The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You’ll never get away with this, you sick freak!” The woman’s voice was shrill, anger tinged with a hint of panic.

The object of her rage and fear smiled. “Oh, but I shall, my dear,” he assured her. “What’s more, when I’m done, you’ll be eager to cooperate. If I should decide to ask you to help me bring in other women, as you yourself have been brought to me, you will agree gladly.”

“That’s—that’s impossible,” the woman sputtered. “It’s . . . crazy.”

The other’s smile broadened. “’Crazy’ is such an imprecise term,” he lectured. “Insanity is what we define it to be. Here in my clinic, we define it on my terms. And we treat it on my terms.”

“Your clinic?” The woman sitting in the leather-upholstered chair gaped at the man sitting at the desk in front of her. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ah, forgive me,” came the answer. “I forgot that we haven’t been properly introduced.” He stood and bowed, an oddly formal gesture. “I am Dr. Sergei Alexeivich Pavlov, head psychiatrist of the Pavlov Research Clinic.” The man looked at the woman and continued, “And you are Ms. Paula Sennett, graduate student at New York University, working toward a degree in anthropology.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Paula gasped. The so-called shrink’s knowledge of her name and background was terrifying. She had to get out of here! She leaped to her feet to flee. . . .

Or tried to, anyway. Her body refused to respond. Her muscles stayed loose, relaxed, as if she were floating in a warm bath. Floating. . . . Her mind wandered.

Dr. Pavlov watched, smiling. “Tell me, Ms. Sennett,” he asked after a few seconds, “what’s the last thing you remember before finding yourself in that chair?”

Pavlov’s words focused Paula’s drifting thoughts. “I was in a bar,” she said. “One of those little places in the Village, I don’t remember the name. Some woman came up to me and started talking to me. I spoke to her for a few minutes, then she went away and I finished my drink. And then—and then—” She blinked. “And then I was sitting in this chair.” Realization struck her. “She was working for you, wasn’t she? She put something in my drink while I was distracted, talking to her, and then brought me here.”

“Bravo, Ms. Sennett.” Pavlov applauded. “Almost entirely correct. The only detail you got wrong is that there were two women involved, one to keep you occupied while the other administered the drug, after which the two of them ‘helped’ their ‘drunk friend’ out to their waiting car.” He gestured at her, then went on: “They brought you back here to me. I examined your belongings, then questioned you while you were still under the drug’s influence. It works rather like sodium pentothal in that regard; you were most informative.”

Dr. Pavlov picked a small bell up off his desk. Pushing an intercom button on the elaborate phone on the desktop, he rang the bell and said, “April, Charma, come in here, please.”

The door opened and two gorgeous blondes in identical all-white outfits—nurses’ caps, low-cut tops, micro-miniskirts, gartered sheer hose, and spike-heeled pumps—came in. They looked, Paula thought, like something out of a Vargas illustration like the ones her ex-boyfriend used to collect. They said, in unison, “Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov?”

“These are the girls who brought you in,” Pavlov explained, waving a negligent hand at them. “Girls, ten-HUT!”

The blondes stiffened into a parade-ground stance, compete with military salutes.

“Very good, girls,” Pavlov said. “AT ease.” They relaxed, their arms falling to their sides, and stood still. Plainly, they were waiting for their next command.

“I recognize the one on the left,” Paula said. “What the hell have you done to them? It’s like they’re hypnotized or something.”

The doctor nodded. “Hypnosis is a part of it, certainly. They have been programmed to respond automatically to certain stimuli. They’ll do anything I command, believe anything I tell them to believe, and enjoy every moment of it.”

Something about the doctor’s use of the words “stimulus” and “response” keyed a memory for Paula from an introductory psychology class she’d taken. “You’re not related to Dr. Ivan Pavlov, are you? Pavlov’s-dogs Pavlov?”

“I am.” Dr. Pavlov bowed again. “My great-grandfather.” He gestured at a series of wall portraits, one of which was of the famous Russian doctor. “My particular branch of the family came to America in the fifties as refugees from the last days of Stalin. My father founded this clinic. Of course, I have extended the range of its work somewhat since assuming control.”

“Jesus,” Paula Sennett breathed. “A mad scientist. A real, live mad scientist.”

The doctor heard her, and frowned. “Now, now,” he scolded, “haven’t you been paying attention? Here at the Pavlov Research Clinic, madness is a matter of definition. And I do the defining.” He rose to his feet and walked around the desk to stand by her.

Paula was barely able to roll her head to the side to keep the doctor in view. His tall, trim build emphasized by the neat pinstriped gray suit he wore, he loomed over her as she rested powerlessly in her chair. He had dark hair, thinning a bit and graying at the temples, and wore round glasses; a mustache and two-pointed goatee adorned his lips and chin, accentuating his old-fashioned, European-professor look. If she’d seen him under other circumstances, she would have thought he was perfectly harmless. As it was, she half expected him to burst into maniacal laughter and announce that he was about to transplant her brain into his greatest creation.

Desperately, Paula strained to get up. She had to get away!

Whatever drug they’d used on her had worn off a bit. She was able to move again, if shakily. Paula was halfway out of her chair when she felt a stinging sensation in her right arm.

She sat back down, her muscles turning to mush.

“Ah-ah-ah,” chided Dr. Pavlov. “None of that, now.” He set a small, empty hypodermic on his desk.

“D-duh-drugged me . . . again,” she gasped.

“That’s right,” responded Dr. Pavlov. “This isn’t just a sedative, though, like the injection Charma gave you. It’s something a lot more persuasive.” He brushed her hair lightly with one hand. “Don’t fight it. In a few moments, you won’t remember why you ever wanted to resist, anyway. And in a few moments more, you won’t remember what the word ‘resist’ means, and won’t care.”

“N-no,” Paula protested weakly. “Mustn’t . . . oooooooohhh . . . !” As the new injection kicked in fully, the world dissolved for her into bright colors and pleasure. “F-feel so GOO-OOD,” she whispered, before thought deserted her completely.

When it returned, she was lying on a comfortably padded surface. Straps across her abdomen and legs held her. Her head and neck were confined in some sort of helmet.

She tried to struggle, but managed only feeble, half-hearted motions. Her muscles were still too relaxed from whatever drug the doctor had used. Remembering the pleasure she’d felt after the injection, Paula shivered. She wanted more; God help her, she wanted more!

“Awake again, I see,” Dr. Pavlov’s voice echoed from somewhere overhead. “Good. Then we can begin the next phase.”

“What are you talking about, you—!” Paula’s words were cut off as an incredible wave of ecstasy surged through her. Her body spasmed joyously, muscles flexing far more energetically under this stimulus than she had been able to make them do voluntarily. Her vision dissolved in bright sparkles. As if from very far away, she heard the ringing of a small bell.

Perhaps a minute later, reality returned. Exhausted, Paula lay limp beneath her restraints. Finally, she managed to wheeze, “What . . . was that? What’d you do . . . to me?”

The doctor’s echoing voice answered, “The headgear attached to you is able to send powerful impulses directly to the pleasure centers of your brain. What you have experienced is the result. Did you enjoy it, my dear? Of course you did.”

Another jolt followed. When Paula regained her awareness of the world around her this time, she gasped, “Why . . . are you doing . . . this . . . to me?”

The doctor’s disembodied voice answered, “I’m conditioning you, of course. Now repeat after me: Obedience is pleasure.”

“Go to hell,” Paula managed.

The doctor’s voice sighed. “That’s not a helpful attitude, my dear. Obedience is pleasure.” JOLT. Paula’s body writhed, her eyes rolling up into their sockets. The bell sounded again.

“Repeat: Obedience is pleasure.” JOLT. Ring.

“Obedience is pleasure.” JOLT. Ring.

“Obedience is pleasure.” JOLT. Ring. . . .

Finally, Paula passed out.

When she woke up, she was in a comfortable bed, dressed in a skimpy hospital gown. Sighing, she sat up, then got to her feet. Then her situation registered.

She was a prisoner! A captive of a mad scientist type who was using her as a guinea pig for his screwball experiments with (PLEASURE, a voice whispered in the back of her mind) drugs and (PLEASURE) electroshock.

She had to get away!

Desperate, she ran to the door of the windowless room she was in. Of course, it was locked. After a few minutes’ fruitless effort at forcing it open, a frustrated Paula gave up, There were a plush chair and a wooden table near the bed. She sat in the chair and waited.

Presently, the door rattled, then opened. Two women came in—not the zombie blondes she’d seen before, but a redhead and a brunette. The brunette was carrying a tray that held what looked like breakfast. Paula’s stomach rumbled. She had no idea how long she’d been out, but it felt like hours.

As the dark-haired girl set the tray down on the table, Paula lunged to her feet and ran for the door. She didn’t make it; the redhead grabbed her with startling strength and held her while the brunette pulled out a hypo and plunged it into Paula’s arm.

Struggling wasn’t an option after that. She didn’t pass out, but a giggling Paula allowed herself to be sat back in the chair again and watched witlessly as the two orderlies left. Presently, the shot wore off.

Sighing, Paula ate the now lukewarm food on the table. That shot had felt like a smaller dose of the stuff Pavlov had given her in his office. Whatever it was, it felt wonderful while it lasted. Again, she wanted more.

Paula shuddered. That was the idea, she was sure: to get her addicted. Once she was really hooked, she’d do anything for more of the (PLEASURE) drug.

Suddenly, Dr. Pavlov’s voice addressed her from a concealed speaker. “Feeling well, I trust, my dear?”

“Screw you, you bastard!” Paula screamed.

Pavlov chuckled. “Oh, you will—you will. But not just yet.” He paused, then went on, “Let’s see how our treatment is coming along, shall we? Tell me, Paula: what is obedience?”

“Obedience is pleasure,” Paula responded automatically. A wave of ecstasy roared through her as she said the words, leaving her cross-eyed and breathless.

“What the hell have you done to me?” she demanded when she could speak coherently again.

“I thought I’d explained that already,” came the doctor’s answer. “I’m conditioning you. My famous ancestor worked with dogs; I’ve taken his work quite a bit further.”

“No,” Paula protested. “You can’t! I won’t let you!”

Pavlov continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Let’s see how you do with the bell, my dear.” A high tinkling sound came over the speaker.

“Gggnnhhhhheeeee—!” Gritting her teeth, Paula arched in her chair as a new burst of pleasure rocked her. The simple bell sound echoed in her head, pushing aside her thoughts until, at last, it faded.

“Very good, Paula,” Pavlov’s voice said. “As you can see, your body responds to the bell, as your mind is absorbing my verbal suggestions. Soon you will not merely say that obedience is pleasure; you will accept it as absolute truth. Soon you will do only as I say, think only the thoughts I allow you, because doing so brings pleasure, and you need the pleasure.”

“Need . . . the pleasure,” Paula heard herself say. Her head was hanging, her eyes half shut; a thin trail of drool ran from one corner of her slackly smiling mouth.

Her head cleared gradually. As it did, her fear returned. It was worse than she’d thought; this Pavlov nutjob had already gotten his hooks into her. The way things were going, if she didn’t escape soon, he’d own her, body and soul. But how could she get out? One shot of that joy juice the doctor and his orderlies carried and she’d be lost in la-la land again—and each time, the craving for the (PLEASURE) drug got a stronger grip on her.

She was still trying to figure out a getaway plan when the orderlies who’d drugged her before came back.

“Come with us,” the redhead said. “Doc-tor Pav-lov says it is time for your next treat-ment.”

Paula started to struggle, and the dark-haired orderly said, “Do not re-sist. If you fight, we will be forced to in-ject you a-gain.” Like her companion and the two blonde bimbos who had shanghaied her in the first place, dark-hair spoke in an odd mechanical voice. It was creepy. Paula looked into the other woman’s eyes; no mind looked back at her.

She gave up and allowed herself to be led along. A few minutes later, they arrived at the room where she’d awakened earlier, where the (PLEASURE—she shivered at the memory) electro-stimulation had been used on her. The apparatus was set up, waiting.

“Please,” she begged. She was sure Dr. Pavlov was observing her. “Don’t do this! I’ll, I’ll do anything you want, give you anything! Money—I can get money—!”

“Yes,” came the doctor’s voice, amused. “You will do anything I want. Eagerly. On my terms.”

“Please!” It was almost a scream. “Don’t turn me into a walking wind-up toy like these women!” She mimicked, “’Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov I hear and o-bey.’”

Pavlov chuckled. “I admit some of my girls seem a bit mechanical. I assure you, though, they’re perfectly capable of speaking normally when I wish them to do so. That robot voice is just a little . . . private joke, shall we say.” He addressed the orderlies: “Secure her on the treatment bed.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov,” the uniformed girls chorused. With casual efficiency, they hoisted Paula up onto the upholstered platform, strapped her in and put the headpiece on her, carefully attaching the electrodes on its inner surface to her scalp. Paula hadn’t seen this before; the last time, she’d been unconscious. Going through it while awake was no improvement.

“We’ll be making some additional progress today, I think,” Pavlov observed from his invisible vantage point. “The initial suggestion and reflex imprinting were so successful, I see no reason we can’t go on to first-stage cognitive realignment.” Paula had no idea what he meant by that, but it didn’t sound good.

A moment later, however, she forgot her worries as pleasure burned through her. It was different this time—not a series of jolts of mind-shattering ecstasy, but a steady throb of lower-intensity reward. Every minute or so, a bell would sound and the feeling would briefly strengthen, jarring her, keeping her from closing her eyes and sinking into the feeling altogether.

After a short time, a panel above her slid back to reveal a spiral disk studded with lights, smaller ones near the center, larger toward the rim. The disk began to spin, drawing her attention. Against her will, her eyes fastened on it.

“No,” she cried weakly. “You’re trying to hyp. Trying to hyp. Hyp . . .” The word wouldn’t come, the thought wouldn’t complete itself, interrupted by the whirling disk and the pulsing pleasure and the bell. She was rising, rising into the spiral, falling upward into the beautiful swirling vortex. Was she supposed to resist? She couldn’t remember, and didn’t care.

A voice came. A man’s voice. “You’re doing very well, my dear. Just keep looking up into the pretty spiral, and enjoy the feeling, and relax, and let me guide you. You need me to guide you. Without me you’re lost. Isn’t that right?”

“Pretty spiral,” Paula cooed, eyes wide and blank. “Need you to . . . guide me. ‘Thout you I’m . . . lost.”

“Paula, how much education have you had?”

“I’m, I’m a first year grad-u-ate student,” Paula stammered, disoriented. “Anthro . . . pology.”

“No, Paula,” came the voice.

“No?” Confusion.

“Paula, I’m going to count backward from seventeen. As I do, you will forget a year’s worth of this education you think you have. It’s not real, Paula, and it only keeps you from being really happy.” The voice was calm, confident. Paula knew she could trust it.

“Seventeen. This is where we start; you believe you are a graduate student. Sixteen; that’s gone. How much education do you have, Paula?”

“I’m a college graduate,” Paula answered. “I have a bachelor’s degree . . . in anthropology.” She didn’t notice she no longer claimed to be a grad student.

“Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.” Dr. Pavlov led Paula, punctuating each word with a burst of intensified pleasure and a ring of the bell. “How much education do you have, Paula?”

“I’m . . . I have a . . . high school diploma,” Paula responded breathlessly.

“Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight.” The doctor’s voice led Paula on, stripping away more and more of her knowledge as she stared vacantly into the swirling spiral disk. “How much education do you have, Paula?”

“Uh . . . I finished the eighth grade,” she answered hesitantly, still staring into the whirling disk. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Very good, Paula,” Pavlov said. Then he carefully questioned her, satisfying himself that her educational regression had indeed gone as it was supposed to. By all indications, it had; Ms. Sennett’s higher education had been erased—or at least sequestered behind a powerful hypnotic block. And without it, she was even more easily controllable.

And, he had to admit, more enjoyable. He liked the women with whom he took his private pleasure both eager and stupid. Bimbos. It was, he knew, a weakness his own therapist might have found it productive to explore, if he’d had one—but of course, he didn’t.

The disk slowed, then stopped. The doctor commanded the miniskirted orderlies, who had been gazing up at it along with Paula, “Release her from the restraints, please.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov.” As coolly and efficiently as they’d strapped Paula into Pavlov’s brainwashing device, they released her. The headset came off with a slight sucking sound and was placed on a cart. Then the girls stood waiting for their next order.

Paula lay on the platform, staring upward, smiling vacantly. In her mind, the disk was still spinning, and she was still rising up, up into its limitless center. With the pleasure, the bell, and the voice gone, there was nothing else.

Dr. Sergei Pavlov entered the room and addressed his waiting employees. “Flavia, Tara, you may leave now. I will summon you when I need you again.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov.” With mechanical precision, the two beautiful, mindless girls turned and left the treatment room. They would return to their ordinary duties, moving through their days in the pleasant daze he’d placed them in.

Then Dr. Pavlov turned to his latest patient. “Paula, can you hear me?”

Paula answered, “Yes, Doctor.”

“Very good, Paula.” He gazed at her, then took off his jacket and removed his tie. “Paula, stand up, please.”

Paula rolled off the platform and stood, arms at her side. As soon as she was on her feet, she turned her eyes upward toward the now unmoving disk overhead.

Dr. Pavlov commanded, “Look at me, Paula.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Her eyes swung to meet his.

“Remember the pleasure you have experienced, Paula.” As he spoke, the doctor kicked off the hospital-style loafers he’d been wearing.

Paula gasped and moaned.

“You can experience even greater pleasure, Paula.” Her eyes widened. “Listen to me and I will tell you how.”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Please. Please. Tell me how.”

Dr. Pavlov removed his shirt. “You are a beautiful young woman.” It was true. Paula Sennett was tall and leggy, with curly blonde hair that framed her face exquisitely. Her bust wasn’t huge, but it was impressive; the thin material of the hospital nightshirt she wore concealed little of it. Big blue eyes with a blankly innocent expression, the product of his conditioning, completed the picture. “A healthy young woman.” He began to unzip his pants.

“Sex,” the doctor continued. “You want sex. Now. If you have sex, the pleasure will return, stronger than ever. And you want that more than anything, don’t you, my dear?” He let his trousers fall and stepped out of them.

“More than . . . anything,” Paula moaned, overwhelmed with lust. “God. Yes. Please.” She fumbled at the hospital gown she was wearing, then pulled it off over her head in frantic haste.

“Very nice!” The doctor’s eyes roved eagerly over Paula’s now nude form.

“Please, Doctor,” Paula begged. “Please.”

The doctor removed the last of his own clothes, and seized his patient. Her arms came up, tightening around him; her right leg arched and champed against his thigh. They sank to the floor together.

More than an hour later, a sweat-soaked Dr. Pavlov gently detached himself from Paula. Stroking her hair, he said to the drowsy girl, “That will be all for now, I think, my dear.”

“Mmmm,” came the response. Paula’s eyes fluttered closed.

When they opened again, she was back in her room, dressed once more in her hospital shift. As awareness returned, so did memory.

“No,” she murmured. Yes, her memories assured her. She had been (PLEASURE) doped and (PLEASURE) shocked again, and then a dazzling spiral had filled her eyes, filled her mind, and a voice had explained how her memories of having a high-school and college education were just fantasies. She tried to remember something she’d learned after eighth grade, but nothing came to mind. She had a vague feeling that she ought to be upset, but she was too relaxed. Too tired.

And no wonder. She remembered grinding desperately against Dr. Pavlov, forcing him into her and bucking wildly. She’d never been so horny in her life! The doctor had told her that sex would bring even greater pleasure than she’d felt before, and that had been enough to make her forget about everything else. Again, she felt as if she ought to be concerned somehow, but she wasn’t. She dismissed the thought from her mind and basked in the memory of pleasure.

The next morning, she woke to find that someone had opened a wall panel she hadn’t noticed, revealing a closet. The closet contained a set of starched white miniskirted uniforms complete with high-heeled pumps, the shoes arranged neatly in pairs beneath the outfits, gartered white sheer stockings draped over the hangers. An assortment of street clothes was there as well.

As she sat up, Dr. Pavlov’s voice addressed her from a hidden speaker. “Good morning, my dear. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, Doctor Pavlov.” The response was automatic.

“Very good, my dear.” A pause. “Please dress in one of the white uniforms. April and Charma will be coming soon with your breakfast, and after that, they will take you to the treatment room. You must go with them, my dear. They are your friends, and wish only to see you fully recovered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor Pavlov.” Again, the answer came as if by reflex. “Dress in one of the uniforms. April and Charma will be coming with my breakfast. After I eat it I must go with them to the treatment room. They are my friends and wish only to see me fully recovered.” As she spoke, Paula moved toward the closet. Only several minutes later did it occur to her to think, fully recovered from what?

Before she could pursue that, the door opened and the two blonde nurses came in. Charma was carrying a tray from which appetizing smells wafted. She set it down on the small table next to Paula’s bed, and waited with her partner while Paula dressed and ate. Then the two of them took hold of Paula and began steering her out of the room.

For a moment, Paula considered resisting. If she acted as if she were trying to run for it again, they’d shoot her up with that (PLEASURE) happy-juice they carried. She wanted that, desperately. She no longer wanted to really escape, not if it meant she wouldn’t have the pleasure anymore. She knew that once, she’d have been horrified at such thinking—but that didn’t matter now. The pleasure was much more important.

But she didn’t need the drug, she realized.

“Obedience is pleasure,” she whispered, and shivered in ecstasy as she was led along to treatment.

TWO MONTHS LATER:

The blonde with the Farrah Fawcett hair jerked a thumb toward the beautiful black girl leaving the restaurant. “That’s the one, right?”

Her partner, a short brunette with a startling bust, nodded, her pageboy-cut hair bouncing. “She’s perfect. The Doctor’s looking for someone just like her.”

“I don’t know,” the blonde said. “It’s getting kinda crowded at the clinic. D’we really need another broad rooming with us?”

“That’s not for us to decide,” the brunette said. “Besides, you know the Doctor doesn’t keep everybody. Now hurry up—if she gets to her car, she’ll get away.”

The two of them lengthened their strides, catching up with their dark-skinned quarry. The brunette caught the girl’s attention, bringing out a cigarette and asking, “Got a light, honey?”

“Sorry,” came the answer. “I don’t smoke. I don’t—OH!” She let out a startled cry as she suddenly felt a singing sensation in her right arm. She looked down to see the blonde withdrawing a hypodermic needle from her flesh.

“Wh-what’re you do . . . ooohhhh . . . !” Her mind dissolved into a soft blur as the drug took effect. She swayed, and would have fallen if the other women had not propped her up.

A male passerby called out, “Is something wrong?”

The black girl tried to answer, but could manage only a mumble. The short brunette said reassuringly, “No, our friend here’s just a little high. We’re taking her home to sleep it off.”

The man nodded and moved off. The blonde and the brunette half-led, half-carried their stupefied captive to their waiting car and loaded her carefully into the back seat. As soon as the black girl settled into the seat cushions, her eyes fluttered closed. “Jus’ a li’l high,” she sang softly, and then she fell blissfully asleep. Her captors got into the car and drove off.

The blonde, in the front passenger seat, pulled out a cell phone and speed-dialed a number. When a voice answered, she spoke: “The package is secure, Doctor. The soporific worked perfectly.”

“Of course,” came the answer. “Well done, Paula. Bring her to me, and once I’m done with her preliminary processing, we’ll have a little celebration.” A bell tinkled.

Paula spasmed helplessly, almost dropping the phone, as pleasure shot through her. “Oh, yes, Doctor,” she squealed in delight. “YES!”

Dr. Pavlov hung up the phone. Paula’s therapy was complete. This hunting expedition had been the final test. Just as he’d promised her in the beginning, she had eagerly worked to bring in another woman for programming. Like the others, she had been cured—cured of the independent thought he found so unhealthy in a woman.

The clinic was getting a bit crowded, though. Perhaps it was time to see about another auction. Turning to the computer on his desk, Dr. Pavlov began scrolling through the records of the Clinic’s women, looking for candidates for sale. Let’s see now, he thought: who am I getting bored with . . .?