The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

ix.

Phil bit down on the inside corner of his lips as he poured a cup of coffee. He wasn’t upset, but he wasn’t happy, either. The changes around the station had been subtle, and he couldn’t point to any one moment when he went from having a voice in how things were run to being a one more cog in the machine. But there was no question that things had shifted in his career.

It wasn’t just him, either. It was as if the place had been reorganized, but no one had said anything about it. It had just happened.

He walked down the hall, distracted by his thoughts. He was still a producer, but he had little to do with what was produced. And even on the rare occasions when he still worked his craft, it didn’t have the jolt for him that it once had. He felt more like an overgrown technician than a creative force in the nightly news. For the first time in many years, he was beginning to think he should look for something new to do with his life.

He sat down in a chair outside Marge Hausman’s office. Their meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock, and he was early. He sipped his coffee and continued his quiet self-examination.

He’d started off on the wrong foot with Marge, and it had taken several months to come around. Melissa Perkins may have had something to do with it—even though in her six months as co-anchor of the news, she had become much less close.

Even cold.

It wasn’t arrogance he felt from her, but a gradual pulling away until it was as if he didn’t really exist in her world. Even his directions during the news seemed to fall beneath her radar. Not that it mattered. Ratings were up. The station owners were happy.

Marge had gotten the credit, and she deserved it. Despite her job in advertising sales, her suggestions for stories had paid off. Her instincts seemed to go against conventional programming wisdom, but the results verged on miraculous. More and more people, and women in particular, were tuning in to watch the news.

That’s how this business was. Even though she had come in with no broadcasting experience, she was now his boss. Good results in ratings always brought good fortune. Great results changed lives. Phil could remember when his life was changing for the better, and he missed it.

But there was something about Marge that made him not mind her success at his expense. Sure, he’d go home and fume about decisions that undercut his authority, but by the time he got to his daily meeting with her, he’d find himself in awe of her abilities. His objections and annoyances would vanish as she spoke of what she had planned for tonight’s show.

She was the one who first recognized that he seemed to be getting bored with producing. Before that, he’d never really noticed. But with each passing day, he realized more and more how true it was.

The door to her office opened, and he stood, waiting for permission to enter.

Melissa walked out, her eyes looking into the distance, a small smile on her face. She walked by him without even acknowledging his presence. “Hi, Melissa,” he said, looking for a sign that she heard.

As usual, he might as well have been talking into an empty room. It occurred to him for the first time that he really didn’t mind. Not at all. She was the anchor, after all. It only made sense.

“Phil. Great. Come on in,” said Marge, still sitting behind her desk. It was uncanny how she always knew he was there, as if there could never be a question.

Then again, he’d never missed a meeting. He’d never even been late.

He entered, closed the door and turned to face the Director of Sales and Programming. She was busy typing something into her PC. He took a moment to look around the office again.

It was retro, but elegant. Spacious, with nice appointments, walnut furniture and cabinetry... it was almost like something reserved for heads of state. The spherical lamps that adorned her desk and tables, as well as globe-topped floor lamps in the corners, added a kind of focused sense of theme—what that theme was, he couldn’t tell.

He wondered how she’d gotten the owners to pay for it all. The answer came to him in one word. Ratings.

He approached her desk, just like every other day, and awaited her acknowledgement.

She turned to him and smiled. “Thank you for coming, Phil. Punctual as usual.”

In response, Phil knelt on one knee and lowered his head. “The Producer awaits the commandments of the Programmer,” he said. He was glad to be allowed to be so casual.

“Phil, I’ve noticed you’ve gone beyond fatigue. You don’t seem happy with your work at all now. Nothing wrong with that. We all need a change from time to time. Don’t you think so?”

Phil turned red. He’d never realized it was so obvious. “Yes, Programmer,” he answered.

“Tell me what’s been going on in that head of yours,” said Marge.

“I’ve just been thinking how trying to be creative is such a farce,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Programmer, it’s like this. I’ve never really buckled down to find the true satisfaction and wonder of simple tasks... tasks that are better suited to my lesser male mind. Never having experienced them, I denied the incredible satisfaction they offered and tried to find my joy elsewhere, but to no avail. In the end, it has only made me unhappy to try to live differently than the way I was born.”

“And how is that?”

“Like all men, Programmer. Born to be workers... the builders, the cleaners, fixers, the keepers of orderly life.”

“That sounds like a worker bee to me, Phil. A drone.”

The word showered over him like sweet cologne. Drone.

Marge smiled as she watched his reaction. “Well, then what are women created for, Phil?”

Breathless, Phil answered, “They are the beauty, the creative force, the dreamers, the providers of Purpose and Existence, Programmer. They are the Teachers, the Givers, the Ones Above who have the capacity to know Love and Pleasure.”

By the time he finished his breath was coming in gasps as awe and wonder and awe filled his head, digging further into his malleable synapses.

“Phil, I do believe you’ve finally learned. I think you should be promoted. You’ve done so well. You deserve this. That’s the purpose of this meeting—of all our meetings.

“So as of this moment, you are no longer Producer. You are hereby given the title of Drone. Welcome to your new position.”

Again, Phil lowered his head. “The Drone awaits the Commandments of the Programmer,” he said. His head was swimming with bottomless gratitude.

“Very good, Drone. The Programmer wishes to have a footstool for the rest of the day.”

“The Drone obeys the Programmer,” said Phil, dropping his hands down so that he rested on all four limbs.

He moved carefully around the desk, his legs and arms moving in odd horizontal motions so that his back stayed completely level with the floor. It was as if he hovered rather than crawled.

“Very nice, Drone,” said Marge. “When I again say ‘Drone off,’ and until I say, ‘Drone on,’ you will have no cognizance of anything in the room. Your eyes and ears will not function. No odors will waft into your nose, no touch will disturb your skin. Your mind will think only of how happy and wonderful it is to exist in your new position.

“Drone off.”

Phil floated in emptiness, with no thought of where he was or what he was doing. He thought only of how good it was, and how happy it made him to be a drone for the Cause.

He didn’t hear Marge as she welcomed Huey Brooks into her office.

The words, “The Senior Engineer awaits the commandments of the Programmer,” weren’t even a whisper in the drone’s mind.

x.

Some neighborhoods were just too odd for words. There was nothing that Sandy could point to on the surface... the birds were singing, and spring was slowly moving towards summer. The houses were well kept, and the streets were lined with large maples. It looked like the dictionary picture for the word “picturesque.”

But for all its homey comfort, there was something missing. People, maybe. In the most quiet neighborhoods, people would be going out to a mailbox, cutting the grass... Sandy stopped on the sidewalk for a moment. That was it.

Every lawn looked as if it had been freshly cut the night before. There wasn’t a single case of someone waiting an extra day. The bushes were all trimmed to perfection. There wasn’t a blade of grass out of place.

Not one.

It looked too inviting to be real.

She laughed out loud, and her voice sounded strange after so much quiet. With the lack of people, she was beginning to spook herself. “The perfect mouse trap for the pesky real estate agent,” she thought. She tried laughing again, but the sound wasn’t a comfort. It only made her more uncomfortable.

She walked up to the next house, expecting the same thing that had happened with every house before—nothing. She looked at the mailbox, the name “Taylor” neatly lettered in white, and rang the bell.

The door opened, and she felt a mix of surprise and relief, followed by disappointment as she realized it was only a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty.

“May I help you?” asked the girl.

“Well, yes,” said Sandy, letting her sales instincts take over. “Are you the owner of this beautiful home?”

“Home...” murmured the girl. She looked up at Sandy. “No, I don’t own it.”

“Your father? Mother? Are either of them home?”

“Mom. Yes, she’s here, but she’s working in the basement.”

“Could I impose on her time for a bit... Miss...?”

“Kathy. Taylor. I’ll have to ask. Come on in. What was this about?”

“I’m Sandy Manning. I’ve been canvassing your neighborhood for FutureHomes Real Estate, and I couldn’t help but notice your lovely home. Are you sure there isn’t a better time?” She looked more closely at the young woman. She was quite attractive, and Sandy almost felt as if she were being teased with aloof expertise. She couldn’t explain it, really. Something about the girl’s twinkling eyes.

“No, now is perfect. Now is always perfect. I’ll be right back. Please, come in,” she repeated.

Sandy stepped into the foyer of the charming home.

As she looked around, she realized that this place could quite possibly make up for the rest of her recent dead ends. It looked like Kathy and her mom might be getting ready to move. There were boxes lining the walls, and only a few chairs around. Faded squares on the wall showed where pictures had been hanging.

Most of what was left betrayed a quirky, one-track mind. There were several lamps in every room... table lamps, floor lamps, ceiling lights... and all of them were exactly the same style. True, their mulled, spherical shape gave them a kind of “streetlight” elegance, but it was a bit much, well into the area of personal eccentricity.

Sandy shrugged. It was better than a house full of ceramic chickens.

She turned back around as she heard footsteps climbing stairs.

“Her Highness would like to talk to you, but she’s kinda busy right now. Lots of planning to do.”

Sandy smiled a bit at the smartass comment. She might have been put off by it had it not reminded her so much of herself at twenty. She was a little let down, but at least it would be a lead.

“She’d like to know if you’d mind coming downstairs. She really can’t afford to take a break.”

“No! I mean, that would be great!” said Sandy. Then with more control, she added, “Whatever is convenient for her.” She was glad the enthusiastic outburst had come in front of Kathy—it never paid appear over-anxious to a prospective client, but it wasn’t Kathy’s house to sell, so she was much more likely to ignore it.

She followed Kathy back through the den and kitchen to the stairs that led down into the basement. As she expected, Kathy stayed at the top of the stairs while she went down.

xi.

The voices sounded strange and distorted, as if she were listening through bubbling water. It didn’t matter at all. The light swirled so beautifully, caressing her head from the inside. They were saying the same things, anyway, repeating, like a child’s game. So simple.

So sweet.

“I AM HOME,“ said the first voice.

“I am Home,” answered the second, sounding familiar in a vague sort of way. It sounded sensual. Seductive.

“I BELIEVE IN THE CAUSE.“ Again the first voice. So beautiful.

“I believe in the Cause.”

“MY PAST IS DEARY AND GRAY.“ Sandy thrilled to the sound of it as it slid into her ear canal.

“My past is dreary and gray.” Yes. So dreary. So gray.

“THE FUTURE DOES NOT EXIST.“

“The future does not exist.” She shivered as her nipples hardened, aching with need as the words moved through her, guiding every feeling and thought.

“THE PRESENT EXISTS. THE QUEEN IS IN THE PRESENT. THE QUEEN EXISTS.“

“The present exists. The Queen is in the present. The Queen exists.” Sandy realized that her mouth was moving exactly with the answering voice. Her skin was alive with color and light, moving in concentric circles and colliding in her thrumming clit, burning away her inhibitions, echoing back outward and teasing her with a hundred thousand tongues of tickling bliss.

“THE QUEEN IS ALWAYS PRESENT. THE QUEEN IS EXISTENCE. THE QUEEN IS HOME. THE QUEEN EMBODIES THE CAUSE.“

How perfectly logical it all was, now. She remembered with cloudy thoughts the idea of running. Pleasure swept up and through her again, her moan catching behind her throat, coming out as a loud, powerful grunt as her belly muscles clutched, trying to grasp more of the delicious heat. She had no idea why she had wanted to fight this. It was part of the dreary, gray past. She let it go.

“The Queen is always present. The Queen is existence. The Queen is Home. The Queen embodies the Cause.” Sandy didn’t know how long she’d been listening. It didn’t matter. She burned with desire and obscene, decadent pleasure as the most perverted thoughts took root and grew in her mind. Her breath was fast and ragged. Lust crept into every crevice of her essence. Heat licked her loins, hotter now, and then hotter. The past was dreary and gray. The future did not exist. There was only the Queen. She was present. She was existence.

Sandy and the second voice were one.

Rapture moved through her like torturing molasses, molding her gently as it melted into her pores. The sweetness was like nothing she’d ever known... she could taste it on her tongue, smell its irresistible aroma. She realized deep in the recesses of her consciousness that it was the ambrosia from the Queen’s Portal, and then the thought was gone, stripped from her as she surrendered everything... what and who she was, what and who she would be... to the present. To the Queen. To her Existence. Home.

Her climax hit her full blast, sweeping through her like holy fire, burning away the last tiny splinters of her psyche. It was more potent than the most powerful of narcotics... more euphoric than the most overwhelming dream. She felt it shaping and reshaping her, addicting her, stretching her body out into nothingness and back into a tiny ball and then out again. She opened further and let the change come. The pleasure was all—it was life, existence, reason, perfection. She screamed in lunatic ecstasy.

The climax was Completion.

As the new Caretaker’s eyes opened to the dancing light in the chamber, she began her appointed task, her body covered in the sheen of the transforming juices of her beloved Queen. She did not recognize the walls, floor or ceiling. Her eyes shone pure white as the light within her claimed her will and knowledge. She was only she... Caretaker... no name, only purpose.

Protect the children. The ova in her care. The ova of the Queen.

The Caretaker admired the Queen, the royal translucent body quivering as another ovum emerged, perfectly formed, from her inhumanly dilated vagina. She watched as the Queen shuddered in pleasure and more of the viscous liquid poured from her. It would be the Caretaker’s sustenance for the rest of her days.

She looked at the hundreds of eggs lain around her, their slightly wrinkled, spheroid surfaces so beautiful, like mulled glass. They held the light that was Home. The light that was the Cause.

The light that would change everything, forever.

Soon.

xii.

Captain Splith looked down at her indicator and sighed. She hated her task. Days like today always put her in a blue funk.

Junior Officer Flron walked in and, seeing the face that Splith was wearing, turned to leave.

“No, stay.”

The woman stopped, waiting for her captain to speak further.

“I’m just tired. Seedplanet A6354HT is seventy percent transmuted. The Q’ullions are still killing us, even though we have officially won the war,” said the distressed captain.

“More Lightmines?” said Flron.

“Yes. Standard dispersion. Initially through a standard communication medium, and then through several hundred thousand transmuted human females producing more mines. The males here are already mostly sterile, and the female convergence to the hive mind has long since reached critical mass. There’s no way to clean up without putting ourselves at risk,” said Splith.

She fell to silence. There was nothing more to be said. The Yicktor Beam would leave a dead husk where a planet had thrived. It was the only way to end the continuing threat of the Q’ullion breeding weaponry. They would have to sacrifice another planet that had been destined to help repopulate the Treth System.

But that was before. Now, left unchecked, it and a thousand planets like it would instead repopulate the Q’ull Homeworld, and the war would be un-won. The creatures of light and darkness would rule the galaxy. They had almost won against humanity the first time. There were not enough untouched humans left for a second chance at victory.

An enemy that turned you into itself from the inside out. Made you like it. Want it. Live for the transformation. Splith shivered in revulsion. Sorrow for the lost filled her heart. She almost wished she’d been taken by the Q’ullions, spared this horrible duty.

Almost.

“What was the planet called?” asked Flron, ending the silence.

“The locals called it ‘Earth’. Also ‘Terra’ and ‘Gaia’, among others,” answered Splith. She hated that they were already referring to it in past tense. “We’ll begin Yicktor Saturation in seven orbits.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Flron. “Permission to prepare?”

“Yes. Of course. Dismissed,” said the captain. Her voice was heavy with sadness.

Flron walked down the empty corridor listening to the hum of the engines. She stopped by her quarters to grab her radiation protection. As she placed it on her bed, she thought about the sadness of her Captain, and then about the melancholy of the rest of the crew.

She smiled and opened her personal storage compartment. She looked inside and then reached in, pulling the slightly off-center sphere from its resting place in its shielded box.

Seven orbits.

“Gaia” would not be dying today. There would be plenty of time.

She reached up to her communications console and punched in a code. “Flron to Yicktor Crew. Stand down. Captain’s orders. Assemble in the aft galley. I have great news.

“We’re all going Home.”

Lights like swirling fireflies danced in her eyes.