The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The machine hummed.

“Are you scared?”

“A little,” she replied.

“Do you want to stop?”

She paused.

“No.”

The machine grew loud, now, brought to life. Her body tensed as her synapses were manipulated, rewritten.

“So, you think it can be done?”

Laurel looked incredulous.

Hoffman simply nodded in his wise fashion. He had been trickling information up the ladder to Laurel Stone, but only the most skeletal reports of his project. Now, he had blind-sided her with a fully operational device.

“What sort of range are we talking?”

Hoffman shrugged. “So far, one individual at a time. The clamps have to be locked to hold the head still. It still requires some degree of cooperation from the subject.”

Laurel ran a hand along the cylinder’s surface. It was all stainless steel, industrial looking and sterile in its smooth curves. It stood over eight feet high, wires and several hydraulic arms leaning over its upper rim.

“You have tape of the subject?”

“Certainly.”

“I want to see.”

From the conference room, Laurel could see the device from a new perspective. A floor up, the conference room’s broad window stared down into the proverbial belly of the beast. She could make out the thin points of the skull-piercing needles that ringed the top of the cylinder like a halo, pointing inward at their invisible subject. The cylinder was broken in half, resting this way until the program initiated.

Laurel had read Hoffman’s earlier reports, vague hints of manipulating thought processes by introducing a super-conducting medium into the brain, then using the needles as data transmitters. In short, manipulation of the very way in which the mind functioned.

Hoffman flipped a switch and the room dimmed. A projector sprang to life from the conference room table. On the screen stood a young man, a recruit from the nearby college, no doubt. Laurel lit a cigarette as the film began, watching the smoke drift in the lazy light.

“What did you do to him?”

Hoffman said nothing, merely nodded towards the screen.

“You’ve been smoking how long?” the on-screen Hoffman asked.

“Seven years,” said the student.

Laurel regarded the red tip of her own cigarette.

“What’s the longest you’ve quit?”

“Three days.” The young man laughed in a self-deprecating fashion. “Longest three days of my life.”

“Relax and step towards the chamber.”

The student looked every bit of twenty, wearing the stereotypical rock band t-shirt and jeans. He looked unsteadily at Hoffman, then stepped onto the platform. He arranged himself in the center of the cylinder.

At its core, the cylinder approximated the human form in its cavities and hollows. The young man was thin and athletic, an easy fit. As he stood within its hollow, the cylinder hissed to life, sliding together, the halves meeting, hiding the young man from view. The on-screen Hoffman stood a few feet away, typing instructions into a computer bank lined with monitors.

“Here,” Hoffman interrupted, “small clamps will hold the subject’s head perfectly still after taking some measurements. Ananesthetic is applied through the clamps. I can observe the subject’s reaction from the monitors at the bank, though they are obscured in this film. He showed no discomfort.”

Laurel squinted at the screen, exhaling blue-gray smoke, seeing through the cylinder to the relaxed, slack features of the student in the steel womb.

“How long does the process take?”

In answer, the cylinder broke open with a clang and whisper, sounding surgical even on film.

“The needles that you can see through that window are inserted at seven key points in the brain, the medium is released, and new instructions given in seconds. Granted, the instruction in this case is a very simple one and the subject consciously supports the new instruction. If the behavior introduced was opposed to established behavioral patterns...” Hoffman shrugged.

“You mean, it wouldn’t work if he didn’t want to quit smoking?”

Hoffman was silent for a long moment. “We don’t know. I suspect it would work regardless. Make a note, though, this test was made with the medium at half its potential strength. A full dose would do all but obliterate every thought but the instruction given.”

“Doctor,” the young man said on-screen, stepping from the bowels of the cylinder, “It’s incredible. Not only do I not want to smoke... the thought disgusts me!”

Hoffman stopped the film and the lights rose. Laurel stubbed her cigarette out.

“The subject has been observed for thirty-seven days, now. He has not smoked once in that time.”

“Dr.Hoffman,” Laurel smiled, “I’m impressed.”

Impressed was not the first word that leaped to mind as she recalled the day’s events. In truth, the thought of what the machine was capable of aroused Laurel more than a little. As she settled her compact, well-shaped body into the steaming water of her claw foot tub, her imagination took the reigns. Her most exotic fantasies were let loose with her immersion, and her hands explored her body.

Laurel had worked hard to climb the corporate ladder at Dove Research, harder than any woman who claimed to be her peer. Harder than the men whose stares fell on her for more than her business sense. Smart business suits could not hide her dark hair and exotic, somewhat Eastern, appearance. Work, however, disallowed her natural impulses. The hours, the devotion to succeeding left little time for baser pursuits.

Here, alone in the hot water, her body tingled. She imagined herself trapped in the cylinder she’d observed today, held fast by the machine as it entombed her, sedated her, transformed her. Into what? her body asked, the heat of the water dulled by the heat spreading between her legs.

She saw herself infected by the lust she dreamed of, ordered by the machine to obey her primitive desires, unable to refuse, wrapped in passions and surrendered to it, to be filled by a man, any man, to stop thinking and just feeling all the time...

The water lapped Laurel’s shoulders and neck as her insistent fingers brought her to climax. Rather than release, Laurel felt a more urgent need, her fiery imagination stoked by the reality of the cylinder, its nearness.

The following evening, Laurel found herself again in Hoffman’s lab. The older doctor had disappeared. When Laurel glanced at her watch, she saw it was well past six. Early for her, though Hoffman must certainly have gone home by now.

She stood before the bank of monitors and keypad. Beside the ‘Halt’ button was a button labeled ‘Delay.’ Like a camera, she thought. Time to set the camera and pose. Time to set the machine and step into it. She alternately chided herself and squirmed at the thought of it.

She typed quickly, looking up at the monitor. “Unleash your deepest fantasies,” she had entered. Simple. Liberating.

Laurel looked around the lab again. No sign of life, no one to see or interfere.

She worked quickly. In seconds, she set the delay and stepped into the space created by the broken cylinder. Her breath quickened as the gears of the machine whirred to life, the cylinder sliding shut, embracing her in its cool darkness. The anesthesia coursed through her, applied by the tiny needles hidden within the clamps. Would she feel the needles at all? Were they already penetrating her, encoding her anew?

“Ms.Stone?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Dr. Hoffman. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Has it... Is it done?”

“No, I’ve halted it.”

The machine hummed.

“Are you scared?”

“A little,” she replied.

“Do you want to stop?”

She paused.

“No.”

The machine grew loud, now, brought to life. Her body tensed as her synapses were manipulated, rewritten. It ended quickly. The cylinder opened, revealing the new Laurel Stone.

“How do you feel?” Hoffman asked.

“I’m not sure. Not very different, I don’t think.”

“Your request was very different from your current behavioral patterns, I should think. It may take hours or weeks before the changes begin. They may never come at all.”

Laurel stood still, feeling herself while motionless, attempting to detect any changes.

“Go home,” Hoffman said, handing her a card. “That’s my home number and my cell. Call me if something happens.”

Laurel nodded and pocketed the card in her suit jacket.

“Thank you,Dr. Hoffman.”

“For what?”

“For not stopping me.”

Laurel leaned towards the doctor, her hands running the length of his torso. She kissed him deeply, his mouth sprung open in surprise, quickly invaded by Laurel’s tongue. The kiss ended as abruptly as it began.

“I’ll be in touch,” Laurel called behind her, hips swaying a great deal more than when she entered the room.

‘I’m certain you will,’ Hoffman thought. He smiled coldly. This was an unexpected turn, to be sure, but not without an up side. He checked the bank of monitors again. The dosage level for the synaptic medium had been placed at the highest setting. A happy accident, indeed.

Hoffman retired to his warm office and waited for the phone to ring.