The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Prologue

It is September 12th, 2003.

I am 32 years old. My name is Marcus.

I am sitting at my dining room table in complete stillness as a woman stands to my right. She speaks softly into my right ear. My eyes are closed. Her name is Delilah Hanson, and she has been my lover for four months. Delilah is approximately 5′2″ tall, and around 300 pounds. She is not the type of person I would ordinarily choose to be with, but as I listen to her words in the panicked darkness, I know the truth. I am not with her of my own free will. In fact, I am not with her at all. She is with me.

She is a monster. A master of subversion of the human mind. I am merely her latest victim.

I suspect she enjoys these little games she plays with me. I live a double life because of her. In one life, I am a successful IT professional. I like Japanese anime. I’m into rough sex and kinky roleplay. I have a cat. I drive a nice car and have a lot of expensive toys in my apartment. I believe myself to be a good, honest person.

I am deluding myself.

The other life I lead is like a skipping stone across the still waters of a pond. Every time the stone skims the surface of the water, I am allowed to remember what is really happening to me. All my horrified memories come rushing back, and I know that I have welcomed something incomprehensibly evil into my life. Sometimes I know her as “The Killer”. On nights like tonight, I am allowed to know that “The Killer” is merely a mask that she wears. She calls herself “The Übermensch,” and has declared that she is the fulfillment of Friedrich Nietzsche’s prophecy of a Nihilist messiah. She has declared herself the God of a new world.

When this session is over, she will make me forget again, as she has for all of our previous sessions. I will continue on in my “normal” life, oblivious to the fact that anything is wrong.

The stone sails through the air, never knowing when it will touch the water again.

“Delilah” wields hypnosis like a weapon of mass destruction. Already, she controls countless people, and won’t rest until she controls everyone in the world. She has proven this to me and to me alone, by foretelling the future in these brief, heart-freezing sessions. I can do nothing but listen with my eyes closed as she goes on.

She tells me that soon Gray Davis will be recalled as Governor of California; he will be replaced by action movie star Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Later, a man named Gary Ridgeway will confess to being the Green River Killer as part of a plea agreement, and will admit to murdering 48 women. He will receive a sentence of life in prison without parole.

Later still, Saddam Hussein will be captured in Tikrit, Iraq. He will be convicted of crimes against his own people and hanged.

Singer Elliott Smith will commit suicide by stabbing himself in the chest. A determination will never be made as to whether or not he was murdered.

Singer and notable eccentric Michael Jackson will be indicted by a grand jury for child molestation, but will later be acquitted. In six years he will be dead of an apparent drug overdose on the eve of a worldwide comeback tour over two years in preparation.

Massachusetts will legalize same-sex marriage.

President George W. Bush will be re-elected to a second term.

My glimpse into the future ends there.

In the darkness, I feel the floor moving underneath my chair. I hear the sound of a chair being placed next to me, and the wood creaks as Delilah sits down.

I know what comes next. The Übermensch wants to reveal more of her greatness to me. I do not know why she tells me the future, but the next time she and I meet, whether I am confronted by messiah or murderer, vengeful god or gleeful devil, I will remember these events, and some of them will have already come to pass.

For now, it is story time.

I feel her breath against my skin as she begins to tell me of a man named John Forsyth.

Your name is John Forsyth. You are 29 years old.

Your name is John Forsyth, and you are a fit, attractive man who works as a litigator in downtown Chicago. You live in a million dollar townhouse on the Gold Coast with a tenant that rents a room. His name is Jim and he works as an international airline pilot for Singapore Airlines, leaving you alone most of the time.

That’s fine with you. It gives you freedom and privacy to indulge in your only drug: a constant, intoxicating parade of women you pick up in nightclubs, fuck once, and then discard like so much toilet paper.

The sex is good, and you’re a good lover, but truth be told, it’s not the fucking that’s the best part. It’s the fact that they want more of you. They want to date you; you are a “catch”, after all.

But they can’t have you. No one can.

Your greatest rush comes from telling a beautiful hopeful that you aren’t interested in a repeat performance. Watching their crestfallen, confused faces is almost enough to make you come in your pants.

Sometimes, you give them a phony telephone number instead. You enjoy the irony of giving out the number for a lesbian bar in Lakeview called “Meow Mix”. It’s enough to brighten your whole day.

Every few months, you call Meow Mix and say, “This is John Forsyth, are there any messages for me?” just so you can roar with laughter as the owner screams at you for being such an asshole.

It is February 23rd, 1997. It is 5:57PM.

You are sipping a cup of coffee in your office, glancing over an amicus brief, when your boss, a friendly, frighteningly brilliant man named Rob, knocks on your open door.

“Yeah, Rob. Come in.”

Rob is holding a microcassette recorder with a pair of headphones attached to it by a thin wire. He closes the door.

“John, you have to hear this. It’s from Michelle’s deposition today. Her client pulled the rug out from underneath her on cross; McDaniel v. Swindon is completely fucked now.”

You reach for the recorder and unplug the headphones. Rob waves you off.

“No, with the headphones. I don’t want the secretaries or paralegals hearing; this is how ugly rumors get started, and Michelle may be facing an ethics investigation. Guess who has to brief the partners in the morning?”

You shrug, and plug the headphones back in. You slip them on, and press play.

A thrumming sound fills your ears. You are confused for a moment as your jaw drops open. Your eyes glaze as the sound ramps up into the ultrasonic.

A woman’s voice begins speaking to you through the headphones. A blank expression on your face, you listen without awareness for exactly thirty minutes. The last instruction on the tape is for you to turn off the recording, which you do immediately and without thought.

“Take off the headphones and hand me back the recorder.” Rob’s voice is casual.

You comply.

“Now, bring up your Microsoft Mail.” He instructs you to send a blank email to a certain email address. Almost instantly, an email is received in reply, a serial number is included as a subject line. Rob instructs you to read the number carefully, then open and read the message.

It takes you almost fifteen minutes. When you are finished, you spend seven minutes composing a reply before deleting all evidence of the emails from your system. Rob slips out quietly, taking his microcassette recorder with him.

After a minute or so you blink, believing you’ve merely zoned out. After checking your watch, you decide that you’ve done enough for today and go home. All memory of Michelle’s disastrous deposition, indeed, even the barest whiff of Rob’s visit has been wiped from your memory.

As you sit in the back of a taxi on your way home, something inside of you is screaming and crying. You are no longer a man, you are a slave. You have become a drone in the Human Hive.

And your subconscious mind is bleeding from the violation.

It is April 29th, and you are sitting in a nightclub, Club Miranda, on Michigan Avenue. It’s a bar for lawyers, and the gold diggers that often surround them. This is a prime hunting ground for you.

A woman approaches, and offers to buy you a drink. She says her name is Georgette, but all her friends call her George. She is absolutely stunning in a red minidress and seamed stockings. In fact, she is by far the most beautiful woman that has ever presented herself to you. The conversation is free and easy, and you find yourself, against all probability, warming to this woman. To your surprise and delight, she is a corporate attorney at a firm owned by Wells Fargo, a full partner at age 33, and being both alums of the University of Michigan School of Law, the two of you have a lot in common.

Two hours and four cocktails later, you kiss her in the back of a cab as you make your way back to her place. Her apartment is elegantly appointed, and, still in the marble and glass foyer, her dress quickly slides to the floor to reveal she wears La Perla beneath her clothes. The ensemble must cost nearly a thousand dollars.

“I love Italian lingerie,” you tell her, kissing between her breasts. She unsnaps one garter, then the other, and leads you by the hand into the bedroom.

Once in bed, you can’t seem to get enough of her. There is an emotional resonance between you, it seems, as your cock slides naked in and out of her delightful pussy, adorned as it is by the narrowest of landing strips. Her expertise in lovemaking is matched only by your own, and you come together, crying out each other’s names in the darkness. There has been no discussion of diseases or pregnancy, only the need the two of you share for one another. Your bodies entwine in a beautiful world free of consequence.

One session leads to another, and to a third, then a fourth. You thrilled by this woman and her marvelous techniques. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel something for someone other than yourself, and this frightens you. Still, you are compelled to keep going, until nearly two in the morning, when you collapse in a heap and sleep until dawn.

You dress quickly in the lightening bedroom; you still have to go home, shower, and change. A deposition awaits you in three hours.

George crawls toward you in her king sized bed, the beauty of her naked form only enhanced by the brightening glow from outside. She asks for your number.

Without thinking, you hand over one of your business cards, which has your cell phone number printed on it. You want to see this woman again. You need more of what she can offer you.

Georgette doesn’t call, so, still feeling horny, you make your way that night to Essex, a club on the Gold Coast, within walking distance of your home. You order a Dos Equis and seat yourself at the bar. Within ten minutes a woman in a skirt suit sidles up to you and smiles.

“Hi, I’m Janelle—”

“Janelle Swenson, from Channel 9 WGN,” you finish, offering your hand with a grin. “I know exactly who you are, and I loved your piece on tort reform last month, even though I disagreed with it.”

“Oh? Are you an attorney?”

Six hours later, Janelle is collecting her clothing from the floor, your business card in her hand, as you offer to call her a cab. The sex, like the night before, has been phenomenal, and you feel compelled to see her again. You wonder at the possibility of juggling two women at once; the prospect is alien to you, but wonderful and scary at the same time.

Another night, another club, another drop-dead gorgeous woman. The pattern continues.

“I’m telling you, Rob, I think I’ve actually gotten better looking.”

You are bragging to your boss. It has been 30 days of wonder, 30 women of exceptional beauty, and 30 nights of unfathomable passion. You tell him that amongst your conquests over the last month, you have bedded a TV presenter, four catalog models, three runway models, three feature dancers, and a fashion designer. The sex has been the best you have ever had in your life.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” Rob says dismissively as the two of you sit in your office, the door closed. “I can’t even get my wife to put out more than once a week. Twice, if I’m very lucky. I don’t know how you have the stamina.”

“I’m not tired at all,” you reply. “In fact, I’ve never felt better in my life.”

Of course, there’s the troubling fact that despite giving out your real number on every occasion, despite feeling an affinity for each of them, not a single one of these women has called you back.

But hell, as long as the top-shelf pussy parade keeps throwing itself at your feet, you have no cause to complain.

That night, your winning streak ends, and you sleep alone.

You sleep alone the next night as well.

And the one after that. Despite going on the offensive and aggressively pursuing some of the women available to you in the clubs, no one responds. No one even nibbles.

Weeks drag by. Weeks and weeks and weeks. You begin to develop a complex over your lack of sex; six weeks is the longest you’ve ever gone without getting laid since you were fourteen years old.

Finally, in Club Sanctuary, you meet your rainmaker. She is not your normal type, but despite her 300 pound girth and simple clothing, her average appearance is mesmerizing to you. Impossibly, she is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, and you know that you have to have her.

Her name is Delilah Hanson, and she is a Director of Marketing Research for the Nielsen Corporation, which is an amazing accomplishment; she is only 24 years old. You sit across from her at a table, sipping a glass of exotic schwarzriesling, as Delilah drinks a fine merlot. You hang on her every word as you talk about Caribbean islands and German wineries. She laughs at your jokes, and is just as charming in return. You talk about your pre-law at Yale while she discusses her six years at the Wharton School of Business.

It is love at first sight for you. Real, desperate love. You’ve never met anyone like her. In the familiar surroundings of your bedroom, you undress her, kissing every beautiful part of her as you uncover it. Your mouth finds hers, and you plant tender kisses across her lips and down the side of her throat. She gasps as you tweak a nipple of her enormous breast with a thumb and forefinger.

She tells you that she is ready, but strangely, despite how much you want her, despite your blossoming love for her, you are not. No matter how much you will it, your cock will not stir.

“I think I need a minute.”

And so she holds you to her breast, rocking you gently as you try to relax and clear your mind.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks.

Your eyes do not open as you rock against her, your right ear near her voluptuous lips. “Of course.”

She smiles. “You’re in a lot of trouble, you stupid fuck.”

Your eyes fly open as your whole body stiffens. She speaks a pair of words that don’t belong together. To your horror, you cannot move.

“Close your eyes,” she coos in your ear. You comply. “Oh, John, John, John... What am I going to do with you?”

Inside your mind, you scream for help. You scream in confusion and rage and fear. You see her corpulent form for what it is and feel terror at the subjugation of your will.

“You really are a piece of shit, do you know that? You destroy happiness wherever you go, John. You delight in damaging the lives and esteem of every woman you touch. You bring the promise of love, but only leave wounds behind.” She continues rocking you against her breast. She chuckles.

“I’m here to tell you that there will be a reckoning, John. I see you. I see you, and I am not pleased. In fact, I have something special planned for you.” She tells you of a song that she has written for you. It is called “Pony Boy,” and will be released on the next album by the Butthole Surfers. As she recites the lyrics, you listen in wonder and humiliation that someone has seen you so completely and incisively. In the silence of your inner monologue, you are weeping. She throws her head back and laughs. “Now eat my pussy, you selfish fucker!”

Delilah spreads her obese thighs and exposes her shaved slit for you; you begin to lap at her clit as a finger slips inside of her and curls upward, searching for her G-spot. She cries out in orgasm almost immediately, but you press on.

As she moans and gasps, she calls out a trigger phrase. You feel disoriented as the memories of what you have just experienced begin to fade. Something inside you tries desperately to hang on to them; you know that something is wrong, that you are in danger, that something impossible and horrible and evil is happening to you, but the memories evaporate like so much smoke.

And then there is only love. Love, and the tender flesh between your lips.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to perform. That’s never happened before.”

Delilah lies next to you, panting and heaving. “Oh, don’t worry, you more than made up for it.” She smiles.

You feel nervous and afraid of rejection. “So listen... I’d like to have another opportunity to try. I’d really like to see you again.”

Still smiling, Delilah reaches for the nightstand, and writes her number on a pad of paper you keep by the telephone. “Call me tomorrow afternoon and we’ll go to dinner. You can buy me a steak at Gibson’s.”

Your heart leaps in your chest. You kiss her, passionately.

The next day crawls by. You can’t think of anything but Delilah, it seems.

Finally, at 2:37, you can’t stand it anymore and pick up the phone to call her. You dial the number she wrote. After a couple of rings, there is a click.

“Forsyth Exterminators, how may I help you?”

And your blood runs cold. You hang up the phone, devastated and shaking. A few minutes later, your telephone rings, causing you to jump in your chair. You answer it.

“I need to see you in my office, John.” It is Rob.

Filled with dread, you walk the short distance to Rob’s corner office. There are two middle aged men in the room with him, both wearing cheap suits. One is holding a stack of floppy diskettes.

The other one holds up a gold badge. “Mister Forsyth, I am Detective O’Dann of the Chicago Police Department. Please turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

You look to your boss in shock. “Rob? What the fuck is this?”

“Mister Forsyth, if you do not turn around and place your hands behind your back, you will be charged with resisting arrest.”

You comply. As the handcuffs are placed around your wrists, the other detective reads your Miranda rights from a small wallet card. When he finishes, Rob explains:

“Child pornography was found in your private directory by the IT service this morning, John. I’ll arrange for bail and counsel through Swiss and Dunphy, but until or unless you are acquitted of these charges, please consider yourself terminated from Cannon, Myer, Briggs and Reynolds.”

He won’t even look you in the eye.

And so, for the first time in your life, you do the perp walk, past your secretary, past your colleagues, past fucking Michelle and that smug look on her fat, ugly face, God damn her.

It is a long, sleepless night in the holding tank. You stare down at your laceless shoes and think of the stinging irony of being on the receiving end of your own game. You had given Delilah your heart, and she had shit on you.

But it was more than that. The number she had given was for Forsyth Exterminators. That was more than mere coincidence. Didn’t that have to mean that she knew exactly who you were before you met?

Yet it was you who approached her.

Was it possible—could she have somehow framed you for this crime as well?

Something was very, very wrong.

In the morning you are arraigned and charged with 47 counts of possession of child pornography. Your counsel, an embarrassed looking woman from Swiss and Dunphy states her case that you are not a flight risk, bail is set, and you are freed.

Your personal property is returned in a large zipper bag.

Forty-five minutes later, you are home and collapse into an armchair. You open your bag of worldly possessions and retrieve your cell phone.

“You have twenty-six new messages.”

“Jesus...” You’re popular today.

“John, it’s Georgette Swan. I’m calling to let you know that I went to see the doctor yesterday, and he’s confirmed that I’m pregnant; I know it’s yours, as I haven’t been with anyone else in over three months. Please call me back so we can discuss this, but know that I am going to have this baby, and I am fully prepared to sue you for paternity if you won’t do the right thing.”

BEEP

“John, it’s Janelle Swenson. I’m... I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant, and I’m keeping it...”

BEEP

“Hi, John, it’s Tina Unger. We met at Balzac a couple of months ago. I’m calling to let you know that you got me pregnant that night, and I’ve decided that I’m going to have this child. Please call me...”

BEEP

“John, this is Donna from Essex. Please call me as soon as possible. We have something important to discuss...”

BEEP

“John, it’s Barbara Bender...”

BEEP

“John, I don’t know if you remember me...”

BEEP

“John, it’s Alice from Club Staxx. We need to talk...”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

It is December 24th, 1998. It is 11:59PM.

Your name is John Forsyth. You are 31 years old.

Your name is John Forsyth, and the barrel of a gun is pressed against your right temple.

Your name is John Forsyth, and you are the father of twenty-nine children by twenty-four different mothers.

Janelle Swenson aborted when she learned of your child pornography charges; it seems that it is detrimental to a telejournalist’s career to be linked to such people. Connie O’Dann, daughter of the detective that arrested you, miscarried during her second trimester.

You are the father of twenty-nine children you will never see due to the felony child pornography conviction that will hang over your head for the rest of your life.

Disbarred and disgraced, you pled guilty in exchange for a suspended sentence. That’s all the justice that three attorneys and $150,000 will buy you these days; you didn’t feel you had much of a choice but to take the deal, though: some of the images were of violence against the children being molested, and it would be all over if a jury saw them.

Today, you live in Rockford, in a shitty studio apartment in a bad part of town. You drive a fifteen year old Honda Accord you can barely afford to keep on the road. You make decent money as a freelance management consultant.

Decent for a sex offender and convicted felon, anyway.

But it seems that every spare penny you earn goes to pay court mandated child support. You resent them all, like vultures, devouring everything you have left.

Already, your looks are starting to fade. The stress of your experience has aged you; it doesn’t matter, though, because you haven’t had an erection in over a year and a half, not since before Delilah. You’ve tried this new medication called Viagra that is supposed to help with impotence, but it didn’t make a lick of difference for you. The doctors say that your problem is psychological.

And so here you sit, in a ratty old chair you got from Goodwill, a gun pressed to your temple.

There is a gun pressed to your temple this night, because this morning, Delilah allowed you to remember.

Remember everything.

How you were subdued in your office, how you received instructions, precise and deadly, like computer code, via email over the next few weeks. How you were made to go to all those clubs and bed all those women, and how each of them was taking massive doses of fertility drugs, which explains the surprising number of twins and the triplets you sired.

How your life was systematically and utterly destroyed.

How you would never have an erection again, would never know the merciful touch of a woman.

How you would never be able to tell anyone any of this, ever.

How you were made to fall hopelessly in love with a monster.

A boom box sits on a table across from you. It has been playing the song “Pony Boy” on a continuous loop for hours. The cellophane from the CD wrapper flutters in the breeze from the heating vent. You close your eyes.

You pull the trigger, or try to, anyway. Nothing happens. Your finger will not move, no matter how much you will it to.

A voice speaks in your mind. Delilah’s voice, implanted long ago.

{I’m sorry, John, but I just can’t allow you to take the easy way out. You’ve been a sick, sick boy, and now it’s time for you to take your medicine. Your punishment for attempting suicide is as follows...}

Inside your mind, you scream in horror.

Your name is John Forsyth, and you are drone number 542,913,648.

Your name is John Forsyth, and you have been judged by The Killer.