The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On Tuesday, Thrall J fell in love.

It was walking down Balboa Street, a short cross-street starting at the park and ending a few blocks away on Tenth Avenue. The air was warm and soft, and the young trees lining the street in their waist-high cages were opening their new leaves in earnest.

The thrall was returning to its work, in the Diefenbaker Building, after taking its lunch in the park. It worked as an accountant, in a small wholly Owned firm. The building was owned, the company was owned, and all twelve employees were owned. By Her. The Owner.

Thrall J had purchased a salad from the Korean deli on the corner of Balboa and Eighth, and sat in the park enjoying the weather. It had been the habit of the woman that it used to be to do so, and the thrall’s owner hadn’t seen fit to change that.

Unlike Thrall N, who had been instructed never to go outside in the daytime. The Owner had decided that She preferred Thrall N’s pale skin untinted by sunlight; Thrall N ate all its lunches at its desk.

But not Thrall J. It wasn’t thankful that its Owner allowed it lunches in the park; it would have been as happy eating them at its desk or from a doggy bowl on the floor. It was only ever thankful to obey.

It had enjoyed the sunlight and the warm spring air, to be sure. So there was a certain relaxation in its stride as it walked down Balboa, moving through the other pedestrians as unconsciously as it breathed.

And then it saw her.

She was in a cafe—one of the soup and salad sorts, not coffee and croissants—sitting outside. She was at a table for two, talking with a woman facing away from the thrall.

She was unbelievably beautiful.

Her irises were a pale blue, touched with a darker blue around the edges. Her hair was brown, dark as dark chocolate and twice as smooth. Her lips were full, the lower slightly larger than the upper, and her nose was strong and Roman. She was not a classical beauty, not a supermodel—but definitely a woman anyone would look twice at.

Thrall J realized it was in love.

It almost stumbled, and bumped its shoulder into a young man walking the other way. He made some comment, but the thrall paid him no mind.

She was so beautiful.

It realized it was staring. With a quick swallow, it resumed walking, but at a slower pace. Taking its time. Staring, without staring.

Her eyes... her eyes were like magnets, drawing the thrall’s gaze into them and holding it. It tried to look at her lips, to read the words that they caressed and released, but it couldn’t look away from her eyes.

Then her eyes flicked over to look at the thrall.

It looked away. It didn’t want to be caught staring.

She looked at it for a while, as the thrall came nearer, then went back to looking at her lunch companion. The other woman was a redhead, but she was facing away and the thrall couldn’t make out her features yet.

Of course, she couldn’t be anywhere near as beautiful as the woman facing her.

The thrall walked past them, staring out of the corner of its eyes. It mourned when it could no longer see her pale blue eyes, her elegant nose, but it mustn’t be seen. It walked to the end of the block and around the corner, where it stopped.

It took a moment to quiet its breathing.

There was no question. It had fallen in love.

And it knew why.

The Owner wanted this woman.

The thrall did not know whether it had been programmed to fall in love with this woman in particular, or whether this woman was merely a physiotype that its Owner wanted.

That was irrelevant. A thrall fell in love when it was programmed to.

The woman must be acquired.

First, it must discover who she was.

It considered summoning assistance. The office was only two blocks away—but the woman might leave while the thrall was on the way there and back. The thrall chastised itself for not discerning whether the women were starting or finishing their lunch. They had not been eating, but it had only seen her face, not her table. It could have been clean, it could have had used dishes.

It couldn’t leave yet.

There was a bus stop across the street from the cafe. The thrall purchased a newspaper from a machine, then crossed Balboa to stand at the stop.

It leaned against the wall, opened the paper, and watched the beautiful woman over the top of it.

They were finishing, as it turned out. Good thing it had not returned to the office to get help. Only a minute later, and the woman was standing, as was her redheaded friend. She was tall, perhaps five eight, the same height as the thrall. Her friend was shorter by a good six inches.

The two women parted at the cafe’s sidewalk entrance. The redhead walked towards the park. The beloved walked the other way, towards Ninth Ave.

Quickly, the thrall folded its paper, and followed.

She had a regal stride, the walk of a woman who was unintimidated by the city. Stepping onto Ninth, she hailed a cab.

The thrall quickly did the same.

Although a block further down the street, there was an empty cab close to the thrall, which whipped across two lanes to offer itself to her.

Pretty women never had trouble getting cabs.

The thrall climbed in.

“Ver’doo?” the cabby asked. He was a young man, of some eastern European ethnicity. He hadn’t shaven in days. Probably hadn’t left the cab in as long.

“I want you to follow someone,” the thrall said. It opened its purse, and slid a hundred dollar bill through the thick safety plastic.

“Okay,” the young man responded, taking the bill and stuffing it into his shirt. “’Oo?”

The thrall was watching through the rear window as its beloved slid into another cab. “That cab back there,” it replied.

The cabbie turned his head. “Dah’von?”

“Yes.”

“No plobm.”

The other cab passed by, and they pulled out into traffic.

Fifteen blocks later, the beloved’s cab pulled over and let her out.

“Slow down,” the thrall instructed. Her head rotated, fixed on the woman’s back, as the cab crawled by. The woman paid them no attention, taking a keycard from her purse and waving it in front of a building scanner.

“Drop me off around the corner,” the thrall said. The cabbie made no comment, just turned right and pulled over.

The thrall disembarked without a word and hurried back around the building.

It was an apartment building, an old one, but it had been totally refitted during the nineties when this area was being gentrified.

This must be where she lived.

The thrall stopped at the front door. There was a lobby inside, behind the decorative glass and metal door. From where it stood, it could see the directory, but not make out any of the names. Perhaps thirty apartments. There was no sign of the woman.

It walked to the corner, and hailed another cab.

“Oh, damn,” the woman said in a loud voice.

“Can I help you?” Chris asked.

She was looking at table sixteen. Two men in suits were sitting there, so far oblivious to her stare. She turned to Chris, and her smile lit up.

“I- hi, I’m Rachel Pendrick. She flashed a business card at him. “I’m a talent scout for a modeling agency, and there was this woman right there,” she said, waving a hand at the table, “that I wanted to talk to. But I was with a client, and I had to, well, I thought that she’d still be here!”

Chris blinked. “Uh... sorry,” he said. “They left about twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh... fiddlesticks.” She frowned. She scuffed a high-heel against the concrete, then looked up at Chris. “You didn’t happen to catch their names, did you?”

“I don’t, uh, no,” he replied. The woman—Rachel—was really pretty, with long sandy brown hair and golden eyes. He wondered if she was a model, too, in addition to being a talent scout.

She sighed deeply.

Chris snapped his fingers. “They paid by credit card,” he said. “I could get her name from the receipt.”

Her smile glowed on him again. “Oh, would you? That would be so nice of you.”

“Sure thing,” he said, smiling. He walked quickly back to the register, hit ‘No Sale’, and pulled the receipt from the drawer. Kathy, walking by with some breadbaskets, gave him a curious look.

Rachel was smiling at him as he came back. “Here,” he said, handing her a piece of paper, “I copied it onto a restaurant card. Her name’s Monique Vereaux.”

“Oh, you are wonderful,” Rachel said, taking the card, and kissed him full on the lips. His eyes bulged. “Thank you so much.”

And then, with a big smile, she spun on her heel and left. He just watched her go. A block away, she waved at him, and turned the corner.

Chris blinked, drew a deep breath, and exhaled. Definitely one to tell the guys tonight.

One of the suits was waving at him “Waiter,” he said with a touch of impatience, “we’re ready to order.”

Monique Vereaux.

Thrall J looked at the name on the card.

It had to be her. No redhead had ever been named ‘Vereaux.’

It nodded. She had looked French. Dark hair, blue eyes, that wonderful strong nose... yes. Monique.

The thrall wondered what letter she would be turned into.

The office was as quiet as always when it walked in.

Thrall J walked to the reception desk. The thrall behind it met her eyes.

“This thrall has fallen in love,” Thrall J stated.

The desk thrall was quiescent a moment, as it woke the memory of what that meant.

“It is likely that the woman is named Monique Vereaux,” Thrall J continued. “She lives at 2095 Stuyvesant Place.”

“The thrall has a good mental image of her?” the desk thrall asked.

“It does,” Thrall J replied.

“The thrall shall report to its group controller,” the desk thrall instructed. “This thrall shall communicate with the Community, and obtain information about Monique Vereaux for the thrall to validate.”

“This thrall understands and obeys,” it replied, and walked to the office it used.

It did not look into the other offices it passed. It knew that the other thralls were there, performing their tasks. From some of them it could hear typing; from others, only silence.

Their tasks were irrelevant to it. It was obeying.

It sat down at the desk it used, lifted the phone headset, and hit the speed dial for the Community.

The phone picked up, and the tone sounded.

The thrall felt itself responding, slipping down the oilysmooth slope into trance. Its thoughts blurred and faded, until it was barely aware even of the sound that had snared it.

The tone changed. “Thrall J, Thrallgroup two,” it heard itself say, its voice quiet and slurred by trance.

It waited. In the background, it could hear... nothing. But it was still sinking, sliding deeper and deeper. The office was gone, the desk gone. It was alone, and not thinking, waiting with endless patience to obey.

“Thrall J,” a familiar voice said. “This is your controller. Report.”

It took a moment for its slowed mind to parse the words. “This thrall fell in love,” it said. “It was returning to its workplace after lunch, and it saw a woman so beautiful that its heart... that it fell in love.”

“Understood. The thrall is aware what this means?”

“It is. The woman is to be acquired.”

“That is correct. How has the thrall proceeded?”

“It has discovered what it believes to be the woman’s name, and her place of residence.”

“What are they?”

“The woman is named Monique Vereaux, and she lives at 2095 Stuyvesant Place.”

“It has communicated this information to a desk thrall?”

“It has.”

“The control thrall shall now communicate this information to its overseer. Thrall J is to return to its previous tasks, and await instruction regarding the acquisition.”

“This thrall understands and will obey.”

“Obey,” the controller intoned.

“Obey,” Thrall J responded.

Then it was hearing only the tone, and wakening slowly to the office, and the desk.

When it was fully awake, it removed the headset.

There were papers on the desk. It was working on them. Debt, and equity, and a complicated depreciation schedule that might hide hundreds of thousands of dollars of embezzled funds.

It did not know whose, or why it was tasked to find out. It only knew that it had been instructed, and that it would obey.

It returned to work.

The phone rang three hours later.

The thrall looked up. The light on the deskset indicated that it was a call from the Community.

The thrall slid the headphones on as the phone rang a second time. Then it hit the button.

“Yes,” it said.

The tone came on. The thrall’s world contracted.

When it was all gone, leaving only the thrall and its obedience, the thrall spoke again.

“Continue,” it said.

“Thrall,” came the voice of its controller. “In the inbox is a picture of Monique Vereaux. Pick it up, and confirm that it is she that the thrall fell in love with.”

Awareness of the office bloomed, and the thrall reached for the inbox. The desk thrall must have come in with the picture earlier, but it had not been instructed to show it to Thrall J, and Thrall J had not been instructed to notice it.

It lifted the picture. The beautiful face of its beloved looked back at it.

“Yes,” it said. “The thrall confirms. This is the woman it loves.”

“Understood. The thrall is to cease its current tasks. It will be re-assigned to acquire Monique Vereaux.”

“The thrall understands and will obey.”

“The thrall will return to the Community immediately for acquisition programming.”

“The thrall understands and will obey.”

“Obey.”

“Obey.”

The thrall waited until the tone had returned it to wakefulness. Then it stood, leaving the paperwork on the desk, and left the office. It was time to go home.