The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Hersh and Carmichael activate their night vision. I don’t need the tech, don’t even need the helmet, but going without the gear reminds the team I’m an Other. That’s not good for team solidarity, so I make do.

It’s hard to smell with the visor down. Still, I catch scent of our prey. No, our target. Prey’s...accurate, but not how the rest of the team thinks of her. Holding back my whine is hard. My nerves sing in anticipation, and I wonder when Cutter’s going to give is the signal, because if I can smell her, she has to be in range.

Cutter’s voice comes over the comm, flat and emotionless. “Tigress is approaching the mountain.”

It’s the signal, but something in Cutter’s delivery is off. He’s always all business on these outings, but not to the point of sounding robotic. Like me, he’s aware of what’s good for team solidarity, so even though his latest round of enhancements tips the man versus machine scale firmly in favor of machine, he still acts human. Most of the time.

The prey’s scent grows stronger, rich and musky and practically begging to be claimed. I ignore my raised hackles and lope through the forest in pursuit.

Hersh and Carmichael fan out so we can snare our prey. Tigress is a fitting label for her. She’s normally a hunter, an Other like me, but there’s a desperate note to her scent that tells me she knows she’s prey. I find myself smiling. One of life’s pleasures is conquering an equal, and if the intel on our prey is accurate, Tigress is more than an equal.

It rained before we were dropped in. It makes it harder to control myself. The way a forest smells after a good rain—rich, earthy, complex, alive—is a siren call to my beast. The ground is spongy under my boots. I’m doing my best to leave no evidence of my presence, but it’s impossible not to leave tracks. Brushing against a fern wipes away the droplets of water glistening in the light from the stars and a thin crescent moon. The coating of cedar needles on the ground keeps my footprints from being too deep, but not so faint that a tracker can’t follow.

I’m smiling again. The prey is moving up the mountain trail. We’ll hit snow soon. My beast sends me a disjointed image of transforming and running across a pristine snowfield. Long-dead tribal lore puts a god of thunder in this mountain. My beast remembers that time, remembers the rumble of power and the awe of humanity. On a base level, it thinks it can recapture that time even though on a higher level, it knows time only flows one way.

It’s tempting to give my beast free reign, but there’s Hersh and Carmichael to consider. My beast allows me to consider my team pack members, but I’m not sure it would respect my wishes after our transformation. My beast sees people as prey unless they worship it, and then they’re herd animals, worthy of protection because they provide a different form of sustenance. My team deserves better than that.

The prey’s scent changes, and I catch whiff of...I pause and signal to Hersh and Carmichael to stop, and then I take my helmet off. The air is shockingly cold and dry on my face. My beast howls inside my mind. I close my eyes and inhale deeply to calm it.

The prey has one teammate, augmented like Cutter. Cyborgs reek of fever. Even though the implants come with immuno-nanites to trick the body into accepting the augmentations, the tech isn’t perfect. There’s a reason why heavily augmented people run a body temperature a couple of degrees higher than normal folk. The flesh is constantly fighting the tech, and while the tech’s good, the flesh is stubborn.

The prey’s friend draws closer. The scent sharpens, and I realize it’s Cutter. My beast snarls. “Something’s wrong!” I yell, and that’s when everything goes to shit.

There’s a flash of ruby light and then a high-pitched chime sounds over the helmet’s comm link. I’m tossing it away before I realize what I’m doing. Fuck! If I had been wearing the helmet, I’d be on my knees, screaming like Hersh and Carmichael.

My beast snarls, and it reaches my lips. Hersh is closest to me, so I check on her first. The chime fades just as I reach for her helmet. Her eyes are glazed and unfocused, and she’s twitching like something’s given her a good, hard shock. A thin arc of blue static arches from her wrist to my fingers when I reach to take her pulse. Fuck, a jolt that hard had to have scrambled her sensory augmentations. She’ll recover, hopefully, but not anytime soon.

My ears are still reeling from the chime, and my nose is too overwhelmed by Hersh’s static-charged and terrified scent, so it’s not anything I can hear or smell that makes me drop Hersh’s hand and roll to the side. Hersh screams and arches as the taser meant for me pegs her in the side. My beast surges through me as I leap for my attacker.

It’s a stupid move, but it takes me too long to regain control of myself, and when I see my attacker is Cutter, my control is consumed by my fury. That’s stupid, too, because Cutter’s all calm, collected business, and he’s ready with another taser.

I’m first aware of the bass strumming deep in my bones. Then I’m aware I’m naked, blindfolded, gagged, and trussed up rather well. The intel on our prey said she appreciated rope bondage. Something about how beautiful a lover looked bound. I can’t remember the exact quote. In all honestly, when I listened to the recording, I was focusing more on the husky pitch of her voice and what that revealed about her seduction techniques than what she was saying.

I squirm, testing my bonds. They’re utilitarian, not the sort designed for pleasure, and I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or not. On the one hand, it means the Tigress isn’t underestimating me, which is flattering. On the other hand, an orgasm would temporarily placate my beast. It’s so close to the surface, it’s hard to think.

I can smell Hersh and Carmichael. Or rather, I can smell their cunts, dripping with need. I can hear them, too, their muffled whimpers and gasps, the wet sounds of licking, all faint under that goddamn bass-heavy music. It’s getting to me more than my beast, though my beast isn’t doing anything to help me control myself.

The music stops. A moment later, a new track is playing, louder this time. Too loud. It’s like being in a club right next to the speakers, and there’s a reason why I rarely go out. I can’t think. My beast is screaming, and I’m ready to fuck it all and give into the transformation. Let my beast run rampant and stop all the fucking noise, even the noises Hersh and Carmichael are making.

Or maybe my beast would force better noises out of them. I like men, but my beast isn’t picky about things like gender. Fucking’s fucking no matter what parts are involved. Right now, it feels like it’s more interested in sex than food.

I shake my head and bite down on my gag. The music is annoying familiar. I grab hold of that to force myself to think. Where have I heard it before? Who is the artist? Why is it so fucking loud?

The last question is the easiest to answer. I’m near a speaker. And I’m inside, in a room with a plush carpet from the feel and smell of things.

My beast snarls. It’s right. I shouldn’t be wasting my time on something as trivial as identifying the artist of some fucking loud song (Splurt, my mind finally provides), and where I’ve heard it before (from a high school ex into electro and crunk), but it gives me something to focus on while I calm myself so I can think of a way out of this.

My beast sends me an image of running through the forest at the base of the mountains. It’s raining, and the steady drip of water running off cedar branches soothes my nerves and fills me with the heady scent of rich earth and cedar and rain.

When I’m calm enough, it sends me another image. This one’s of the Tigress lounging in a leather chair with Cutter standing behind her. My beast lets me growl, joins me, even. The image cuts itself off suddenly, and I feel the ghostly sensation of the gag being shoved in my mouth.

So, my beast is sharing a memory. How long ago had that been? My beast’s concept of time is different than mine, but I’ve learned how to decipher its messages. An hour, then.

How long as Cutter been compromised? I’m not expecting my beast to know, so I’m surprised when it gives me another image, this time of our extraction from Seoul four months ago. Our prey that time had once been a minor trickster god, a fox with fur softer than silk and a wicked grin that could reduce anything to a whimpering puddle of need.

She had certainly snared my beast. Even knowing that was the plan didn’t make me any more comfortable with my role. Being bait is never comforting, even with a team as skilled as mine lying in wait. My beast huffs and sharpens the image on Cutter. There, just for an instant, the data streaming across his eyelenses wavers, a sign of a subtle hack, one he should have noticed, except he was too busy restraining me.

I’m shocked my beast noticed that. I certainly hadn’t, but then, at that point, I was a howling mess of pent-up frustration and doing my best to take him right there in the chopper. Really, it was amazing he didn’t drop me with a tranq. Or the stunner built into his wrist, but he may have been thinking a nice jolt of electricity would have stimulated me past the point of manageability.

The music cuts off again, and I tense, expecting another onslaught. Instead, my ears ring in the sudden silence, and it’s a good thirty seconds before I can hear Hersh and Carmichael again. It’s another thirty seconds before I realize there are two more people in the room. I sniff, not caring how animalistic it makes me seem.

It’s hard to smell anything beyond Hersh and Carmichael. My beast is so close to the surface that their arousal practically caresses me, clinging to the back of my throat and reminding me that I have a wet, needy cunt. I’ve been able to ignore that up until now, but now I’m keenly aware of my own scent, the wet heat between my legs, and the way my nipples are deliciously tight and throbbing in time with my pulse.

I push past my desire and focus on the other scents in the room. Cutter, nowhere near calm and composed if the coopery tint to his scent is any indication. And the Tigress, our prey, smelling too much like a hunter for my tastes.

“I regret I couldn’t bind you like your friends,” the Tigress says, stalking closer. The husky hitch in her voice is entirely too enticing for my beast. I let its lust flow through me rather than fight it. “Such a binding wouldn’t hold you if you transformed, and I can’t have you loose quite yet.”

She stops in front of me. I smell leather and salt and her desire and whimper when she grabs my hair and pulls my head back. “Soon, though, you’ll be as docile as your machine there.”

I snarl, or my beast snarls. We’re too mingled together. Transformation’s too close.

She jerks my head back further, and leans down to lick a line along my jaw. Then there’s the cool press of an injector at the base of my chin. Everything goes white-hot while my beast howls.

Forced Heat. Black Ops grade, entrusted to Cutter in case my beast took control and had to be forced to heel. And he had given it to our prey so she could conquer us.

I let the transformation happen. The burn of limbs reforming, of the wolf breaking through the woman, is nothing in comparison to the burn of our lust. We’ll fucking kill Cutter, right after we fuck Prey and then tear out her throat.

The bonds hold. We howl in frustration and need, muscles straining to snap the cords, cunt itching for release. Prey laughs, and that makes us both stronger and weaker.

The cords finally snap. Prey’s laughter falters as we surge to our feet. We don’t bother with the blindfold—we’re very aware of Prey’s location—but we do rip off the gag. We’ll need our teeth for both of our goals.

Prey snarls and transforms to match us. The fur on her arms is soft under our hands, the muscle tight and unyielding as we grapple with her. She bites at us, and we bite back, drawing blood on her shoulder, her ears, and on her back with our claws.

There’s a snick of a tranq dart. Prey howls and arches against us. We smell the change in her scent before her struggles start to weaken. It doesn’t make us any more gentle. There’s too much anger and bloodlust wrapped up in our desire.

“Porter, restrain the target,” Cutter orders.

We whip our head in the direction of his voice. Prey takes the opening to swat our face with her claws. It’s a good, solid scratch, and one of her claws snags the blindfold and rips it off. We blink in the sudden light. It’s enough to give Prey the advantage. She rides us to the ground, grinding her hips against ours. She nips at our ear. We snarl and buck her off, rolling on top of her.

Prey yowls and offers her throat. We latch onto it. Her pulse is frantic, and beneath her lust, we taste a faint tint of fear.

“Porter! Restrain the target.”

We glance up at Cutter without releasing Prey’s throat. His breathing is heavy, and he’s sweating and far from his calm, collected self. But his hand is steady, and he has the tranq gun fixed on us. Data’s streaming too fast across his lenses. Is he fighting a hack or processing our orders?

Beast retreats. Somewhat. We’re still half-transformed, but my mind is mine again. I’m grinding against our target, so close to release, and it feels so good having her squirm under me, feeling the press of her small breasts against mine. I tongue her throat and she whimpers.

“Porter,” he warns.

I release her throat and lift my head. My beast retreats a step further, allowing our muzzle to reform into my face. It fucking hurts, and I have to work my mouth a bit to keep my jaw from locking open.

I keep her pinned down. “Target restrained.”

He takes aim and shoots the Tigress with another tranq. She has enough strength to fight it for about sixty seconds, and then she slumps under me, spent.

Cutter nudges me off her and makes short work in binding her. I scoot towards Hersh and Carmichael. They’re bound together, face to cunt, and they make such an enticing package moaning and squirming and eating each other out that I’m not certain if I intend to free them or join them. My beast wants to join them, and my forced Heat makes giving into my beast’s desires entirely too tempting.

I’m too slow. Cutter grabs me by the scruff of my neck and hauls me to my feet with one hand. “You’re not trustworthy around them.”

My beast seizes control and slams him up against the wall. “I’m not trustworthy around you.”

He smiles, and that’s a frightening thing on Cutter. “I’m not under the influences of Heat.”

“Heat doesn’t work on humans.”

He nods at Hersh and Carmichael. “All evidence to the contrary?”

Data’s still streaming across his lenses. The fucker’s recording and analyzing this. I growl.

His smile turns downright terrifying. “Ironic that you’re able to control yourself, and under the maximum dose, too. They only got the minimum, and look at them. It will be hours before they’re normal again.”

I press him harder against the wall. He could easily bat me away. I’d have to be fully transformed to possibly be a match for his strength, and even then, I think he’d still emerge the stronger. “They are our team.”

“It was necessary for the success of this mission.”

I can understand that. We’ve all played bait at times, usually intentionally, but occasionally, there’s a mission where the bait can’t know it’s being dangled in front of the target. It’s one of the hazards of the job, and while it’s grating, I can’t hold it against Cutter. He’s the one who has to make the hard decisions, and he’s never made them lightly.

But something feels off this time. I watch the data play across his lenses. It’s too fast and too complex for me to understand without one of the more invasive augmentations. I don’t really want to understand it. Being one kind of Other is enough for me. I don’t need to be Cutter’s flavor, too.

“You were hacked in Seoul.”

He reaches up and takes my chin in his hand. “Not successfully, though it was a close thing given my distraction.”

“Letting the target believe you’d been hacked was necessary for the success of the mission?”

“Once we tracked down who attempted the hack, yes. There was hope the target was high enough up the food chain for a long-term operation, but she ended up being a bit too new to the game.”

It’s a plausible explanation, but given Hersh and Carmichael’s compromised state, it can’t be the real explanation. We’ve bagged similar targets with less elaborate measures. Of course, we’ve also bagged similar targets with more elaborate measures, but not often.

Cutter lets me jerk my chin out of his grip. I want to growl, but instead I grind out, “If I find out this was a scientific experiment instead of a mission, I’ll kill you.”

He smiles again. “Is that you talking, Porter, or your beast?” Then he moves so fast, I don’t get a chance to reply. I’m down on my knees with my face pressed against the wall and Cutter’s hand heavy on the back of my neck. “This is also necessary to the mission, Porter.”

He stuns me with the prod built into his wrist.

The debriefing goes smoothly, which makes my beast antsy. There should be more questions about the unorthodox nature of the capture, but then, when has my team done orthodox? The brass probably thinks this mission was par for the course.

Or perhaps the brass is playing along to hide the fact this was a bogus mission. My beast gnaws on that thought after the debriefing. Despite my claim that I’d kill Cutter if it wasn’t really a mission, I can’t quite muster the energy to dwell on that thought.

Cutter’s never given me a reason to doubt him before. Maybe that makes me too willing to give him the benefit of the doubt now, but trust has to be the foundation of our team. If I can’t trust him, Hersh, and Carmichael, I can’t be on their team.

“Don’t look so glum, Porter,” Hersh says when I visit her in the infirmary. “It’s not your fault. Besides, the techs say they’ll have my new augmentations ready tomorrow. I can go back to being my normal self.”

I snort. “I hate to break it to you, but this is your normal self.”

She laughs. “No, sweetie, this is my natural self. If you’re going to frown like that, go mope with Cutter. I swear, the two of you skulk about like everything that ever goes wrong is entirely your fault. I got zapped. It fried me.”

“You realize Cutter zapped you.”

“Yeah. The fucker.” She winks at me. “But, it was...”

“...necessary to the mission,” I finish with her.

She sighs and leans back to stare at the ceiling. “Look, I appreciate the visit, but if you don’t have anything else, take your Gloomy Gus self out to the firing range or something. Work off that frustration.”

Ouch. “Yeah. Glad to see you’re all right, Hersh. I’ll see you.”

Cutter’s waiting for me in my quarters. I can smell him from outside, and I can’t quite muster up the emotion to be upset. It’s not like he hasn’t hacked my lock before.

“What do you want?” I ask, peeling off my jacket.

He’s positioned my armchair so he can see the door, and there’s a syringe on the end table next to him. I carefully avoid looking at it.

“I’m under orders to conduct an experiment.” He gives me the barest of nods. “With your permission, of course.”

“What’s the experiment?”

“A different Heat formula.”

I eye the syringe then. “That was a little too quick.”

“I expressed a similar concern and was told it has been under development for three years.”

“Fortuitous timing.”

He smiles. “Yes.”

“Did your techs bother to tell you your smile is a terrifying sight?”

His smile widens. “Yes.”

I sigh. “Was that mission an experiment?”

Cutter licks his lips. “It was determined the mission could serve a dual purpose.”

“Nice use of passive voice, sir. How involved were you in the determination?”

“Snyder’s team lifted some intelligence that indicated the current version of Heat was more effective on people like Hersh and Carmichael than people like you.” He shrugs. “I could have refused our mission when the parameters were explained to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I know the answer—one of the parameters was our ignorance—but I want to hear him say it.

“I was not allowed to.”

“And now you are?”

“The mission is over.”

I stalk towards him. “And you need to regain my trust.”

He eyes me coolly. “Your trust, Porter, or your beast’s?”

My smile can be a frightening thing, too. “If you really want to force me into Heat, both.”

Cutter leans back. “Since you haven’t tried to kill me, Porter, I’m fairly certain I have your trust. Do I have your beast’s?”

“Let’s find out.” When I need to, I can move damn fast. Faster than Cutter if he’s not expecting it. I’ve got the syringe in my thigh before he can react.

My beast rips through me. The Heat does indeed throw us into Heat, but it blunts the transformation. The wolf can’t emerge. We howl in frustration.

Cutter’s the only target in the room. We attack him, and for a moment, I think we’re really attacking him, but then the Heat really hits us and we’re pawing at him for release.

He pins us down. “I would have preferred a more sanitary injection.”

We nip at him. He draws his head back so we don’t connect. “Is this you, Porter, or your beast?”

We writhe against him. He is more machine than man, and we like that there’s no give to his thighs, that he can crush our wrists with his hands, that no matter how much we struggle, we’re not getting up until he’s ready to let us.

We bear our teeth. “This is us. You better be willing to fuck us.”

The data streaming across his lenses stops, then fades away. It’s jarring. We can’t recall ever seeing lenses dark and flat. The blue stream of symbols is constant. We cock our head to one side. “Privacy?”

Cutter leans close. “As much as I can provide. I’m sure they’re monitoring us through other means.” He kisses us.

We let him set the pace, even though he seems determined to tease us. He’s hard and relentless and, by the time he enters us, thoroughly in control. We moan and offer him our throat. He takes it, tongue swirling around our pulse, and it’s too much for us to handle. We come.

We come, and he’s still not done. His lips glide up to our ear. He slides a hand down and gets it under our thigh to draw our leg up over his hip. The deeper angle makes us moan. We almost miss him saying, “I’m going to fuck you through your entire Heat, Porter. You’re going to lose track of the number of times you come.”

We turn our head to lick at his ear. He kisses us again, and then he proves he’s a man of his word. We lose track of everything.

There’s a side-effect to the new Heat formula. My beast and I don’t want to tell Cutter, but there’s no escaping it. So I hack his lock. I may be unaugmented, but I know how to use tools.

The problem is, I’ve never hacked his lock before, and his augmentations don’t boost his sense of smell, so he is truly not expecting me when he comes back from his run. I’m rewarded with a tranq dart for my efforts.

I’m not out for that long. I jerk alert and see him gathering up the stimulant wrapper and syringe for disposal. “It’s not smart to sneak into someone’s quarters uninvited.”

I rub my forehead with the back of my hand. Everything’s too sharp and jittery. “You hack my lock all the time.” Well, not all the time, but often enough.

“You can smell me, Porter.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have yourself wired into some room sensors or something.”

He considers me for a moment. “I have enough data to sift through. I don’t need any additional distractions.” He rises and holds out a hand to help me up. “Why are you here?”

“The new Heat formula has an...interesting effect.”

“Even after three days?”

“My beast and I believe it’s permanent.”

“Why do you think that?”

“My beast is certain the Heat is out of our system, except for this small change.”

“I see.” He walks into his kitchen. I stop in the archway that separates it from the living room and watch him grab two bottles of water from the fridge. He tosses one over to me and then leans against the counter, waiting for me to continue.

My beast snarls. It doesn’t particularly like Cutter. I particularly do. Neither reaction is different from before. Neither is my faint glow of lust. What’s different is my beast’s desire to submit to him. After a struggle, of course. My beast is still a beast, and Cutter is a master conqueror.

I toy with the cap of my bottle. “My beast doesn’t like you.”

“Your beast doesn’t like anyone, Porter.”

“True.” I meet his eyes. “But now you own my beast.”

He flinches. My beast snarls. I’m tempted to throw the water back at him. “Don’t tell me you knew.”

“You were not the only subject, though you are the only one I personally tested. I knew there was a risk of lingering effects. I did not know what they were or how long they would last.”

“And if you did?”

The question hangs between us entirely too long. I’m ready to storm out, but I want to believe Cutter wouldn’t...well, that he wouldn’t be that much of a bastard.

“Had they told me, I would have warned you.” He looks away. “I still would have followed my orders, though.”

Of course he would have. Cutter always obeys his orders. I have to take a minute to gather myself. “Then you can do me a favor. Me, Cutter, not my beast. You can find out if our superiors knew about this.”

They know Cutter as well as I do. They’d know he’d tell me, and that if I refused, he’d leave and wouldn’t come back unless they ordered him to conduct the experiment without my permission.

They also know me. Cutter can get me to do almost anything because he’s Cutter. He’s ruthless and sometimes inhuman, but the risks he takes are necessary and calculated. He doesn’t act, and doesn’t ask us to act, until he’s thought everything through.

He licks his lips. “What will that accomplish?”

I tighten my grip on the bottle of water until it’s ready to burst. “It will let me trust you with my beast.”

He frowns. I can tell it doesn’t make sense to him. I’m not sure I can explain, but I try anyway. “The experiment’s done, Cutter.”

“And I need to regain your trust?”

He understands, somewhat, at least. “Yes.”

“Not your beast’s?”

“I don’t think you’ll ever have my beast’s trust.” I turn to leave. “But now you don’t need it.” I make it outside before the water bottle pops in my hand.

I’m certain our superiors knew, or hoped, something like this would happen. Others like me are wild cards, and if there’s a way to permanently tame us, of course they’d look into it. The only question now is if Cutter will try to regain my trust. I hope he will, because if he doesn’t...my beast’s snarl is a pale echo of my own anger.