The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The ad was buried on the last page of the college newspaper. It read:

Need Cash? Volunteers sought for overnight clinical trials. Perfect for students looking to earn quick cash. Apply at Neurocon Systems, 2712 Applewood Drive.

Aurora Cochrane—Rory to her friends—dropped the newspaper on the passenger seat of her aging Ford Tempo and got out of the car, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. She had parked in front of the Neurocon Systems building, an ancient, hulking structure that had long ago been some sort of mental hospital back when such places had been known as ‘sanitariums’. The dark slate facade and massive columns lent the place a tangible sense of creepiness, as did its remote location; the nearest building was almost half a mile away.

Rory walked up the steps and pulled open the glass door, revealing a waiting room just like a thousand others in doctor’s offices across the United States; two rows of chairs set back-to-back, a small rack of outdated magazines in one corner, a receptionist typing at her computer. “Um, excuse me,” Rory said. “I saw your ad in the college newspaper.”

“Oh!” The receptionist—her white nametag read Jillian—handed her a plastic clipboard with a single sheet and ballpoint pen attached. “Just fill this out, and I’ll get Dr. Whittaker for you.”

Rory sat down and looked quickly over the sheet. Name, address, social security number... she thought. Normal so far. As she progressed down the sheet, though, she noticed the some of the questions had a decidedly sexual slant. Have you ever masturbated? Contracted an STD? Paid for sex? What the hell is this? Not that Rory considered herself a prude; her long blonde hair and voluptuous figure had garnered her a great deal of attention from the opposite sex (and, on a few occasions, the fairer sex as well), attention she had returned quite often. But the questions left her wondering what exactly Neurocon was studying.

Completing the form barely took fifteen minutes and by the time she was done, a man dressed in a suit and tie had come into the waiting room. He took the form from the receptionist and quickly looked it over. “Good afternoon, Miss Cochrane,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Whittaker, and before you say anything, I feel I should explain to you exactly what we’re doing here. Would you follow me, please?” He led the way through a set of double doors into a long white hallway. “Neurocon Systems is involved in many aspects of research and development of medical technologies, specifically those that relate to how the brain and central nervous system work. We’re working on drugs to combat Alzheimer’s disease, state-of-the-art artificial limbs that function nearly as well as the original, advanced neural mapping techniques that could allow doctors to find the exact spot of a brain or nerve injury and repair it.”

Whittaker laughed as he opened the door to his office. “Sorry; I’ve just gotten so used to giving the spiel. It’s a hard habit to break. Please, have a seat.” After they were both seated he looked at the form more closely. “I see you’re in good health, attending the University... what’s your major?”

“History... at least for now. I’m kind of rethinking my plans.” She squirmed in her seat, still a little nervous. Whittaker’s office was sparsely furnished; a desk and chair, two more chairs in front, a small bookshelf, and a diploma on the wall. “Um, can I ask what sort of work I’m applying for?”

“Of course. We’re currently testing the neural mapping technology I was talking about earlier. All that’s involved is coming in, wearing the mapping suit, and going to sleep. As you sleep, the suit analyzes your nervous system and brain and builds a comprehensive picture of the activity going on, sort of like an EEG for the entire body. But this is far more detailed, able to convey tremendous levels of data. The observation is just that; a video camera will record your room, and our computers will record and analyze the data from the mapping suit.”

“How much does it pay?”

“Fifty dollars cash at the end of each session, but if you complete the entire two week mapping period we’ll also pay you a $500 bonus. It takes that long to build a complete neural map. All we need is for you to be here for eight hours per session; you don’t even have to be asleep for the suit to work, but we’ve found that it’s easier on our clinical subjects if they don’t have to disrupt their regular schedules.” He handed her another form. “If you’re interested, just sign the form and we’ll show you around.”

$1200 for sleeping here for two weeks, she thought as her belly rumbled. “What the hell...” she mumbled and scrawled her signature.

“Okay, Miss Cochrane. Glad to have you aboard.” As they walked back into the hall he said, “Time for the grand tour.” Whittaker led the way through another set of doors and into a chamber that looked much like a white-tiled locker room. “This is the changing area. You can leave your personal items in any unoccupied locker; we can provide a lock, or you can bring your own. An attendant will have your mapping suit when you get here each night, and you can change in any of these cubicles.” He opened a keypad-locked plastic case and pulled out sparking black garment. “This is one of the mapping suits. It’s a total-body garment, except for the face, and needs complete skin contact to function properly; that means no underwear. If that’s going to make you uncomfortable, just tell me now —”

“No, it’s fine,” Rory said as she reached out to touch the fabric. It looked smooth but felt sticky as it touched her fingertips; tiny threads of metal could be seen interlaced with the fabric. “What is it made out of?”

“The sensor fibers are tiny magnets encased in a silicon substrate; basically, the fibers serve as ultra-sensitive electromagnetic sensor that records the path, frequency and intensity of your nerve impulses. The hood is somewhat thicker because of the need to map the entire brain and, of course, having to pick up neural impulses through a person’s hair; more mapping, more sensors.” He carefully folded the garment and placed it back in the box.

Whittaker walked to a door on the far end of the room and held it open. “Ladies’ first.” Rory walked through and found herself in a circular room with eight doors lining the smooth curved wall. One was the one she had entered by, another was labeled as a restroom; the rest had only black letters on the white doors, ‘A’ through ‘F’. In the center of the room was a large computer console, its many screens dark for the moment. “This is the Observation Room. Whenever a volunteer is here, one of our techs will be monitoring their vital functions—heart rate, respiration, that sort of thing, just to get a baseline for our readings every night.” He walked over and opened the door marked ‘C’ and gestured her inside. “Each observation room is the same; a bed, a chair and desk, sink and toilet along with a privacy curtain. The camera is mounted right above the door —” He pointed to a small black dome set into the wall “— and is always recording as long as you are testing, both for your safety and the company’s. By the way, the door has no lock; if you start feeling uncomfortable with the test at any point you’re free to leave, no strings attached. Just let the tech know and we’ll make sure you get paid for your time as soon as possible.”

“Looks like my dorm room without the TV.”

Whittaker laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that, but the TV signals interfere with the signals from the suit; same with cell phones, PDAs, laptop computers and the like. The mapping suit is extremely sensitive to electrical signals. We could have used a physical link to get around that, but most people have something against having a half-inch-thick cable attached to them for eight hours at a time.”

Rory sat on the bed; the mattress was firmer than she was used to, but there was no way she could turn down $1200 bucks on account of a hard bed. “When can I start?”

“Tonight, if you’d like. Just check in with Jillian when you leave; she’ll make sure you get an access badge the next time you’re here.” Whittaker checked his watch and his eyes widened a sliver. “Would you excuse me? I’m afraid there’s a conference call I’m late for. I can call someone if you need someone to show you the way out —”

“No, thanks, I can find it.” Whittaker nodded and walked away, leaving Rory alone in the sterile white room. She had never been comfortable in doctor’s offices, hospitals, anywhere even vaguely medical, not since her mother had passed away when Rory was eight. She ran her fingers across the desktop; not a speck of dust. At least they’re professional.

It didn’t take long for her to get back to the dorm and pack an overnight bag; a change of clothes, paperback novel, pad and paper, hairbrush and comb. She was about to leave when she saw a half-buried envelope on her bed, most likely left there by Joanna, her sometime roommate. She picked it up, saw the college emblem in the corner, saw the department—Financial Services—and muttered “The hell with it,” as she tore it open. “Miss Cochrane, we are sorry to inform you that your quarterly grades do not qualify you for continued financial aid... Shit.” She knew this was coming, but it still hurt like hell; this had been her last chance. Too many late nights, too many parties, and in the end her efforts had been too little, too late. Three years, down the tubes.

She threw down the letter and picked up her bag, heading toward the door. She scribbled a quick note on the markerboard—J, found a job. Back in the morning. R—then headed toward her car, parked some five blocks away. By the time she got there the sun had almost fallen behind the horizon and the parking lot was crowded with vehicles heading out for the weekend; many of the college students lived within 50 miles of campus, making the visit home easy to do on the weekends. Rory, on the other hand, was almost a thousand miles from her family... though not for long, as things were going. She started her car, gunned the engine and cut off some jock driving a Corvette as she slammed out of the parking lot, not really caring if she caused an accident at this point.

The cool air helped clear her head as she drove west, toward Neurocon. By the time she pulled into the parking lot the streetlights were just flickering to life and the lot was deserted except for a white van with the Neurocon logo painted along the sides. As she approached the front doors she saw a figure move, then push the door open and wait for her. “Miss Cochrane? I’m Susan; I’ll be monitoring you tonight.” She held out her hand and Rory shook it in return. “Dr. Whittaker said you’d be coming in tonight.”

Susan was quite tall, almost six feet, with long auburn hair that cascaded almost to her waist in a tapered braid. Her brown eyes looked over Rory quickly and efficiently, as if the woman was evaluating her. She handed Rory a plastic card and pointed to a card reader beside the main door. “Just swipe your badge and the doors will unlock.” They walked down the first hallway, past the offices, and into the locker room. Susan unlocked the plastic case and pulled out the mapping suit, carefully laying it out on a table. “The mapping suit can be kind of tricky to put on; just let me know if you need any help.”

“Uh, sure,” Rory said, her cheeks darkening at the thought of this stranger possibly seeing her naked. Susan walked away and pulled the white vinyl curtain closed, leaving Rory alone. She quickly disrobed, throwing her clothing into an unruly pile on the bench that ran in front of the lockers. The tile was cold on her feet as she picked up the suit and located the zipper.

She sat on the bench and slid her feet into the suit. The natural stickiness of the suit took a fair amount of force to overcome, but Rory soon had the suit halfway on. Even the feet were covered, and for just a moment she felt like a kid in pajamas... but her pajamas had never looked like this. Judging by the way the fabric clung to her skin and showed every curve of her legs, the mapping suit would leave nothing to the imagination. As she pulled it up to her waist, the suit made contact with her vulva and she gasped reflexively. She carefully slid her arms into the sleeves and pulled the suit over her shoulders, then tucked her long blond hair under the suit so she could pull the hood up over her head. She was careful not to gasp when she pulled the zipper closed; the tacky material almost immediately brought her nipples to attention.

When the suit was fully sealed Rory walked over to a locker and opened it, then put her clothes inside. A half-length mirror was mounted inside the door, and Rory watched herself as she pulled the hood up over her head. Jesus, I look like that Seven of Nine from Star Trek! she thought, running her gloved hands down her belly and across her hips. She stood there for a moment before picking up her bag, walking toward the curtain and pulling it back. “Any problems?” Susan asked.

“No. The suit’s just... really snug.” Rory fidgeted for a moment, already feeling the material try and ride up as she walked.

“Give it about ten minutes; the material expands or contracts for each user. When it loosens up, you’ll feel like you aren’t wearing anything at all.” Susan walked into the Observation Room and flipped a switch on the console, bringing the monitors to life.

“You’ve worn one of these?”

“Oh, yes; I volunteered for the first trials a few years ago. As it turns out, I was so fascinated by the research going on here that I got a job. I majored in human physiology, was going pre-med when the money dried up.” Susan opened up Room ‘A’ and switched on the lights. “Just try to relax, Miss Cochrane. I understand that you’re probably nervous.”

“Listen, can you just call me Rory? That whole ‘Miss Cochrane’ bit makes me more nervous than the suit.”

Susan chuckled. “No problem, Rory. If you need anything, just call; the camera has an audio pickup.”

“Okay.” Rory watched as Susan closed the door, leaving her alone in the white room for the next eight hours. She set her bag on the desk and removed the contents, lining them up from largest to smallest, eating up maybe a minute of time. “Damn,” she muttered as she picked up the book and flipped to the page she had marked.

There was no clock in the room, no sense of the passage of time but her own fatigue. She had read maybe a hundred pages when she yawned, suddenly realizing just how tired she had become. The suit had indeed loosened up; it felt almost natural now, just like Susan had claimed it would. Rory’s motions were smooth as she stood and flicked off the lightswitch before walking back to the bed, her footsteps silent on the tile floor. She stretched before pulling back the covers and sliding between the cotton sheets, her mind starting to swim in her tiredness. Not so bad, I suppose, she thought as she closed her eyes, turning onto her side.

In the Observation Room, Susan was watching the monitors with interest as Rory’s brain patterns gradually settled from the jagged peaks of her waking state to the smooth waves of sleep. After a few minutes, she pulled a cell phone from her pocket and selected the first number stored in its memory. “Yes?” answered a man’s voice.

“She’s ready.”

“What took so long?” Whittaker asked as he walked into the Observation Room, holding a large metal case. Susan was still watching the readouts intently, her eyes locked on the computer screens.

“She was very nervous. I’m surprised she went under as soon as she did.” Whittaker walked over behind her and peered over her shoulder, taking in the detailed analysis of Rory Cochrane’s neural map. What he had told the young woman about the suit had not been entirely accurate; the suits, along with the Cray Delta supercomputer humming in the basement, were already perfectly capable of fully mapping the neural pathways of the human body and brain. In fact, Rory’s own map was already two-thirds complete, enough to begin the second phase...

But there would be time enough for that later. Whittaker put his hands on Susan’s shoulders, watching one of the monitors as Rory rolled over. He pressed his hands gently down, eliciting a soft moan of approval from her. “How does that feel?”

“Wonderful...” she breathed as her skin grew warm. Some part of her mind tried to warn her, to tell her something was wrong... but, just as always, that part was small and quickly fell silent.

The hands moved lower, over her breasts, and gently squeezed. Her nipples grew hard, standing out even through her bra and blouse, and she slid her hands over Whittaker’s, relishing the sensations. He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Activate the inductors. How about...” He pinched her left nipple and she gasped, her eyes already clouding over. “Thirty percent.”

Susan fumbled for the control knob and twisted it until the red LED indicator beside it read 30%; a gauge beneath slowly started to climb. “Good, very good,” Whittaker breathed. “Stand.” She rose to her feet wordlessly, her eyes now blank, her face motionless, the person she had been a minute before now locked away somewhere inside. “Monitor the subject.”

She leaned down, crossing her arms on the console, her eyes locked on to the monitor that showed Rory tossing and turning in Room ‘A’. “Do you remember when that was you? Brilliant but unfocused? Beautiful but alone?” came Whittaker’s reassuring voice as he gently raised her skirt. He slid his fingers down her panty-clad slit, eliciting a moan of pleasure. “I gave you purpose, didn’t I?”

He moved his fingers faster, searching for the right rhythm as she began to move against him. His other hand moved back to her breasts, fondling them as her breaths came faster, filled with excitement. “What is your purpose?”

“I... serve...” Susan whimpered, her body covered with sweat, her juices flowing freely now, the bundle of nerves in her clit now the center of her universe, the man stimulating her nothing less than her Creator. “Serve... you.”

“That’s right...” he said, and the sensations built to unbearable levels. Creation exploded inside her mind, a tempest of ecstacy, jagged chains of lightning all converging on her at once. She screamed, lost in the fury, the fires within -

Then it was gone. The lightning faded, the storms passed, leaving Susan breathless as Whittaker raised a finger to her mouth. She sucked at it greedily, savoring the tang of her own juices as the fog began to fade from her mind. She looked at the gauge again and purred, “Thirty percent, doctor.”

“Outstanding. Why don’t we get dressed and join Miss Cochrane; I’m sure her dreams will be quite... stimulating.”