistent with the intellectual conversation, and the occasional appreciative glance from the men inflamed me.

“But it just isn’t possible, dear,” said Lauren to Monty. “The neurological infrastructure isn’t there for humans.”

“You’re too focused on the brain,” interrupted McVoy. “The arousal from estrous rises from deep in the body. No mental tricks involved.”

“But even if that’s so,” continued Lauren. “In a capture, the man has control. What does the girl’s state of body have to do with it?”

“You know only twenty percent of encounters result in vaginal sex,” Monty’s voice sounded nasal after McVoy’s deep rumble. “A hundred years ago, it was over seventy-five.”

“That’s right,” ventured Sternbrakes into the conversation. “The thrill of the capture, of dominance, is causing men to use women in a way that emphasizes their helplessness and submission.”

McVoy’s hand dropped to the back of my neck, where the caress of his petting sent shivers down my spine. I rested my head against his knee and closed my eyes, not able to meet the gaze of the audience watching the effect of his touches.

“Oh, she’s having a good time, isn’t she,” said Lauren mockingly, and I blushed. “But back to the conversation at hand. What does any of this matter? Even if we do manage to find a way to put girls into heat, why will that stop men from putting in their asses and throats and wherever.”

“Because,” said McVoy slowly and distinctly, “The woman’s body tells her how to be. And once she’s willing and breedable, men won’t be able to stop themselves from filling her. Right now, the collar is just a mind game. We need to get back to the basics.”

“Alright,” said Lauren, “It’s a theory. Not an easy one to test, mind you.”

Just then, McVoy leaned forward over me, ran his hand forward over my throat, down through the top of my dress, and cupped my breast. I couldn’t help myself, arched my back, and mewled.

“Oh my god,” said Lauren, looking at me as if noticing me for the first time. “Look at her posture, the flushed chest and face. She’s yowling to be fucked like a cat in heat. McVoy, that’s not just a capture; you’ve started without us, haven’t you? You must let us examine what you’ve done to her.”

“Gene therapy through light induction, Lauren. Her state is completely reversible, and it’s nothing our ancient ancestors didn’t experience. How are you doing down there, Claire?” replied McVoy.

“Sir, please!” I moaned in a voice inappropriate for an academic soirée, “Not in front of everybody.”

“Open your eyes, Claire,” he said. “I want these people to appreciate fully your physiological reactions.” I obeyed. They were staring down at me, mouths open. McVoy rolled my nipple between fingers, and I couldn’t help grinding my pelvis against the carpet and moaning, “Please!” I wasn’t sure if I was begging him to stop or continue.

“Monty, Sternbreaks, please help me clear off that table. Let’s have a closer look at her together,” said McVoy.

He helped me stand as the men carefully cleared the cedar table behind the couch of its objets d’art. The bare finish was a shiny, warm amber with streaks of dark red. I stood by it, waiting passively for his next command.

“It will take considerable statistical analysis to confirm. But gentlemen, let’s form the first informal sample group. If you captured Claire, what would you do to her?”

“I would bend her over the desk,” said Monty, meeting my eyes, “And breed her.”

“For science, dear,” said Lauren dryly to her husband, who looked a little pale.

“Y-yes,” he stuttered. “I would do the same thing.”

Attention turned to Sternbreaks, who was equally reluctant, “I would be honored,” he started, his awkwardness catching. I closed my eyes again, unable to look at them. “I would be honored to make her a mother,” he forced out, and I felt the flush of embarrassment overpower the flush of arousal. Around the room, each of the men confirmed that they wanted to impregnate me, and the heat between my legs said yes to each one.

“And I will breed her,” said McVoy finally, “when the time is ripe.” As voting members of PHIC, I’ve invited you here tonight to observe a complete physical exam and the next stage of Claire’s transformation.”

“Your dress, please,” he commanded me, and I took a deep breath and slipped it over my head. Thoughtless obedience was becoming second nature to me.

Surrounded by fully clothed men, my nakedness set me apart as something less than a person—a mixture of slave, experiment, victim, and toy. The conversation died down as they stared, and I removed my panties in the vacuum of their silence. My clothes in McVoy’s arms looked tiny and insubstantial. For a moment, no one moved, and I stared hard at the carpet.

“Uncross your arms, Claire,” said the professor, and I obeyed. He helped me onto the table and, with his control device, activated screens camouflaged around the room as paintings or photos. Now they showed live feeds of me—of my face, looking vulnerable, scared, and young; my naked body lying in the middle of the group of men, Lauren standing at my shoulder; one obscenely pointing up between my legs showing the muscles of my pelvis contracting rhythmically. I pressed my legs together to hide. And there were others from different angles recording my every quiver and flinch.

“Monty,” said the professor. “Would you bring us a towel from the hall bathroom to put under her?” My blush deepened into scarlet, which was also caught in high definition by the screens above me.

As Monty and the professor got me situated with pillows under my lower back and head and a towel under my pelvis, the rest of the committee watched, sipped their drinks, and talked about me like I wasn’t there.

“See how she can’t help vocalizing, those little moans and whimpers. Exactly like a bitch in heat, exactly,” said one.

“She’s barely holding herself together,” said another. “Look, I think she’s listening to us. See the flush on her face, chest, and between her legs. It’s almost like she’s, she’s…” he trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Ripe,” said the muscular man with finality. Around him, the rest of them nodded their heads.

“You see here and here,” said McVoy, beginning his exam by tracing a line from the narrow point of my waist to my hips. “Nearly a sixteenth inch thicker than yesterday as her body prepares itself. He ran his hands over my breasts, “I expect visible growth as the process takes hold. Her nipples should already be uncomfortably sensitive. I haven’t decided whether to push her into lactation, although I think it’s a beautiful process.” I looked up at him to see if he was teasing me, but he was serious. Around me, the men reached out to confirm McVoy’s statements. Fingers traced the shape of my waist and hips while men took turns testing the effect of squeezing my breasts. I moaned and squirmed for them as they murmured things like, “She’s so responsive, isn’t she? Or “You can practically feel how fertile she is.”

“What causes this exactly? Hormones?” Asked Lauren from behind my head. She was cupping my face with her hands and fingers resting against my lips.

“Targeted gene therapy,” said McVoy. “I’m removing some of the civilized veneer from her perceptions. She’s lived her whole life with her mind blocked off from her body. All I’m really doing is letting her feel what her body has been saying all along.”

“That she needs cock,” said Lauren in a sharp, mocking voice, and I couldn’t disagree.

From a drawer in the table beneath me, McCoy retrieved a leather pouch of instruments and began taking readings with what looked like the bell of an old-fashioned stethoscope, except it was attached to a bulb of blinking lights instead of tubing. “Breath in,” he said, putting the cold metal to my diaphragm, and on one of the screens, a chart showed the beating of my heart. The other tools were more obscure, and each one added a wavy line to the growing collection of charts and graphs. I saw my pulse, heartbeat, skin conductivity, a heat map of my body, and more that I didn’t understand.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m going to penetrate her with a Pierson probe. Would you be so kind as to hold her in position?” Monty and Sterbreaks each firmly took hold of my knees and ankles, which I’d held rigidly closed through everything, and spread them. No matter how exposed and humiliated I felt, there always seemed to be another level of degradation waiting for me. They brought my knees up to my chest, and on-screen, I saw the movement pull open my outer lips and expose my wet, pink interior. To me, McVoy commanded, “Claire, do your best not to react sexually.”

“Oh, you can’t be serious, McVoy,” said Lauren. “Look at her cortical lines. She can barely control herself as it is.”

“Nevertheless,” said McVoy, and he held my eyes in his frozen blues long enough that I knew he would whip me for disobedience.

The Pierson probe was a long black rod with a bulge at the end that, to my eyes, seemed far too large. But when I felt it pressing against my entrance, instinct took over. I opened my lips, and Lauren’s thumb slid in. “Claire!” McVoy said sharply, but my last vestige of self-respect and control disappeared. I sucked on Lauren’s fingers hungrily. On-screen, wavy lines jumped as the view from the probe showed my flooded, pulsing interior. Using my hand against the table for leverage, I thrust myself onto it. A 3D illustration of me showed the edges of it through translucent skin deep in my belly. I felt it give off a wave of heat, my legs began to shake, and on-screen, my mouth made an “O,” and my juices soaked the towel under me. At eye level, I saw erections rise against slacks as an orgasm overwhelmed me.