The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“What’s this one again?” Jeremy asked.

“Straight hypno.”

“Straight hypno, and he managed to push it beyond our code? Hello Mr Patient...”

“That actually almost scares me, Pete,” Debbie interjected.

“May I ask why?”

“Look, I was one of them for—”

“You were never one of them, but close enough for government work. Go on.”

“Splitting hairs over something that minor. I can’t believe I married you.”

“It’s not like there’s no escape. Soon as we set up a house, you can get a butler and fuck him till his balls burst from the pressure change. I know I’ll be after the maids.”

“Maybe I’ll join you.”

“Or you could do that,” Peter agreed, equably.

“See, this is my point. You lot—we have no emotion unless we actually want to. The rest of the time, we—we wear them like masks to get other people to do what we want. Manipulation even when we’re not using any form of coercion. For everyone else, emotions are the overriding factor.”

“I’ve known plenty of full humans who are totally rational.”

“Not about sex. Not about what all this really is, either, which is power and lust. Two ingredients that, in varying degrees, go into cooking a rapist. This man has treated—how many was it?”

“Three women, one man. All for sex, I think.”

“This man has treated four separate human beings with hypnosis enough to completely shut them off from their old personalities, to turn them into slaves the way we’d never have slaves. That must have taken forever, and it must have taken an incredible amount of patience, which is not something that sits well with emotion. This guy must be nearly as cold and calculating as, well... us. When we’re not feeling emotional. And that scares me.”

“Well, he’s still human. We have confirmation of that. Anyway, I’m handling him. All you to have to do is keep his playthings subdued and put the ‘fluence on them, bring them out of what he’s done to them.”

“Two each? That’ll be fun.”

“Bags I the man,” Jeremy said, cheerfully. Or his outward self was cheerful, at any rate.

“Fine by me,” Peter replied.

Peter Whyte parked the car neatly in the house’s drive and looked around at his assembled friends and colleagues. Jeremy Greene and Debbie Whyte, nee Morgan, smiled back at him, one with genuine affection and one with a certain cynical irritation.

“Don’t look at me like that, Jeremy. It all goes with the job.”

Jeremy stuck his tongue out at him. “This is the last time I do work experience with Ralph Vaughan’s firm, you realise that?”

Peter grinned. Debbie felt a certain twinge of irritation that he still wore emotions so much better than she did.

“Don’t look at me like that, Debbie. It’s... distracting.”

Debbie stuck her tongue out at him. “Tough monkey droppings, sweets.”

Peter’s grin, if anything, widened. “Anyway, you know the drill, and you know the target. No force likely to cause a lasting injury with the others, OK?”

“Of course,” Debbie said impatiently. “Honestly, I really don’t know why you have to keep checking.”

“Because that’s the way I choose to be,” Peter said, frankly.

“Come on, Whytey,” Jeremy said, already out of the car. “We gotta move. Oh, how wonderful. An ickle sweet doggie.”

Peter followed Jeremy’s gaze across. A big black Alsatian watchdog type. Showing teeth; not happy at this intrusion on it’s domain. Not barking, probably because Jeremy was giving it a little gentle influence. He opened his own door, released his seat belt, and climbed out.

He fixed his gaze on the dog and curled one lip infinitesimally. The slightest of growls issued from the gap, far too quietly to have any effect on the dog. Yet the dog almost at once whined, turned and ran, belting away along the pavement with no heed paid to the threat posed to it’s owners or it’s territory.

“OK,” Jeremy said. “Worked nicely enough. Set auras to fear.”

“In a house with four people in ultra suggestible states? We want to remove their conditioning, not make ‘em run even faster than we can.”

“Especially in this fucking short skirt,” Debbie interjected. Peter took the welcome opportunity to look her up and down. Bespoke tailoring suited her. Hell, anything would suit Debbie, but the neat little City finance pinstripe suits the three sported were especially good.

“You could have worn a trouser suit,” Peter reminded her gently.

“Shut up, hubby. I still don’t know why we don’t just kill the fucking lot of ‘em straight off the bat.”

Peter and Jeremy appeared shocked. Debbie felt a twinge of satisfaction; something almost imperceptible and utterly indescribable told her that this wasn’t a mask; she had succeeded in getting under their skin with that comment.

The honour and duty again. Practically implanted in the Cwn Annwn’s DNA, those concepts, in their twisted Breed forms. According to Peter’s racial memory spiel, they more or less were, which was why Debbie knew them. But they didn’t matter to her as much as they did to Peter and Jeremy; she had less Breed in her, and hadn’t been brought up in the right environment.

You couldn’t just kill an Englishman for something that had happened to them, and especially not an Englishwoman. The Breed had an archaic hierarchy that ran something like this:

• Breed
• Englishwomen
• Englishmen
• Other women
• Pets
• Other men

and as you descended the levels you found less and less privileges. It did mean that an Englishman couldn’t just be killed out of hand except for offences against the Breed or an Englishwoman, and that you’d keep a promise to an Englishman over a promise to another man, for example.

Utterly anachronistic, as the Breed themselves freely admitted, but now a racial trait, and what could you do?

Well, you could change the traits—they’d done so themselves in the past, to prevent themselves from destroying humanity, from harbingers of destruction into the relatively benign Breed of today—but that took far too much time.

Scaring dogs, though... Oh, shit. There’d been no valid reason for that. Reversion to their past code?

No. No way. She pushed the idea right to the back of her mind, threw some blankets over it, and nailed a crate shut around it. It was just too worrying to think about. At least one of her parents had been fully human.

That had been why she hadn’t had too much fuss when she and Peter had married; somewhere, at some level, her mother had understood why they’d connected, had recognised the Breed in them both. And her father... with Pete’s aura backing her up, persuading her father had not been a problem.

All the same... The Cwn Annwn had started off as harbingers of death, and even as bringers of death; the hunting hounds of the Welsh king of the underworld. She’d heard all about it from Chris; Chris was Deryn Corph, and their racial memory hadn’t been redesigned in an attempt to remove any links to Arawn, the King. Hounds had to be loyal. Hunting birds were just hunting birds. And after Arawn had... had been snatched out of the equation in some way... the Breed had evolved into shapeshifters. Living on two legs, they’d found humans had more emotions than fear. And they’d learned how to manipulate humans by playing on their emotions; the aura of fear that had surrounded them proved to be more versatile. In time they learned to hone it; they could concentrate their aura onto a single person and render them easily controllable. Peter had done that with her, before he’d realised she was Breed. Now she could do it too.

And the thought of a reversion to those hellhounds, the thought of a vast number of nigh-invulnerable shape-changing mind controllers with inhuman strength and agility turning back to the purpose of death...

She shivered involuntarily. From time to time the Breed shocked themselves with outbursts of emotion. They’d never been bred for emotion, but you couldn’t live among humans for so long without it rubbing off on you.

Not if they were the largest chunk of your breeding pool, back in the days when halfbloods had been accepted. If anything, the Breed was becoming more insular. Yet, to some particular and peculiar subsection of humanity, more generous. A strange blend. But not as strange as the Breed themselves.

Peter was knocking on the door now; smart-suited, debonair, flanked by Jeremy, and with Debbie herself backing him.

The inhabitants didn’t have a chance.

There was a pause, a flurry behind the peephole that Debbie’s ultra-refined senses had little trouble in picking out, and the door opened a crack. A male face appeared in the opening.

“Yes?”

“Not our man,” Peter announced, in apparent non sequitur, just before he slammed the heel of his hand into the door, which flew open and deposited the man behind the door onto the floor on his backside. Peter stepped into the room, over his prone form, and belted off up the stairs after another fleeing male. Meanwhile, Jeremy turned slightly, raised one elbow, and let himself drop, pinning the first man to the floor by elbow and body. It only had to last until he could get eye contact, after all...

Debbie caught hold of one of the women and picked her up by her bra straps, anchoring her against the wall so that she could get to work herself. She’d have preferred to seize her by anything else, but it was bra, panties, or nothing, so bra it was. The guy Peter was after was clearly a very straightforward man, however much he might adhere to the maxims of careful planning.

She blinked, and her eyes coloured over black; eyesight improved still further. Every detail of the woman’s face was suddenly available for inspection if she chose to look at it; every blemish, every pore, every almost-invisible facial hair, all the fluctuations in colour of her iris...

Yes, her eyes. That was the point of all this. Reach into her mind and rip the hypnotic constructions out, leaving the woman in control of herself again. A procedure taking scant seconds rather than the months the construction must have taken, but then demolition always was quicker.

Eye contact was made, and sustained. Debbie began to pour energy in, her aura focussing; pulses flaring from her eyes, locked on. She wondered whether what she and Jeremy were doing was the same thing as what they did when they set out to enslave; she couldn’t be sure. It was instinct in both cases and it worked on levels that couldn’t be sensed. She began to feel the girl’s mind. Somewhere in the background there was screaming; she couldn’t tell whether it was within the girls’ mind or in the room. One of the other girls, maybe, seeing Peter brawling, as by now he would be, with the hypnotist. Authority to kill and the ability to adopt canine and human form or any stage in between made a fight with a member of the Breed an unpleasant thing to see. Maybe it was the hypnotist; she’d asked Peter at the start of their work experience if he could turn them falsetto before death. Fucking cretins needed emasculation. God forbid they had any kids and propagated stupidity; evolution didn’t need that kind of baggage. The Breed knew all about evolution, through their own experience and through years of stockbreeding. Occasionally they deliberately forgot about it’s rules.

The girl’s mind began to contract, and Debbie realised that in her experience she was allowing some of the rage in her own thoughts to make itself known to her subject. She reigned it back nervously and visualised...

And suddenly, just as it always did, everything became clear. Beyond a certain point in the mind’s defences, it becomes possible for someone with the senses of the Breed to visualise the interior of the mind, the memory a vast hive of honeycombed repositories, the whole a remarkable baroque edifice, marble columns and all marking the structure of the human mind.

Hammered crudely onto this construction in the mind of this girl were a myriad wooden planks, seemingly forced in any old how. It was only when you looked more closely, followed their paths, that you realised just what they were; a network of hypnotic suggestions designed to rebuild what had been there before. In more than one area marble lay crumbled on the floor where previously held ideas had warranted, in the eyes of the hypnotist, removal.

Debbie felt cold outrage wash through her once more, but this time it was the outrage of the careful professional at the work of the cowboy amateur; she had experienced a Breed induction from both sides, and while little could be inferred when you were on the receiving end, when you were performing it you knew exactly what was happening. Climbing ivy flooded through the corridors, swarming up structures that housed unwanted preconceptions; they throttled the marble and choked it off; emotion was shut away from the mind, and then memory, and then the mind itself was choked to a halt. Next the ivy surrounded the structures not wanted by the Breed and eroded them, reducing them to dust; but the structures’ shapes were there, preserved in ivy, so that restoration would be simple. Nothing was permanent. Marble itself flowed through the mind as molten rock, altering nothing that did not need to be altered but forming itself into edifices indistinguishable from those the mind constructed naturally. The end result was artful as well as functional, and elegant in both; it was sparse in alterations but wide-ranging in effects. And this... this hypnosis, while subtle in it’s effects, had required so much reinforcement that the mindscape was scarred and damaged. Here was ancient Rome following street riots, with hasty repairs made in wooden planks, secured with nails that further damaged the original mindscape.

Debbie was outraged, but there was nothing that could be done about it. She began consciously to numb the girl’s feelings, and saw this represented in her internal view as tendrils of ivy growing, spreading out into the mindscape. As they began to cover the outlying areas of the mindscape she felt the girl’s fear subside, felt her confusion fall away, her urge to fight dissolve. Now it was so much easier, and the ivy began to spread at a far greater rate. Resistance declined without the emotional drive to fight. Logical thought was fucked by a ridiculous number of the hypnotic links that seemed to Debbie as planks, across which the ivy also writhed. More and more of her brain became overgrown, an ancient Inca city lost to the ravages of the jungle. Lost from human contact, as the life within the brain appeared to crumble and die. Yet it was all perfectly preserved beneath the ivy; the patient still lived under the anaesthetic.

Debbie smiled, unseen, and winced at the dull smack of human interior decoration on wall; it sounded like Peter was still working on the hypnotist, and the sound was unpleasant, a reminder of what the Breed had once been. What she was worried they were once more becoming, now that the truth was out again.

But why should that change anything? Every generation of Breed up to Peter’s father had known, and they were likeable individuals, to roughly the same level humans were likeable individuals.

Debbie realised it was just the anger at having been denied this information as their parents sought to sever the species from it’s origin, and relaxed slightly. The ivy began to slip, and she quickly reinforced her hold, almost panicking at the slip.

What to do now? Hypnotic suggestions, by their very nature, were difficult to completely expunge by Breed methods, which held with preservation. Yet leaving traces behind could well lead to accidental activation in the future, assuming some mental trauma—and coming to terms with what you had accepted being done to your body while hypnotised was likely to be enough to provoke that.

Debbie became conscious of one of the two other girls tugging at her, attempting to tear her away from the girl’s lover. But she was nothing like a match for the strength of the shape-shifter, and Debbie held her position and her subject in place easily. A few dying gurgles from barely out of earshot told her Peter had finished.

Yet there was still the difficulty of removing these apparent wooden planks. And the ivy method didn’t really work against wood...

Restoring the destroyed personality chunks was far easier. The Breed mind-shaping marble flowed through the mindscape, pausing at each pile of rubble. Every chunk was separated from the others and lifted up the structure as the liquid marble flowed upward, pausing when it found the scarred edges where smooth marble facings had been sundered from the structure. Then came a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, a grinding dance of chunks of rubble, as each piece was tried in thousands of combinations until all outer edging was smooth, without a single damaged surface to indicate a wrongly-placed chunk. The liquid marble seeped into the cracks and sealed the facings in before receding. But the wooden planks were a problem. Debbie was utterly confounded. For perhaps half a minute she stood there, locked in her grip with the slumbering girl, keeping her firmly unknowing by the anaesthetic embrace of the ivy. And then it hit her.

The securings! Each plank was held into place by the mental equivalent of nails, points of agreement between original and doctored psyche which were rock-solid convictions, almost impossible for even a Breed to break, from which small acorns the oak of enslavement had grown, from which tiny beginnings the hypnotist had hung each of his suggestions, so forming a steel chain or, as Debbie perceived it, wooden planks. Wood was less durable than marble, of course, but a brute force attack could not be risked. Apart from which, it wouldn’t be stylish, and while a member of the Breed would occasionally be forced to resort to tactics without that degree of style, it took a lot to do it. But if the soporific ivy were to grow ever more thickly, say, around this wooden plank, and then if that strand were to contract somehow, as it might if Debbie relaxed her hold on the girl’s mind just so...

Then, by the famous principles of leverage set down by Archimedes, a great force would be exerted here, at just the point around this nail where more force would jerk it cleanly out of it’s hole, and then a little liquid marble—spackle, as the Americans call it, for the soul—to plug the hole made by destroying a preconception held before hypnosis, to restore it to the life—and the plank is half-removed. If we then repeat the exercise, this time exerting force from the now free end of the plank toward the nails on the other side, the plank comes free... and the ivy unravels around it as if animal, for this mindscape is but imperfect metaphor, and the plank drops uselessly to the floor, cushioned in it’s fall by the tangle of ivy around the emotions, to lie there uselessly until the girl’s death, having no further effect upon her thought processes. A myriad growths, a myriad tightenings and gaps plugged, and the repair job is done.

Debbie began to withdraw the mind-numbing ivy, and as she did so she felt normal vision return to her. Carefully she smoothed her aura to instil calmness and security in those around her, to numb the shock of realisation, and just as carefully she released her grip on her subject...

And Peter seized her by the shoulders, spun her around, and forced a kiss upon her. It hadn’t been what she was hoping for at the time, though it was nice to see him display his affection for her—and in public, too! Such a taboo idea among the Breed of old—and she ended it rather abruptly. “Never mind that now. Are we done?”

“We’re done. Since you were taking so long over this one, I took the liberty of giving her over on the sofa her liberty.”

“Fair enough. They coping?”

Peter looked around, amused. Her gaze swept the room in near imitation. Three women and one man were staring numbly into space, clearly not registering their surroundings.

“God,” Debbie said, “It’s almost as if we forgot to wake them up...”

“At least they haven’t puked at what they did, like the last lot,” Jeremy said.

“The last lot were controlled by a sadist with a strange doodad on his TV remote control,” Peter said. “This guy seems to have been relatively mild, and despite the breach of our code...”

“You poked round her memories while you were in there? Could you be less sensitive?”

“Yes,” Peter said, “but it would interrupt the smooth running of my manipulations...” He looked down at the blood glistening on his suit jacket. “This is the last time I do work experience, as well. It’s important that someone does the job now the Bureau’s gone, of course, and no doubt we’re best qualified to do it, but quite frankly, while we can’t often let the sods live—not intelligent enough for them to join the club, and how else should one keep an eye on them—killing them is a rather messy business.”

Debbie looked down at her own suit. While kissing her, Peter had managed to get blood-handprints on her shoulders and bloodstains mirroring his own on her front. She swore, took her jacket off, and looked down at her blouse. Clear enough of blood, she decided.

“What was that you were saying about despite the breach of our code?” Jeremy asked Peter, with his usual skilful diplomacy.

“Despite the breach of our code, anything he made them do had to have some grounding in what they would normally do,” Peter said, as if nothing had happened. “Standard law of hypnosis and not one even someone with his level of ability could break. He just stretched it remarkably far. You have to admire the handiwork, if not the workmanship itself... Shoddy, that was. Not his fault, but it was shoddy. In any case, he managed to get them to do things that were almost diametrically opposed to ways they’d normally think, but not actually in complete opposition; the chain was there.”

“So? I mean, I don’t exactly dislike sex but if someone forced me to have sex all the time I can see being a little pissed off. And if they worked against my orientation I’d be even more pissed off.”

“But surely they couldn’t make you—” Jeremy objected, or at least tried to. But Debbie flapped an impatient hand. “Ah, it’s all orgasms when you get down to it.”

“See?” Peter said, grinning at Jeremy. “Told you I was good...”

“Oh, go stick your head in a pig.”

“So that’s it, is it?” Debbie asked. “Or do we actually bother counselling this lot?”

“I said it last time, I’ll say it again. There isn’t counselling good enough without fiddling about inside their heads, and that’s the last thing these people want,” Peter said firmly. As support, he turned to the man, lying prone on the floor and staring at some point beyond the ceiling, nudged him in the ribs with his foot, and said, “Do you?”

“Wha?” the man replied, averting his gaze from the ceiling with apparent effort.

“You don’t want us poking about in your brain,” Peter said patiently. “Do you? Your choice, of course.”

“No!” The man tried to get up, failed, and rolled away, keeping his eyes on the trio frantically, his panic utterly tangible.

“Even if it’s for your own good?” Peter said, smiling a deliberately bad impersonation of sweetness and light. Combined with the blood on his jacket and bare hands, the implicit threat was as strong as could be imagined.

“No!”

Peter smiled and turned to his companions. “I told you,” he said. “And you’ll have noted I didn’t even use my aura for the lightest of influences in my favour... If you’d wanted to help them you should have done so while you were repairing the damage. We’ve freed their psyches; if their psyches aren’t strong enough to cope with what they’ve done, then that’s their lookout. They have each other to rely on.”

“They’ve spent far too much bloody time relying on people! That’s the fucking problem!”

“Then we can’t help, can we?”

Debbie sighed exasperatedly. She loved Peter, really, but he could be a right dick at times. “Ok, so we can’t help them get their heads together. But we could make them some tea or something... they’ve spent too long having to do things themselves.”

“Or clean the blood and assorted body parts off the walls,” Jeremy added. There was a thoughtful pause, broken only by vomiting as the inhabitants of the house took in their surroundings for the first time.

“I’ll make the tea,” Debbie said. “Have fun, boys.”

Jeremy and Peter exchanged looks behind her back. “Yeah, man,” Jeremy said, at length. “You’re so good.”