The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

What had been intended to become the nerve centre of a mastermind’s private empire was instead a cage of data that he could not understand.

The one clear conclusion to draw was that he had failed.

Ben hid his face behind steepled fingers, triangled around his nose. His elbows rested on sheaves of blueprints, designs, technical drawings: the detritus of failed dreams. He was not looking at them—he didn’t need to, he had memorised every particular—as his attention was held by a bank of monitors, each and every one a recording eye gazing solemnly from a different angle towards the unfolding infidelity.

The subject designated as ‘Wife’ rutted mechanically on the horn of the bull that had mounted her from behind. Ben wondered where she got these identikit jocks. Perhaps she had an arrangement with a factory which could produce copies from one particular mould. If he had wanted, Ben could have closed his eyes and rendered each and every one of her previous partners in living technicolour. It was not as if either shame or attraction had burnt them onto his retinas. It was simply that unavoidable repetition had made them memorable—much like the face of an unloved politician, or the slight movements made to compensate for the annoying way that a furniture leg had for catching an unwary foot. In fact, with only a little more effort, he could imagine an infinite line of only slightly varying men stretching off into the future. Hairstyles ranging from mullet to close-cropped to bald. Muscular definitions from ridiculous to steroid abuse. Alarmingly, the sight of quivering buttocks pistoning in and out seemed to be a dominant feature.

No. Ben’s eyes, almost as if they shared the mechanical stamina of the cameras, stayed open. They looked for the tiniest clue as to why he was the one being cuckolded.

He let her wash herself before he probed her for information.

“Diagnostic 36J,” reported Ben, in a tired voice, from a tired body. He looked directly at the camera, even though it was so well hidden as to be practically invisible. Moving to the side, he revealed the subject. She sat, alarmingly still, feet tucked to the side, the small movements of her naked chest the only immediate sign of life. A baseball cap featuring bulges and wires coming from the back were all the clues the camera received about her condition. Eventually, a slow blink stuttered from her eyes. It was as if she was swimming in the depths of some dream.

Ben sat out of frame and asked his careful questions without any sign of desperation.

“Name?”

There was a pause.

Starting to show more movement, the woman attempted to speak. Muscles shifted subtly from the diaphragm up. Eyes widened. Nose twitched. The mouth opened a full second before air was released from her lungs. The woman started with an s. Muffled clicks from beneath the baseball cap affected her speech, and she simply gave out a hiss.

There was an equivalent pause.

“Name?”

The woman, closer to the glassy surface of her reality now, said “Wife.”

“Correct.”

Another clicking. Her legs very slightly unfolded from underneath her. Perhaps her breathing quickened.

“What did you do today?”

The barest flickering of a smile: “I fucked.”

Ben shifted in his chair. “Did you like it?”

The smile was more obvious now: “Yes.”

“Have you always liked... fucking?”

Less dreamily: “Yes.”

Time elapsed, long enough to check the next question on a list. “Where was your husband?”

“Seeing room. Husband likes to watch.”

“No. That is not true.”

More clicking. Eyelids close heavily, as if in the throes of a headache.

Ben let the feeling subside. When her eyes opened again, he asked: “what are your roles?”

On firmer ground now: “1) Procurement. 2) Seduction. 3) Sex.”

“Good,” responded Ben. She responded herself, to whatever stimulation was coming from the clicking cap.

Ben had reached the item that was troubling him. “What does your husband want?”

“Sex.”

There was a pause.

“Continue,” prompted Ben.

“Husband wants sex.”

“Yes,” said Ben, growing more tired. “Sex with who?”

“Husband in seeing room. Husband wants to watch.”

“No,” said Ben, betraying the swelling of violence in his voice. Just in the frame of the camera, his hand raised, showing a remote control. It jabbed at a button. In response, the cap clicked.

Ben held the button down.

A low moan escaped from her mouth. Her right hand slid slightly, and her torso started to tilt towards the bed. Her head was no longer upright.

Ben tossed his clipboard and check-list onto the bed, but in his anger threw it too far. The woman did not react to the loud clatter it produced as it bounced from wall to wooden floor. She did react, as if waking from a trance, when he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and lined up her gaze with his.

“What do you want?” asked Ben, as if talking to a petulant child.

Gazing back, unblinkingly, the woman tried to answer.

Ben closed his eyes and let his shoulders unhunch. His grip on her became supportive rather than controlling. He let his face become more tender. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to make it sound as if it actually mattered.

Faltering: “I want... what husband wants.”

Ben nodded, soothing.

“So husband wants... what I want?”

Ben’s face became twisted fury, and his fingers sought retribution. Snatching the remote control, he stood in front of her and jabbed at a certain button again and again.

Slowly, the woman’s body slid out onto the bed. The camera caught her eyes rolling up and her mouth going slack.

“Shit,” whispered Ben. He scrambled around the bed and, butt in the air, retrieved his check-list.

Standing straight to flick through the pages, he stated: “Syncopal episode number fourteen. Diagnostic 36J terminated.”

His hand cupped the short tumbler of whisky at the bottom, as if he was regarding the shifting amber refractions with a calm and studied gaze. In fact, his eyes stared straight ahead.

In this room, Ben looked every inch the successful self-made man. Not the most opulent study, but certainly full of assured touches of taste and refinement that could only be achieved through both careful study of form and the money with which to buy the pieces that became a unified whole. Across the walls lay evidence of a history of effort and achievement. Studying them closely, you would form an impression of a man who had revolutionised neurorehabilitation through both technological and behavioural innovation—newspaper clippings twinned with portraits of early success stories bearing sure grins which contrasted with stitched scalps, happy prison officers and wardens congratulating a breakthrough, various political figures pumping Ben’s fist for either having allowed a liberal society to deal humanely with repeat offenders or simply for having decisively reduced crime statistics without all the pantomime and debate caused by capital punishment.

These mementoes crowded three of the walls around him. In fact, in some areas, more recent honorary degrees and other awards had been placed too high or too low, or simply jammed in the meagre space between two earlier items. Yet the wall in front of Ben was a stark wallpapered expanse, and stuck out as starkly as a bare desk in a room full of towers of paperwork. It was as if he was still waiting to complete his greatest work and gain his most treasured accolades.

At some point that evening, staring at the unformed future, he started vocalising very quietly. The glass now warm from his hand, and the spirits still undrunk, a very silent audience may have have heard one word in particular—want, want, want. Whether it was a question or a demand remained unclear.

In the raw light of the morning, with Wife obediently exercising, problems seemed surmountable.

With his left hand, Ben delivered a slap to his face as counsel against his own optimism.

Coffee mug in his right, he continued to pore over the copious notes from the psychological suitability tests that had led to Wife being chosen.

He flicked back a few pages to remember her name—yes, Ellen.

The first thought was that she was still the perfect choice. Physically attractive—Ben could not resist turning the section of the portfolio which provided graphic evidence of the sessions where Ellen had engaged in all sort of self-stimulation in order to prove to her future-Husband that she was willing to do anything—as well as psychologically ready.

Putting his coffee cup down on the end table next to his armchair, Ben unconsciously counted off the relevant features on his fingers.

One, ridiculously high sex drive as measured in assisted fantasy roleplays. Two, high score on unconventional relationships questionnaires, which incorporated physiological responses to images and concepts relating to infidelity. Three, high readings of neurological adaptability in the areas most affected by non-surgically-assisted transcranial magnetic stimulation.

Ben was absolutely confident that he had found a beautiful woman who responded extremely well to neurological stimulation of reward centres. He knew for a fact that she her behaviour could be shaped—that fact that she existed in a pretty haze of being a perfect submissive housewife indicated that. But he had confirmed this before, for mornings stretching back months, and each and every time he had convinced himself to let his programming take its course, he had ended up frustrated and trapped.

So, why was she indulging in the wrong sexual fantasies?

He had decided that he would have to monitor each step of the procurement procedure. This meant his intrusion on what was supposed to be her part of the process.

Wife took it as an unwelcome intrusion—in fact she snivelled in distress as Ben tried to soothe her.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” she whined, petulant and pouting. Her hand still lay on the mouse, and she refused to maximise the browser window again. She had reacted as soon as she had heard him entering her study.

He was kneeling in front of her, looking up into her face as consolingly as he could manage. “I just want to be sure that you do it right this time, honey.” He smiled, and it looked odd on his pained face.

He reached to control her hand so that it would resume navigating the list of women available for casual meetings with other like-minded women in public places. Ben forced her to click on the taskbar with her index finger. He reacted with surprise when, instead, there was a tile of rectangles showing familiar bodies with familiar penises aggressively orientated towards the screen, anonymous faces pixellated out.

“What are you doing,” he asked, his intonation not that of a question.

Wife started crying, tears threatening to ruin her waterproof mascara.

Two days later, everything was going according to the new plan. The purse was on the table, orientated towards the subject. Even in motion, she resembled her picture. Wife, even though she had been heaving occasionally in suppressed sobs, had managed to choose a very attractive candidate without any further input.

Ben was almost not looking forward to her attractive pixie haircut, with its choppy fringe, being covered up by the cap. Still, he shrugged to himself, there was no other way to get past her sensible inhibitions and lead her to his house. He let his good spirits wash through him and relieve the fatigue of failure that had been building for so long.

After some muffled small talk, Wife managed to broach the possibility of wearing the cap “just to see how it looks on you”. She was perfectly charming, and asking in such a reasonable way, that there seemed to be no danger in saying yes. Also, the way she held it in profile, with some parts covered by her hand, hid an odd series of bulges around the rim. It seemed just the same as the one she had been wearing before she tossed it into her bag a few minutes ago.

Suppressing brain functions with the remote control, Ben surged with desire, tempered only by the unstoppable realisation that it would have been much sweeter if Wife could have delivered his sex toy unannounced, and entirely without his involvement. Yet he held in mind the goals of his regime, and resolved to anticipate an even better future.

Rubbing his hands with excitement, he was impatient for Wife to knock on the door.

Opening it for her at last, he immediately asked, “When did you arrange for her to come over?”

Tired from following instructions so exactingly, Wife did not bother complaining again about the intention of secrecy. She simply responded: “Tonight, at 7pm”.

“You need a rest,” said Ben, taking her by the arm, and she relaxed into him subtly. Her eyes looked for the reassurance of his attention, but he stared straight ahead, caught up in his own plans.

“Yes, I would so love to go to bed,” she responded in the trained and precise diction that he valued so highly.

But he led them past the stairs.

“Or,” she acquiesced, “just have a lie-down on the sofa.”

They passed the entrance to the living room.

She let herself glide along, her face waking up with a hint of puzzlement. He did not lead her to either a chair, a sofa, or any normal bed.

Wife pulled away slightly as it dawned on her where she was going.

“Are you scared of the basement, honey?” asked Ben, softly. He did not turn his face to direct this at her.

Her widened eyes and nostrils would have been an adequate answer, if he had been interested.

As they wound their way down the spiral staircase, he held her protectively, and whispered sweet words of encouragement.

He even looked into her eyes as the cover of the trancebed slammed shut.

Ben monitored the progress of the various forms of control as Wife lay still in her cocoon.

Using a range from subliminal to transcranial techniques, it was supposed to rewrite her attitudes and behaviours.

He logged exposure hours on the software, which duly warned him that the predicted risk of dysexecutive syndrome was increasing in an exponential pattern. He dismissed the warning without reading it. Whatever the outcome, he wanted a Wife who would fit with his desires.

Before turning out the light and going back upstairs to prepare himself, he leaned close to the viewing window so that he could see her.

“You’ll want what I want, soon enough,” he reminded her.

At last he felt the master of his domain again.

In the whirring environment of his control room, he could see the threads of his long, slow plans finally coming together. Before long, he would have weaved his first web, and have his first juicy fly in it.

No, it didn’t go as smoothly as he had wanted. He was romantic, and had wanted the first time to be special. Still, having to guide Wife to deliver what he wanted was better than getting another example of thoughtless male on female fucking. Honestly, he thought, the internet is full of that kind of thing, and the profit was pitiful.

Ben ruminated on how what he wanted was far more refined. It was a... bespoke service.

Still worried that something might go wrong, he held his hand a list of triggers and behaviours that he was expecting in a particular order, pertaining to both Wife and Sex Toy, which he had abbreviated to ST.

First, ST would knock on the door. In response, Wife would open it, dressed simply in jeans and a simple vest top. In an erotic touch, her attractive figure showed ample cleavage, especially if she leaned forward.

Second, at this critical period Wife would keep ST calm. ST would need to be in a physiologically unaroused state in order for the cap to bring her into a state of sexual excitement and submission.

Third, the Wife would slip the cap onto the reclining ST.

This was the part that Ben found most exciting. He predicted that it would only take an hour for the cap to put ST into a temporary dissociative state which would leave ST open to Wife’s suggestions. The software could not calculate the specific chance of either minor or major reactions to the technology, but assuming an ‘average’ brain structure—based entirely on a theoretical model that aggregated known data—the risks were very small indeed.

Part of the test of his method was that he would be able to turn a self-identified lesbian into his sex toy. He anticipated no problem with this. As he had demonstrated in multiple programs involving the most hardened criminals, “all learned behaviour could be modified at a neural level”. And he mouthed this salient section from one of his most referenced papers with glee.

Ben had been correct. After a little over an hour, Wife removed the cap and ST remained reclined on the couch in a pose of absolute relaxation. Wife asked the woman to follow her, and her sleep-walking body was dragged in the wake of Wife’s sexily swaying hips.

Wife chose this moment to start the sexual induction, and as she reached the stairs stopped for a moment. Turning her head and shoulders to the left, she asked: “What do you think of my sexy ass?". Then she started to ascend the stairs.

ST followed it with her eyes before she started with her legs.

At the top of the stairs, Wife let ST reach the top and walk forward into the hallway. Facing her, she asked: “So?”

ST responded, in a low and sleepy voice, “Your sexy ass is... sexy.”

This was not enough for Wife, who closed the gap and took ST’s hands. “What do you want to do with it?” she whispered huskily.

ST considered this for a few moments. “I want to worship your ass.” She broke out into a hazy smile.

Wife giggled as she led her into the bedroom, walking backwards. “Do you like my cleavage?” she asked, angling her head and eyes down to snatch a peek herself.

ST was even more immediately enthusiastic, “Yes.”

Wife giggled again: “Maybe I’ll let you worship these too.”

Now they were at the bed. Ben watched the events unfold from multiple angles, trying not to be distracted by his thickening erection.

Wife sat on the bed, and softly pulled ST to her. She started nuzzling at ST’s exposed neck.

ST moaned. Her arms stayed at her sides, and her head turned away to give Wife’s mouth as much access as possible.

Wife stopped when a question occurred to her. “Are you thoroughly, totally wet yet?”

ST shook her head slowly.

Wife looked into her eyes with diagnostic intent. “Would it make you wet if you ate me out?”

ST nodded hesitantly, but clearly wanted something else more. She opened her mouth, but blinked slowly and closed it again, and her head started to droop towards Wife’s crotch.

Trying to encourage her, Wife lifted ST’s head again with the side of her hand, and asked “What do you want to do?”

A smile breaking out on her face, like sunlight breaking through an overcast sky: “I want you to finger me.”

Wife recoiled.

ST waited, clearly confused.

“I’m sorry,” said Wife. “It’s not... the time for that.”

ST accepted this, as she had accepted so much already. Instead she watched as Wife stood and slowly, seductively lowered her jeans. “But,” Wife teased, “you can still enjoy me.”

Ben was finding it harder to ignore his desires as the Sex Toy stimulated wife with her mouth and her tongue. He watched the monitors intently, waiting for the moment when Wife would ask ST to prepare for his arrival. “I think you need your pussy stuffed,” was the rather hackneyed phrase that he had asked her to use to signal the ST’s readiness, trying to imagine what kinds of language potential clients would want their Wives to use.

However, seconds passed and minutes accumulated, and even after Wife’s body trembled with orgasm she still did not move on to the next phase.

Wife’s eyes were sharper and more probing as they stared at the recording of her actions.

“Keep watching,” ordered Ben.

She could not turn to face him, even if she had the desire to see his face. She was manacled to the chair, her head was held still by the apparatus, and she had been made aware that there was no chance of being heard by anyone outside of the room if she screamed.

Wife was only starting to dimly understand the possibility of wanting to scream, but the possibility was starting to loom and larger and larger in her head.

“I said, watch,” ordered Ben.

Wife did not know why she was having to review the string of sweaty orgasms that the mouth of the Sex Toy had brought her to. She was responding to the memory and to the evidence, though, her pussy itching slightly with the tongue’s aftertaste.

Time passed.

Neurons reactivated and brain patterns switched, and Ellen realised the reason.

In a subtly different voice, “I didn’t. Follow your. Commands?”

Ben’s smile was audible. “Very good... Ellen.” He said the name as if trying a new food that he was unsure of.

“Why?” was all she could get out for now.

Ben did not want to waste time, but her repeating these exhausting questions would take longer than his answers. “Your brain needs regular rest periods in order to reduce the chance of,” and he paused again, this time for different reasons, “complications. You will swim back to the surface occasionally, like a turtle gasping for air.”

Ellen was aware, on some level, that he had been affecting her fundamentally. She did not react with disbelief.

Emotions reconnected and Ellen did, however, start to feel scared.

Ben had finished his limited explanation. “Ah, this is the part we need to see. At this point I got frustrated and burst into the room.”

The image of ST looked up blearily and obligingly replayed the slow elasticity of shock that went through her face.

“You see, Wife, you did not prepare the subject for my arrival.”

Ellen took her time. When she did answer, it was the shortest sentence that she was capable of using to express herself fully: “Fuck you.”

Ben allowed himself to smile wryly. “All I need from you is the reason.”

Ellen tried to nod at the screen, but she was withheld from doing so. Instead, she whispered, hoarsely, “there you go”.

Ben leaned closer to hear.

“There you go!".

Ben looked at the screen. The Sex Toy was backing away from the bed, limbs uncoordinated and eyes full of confusion.

He started to speak again.

Before he could, she prompted him to “Turn up. The volume”.

He did not catch it the first time. Replaying and he listened twice, three times. He started to make out ST’s mumbling.

So did Ellen. “She’s a lesbian. Dumbass.”

Ben put his head between Ellen and the monitor, and held the bridge of his nose in between two fingers. “What are you...?”

Recovering strength, Ellen rattled in her restraints. “She’s a lesbian.”

“That’s really of no concern,” started Ben, standing up. “I mean...”

“She’s still who she is!” demanded Ellen,

Ben tried to take this news in a jovial manner. “Well, that might discount lesbians from joining in our games, but that’s a problem we can work out later. What about you?” He looked at her with a saucy little smile, as if she were just a recalcitrant teenager who would respond to more vigorous discipline.

“What about me?” asked Ellen, with both volume and attitude in her voice.

“Well,” set out Ben, logically, “you’re not being asked to do anything that goes against your,” and at this point he had to search for the word, ”nature.”

He regarded Ellen with quizzical amusement, expecting her to react. Getting no response, he was forced to continue.

“You like sex, dear. You like to screw around. Your relationship history is littered with your acceptance of your partner’s indiscretions, and if you retaliated it was only to have your own. That’s why I picked you.” As he said this, he moved back around the chair.

With a startling vehemence, Ellen spat ”I like to fuck around. I like to screw. I don’t expect to have to recruit women for my partner, like some kind of fucking matchmaker.”

Hands caressing her scalp lightly, as if able to probe the rich mysteries of the grey matter beneath, Ben whispered “I can make you like it. I just have to take even more of you away.”

Ellen swallowed her fear and tried to keep the aggression pumping through her veins. “You haven’t done that already because you want someone independent. Someone who can surprise you by offering little tidbits of sexual control.” She remembered news reports of smiling, drooling, happy idiots. " Not a vegetable who needs to be led around on a leash everywhere. Not an ex-con who you bullied and tortured out of being a real person.”

He closed his eyes at her brutal assessment of his efforts in neurorehabilitation, and let his hands lay more heavily on her head.

She focused on breathing in order to master the terror inside of her. Eventually, Ben’s hands removed themselves from her, and she did not know whether that was reassuring or not.

Something in the machinery of the chair clicked, and the restraints snapped back into their hiding places.

“Go,” commanded Ben, without force.

Ellen tried to blanket her fear with a protection of bravery. Taking a few steps, she tested her control of her body. When she felt as if her mental hand had slipped into its physical glove, she turned back to his detestably smug face.

“I’m going to tell everyone. I’m going to ruin you.” Even as she said it, she knew that it would be impossible. There was some kind of blockage that made the idea twist away from her.

Ben offered a sick smile and tensed his fingers as he watched her run away, feet banging madly on the stairs as she escaped. In his mind, he was already holding the axe, smashing his machinery, pulling out each blind camera, burning the plans, and erasing all the recordings.

He would not stand for failure.