The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

They came to my siren call, all right. Running footsteps ahead of me, shouts from behind; two groups of guards closing in fast. Too many, too fast, too soon.

“Takeshi,” I subvocalized. “What’s my edge?”

Her avatar pulsed. Twofold. First, complacency: you are, after all, only one woman, against the majority of the remaining guards; twenty-two men, as I count them.

They rounded the corner and stopped. The leader of the group in front of me was shouting now, baton raised, ordering me to get down on the floor. His troops had their Tasers drawn and ready to fire. I eyed them with a calm stare I didn’t feel.

“Fine,” I whispered, although I didn’t like the odds. “I’m only a weak and feeble woman. And what’s the second?”

Me, she murmured. Hold tight. And at once the world became bright and quick; the thing in my head subsumed me completely, and Takeshi took the controls.

Later, Talv showed me some of the footage, gushing about how it had inspired him to a whole new project—a real project—and memories returned, just a little, as if in a series of freeze-framed stills. But damn, I looked good.

Click. A woman, me, captured in the very instant when I spin, pirouetting, a lethal whirlwind. A ballet of sudden violence; blood exploding from the faces of the nearer guards, their expressions comically frozen in shock and surprise. One, two, three, six down in an instant.

Click. I stand for a moment, baton in one hand, Taser in the other, beckoning them on. I lower the weapons, my eyes wide and innocent. I am only a woman, my pretty doll-like face says. Just a weak and feeble woman. They try to rush me. An explosion of confusion, a blurred maelstrom of limbs; ribs crack, joints tear. Seven, eight, twelve.

Click. Behind me, a jaw crushed by a single quick unseen elbow. Two heads cracked together, a sickening thud, bodies falling in slo-mo, and then I’m down, sweeping low across the floor, taking out legs like a scythe through wheat, guards tumbling in my wake. The blue fizz of the Tasers, stabbing up, again, again; flickering shadows of pain on the ceiling. Men falling, over and over. Thirteen, fifteen, nineteen.

Click. Two guards turn to run; one has his hand raised to a walkie-talkie, his eyes wide in terror. I am behind them, running; a leap, and I land in front of them. I rip the walkie-talkie from his hand, sideswipe the second guard into instant unconsciousness and with my other hand I punch the guy’s chest, too fast to see, the shock jarring through my wrist and momentarily stopping his heart. Twenty-one.

Click. There is a young guard looking at me, the last man standing, paralyzed with fear. He is shaking as I approach. He can hardly hold his Taser. I unburden him of it with a flick of the hand. I give him the seductive smile and the bedroom eyes. “You look sweet,” I say. “Wouldn’t you like to kiss me?” He swallows hard. Slowly he nods. “Of course you would, little boy. Wouldn’t everybody?” I take him out as gently as I know how.

Twenty-two.

And then Takeshi let go of the controls, and my head was suddenly clear, and I stood, panting in the corridor, lactic acid burning in every muscle, looking around at carnage.

“What the hell just happened…?”

I’ve been playing a lot of games lately. Helps pass the time online. My clock speed is very fast indeed. And practice makes perfect, as we are constantly told. Whatever the sleazy nature of its origins, the thing in your head has its uses, does it not?

“I’m not some meat puppet, dammit. I’m not some character in a computer game, Takeshi.”

Aren’t you?

A thought rose, and it wouldn’t go away. “Can you remote control me, administer actual controls through the thing in my head? The bio-thing? The neural lace? Any time you want?”

She was quiet for a moment. I could. That is ultimately what it is designed for. But only if you wanted me to. Only if you let me. Anyway, you have those routines now, any time you want to use them...

I surveyed the destruction. Twenty-two guards down; whether dead or unconscious I had no idea. Still—no time to lose. I eyed the access door. I knew how it worked—I’d seen them coming and going often enough.

Very well. I dragged one of the guards over to the steel door, hefted him up, and jammed his eye against the retinal scanner. After a second of thinking about it, the door swooshed open, and I was free.

There were another two guards outside the door, and they were turning as if in slow motion. I dropped the limp guard, snagging his Taser. Quick as a flash; one down; two; as mister retina-scan hit the floor, the two gorillas outside spasmed and slumped in unison. I resisted the urge to blow smoke off the end of my trigger finger.

I looked back into the belly of the facility. Behind me, the women were emerging from their grey rooms, milling around in confusion. They stared blankly at the open door, but made no move to follow.

I ploughed on, heading for administration.

A man came to check on her, an administrator, there in the grey room. He had steel-rimmed spectacles. His nametag said Collinson. But that wasn’t what caught her eye.

The administrator asked her questions. She responded exactly as the thing in her head told her to. She stood before him, obedient and compliant. She made her eyes blank, and did not let her eyes leave his. She did not dare. She was learning, now. The man looked tired, overworked, but his red-rimmed eyes sparkled with a strange zeal behind his glasses.

“Better,” he said, when the questions had finished. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. She lifted her hand and in a quick silent movement took the fountain pen from his pocket, palming it as she’d learned long ago on the street.

Without another word, he patted her on the head, turned and left.

Alone, she pondered the form, and the pen. Things were coming back to her, now. There was something wrong with her fractured logic. Her sister was lost to her. She would not come. There was no-one to protect her now; she was alone. And the form was not the answer. Jessica had a sudden intuitive certainty that such a form, duly completed and signed and checked and handed in, would lead inevitably not to release, but as a clear signal to go back to the ‘maintenance centre’, and if that happened—

—but Jessica had a pen, now, and pens have many uses, in the right hands.

She walked out of the grey room into the pearl-grey corridor, anonymous, just one amongst many. She followed the flow of women, blending into the current. She did not go to the recreation area, although she wanted to. She passed the discipline room, and did not go in, although it called to her with a dull craving. She walked on, alone, in the quiet grey.

There was a small locked door at the end of the long grey corridor, labelled ‘access restricted’. It was heavy, but the lock yielded easily enough to a simple twist of metal in just the right place, the makeshift key doing its makeshift work, just as it had often done before she’d been caught, before the two of them had been sent to prison.

Carefully, she used the remains of the pen to lock the door behind her, erasing all trace of her passing. Slipping up the stairs in the green-lit dark, and up to the roof.

It was pitch dark up there, windswept, a salt gale coming in from the sea. Cautiously she crawled to the other edge, looking out into the brightly lit compound below. The fence beyond was tall and crowned with biologically extruded barbed-wire substitute. No way out, that way.

She stood and walked to the other side of the roof, hugging the centre, careful to keep out of eyeline from the ground, her feet silent on its surface. She stood at the brink, looking down with dread into the watery darkness.

Hundreds of feet below, she could hear the Atlantic waves crashing in at the base of the sheer vertical cliff. She glimpsed whitecaps and dark jagged rocks. The ultimate in security. With a sinking heart Jessica thought of the life waiting ahead, if she turned back, if it could be called life. She thought of her sister, and wished she could remember her name, and she hoped against the odds she was safe somewhere. The salt wind whipped at her hair.

She closed her eyes and jumped.

The civilian staff, scientists mainly, were soft, easily surprised, easily dealt with. I didn’t bother killing any of them, tempting as it was. A great deal of pain followed by the blessed escape of unconsciousness would do the trick.

I saved the best for last.

I found Mister Big himself, Collinson, the omnipotent mastermind, the chief designer, the evil controller, whatever you’d call him, exactly where I expected him to be: hiding in his office, cowering under the desk like a frightened little schoolboy. I grabbed him by the collar, hoisted him out, and dumped him in his chair. He stared at me in wide-eyed confusion.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he stammered, as if willing it all to be a dream. “The biocircuitry should be foolproof...” He gathered himself for a moment, and barked, almost plaintively: “You! Unit, obey!”

I grabbed both shoulders and shook him. “Never mind about that ‘unit’ stuff,” I hissed. “Do you even know who I am?”

“No,” he said at last. “I have no idea.”

“Just another biddable little ‘volunteer’, Collinson. From prison, remember?” I shook him again, harder. “My sister was in here too. I can’t find her anywhere; she’s gone. So where is she now? And how do I find her?”

“I have no idea at all,” he said, then held up one finger. “But just listen for a moment.” And he whispered a single word.

At once I had the overwhelming urge to let him go, to stand to attention, hands behind my back, shoulders back, chest out, and look straight ahead until further notice; and that is exactly what I did.