The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

All heads turned as I calmly approached the knot of officials and guards. I recognised one of the officials—a man named Collinson. He was the man in charge. He looked agitated. He glanced at me absently as I approached. I willed myself to anonymity, and smiled invitingly, exactly as I was supposed to, exactly as they expected; exactly as the thing in my head had been programmed to do.

Collinson turned to one of the black-uniformed guards. “What is this blonde unit doing here?”

The guard shrugged. His badge said his name was Simm. “No idea. Disoriented by the blast, I guess.”

“Well it’s a bloody good job it didn’t just walk out through that bloody great hole in the fucking wall!” Collinson yelled. I sensed fear amidst the fury. He turned his back. “Take it to a room, then. Check for damage. Check its programming.”

“Sir.”

“And for heaven’s sake find whoever did this. If there’s an intruder, I want them caught, now.”

I did not speak, of course, as the guard, Simm, began to usher me down the corridor, but my mind churned with thoughts. Here, deep inside the perimeter, the residuals were difficult enough to fight even with Takeshi’s fixes. If my programming was ‘checked’, that would be a problem.

He marched me deeper into the administration centre, and length I was ushered right, into a zone signposted ‘maintenance’. I stifled the urge to panic, and at Simm’s prompting, walked calmly through the door of room 231. I turned to Simm and smiled placidly, as he would expect me to do. He smiled back. Why would he not?

I began to unzip the front of my uniform, exposing the warm swell of my breasts, exactly as he would expect me to do. Exactly as he would expect any blonde unit to do.

The thing in my head tickled temptingly. I knelt smoothly before Simm, my face upturned in expectation. I had to remind myself this was a conscious choice. There is pleasure here, whispered the thing in my head, ultimate pleasure; there is purpose here, ultimate purpose. Why fight it? I opened my mouth expectantly, exactly as anybody would expect, exactly as he would expect me to do, and for a dislocated instant I wasn’t sure if it was my idea at all.

Simm laughed. “A good little blonde unit. Can’t see anything wrong with your programming, girl.” He began to undo his zipper, just as I would expect him to do.

Just as he expected me to do, I enthusiastically embraced him with my lips, and I began to lose myself in the rhythm of the task, the duty, the privilege of my role. Something was drifting away from me; the task demanded my attention. A faraway part of me was shouting, almost unheard in the distance. I strained to catch its voice, and discerned the faraway part of me was crying out: don’t forget why you’re here! I knew this was true, but it was easy to forget, amidst the irresistible joy of the act itself, and a familiar implacable red heat was building in me. The thing in my head said I would be rewarded, if I worked hard enough; this was my duty, my goal, my joy.

Takeshi’s overrides kicked in suddenly stronger—the failsafe jolting me back like an electric shock—and then I was back; I bit down on him, whipped the Taser from my pocket and pressed it against Simm’s naked buttock. He squealed once, spasmed gratifyingly in my mouth, and dropped like a felled tree.

Well done, said Takeshi, her voice soft in my head.

“My pleasure entirely,” I subvocalized.

One down, fifty-five to go, according to Takeshi’s personnel list; good as I was, I doubted I could take out all the staff. I wiped my mouth; a residual and incongruous shiver of pleasure. I snagged another Taser from his belt, zipped myself up and mentally winked at Takeshi’s avatar, symbol of luck these last few months.

Time to blend in.

Her clothes seemed to have vanished. The only thing in the room was a grey bodysuit, exactly like the one the first woman had been wearing, hung neatly on a peg by the doorway.

She squeezed herself into the tight material and zipped herself up. Too small, by at least a size or two. She couldn’t quite get the zipper past her breasts, and her waist felt constricted. The bodysuit seemed to adjust itself around her body weirdly, moving and caressing as if alive, and then settling, strangely comfortable against her skin.

Cautiously, she emerged into the quiet corridor. Ahead was a large grey archway; she heard noises, movement.

There was a fractured instant where she felt something tickling at the base of her skull, and then her world turned red with lust. Suddenly the air seemed thick with pheromones, alive with possibilities. That guy there, looking at her. What would he taste like? She wondered, and shivered with a rush of unfocussed desire. How would it feel to turn herself over to him, to let him do what he wanted with her?

The man was walking towards her now. Dimly, she realized her body was out of control, flushed with endorphins and unreasoning, animal arousal. It took all her willpower not to just grab hold of the man, unzip him, and drop to her knees. And then turn herself round, spread her legs wide and embrace the sweet thrust as he entered her...

He walked up and without any warning or invitation kissed her, long and deep and slow. His lips were soft, his tongue quick and alive, and with a moan she closed her eyes and responded in kind. She couldn’t help it.

He stepped back a few paces, watching her panting in the throes of utterly random, irresistible heat.

“It is not time for recreation yet. Self-discipline is important. We can have sex later if you wish. It will be good practice. Practice makes perfect. Meanwhile: we must occupy ourselves with work.”

She looked at the line of men and women at the conveyor belt that dominated the centre of the huge hall. All of the women were identical, and they all looked exactly like her. She had to think. She knew all about institutions, and she knew she had to fit in, not attract attention, while she worked out what to do. She was familiar with meaningless work from the last place, the women’s prison. “Sure,” she panted. “Show me what to do.”

“Come this way.” The man led her to a vacant position in the line. Abstract grey objects of different shapes and sizes were moving slowly past on the belt.

“What do I need to do?”

The man glanced at her as if she should already know. For no reason at all, she felt the renewed heat of sexual longing. With an effort she pushed it away.

“It is simple. Take this object,” and he picked up a grey cuboid from the belt, “and insert the cylinder into the relevant hole.” He picked up a grey cylinder and did so, turning it slightly to secure it into place. “Then place it back on the belt.”

She looked at the objects. They looked very slightly asymmetrical, a subtle absence of regularity, as if they had been grown.

“Okay. What we are making here?”

“We are making a larger object from smaller objects.”

“What is the larger object?”

He looked perplexed for a moment. “I do not know.”

Next to her was another identical woman; as she placed the cube-plus-cylinder back onto the belt, the woman picked it up, quickly attached it to another oddly-shaped object, and replaced it on the belt again.

That woman; what would it feel like to take her to bed right now, and feel her tongue licking her all over, working slowly, methodically down towards the sweet spot between her thighs...?

She tried to focus. The rhythm of attaching the cylinders to the cubes was strangely relaxing, and she felt herself drift away into the simple routine. She only snapped out of it when a bell rang and the belt stopped. She shook her head. It was as if she had been away… for how long? She glanced around, There were no clocks; there was no way to tell. She guessed a couple of hours had passed at least.

As one, everybody stepped away from the belt and walked towards an open area with tables and bench seating. She followed the crowd. She sat down at a table; in the centre was a large conical structure with a number of grey fleshy tubes sticking out of it. She pulled one of the feeding tubes towards her, popped it into her mouth and began to suck. The liquid was warm and viscous, and not unpleasant.

The feeding area was silent except for the sound of sucking.

When she’d had enough, she wiped her mouth, stood up and stretched. The woman next to her looked up, wide eyed, the tube still in her mouth.

“It is not yet time to stop feeding,” she mumbled, her mouth full, and the woman indicated that she should sit down and feed some more.

Shortly, the bell rang again to signify the end of feeding time.

As the crowd began to return to the belt, she grabbed the arm of the man, who seemed to be some kind of supervisor. “Are you in charge here?”

“No,” he replied. “I am only the supervisor.”

She didn’t let go of his arm, ignoring the urge to take him to bed. “I need to talk to someone in charge, now.”

“Then I will take you to the assistant manager.” He turned and walked away without looking at her, and she followed, steaming with heat.

As I reached for the handle of room 231, another avatar blinked urgently in the heads up. An abstracted figure of a lean and handsome face; green eyes, dark hair streaked with a hint of white. A lesser man might have taken the opportunity to get rid of that white, I thought, and take a few years off in the interests of virtual presentation—but whatever other character flaws he may have, vanity wasn’t one of them.

A calm deep voice: What’s happening? Is it all under control? Are you in yet?

I subvocalized my message of confirmation: “Yes. I’m in. Blown up the outer wall. Knocked a couple of people out. Acquired myself a couple of Tasers. Currently hiding in a room. One guard down, at least for a while. Considering my options.”

Hurry up, then, and do keep me in the loop.

I had to smile at his casual presumption that one could keep order and control amidst the chaos of the world. Sure, Talv. That’s my number one priority right now.

The avatar blinked once and was gone.

The irrepressible Karsten bloody Talv.

How he knew about all this in the first place, I had no idea—but he was nothing if not well connected. Takeshi must have alerted him to it. She seemed to have access to things. She was ahead of the curve. She sort of worked for him sometimes. She knew stuff. Like, she knew about my sister. She knew enough to get in touch with me—across all available channels, by means I still couldn’t fathom—and to suggest I should go to a certain place at a certain time to meet a certain man who might be able to help.

The man in question owned a whole warehouse building downtown. No biotech here, from what I could see; traditional brickwork and high arches. It made a pleasant change, given that half of downtown was now a mass of ever-so-slightly living, growing, self-repairing structures, and whatever their merits they gave me the creeps for a whole variety of very good reasons.

I stepped out of the elevator into the eighth floor into a hypermodern expanse of apartment, light flooding in from the big windows overlooking the city. In the near distance the Hudson River, and beyond that I could see the queasily shifting outline of another huge biotech development.

He greeted me, led me towards a sofa by one of the windows. Tall, lean, dark hair shot with white. He could have been any age from forty to sixty five. Not American, I thought, listening to his oddly neutral-accented small talk, but what?

He said he was an artist.

On a cushioned plinth in one corner of the stark room sat an exquisitely crafted figure of a blindfolded kneeling woman, about two-thirds life size. Every square centimetre of its body was covered in a minutely recursive pattern of swirling shapes—interlocking fractals of blue, red, gold, and green, from neck to toe, in recursive detail. The effect was beautiful; an extraordinary abstraction, with the ebb and flow and curl of the hypnotic multi-coloured patterns, yet anchored in the earthy reality of a woman’s shape. The statue was beautiful, and completely lifelike. Its mouth was open, inviting.

As I looked, the statue slowly turned its head to face me, and I actually jumped.

“An early biotech work,” he said. “As a medium, it’s quite interesting.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say.” He indicated the view over the river, and the growing development beyond. “And versatile.”

“That it certainly is.”

“But there are complications, which I also seek to represent conceptually. Look.” He pointed at another display plinth.

The plinth displayed a silvery cage. There did not appear to be a door. In the cage a series of tiny winged figures flittered and squeaked forlornly, clutching the bars, stretching their tiny arms through the gaps. One lay on the floor of the cage, its face in its hands, seemingly weeping. They looked just like delicate multi-coloured fairies.

I shivered slightly. The biotech piece was surreal and deeply disquieting on some level I didn’t quite understand. “And all this represents…?”

“The future, if we aren’t careful. A powerful metaphor, is it not? But enough about me…”

As I told him my story, his green eyes fixed on mine with an unnatural intensity. He sat very still, absorbing it all. He didn’t interrupt. And when I’d finished, he sat back in his chair, in his ridiculously big apartment, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“Very interesting,” was what he said.

Karsten Talv really didn’t approve at all.

“It’s happened before, albeit with different technology. You won’t have heard of a certain company a few years back that was in the nascent business of manufacturing,” and here he raised both hands and made ironic quotation marks, “‘ultimate love dolls’. Strictly for the rich and famous, of course.”

“No. Never heard of such a thing.”

“Takeshi knows.” He clicked on a remote, and a large screen on the wall came to life. A Eurasian-looking woman, lean, intense, crop-haired; a little cyberpunky. She looked out from the screen, framed against a swirling backdrop of stars.

A dry voice piped up from the screen. Takeshi, patched in from wherever in the virtual world she may be. Neuro-transmitters at the base of the skull, said Takeshi distantly. Fast, direct programming. Conditioning. Result: mindless sex toys. Surgery to anonymise. Uniformity. Small number of high value sales. Lucrative. All quite similar to what you describe, in some ways, although more primitive of course.

“Hello again, Takeshi. How do you know this?” I asked.

Sometimes… stories emerge. Coded, disguised, written anonymously, fictionalised, but ultimately true. There are websites, if you know where to look. All is there, somewhere, #themirror.

“And what happened?” I said.

Mister Talv made a complex gesture with his hand, untranslatable. It made him seem suddenly very foreign, here in New York. “There was trouble. So the troubleshooters took care of them. There was some—‘unpleasantness’.” Quotation marks again. “It was all kept very quiet, of course.”

Takeshi chuckled at that, an alarming electronic sound. We certainly wouldn’t want any—‘unpleasantness’, would we, Mister Talv?

“Shut up, Takeshi.” He turned to me intently. “The problem here is worse. We’re dealing with gross commercialisation; the mass market.” He spat the last two words with distaste. “It’s worse than Warhol and his damn facsimiles; at least he had the grace to be original about it. Worse than Koons. Worse than Hirst, and his production line. Worse than Vannetch and his ubiquitous stupid bloody potato-prints! It’s not even art at all. It’s cookie-cutter plastic crap.”

“What are you talking about?”

Mister Talv is an artist, said Takeshi in her softly accented voice. Mister Talv is a true conceptual artist, one of a kind, and his raw material is human desire. His output is the idealised expression of such desire. Each work brilliant, unique, individual, original, a signed masterpiece…

“Thank you for your kind words, Takeshi, but spare me the faux adulation. I’m simply in the business of giving people what they want. Would you like to see some early examples? Take Suuori, or Kate, or the redhead —”

—I’ll give you Kate, but oh, the redhead? chipped in Takeshi. Was that an edge of sarcasm in her dry voice? Don’t you think you took her desires a bit… literally, Karsten Talv? And as for Suuori, she quite literally changed her mind about it all in the end, didn’t she…?

“Fuck off, Takeshi,” he snapped. “The business with Lilith was ten years ago. We’ve all moved on from that sort of thing. And the redhead was an early sketch, no more. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

He paused, as if expecting a reply of assent, but there was only a faint hiss of static, as the stars swirled behind her on the screen. And then: Remember Marinette.

Mister Talv just stared at Takeshi. A beat of silence stretched before he snapped out of it, shaking his head and turning back to me.

“So what do you want? What do you need?” he finally asked me. “What is your one true heart’s desire?”

That I didn’t need to think about. “I want to get in there, to that—place. I need to get my sister out.”

He grinned at me, and clapped his hands together like a child. He suddenly looked much younger. “Troubleshooting, then! What enormous fun.”