The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The first room I came to was labelled ‘housekeeping’, but if I’d expected a linen cupboard I was doomed to disappointment.

Within I saw numerous women engaged in chores; dusting surfaces and objects of various sorts, cleaning floors, carefully sorting and stacking plates, making beds, and so on. Some of the women were in their one-pieces; others were wearing a fetchingly skewed version of a French maid’s outfit; still others were practically naked. One woman sported a feather duster, suspenders and heels, and nothing else at all. Legs straight, she bent to dust an imaginary vase, and nothing was left to the imagination. She held the pose far beyond the necessary time.

Another was down on her hands and knees, bottom raised suggestively, slowly wiping a small section of floor in slow repetitive circles.

Yet another was wandering around aimless with a tray of empty glasses balanced on one hand, offering them to the other women. One by one they took an empty glass, drained its imaginary contents, and replaced it on the tray.

Practice makes perfect.

I slipped in, grabbed a thing that looked vaguely like an organically-extruded cross between a hoover and an anaconda, and started robotically pushing it around the floor while I checked the others out.

Still no sign of my sister. I was beginning to get worried.

The simple rhythm of cleaning, of serving, was very relaxing, and the thing in my head keened and pined for someone to do it for: how nice it was to serve, to be in service, to be a servant, to be useful, to have a purpose at last... I imagined a carpet down there, deep and luxurious, instead of this oyster-grey floor, and I realised how nice it would be to make sure such a carpet was vacuumed just so, in lovely rigid straight lines... I slapped myself on the face to snap out it, and made sure I didn’t get too close to the kitchen.

The second room was labelled ‘exercise’. Poking my head round the door, I saw a small but well-appointed gym. A few highly-toned women were going through their routines on the spongy grey mats in a relentlessly focused way. They were stretching themselves into positions that looked to have quite a lot to do with exercise of a very different sort. They didn’t even register me as I came in.

I eyed one of the strangely organic looking exercise bikes, tempted yet again by the residuals, and noted that the seat sported a jutting cylindrical protrusion. Clearly there would be only one way for a woman to sit herself on that particular bike. I gently turned the pedals, and watched the shaft move up and down in time. It took all my willpower not to give it a try.

Practice makes perfect.

None of the women had my sister’s eyes.

The third room was labelled ‘entertainment’. It was almost empty, most women seemingly being otherwise engaged in more fruitful activities. A huge television dominated one wall, showing acts of unfathomable depravity. All the ‘actors’ were identical, and all the women looked like me.

At a table, two women sat playing what looked like an oversized game of chess. In fact, not so much ‘playing’ as ‘staring vacantly at the pieces’; not a single move had been made, and all the chessmen were lined up neatly in their starting positions. I doubted they even knew how to play, and if they ever had, they certainly didn’t now. I approached the table and shifted a giant white pawn to king four. Looking more closely, I saw all the six-inch high pieces were designed to resemble sex toys. In fact, they were sex toys.

As one, they both turned their heads and looked up at me. Not my sister.

“Dildo to king four,” I said to the woman playing black. “Advance your queen’s bishop, ah, pawn. The Sicilian Defence is your best bet.”

She looked at me blankly, then slowly picked up a large penis-shaped black pawn, reached down and inserted it into a place no chessman should ever be made to go. She closed her eyes and began to enjoy the game, and very soon her playing partner was hard at it too with a very intimidating looking rook.

I left them to their entertainment.

‘Discipline’ was the last room down the corridor before it circled back on itself towards accommodation and the workroom. It was smaller than recreation, and dimly lit, but I could see there were still at least twenty identical naked women in there, moaning and writhing. They were all behaving themselves though. They had no choice in the matter, because they were all shackled to the walls.

The sign above the door read: Practice makes perfect. Self-discipline will set you free.

I took a deep breath and walked in.

The sirens were suddenly loud. So they’d noticed.

“What will they have seen? In recreation?” I whispered at Takeshi.

Nothing much, from the CCTV corner angle. A guard. An anonymous pleasure unit, one of many, undressing and preparing for action. Some kind of trouble. A sudden blur.

“That fast?”

That fast.

From the sound of boots there were at least ten guards coming down the corridor. I needed to hide. But where? Quickly, I stripped off the suit and eyed the manacles on the walls. I could see how they worked. They came in pairs, two feet apart, at head height, grown or extruded out of the revolting organic structure. Experimentally, I reached up and put my wrist into one of the manacles. It was deep grey, unbending, and its interior was soft. It looked like it would fit snugly, if closed. I backed up against the wall, and pressed my wrist down into one of the bands, and the thing snapped closed around my wrist.

I pulled, but my wrist was securely fastened and the cool bond was tight against my skin. I thought hard. It must be a pressure switch, to close the thing. Therefore, there must be a release mechanism. Where was it?

Twisting, I felt with my other hand. Yes. There, above the manacle, was a nub in the smooth grey wall. I pressed down and, to my relief, the manacle snapped open again, freeing my wrist.

The sirens were louder now, insistent, and I heard the sound of voices and of running boots. There wasn’t much time. Hide in plain sight. Gently I laid my wrists between the strange manacles. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I took a breath, pressed my wrists back, and both of the things snapped shut, locking me helplessly into position. The manacles squirmed and squeezed gently against my skin for a second, adjusting and tightening themselves to a perfect fit. A shock of fear, and an unexpected residual thrill of something else.

Hiding in plain sight, then.

I tested the bonds, and there was no give at all. I was completely stuck. I began to moan and writhe against the wall in fear and joy, just like all the others in the room, zoning out, giving myself just for a while to the ministrations of the ever-present thing in my head.

The room was pale grey and windowless, and her head hurt.

“Where am I?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

The man in the doorway looked at her, expressionless. “You are here. Nothing has happened. You have been asleep, here.”

“What do you mean, here? Where is ‘here’?”

A tiny frown creased the man’s clear forehead. “Here. That is where,” and he waved his arm, indicating the endless corridor. “Perhaps there was something wrong with your memories. Perhaps this has now been fixed, through maintenance and training and discipline.” He looked at her.

She felt her nipples stiffen, and a wet heat rising. Her head cleared. The desire for sex was suddenly overpowering. She felt breathless and flushed.

“Do you wish to give and receive pleasure?”

Yes. She wanted to do that so badly. That was the whole point; what else was there in this world? Surely that would be the best thing to do, best for him, best for her, best for everybody. The logic was inescapable. It was obvious. She smiled at him, encouraging. She would take him in her hand, in her mouth, take him inside her, let him take her, and take her pleasure from him in return. It would be so good to…

She sighed at the thought, and then there was no thought but desire. “Yes. I wish to give and receive pleasure.”

“Practice makes perfect. Please assume the second position.”

Without thinking about it at all, she got onto the bed on her hands and knees.

“Thank you, 715.”

She smiled to hear him say her identifier, and then gasped as he filled her. His strong hands held her hips steady, and he began to thrust into her, hard, gratifyingly, an organic machine. She raised her buttocks, angling herself for depth, and immediately felt the beginnings of orgasm rising.

“Oh please,” she cried. And for no reason at all a thought surfaced in her mind, unbidden: “do you have a pen?”

“I do not. Are you receiving pleasure yet?” he asked calmly.

“Yes, yes, please more—“

“Practice makes perfect. More. Yes. Practice makes perfect. More are waiting. Soon.”

There was something she’d forgotten. Something important.

A flash of memory or dream.

My name is Jessica.

She clung to it, repeating it, a silent mantra in her head. My name is Jessica Crane. I have a sister -

—fractured memories clicked into place. Trouble. A prison cell. Persistent offenders, both of them. She had a sister. But her sister was never going to come for her, here. She was on her own. A fierce thought rose. She would find a way out of here somehow.

All she needed to do was find a pen.

As if through fog, I heard the guard speaking into his walkie-talkie.

“Jensen is unconscious. No sign of the intruder. Searching now.” And then, cautiously, the guard peered round the corner of the doorway and into the discipline room. Seeing only bound helpless women, he stepped into the room.

The guard was thorough. He went slowly from one woman to another, methodically examining their bonds, carefully checking each of the extruded manacles. The women strained towards him with lips and hips and breasts, wriggling in frustration against the wall. I knew exactly how they felt.

He came to me at last. I panted and pouted as he checked my manacles. He squeezed my nipples, and I gasped. Then his fingers were inside me, in the slick warm wetness. The thing in my head pushed against the hand, urging it on. There was no helping it. And in any case, I reasoned, I couldn’t afford to give myself away. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the moment, moaning louder, urging him on, in role.

The guard took his hand away and laughed at my frustration. “Self-discipline, remember?” He was very close now. I felt his breath on my cheek. “Practice makes perfect.”

The walkie-talkie crackled. With a frown he turned his back on me, replying.

“No trouble here. Twenty-odd units firmly secured to the wall. All nominal.”

I quickly scanned the ceiling. There were no cameras in this room. Figures, I thought: why bother to watch when nobody can escape? The manacles were tight around my wrists, implacable. I braced myself against the soft wall, silently lifting both feet from the ground.

Three feet away, the guard was concentrating, listening to orders.

With a sinuous push I wrapped both my legs around his neck and pulled him to me, squeezing as hard as I could. His cry of alarm was silenced before it even began, and the snap of his cervical vertebrae cut through the sighs of the women like the crack of a whip.

Ouch, said Takeshi.

I lowered my feet to the ground again. The walkie-talkie crackled and squawked on the ground beside his silent body.

I looked to my side, eyeing the release switch on the wall, positioned carefully just out of reach of grasping manacled hands. Bracing against the wall again, I took all my weight on the manacles and lifted my right leg, stretching to reach over and behind my head. I was flexible all right, but my straining toes were still at least six inches short of being able to reach the button. It was impossible unless you were a contortionist.

“Takeshi?” I subvocalised. “I’m stuck. I can’t reach the release switch.”

It was Talv’s avatar that blinked in response. Look around. There must be something. And what woman doesn’t want longer legs?

The guard lay prone at my feet, his head at an odd angle. Stretching, I reached for his belt with my right foot, snagging the loop of a baton, wriggling it free. I gripped it between my toes, examined the length, hefted it. Just enough, perhaps.

It took several tries, poking spastically at the wall over my shoulder, but finally I hit the spot and the first manacle popped open. I dropped the baton and reached for the second release switch. A flood of relief. Around me the bound women moaned on, oblivious.

I checked each one. Not my sister.

They must have already sent her away. I chilled at the thought; my own sister, a mindless subservient sex doll for a nameless, faceless owner, in thrall to the thing in her head, and the residuals gave me a contradictory shiver of pleasure at that thought.

Takeshi: Danger Will Robinson! They’ll be onto you as soon as you walk out of this room. Corridor cameras. Plenty women go into this room, but none come out until they’re good and ready to be released. You should stay here…

The thing in my head, the living circuitry, sighed back at that: yes, yes, stay here, it will be good for you…

I thought about that, and fresh anger rose. I wriggled back into my body suit and inspected the prone body of the dead guard. The walkie-talkie squawked briefly. There was no going back now, if ever there had been. I unbuckled his belt and inspected the inventory. I briefly mourned the extra Tasers I’d left behind. One would have to do, for now.

Quickly I slipped the belt round my own waist. I pulled off his jacket and put it on, holstering the walkie-talkie in its chest pouch.

What are you doing? whispered Takeshi.

“We’re getting nowhere like this,” I said. “Time to take the game to the opposition.”

Your sister—

“Change of plan, Tak,” I cut in. “We’re too late; I think she’s already gone. Long gone, perhaps. Anyway, we’ve been thinking too small.” I took a deep breath. “We’re going to shut this whole place down. The rest follows from that, right?”

A chuckle, and Talv’s avatar flashed its green eyes. The big picture, at last! I thought you’d never ask.

The sirens droned like an oncoming migraine.

I walked out of the discipline room, back into the opalescent grey of the corridor. I looked up. A CCTV unit blinked red, its electronic eye on the doorway. I approached slowly, letting it see me. I wondered if Collinson himself was watching. I hoped so.

I gave it a wave and a big pouty sex-doll grin straight down the throat of the lens, and I wondered how many minutes I had before they came.

“Here I am,” I said, staring directly into the camera. “You want trouble? Then come and get me, you bunch of cunts.”