The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As Chelsie continued to scrub, Adam filled Pete in. Apparently he’d been toying with his design for the Influence Phone for months now—studying mind and mood influence routines on the DoD intranet; customizing a pair of phones and hotwiring their circuitry to turn them into a transmitter-receiver pair, almost like walkie-talkies; and choosing a guinea pig for the phone’s maiden voyage. Chelsie was always his first choice, he said, partly because of the moving-in incident, which had made him hunger for a way to get back at her, but also because, despite her spoiled-bitch personality, physically she was succulent—with a cupie-doll face, tutti-fruity tits like Danish pastries, a slinky waist (from the daily cheerleading drills that kept her figure trim and defined), curvaceous, meaty hips and ass, and lean, smooth legs she kept bared throughout the summer and fall in tantalizing short shorts like she was wearing now, or under the diminutive miniskirt of her cheerleading uniform. “She might be a useless fucking brat,” said Adam, gesturing at the cleaning girl, “but look at that goddamn body. Staring at that, it’s all I can do to keep from jizzing my pants.”

A look of revulsion briefly crossed Chelsie’s face, but she kept scrubbing.

The mood-influencing routines he’d found on the intranet, Adam went on explaining, were tied to personal information. They used confidential codes to access the target’s computer records, then triangulated these records with the cerebral monitoring features built into the latest generation of cell phones to generate the mood-influencing effect. Again, much of the technical mumbo-jumbo was lost on Pete. He did, though, get it when Adam explained that because of the way the intranet accessed these records, the more personal the information provided, the more extensive the access. “You have five access levels,” said Adam. “Level one doesn’t count for much, that’s mainly for background hypnotic suggestion, implanting impressions and ideas, that sort of thing. Experiential stuff. Common info is good enough for level one: middle name, pet name, place of birth. Now, with a bank account or a credit card number, you can get level three. Level three, you can do a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s just say if I had a level three on Chelsie here right now, she wouldn’t be wearing nearly as much as she is.” He gave Pete a wink. “I hacked into the university computer and looked at her records, but all I could get was a social security number and her grades. Cs, mostly. A soash number’ll only get you a level two.”

“Wait. ‘She wouldn’t be wearing as much’? You mean, your plan is to use this influence thing to take advantage of her?”

“Well, sure, why not? Fucking annoying bitch, she deserves it.”

Chelsie stopped dusting a moment. From where Pete was sitting he couldn’t see her face, but her body seemed to shudder. She shook it off and went back to what she was doing.

“I dunno,” Adam went on, “I mean… Look at her, dude. And she’s always flaunting it. She keeps licking stamps, sooner or later someone’s gonna put that package in the mail. But anyway, I can’t. Not without more data to put into the system.”

Pete sat quiet for a while, ogling Chelsie’s bottom through her tight white shorts as she dusted and primped. He wondered what accessing her at level four might be like. His dick stiffened.

A key slipped in the lock and Pete jumped, wondering if they were doing anything wrong. Technically, wasn’t this kidnapping?

What a relief. It was only Jake and Camille. Jake stepped in first, his little sister behind, her black hair and goth makeup masking a smattering distant constellation of pimples and pallid complexion. She had a tiny plastic bag, mall-fresh, hooked daintily on one index finger. They both did a double-take on Chelsie, much as Pete had done when he’d walked in a half hour before.

Jake dug through the breast pocket of his sleeveless flannel shirt. “Hey, dude,” he said to Adam.

Camille, studying Chelsie befuddledly, handed her bag to Adam. Meanwhile, Jake found whatever he was looking for in his pocket—a wrinkled, carbon paper receipt, as it turned out—and gave that over as well.

“Here ya go,” he said. Adam nodded in gratitude as he gathered the receipt and peeked in the change-purse-sized bag. “Bluetooth?”

“Two headsets,” said Camille, “like you asked.”

Jake signaled Chelsie. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Long story,” said Adam. He examined the receipt. “And this?”

“Number’s on it. I couldn’t remember—I wasn’t even sure I’d find it—but it all pressed through.”

“Hey, Pete,” Camille asided, sparking a Marlboro Extra-Light with a kitchen match. She cocked her head at Jake and Adam and then flicked her eyes toward Chelsie in a gesture conspicuously meant for Pete, like a two-eyed wink. “You know what the fuck’s going on?”

“Sorta. It’s complicated.”

“So hey, man,” Jake went on, “isn’t that—”

“Chelsie Brookhaven, the tri-delt from soash class.”

“Riight.” Jake dragged out the word skeptically, tapping out his own cigarette—a Red, in his case. “Well, what is she—”

“What’s she doing here? We just had this conversation. Why don’t you guys all go have a seat and relax.” He held up the bag and receipt. “Let me set this stuff up and maybe I can show you two”—meaning, plainly, Jake and Camille – “instead of having to explain it all again.”

With a shrug the puzzled trio made it to the sofa and easy chair, Pete taking the latter, and Jake fumbled with the remote to tune in some Sci-Fi Channel original movie. On screen, a Sarah Michelle Gellar look-alike was sneaking anxiously around the dark halls of a stylized starship, doubtless on the run from some slimy space-age horror.

Adam arm-led Chelsie away from the coffee table to clear the view of the television. He popped open the small box in the bag Camille had given him and unfolded the receipt, mumbling to himself as he read something off of it.

“What’s that you just gave him?”

“Weird shit,” said Camille. “He called earlier and asked me for a couple of old Bluetooths I used to use before I upgraded, and also I … Hey, what the fuck is she doing here?”

Pete looked over. “What, you mean Miss Teen Pledge USA? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Fucking beady-eyed succubus, what she is,” Jake interjected. “If I had a nickel for every time her and her stone-skulled boyfriend called me a dork or a fag … Well, I wouldn’t be sitting here, that’s for goddamn sure.”

“Yeah,” interjected Camille. “Always when there’s more than just the two of them, too.”

I got the point of this. Jake was something called a “live-action gamer”—a pursuit in which fans of everything Medieval went into the woods in period armor and played at mock combat, armed with heavy, though blunt and padded, weapons. As a consequence, Jake, though frizzy-haired, rotund, and often sloppily dressed, was also prodigiously strong due to the constant weight training he did to improve his game. Only he, with his bookish leanings, would think to insult someone in casual conversation by calling her a “succubus,” but Pete figured Jake would likely beat Chelsie’s jock boyfriend silly one on one, or at least give him a hard-won victory filled with grievous hurt. This though the jock himself was physically formidable, a fact the skinny Pete had once learned to his regret.

“All right,” Adam piped in. The trio huddled around the Sci-Fi Channel turned to him. He had hustled Chelsie off as though engaged in private conversation with her, but now he turned her by the shoulders to show her off, and she skittered passively on her heels in place, looking sad. He’d fitted the podlike Bluetooth on her ear and slipped its companion on his own, and now both her hands hung limp at her sides. She’d been freed of the duty of holding the cell phone at her ear, if not of her other onerous obligations. Adam tapped his unit.

“Hands free,” he smiled.

The underhand-tossed the twin cell phones he’d been using on Chelsie to Jake, one after the other. Jake caught them and answered with a puzzled look.

“You’ll want those,” Adam said. “Trust me. I can rig another pair easy as that, now I know the way to do it. I’ll explain how to use ‘em later.”

“What about the receipt?” asked Camille. She and Jake were completely in the dark, plainly, but they’d been so busy bashing Chelsie they’d never given Pete a chance to fill them in. Not that he would’ve been able to find the words.

“Ah,” said Adam, “let me show you.” He lowered his chin and spoke into the Bluetooth receiver. “Chelsie? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” said she sourly.

“Through the unit?”

“Yes.” Chelsie sounded irritated.

“Main menu,” said Adam, and Chelsie, already slack, appeared somehow to slacken. Then she snapped upright again, her eyes vacated.

“Da fu…?” Jake muttered.

“Main menu. Please select an option,” she cooed cheerfully, in a blandly affable voice plainly not her own, like the pre-recorded voice one hears, when calling a company help line, that asks what department you’d like to be connected to. As though a hollowly friendly computer were speaking through her.

“Access permission request,” said Adam.

“Access permission level?” said Chelsie, in the same chipper tone. The effect was a little eerie.

“Access level three.” Adam pumped his fist and bit his lip with tense enthusiasm, like a gambler who, though still not quite sure, thought his horse was probably about to win.

“Information category for level three access?”

“Line of credit.”

“Please enter account information.”

Adam read off the receipt Jake had given him, enunciating with theatrical clarity. “Four. Seven. Six. Three.”

Jake leaned over in the meantime and whispered, not wanting to interfere with whatever transaction was taking place. “The other day, this shitty little Chelsie bitch came into the CVS”—the campus drugstore Jake worked at part time—“and charged a bunch of stuff. Our system had gone down so we were using an old-style manual card swipe…”

“Two. Two. Nine. Zero.”

“… which copies the whole card number, not just the last four digits. End of the day I took the receipt home, thinking maybe…”

“Six. Six. Seven. Zero.”

“… I could use it to get back at her somehow. Never got around to using it but Adam knew I had it, so I guess this is why he asked for it today, to do whatever the fuck it is he’s doing.”

“Three. Eight. Eight. One.”

Adam stepped back. For a second nothing seemed to change. Chelsie’s head rocked slightly, almost whirring.

“Hope she’s paid up,” said he with a nervous chuckle.

She straightened up crisply, Private Brookhaven at attention.

“Level three access granted.”

Adam swung his arm in a gesture of victory. “Yes! Exit main menu!”

Chelsie snapped again, as though coming to. “God,” she said. “What just happened?” She looked around anxiously. “Where am I?”

“Hmm,” Adam mused. “Interesting. I guess when the level’s adjusted it resets the memory.”

“What am I doing here? Pete? Adam? Cam… You’re the paste-eating dorks from soash class!”

Jake rolled his eyes in disgust. Meanwhile, Adam came around behind Chelsie, who continued to stand in place, though she panned to take in her surroundings.

“What the … Am I in your dorm room? Ugh. I’m in the fucking nerd farm. Did I get drunk or something?”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” said Adam. With a scowl, Chelsie turned to him but when she tried to answer him, nothing came out but a pair of muffled, closed-mouthed grunts. She screwed her eyes down toward her own face in confusion, raising her fingers to her mouth. Adam chuckled.

“That’s right. You’ve had your fun, now it’s our turn for some laughs. You’ll speak when I say you can speak. Not before. Got it?”

She scowled, her face turning red. Adam leaned in.

“Auxiliary menu, hormonal mood modification, fear one.”

Suddenly she stepped back, clutching her hands in front of her, her brow upturned fretfully.

“Got it?”

She recoiled so frantically she knocked the feather duster off the coffee table. Then she briskly nodded, nearly pleading. Pete was mesmerized. Jake and Camille seemed to be as well. It was like a puppet show.

“Good. Auxiliary menu, reset.” She slackened and her body relaxed again. “Now put your hands on your hips, turn around, and show off your hot little figure for my friends, here.”

She complied, and Pete enjoyed another generous opportunity to appreciate her lithe form. He drank in the sight of her from her pink and white sneakers to the crown of her blonde head, noticing some things he hadn’t before: the choker band tight around her neck and the long, elegant necklace with a silver pagoda for a brooch, the effete insignia of a polo player on the waist of her carnation blouse. Her nipples, which now improbably impressed twin nubs on the cups of her blouse even through her tight bra. He hadn’t even touched her or witnessed the removal of a single article of her clothing and yet he was already dizzyingly aroused, his penis fully stiff in his jeans. His resentment seemed to be fueling his excitement, in fact, the heat of his bitterness toward her transforming into raging lust now that he was watching Andy control and humiliate her.