The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The world had changed a lot in the past year.

Outside, Bridgit watched the events from behind dark glasses. Her jaw worked when the girls were led away, but otherwise, her face betrayed no signs of caring or even being aware of what had just happened. She wore a man’s button-down shirt over a wife beater. She was too young to know it, but she would have looked very much at home on Miami Vice.

The shirt hid both a gun and a taser. She traveled lighter than most of the women in the resistance.

Her cell rang.

“Where are you?”

“Mall.”

“Come get me, we’re gonna be late.”

“I just lost two live ones, Chris.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Lots of people around?”

“It’s the mall.”

“Then there’s nothing you could have done. Come get me. I’m hungry.”

Bridget looked in through the open door. Things had settled down. People were enjoying their free coffees. Somewhere in there, the two girls would be getting the injections that would make their new trances permanent. They’d be sat in front of a screen to absorb their new life’s instructions, unable to close their eyes or look away.

“They’re probably in an office or an employee lounge. There won’t be a lot of people back there.” She tried to guess how large the area behind the store was.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“They’re about to be brainwashed by the Dunkin Donuts girl. That’s no way to go out. I could get them out the back door.”

“There is no back door.”

“There has to be a service entrance or something. They don’t take the trash out the front door.”

“Don’t. That’s an order.”

“A what?”

“Look, just come get me, ok? Please? You know I’m all for it when the situation is safe, but if we get caught, there’s no cavalry to come get us. We are the cavalry. If we act stupid, there’s no more cavalry. There’s no backup cavalry. There’s just the one cavalry.”

“Ok. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“...I live like three minutes away.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Bridg—”

Click.

It was called a light induced trance, but that was a poor name for it, because it wasn’t really a trance at all: it was the total inability to think for one’s self. Almost any electronic light source could make the pulse: televisions, computers, Blackberries, even some kinds of fluorescent lights. The iPhone had been particularly devastating.

There was lots of science behind it that Bridgit didn’t care about. Someone had explained it to her once by comparing it to the way an epileptic’s brain reacts to certain frequencies of light. This was a frequency that happened to affect everyone, and the effect—

Your mind would white out. It would become a blank slate, and all self awareness and self control would go with it.

The two girls in the coffee shop seemed to go willingly, but Bridgit knew that was an illusion: the truth was, they had no wills of their own at that point. They were blank slates, and they would do whatever they were told until it wore off. Getting a pulse directly in the eyes like they had, it might be hours or days until they were normal again, but it would wear off, eventually.

That’s what imprinting was for.

It involved some new drug (now freely available in all stores, everywhere) and more lightshows. The drug opened the mind up, allowed experiences to become permanent—there was more science behind it that Bridgit also didn’t care about. She only cared that it took time, a few hours at least.

If she left now, the girls would be back there for hours, slowly losing everything that made them individuals. Bridgit would have to go about her day, go to the resistance meeting with the few other free-willed women she knew, and the whole time, try not to imagine the two girls’ blank faces as they sat, their eyes pointed at some screen, their chests rising and falling slowly because their mind couldn’t wake their body up because it was busy being trained.

At the end, they’d be like most of the civilized world now was: able to function, but forever bound to the thing that the brainwashed called The Happily. They became the subjects of an unattainable idea.

Bridgit paused by the outer doors of the mall.

There were too many people around to rescue them. If anyone saw, she’d have to shoot her way out, and besides the fact that she didn’t have enough bullets to shoot everyone in the mall, murder was still illegal. There wasn’t any punishment for it anymore though, because once you were caught, you’d be brainwashed, and that was a guarantee that you’d never do it again. The prisons were empty. There wasn’t any more crime. Once you became one of Happily’s Children, your past life was forgiven.

She counted again. It was stupid to count. There were too many.

She added the girls to the list of ones she couldn’t save:

A woman in the grocery store, staring at the LCD advertising monitors in the checkout line, her hands by her sides as her frozen vegetables began to melt.

A girl on the train who had accidentally glanced at the man beside her’s PDA. The girl watched it for the rest of the ride, swaying gently with the motion of the train, before being led off by the other passengers.

A woman in a parking garage, standing by the door of her car, keys dangling from loose fingers. The woman’s sunglasses were on top of her head, holding back beautiful, chestnut hair. She wore a business skirt and no expression.

A girl in a car, her head back against the seat, her eyes fixed on the dashboard. The newer electronic dashes could do it, too. It was probably a friend’s car, or maybe the girl was even trying to steal it. Her last sensation, as a thinking person, would have been the feel of metal on her fingers as she turned the keys, then white blankness as her mind switched off.

All of them helpless, in both senses of the word: their help had been near, but never come.

Bridgit tried to remember all of their faces, but the list was getting long, too long for that. She added the girls to it and pushed the outer doors open.

It was bright outside, a shock even through the dark sunglasses. She walked to the curb, lit a cigarette, and squinted across the parking lot. She wondered if the girls had been given their injections yet, or if they were just standing in the back of the store, naked, staring at nothing, while Dunkin Donuts girl helped a customer.

She went through the list again, calling up the faces of the ones she’d lost, one by one. There were a few, in the middle, that were fuzzy.

If she couldn’t remember all of their faces anymore, the list was too long.

Bridgit took the girls off it.

She flicked the cigarette away and walked back into the mall.

No one tried to stop her. They wouldn’t—not on the way in. She pushed through the doors of the employee area, found the office, and there they were.

The girls sat, naked, facing a large television screen. It was blank: the show hadn’t started yet. The induction was something you could order for free on pay per view—you could imprint anyone, anytime, with any TV that got cable. You could, of course, also get it for free in any video format at any store, just like the drug.

The induction itself was nothing special; it was hours of B-movie crap in a woman’s voice that the brainwashed believed to be a woman named Happily’s. The real magic of imprinting was in the drug. Once that reached your brain, if someone told you that you were a tree, you’d believe you were a tree for a long time. If they repeated it a thousand times, like the imprinting tape repeated some things, you’d believe it forever.

Their faces were flushed, and their skin shimmered with a thin coat of sweat. Their hands lay still in their laps—the hands weren’t doing anything, but they looked very much like they wanted to be doing something. The fingers seemed on the verge of searching.

Their breasts rose and fell in a rhythm that was slower than normal but quicker than the light-induced daze, and Bridgit realized that they’d already been given the drug.

Shit.

If she took them out now, they’d just imprint on everything they saw—her, her car, billboards they passed, squirrels. The reason imprinting worked was that they were flashed first, told to focus on the screen, and knew nothing else while it was happening.

She paused.

Flash them, tell them to block it all out? It could work. It was better than being a slave.

Dunkin Donuts girl stood beside them. She was watching the girls, not the screen.

She was bottomless except for socks, but still wore her uniform shirt and hat. It was cute in an absurd way. Her hands worked between her legs. She looked up, beaming. The hands continued. That was something Happily allowed. Girls were trained to get off on her, so there was nothing wrong with getting off on the idea of others being trained to get off on her. Happily was a romantic.

“Hi!” Dunkin Donuts girl said.

“Hi!” Bridgit mimicked her smile. “Mind if I watch?”

“Of course not!”

“Thanks! Mind if I taser you?”

“What?”

Bzzzt. The girl made a sound like she’d been punched in the stomach and went down. Bridgit caught her, one hand under her legs, the other on her back. The girl’s body folded as she sank into Bridgit’s arms. Her legs were slickly beautiful as they curved up against her chest.

Bridgit placed her in the corner, found her pants, searched them. The flasher was nowhere around. She thought, distractedly, that they should come up with a better word than flasher at some point. She went to the girls.

“Hey, can you hear me?” She stood in front of the blonde girl and patted her cheek. The girl’s breathing quickened at the touch, but she didn’t answer. Her skin was hot and moist.

“Hey.” Bridgit kneeled in front of her and took the girl’s cheeks in her hands, turning the blushing face towards her. The girl’s pupils were so dilated that the little ring of baby blue around them was almost nothing. She whimpered at Bridgit’s touch and leaned into it.

“Can you understand me?”

She didn’t react other than to breathe harder. Little ringlets of hair were plastered to her forehead. She was young—old enough to buy cigarettes, not old enough to buy beer—and her body was lithe with that kind of projected health that you lose somewhere near thirty.

Bridgit was struck by her innocence, or her look of it. She probably hadn’t met the love of her life yet—the real one, not some idea of an imaginary, perfect woman in black silk who could make girls swoon just with the sound of her voice. That body would make some boy (or girl) very happy. She deserved to be explored by a free minded person, and do that exploring herself.

Whether the imprinting went wrong or no, Bridgit was getting her out of there.

Bridgit patted her cheek again, and then—then, the girl’s head seemed to twitch forward the tiniest bit. Bridgit’s heart sped up.

“Was that a nod? Did you just try to nod?”

The girl did it again.

Yes! Yes!

“Can you walk?”

The girl didn’t do anything but breathe and sweat and be naked. That was probably a stupid question.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” She scooped the girl up and laid her down quickly, because the girl whimpered every time she was touched. That was the drug, too: everything experienced was amplified a thousand times, and the first thing they were taught was desire. Those few seconds when the girl breathed against her were very long. She was careful not to put her hands anywhere that might set her off. The girl’s body was slippery, but she herself was docile.

There was a small pile of clothing by the chairs. Bridgit searched through them and found the jean shorts and tank top she’d seen the girl wearing earlier.

Not like it matters if they see you carrying a naked person out of the building versus a clothed. It might, though. A naked girl meant something was definitely up. If they went out the back entrance, hurried across the lot, it might buy them an extra thirty seconds if someone saw them.

You should have come sooner. You waffled. Now the imprinting is already started. She’s going to remember the smell of you for the rest of her life. She’ll have dreams about your hands. Still better than the alternative.

She pulled the shorts over the girl’s feet and calves. The girl moaned, once quietly, then louder. Her stomach twitched and flexed; the muscles in her neck stood out for one very long moment. Her lips parted. Bridgit looked at her.

“Hold your breath if you have to, ok?”

The girl showed no sign of being able to do any such thing. The blush spread down her chest, her arms, everywhere.

If you try and get those shorts past her knees, she’s gonna scream.

Bridgit debated tasering her. No, her mind’s been fried enough for one day. She put her hand over the girl’s mouth, and almost drew back when the girl licked her palm. Her lips and breath were hot; everything about the girl was feverish.

“I’m going to cover your nose too. It’s only for a second. Think about baseball. Women’s baseball. Softball. Unless you’re into girls. Shit. Think about coin collecting.”

She covered the girl’s nose too, cutting off her breath, and pulled the shorts up the slick thighs as fast as she could. The girl moaned—it started low, then grew to a keening, a high pitched wail—but muffled under Bridgit’s hand, which was fast becoming as slick as the girl.

She pulled them higher—the girl shook, one arm finally becoming mobile and tossing up above her head. Her legs flexed.

Bridgit yanked the denim up against the girl’s crotch in one final motion, like pulling off a band aid, and the girl screamed against her hand—but the sound was muffled, no air got through, and the sound traveled only a few meters.

The girl bucked. Bridgit held her down, and after one long moment where the body beneath her hands went taut all over—the girl relaxed all at once. She sighed and stilled, and it took Bridgit a moment to realize she’d fainted.

Next time, use the taser.

She wiped her hands and buttoned the girl’s shorts, then pulled the tank top over the limp arms as quick as she could, before the girl woke. The blush started to fade.

Bridgit took the girl by the wrists and drew her to a sitting position; then, using the wall to prop her up, threw the girl over her shoulder. The girl’s crotch was pressed against her shoulder, and, after a moment, Bridget felt dampness soak through her shirt.

“Don’t worry, that’ll wash out. Come on.”

They went through the rear door. It connected to a wide hall, which Bridgit guessed ran behind most of the stores. She walked along it quickly, touching the butt her of gun with her free hand. If anyone saw them, she wasn’t going to have a debate. After less than a hundred feet they came to a set of wide double doors, which opened on the light of day and fresh air. It wasn’t until she felt her skin start to dry that Bridgit realized she’d been sweating too.

She walked as quickly as she could. The girl wasn’t heavy. No one was back here by the service entrance, but—

There was an abandoned shopping cart at the edge of the lot, and then Bridgit knew exactly what to do. She laid the girl down in the grass, in the shade beside the building, got it, and placed the girl in it as gently as she could, laying her on her side in a blonde ball at the bottom. It was a plastic cart, better concealment than the metal ones at grocery stores. It’d have to do.

She rolled the girl to her car, which was parked far in a rear lot, without anyone passing close enough to notice there was a girl in it.

“And that’s how you rescue a girl from a mall full of brainwashed morons.” She relaxed and let herself breathe. Chris would kill her. It had been stupid, a ridiculously stupid risk. But when she looked at the blonde, passed out from the force of her own orgasm, curled up at the bottom of the shopping cart, it was worth it. Now she could have a real life, friends—

Friends.

The brunette was still in there.

You’re about to be stupid squared, aren’t you?

The two were obviously friends. They were both wearing their sunglasses, so they weren’t stupid—they’d just been unlucky. The fact that they were still free-willed, after all this time, meant that they’d have that bond, not unlike a soldier’s bond, that people have when they can only rely on each other.

It was pretty impossible, if they’d survived together for that long, for them to just be acquaintances. They were friends, probably best.

Well, you fucked this up once by stalling, she thought, and started to move. She put the girl in the passenger’s seat and buckled her in. If the girl did wake up, even if she did manage to move a little, she wouldn’t be able to work a seat belt.

Bridgit started across the parking lot; then, having a thought, rushed back and went through the girl’s pockets. She found the girl’s wallet, opened it, read the license.

“Amber. Good. I was getting tired of calling you Armpit Girl. Be right back, Amber.”