The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’m a monster.

I don’t breathe radioactive fire. I don’t have rapid healing. I don’t even have a worm’s chance of slipping through locked doors. I wasn’t born from a Hellmouth as far as I know.

I do have a few special abilities. But they are the sorts that don’t rank me up with the classic monsters that impress people. My take? Not all monsters are about power and being cool. I’m one of the un-cool monsters. I rank far below the teenage-werewolf or the skanky-aquatic from the ‘ick’ lagoon.

In my younger days, I was often jealous of and felt inferior to the cool monsters. I wasn’t gruesome looking. I wasn’t big. I didn’t have an eerie laugh. Certainly no one made an effort to get out of my way, or avert their face when I walked into a room. Faces did not pale before me; women did not swoon.

I think I really wanted them to swoon. Women. That’s where I think it might have started. My jealousy of others. My ambition. I wonder if I’m only thinking that way because of what I’ve been through. I’m ahead of the real story.

This isn’t only a confession. This is the truth.

I’m a monster. If you’re reading this, you probably are too.

Mistakes happen. Life itself may be a mistake. On the other hand, perhaps monsters are the natural order and the winners just write the history. It would be funny if humans’ winning for centuries was unnatural.

Well people die. From what I know, humans kill humans more often than monsters do. Regardless, it has small bearing on the things that went before the moment Randy Zhang was born.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again, so I’ll just start.

It was a weird mistake.

You practice your vocation. You do something a hundred times. Even knowing how important each element is, you’re never perfect. You try. I was good at my job; better than most.

I always wore protection; hands laminated in medical latex, eyes warded behind goggles. My lab smock was the oversized kind with the heavy ties. That’s not what the coroner’s office issues as standard. I bought it myself from a specialty catalog. I used to be an avid catalog customer, and even though the tools of my trade haven’t changed much in a hundred years, I don’t like to be complacent about my work.

Ever.

There were no signs I missed. I’m not sure how much it mattered after all. Normal procedure; I used a power saw to open the corpse’s head. There shouldn’t have been any fluids under pressure in the head or, if there were, I should have seen something odd. Pressure behind the eyes would have been obvious. There’s nothing in the textbooks to describe what happened.

Catastrophe. Everywhere. The blade opened the cranium and the blood and muck went everywhere like a broken hydrant. Blessed virgin, the cold wash of it, heavy in my hair, dripping from my chin. I didn’t scream.

Couldn’t.

When something like that happens, the first rule is keep your mouth shut. If some fluid gets in your mouth, you can figure that you’ve swallowed it. It’s a reflex.

As the black liquid dropped from my hair, my forehead, dashed behind the goggles and touched my lashes, I slammed my eyelids closed and ran blind to the safewash. Our lab, not new by any stretch, still had an industrial wash. I hit my hip on something in passing. Staggering, my hands found the rough block wall and I groped silently to the wash’s pull chain. The wooden handle tight in hand, I yanked.

Pure ice-cold water pounded me from above, colder than the devil’s own touch. I still didn’t scream, though it was a near thing. I shook. I vibrated under the icy water; unbelievably cold, slathering me, spilling into my clothes, soaking through every layer. It was worse than burning, worse than swimming naked in a mountain stream, far worse than the time my roommate, Sara Heiss, and I were locked overnight in the corpse freezer in third-year medical school. We lived until morning; survived the night wrapped in each other’s arms—so groggy with the cold that even our morbid jokes were lethargic.

Under the icy spray I sucked hard at my gums and didn’t scream.

Didn’t care about the alarm ringing. Never saw the red light strobing above the safewash. So numb that I didn’t feel the hands pulling me out of the wash, folding large canvas tarps around me, wet drowned thing that I was.

I passed out.

Thought I did.

When my mind thawed, I was hopping from foot to foot, hoping it would warm me up enough to qualify as living.

Our admin, Zu Chan, chased the gibbering bystanders out of the lab. She went to the morgue thermostat and cranked the setting up.

I gasped through chattering teeth. “Don’t. Bot. Her. Dis. Con. Nec. Ted.”

Throwing up her hands, she uttered a stream of street profanity about Hong Kong’s lack of yen—specific to the City Coroner’s Office. The city elders were still feeling out the power connections with the suspicious bureaucrats of China. I laughed nervously, for the first time aware that Zu had a gutter-mouth.

She threw back her long raven hair and stamped back to me with a spare labcoat. “Clothes off, Dr. Zhang. What happened?”

I swallowed and even that simple movement was broken into jitters by the intense shivering. At the age of thirty-two, I’d never been undressed in front of another woman. “Can’t.”

She cursed something I pretended not to understand. Where had our pretty administrator learned such behavior?

Then she tossed the tarp off my shoulders. Strong and determined, she began pulling off my labcoat. I thought I had been very clear. I wouldn’t allow that. But my hands, so numb, were also too cramped for me to get a fighting purchase my clothes. I gave up, waiting for the hot flush of embarrassment. Hoping it would bring some warmth.

No, I got colder as my blouse, skirt, bra, and all the rest went in a sopping pile on the sealed concrete floor. My hose were too wet to pull off. I still had my shoes.

Bewildered, I saw that all of it was stained black from the blood. Black and as streaked as a night of terrible storms. As if I had been submerged in liquid darkness instead of sprayed with a bit of blood. My stomach rolled with nausea. Impossible amount of black. My quick calculations of how much blood volume must have doused me to create that black were just another thing that couldn’t be right. The petite woman I’d been working on couldn’t hold that much blood, even if she’d had both her arms.

Zu threw the labcoat over my shoulders and rubbed at my cold white flesh. Hot. If only there was heat.

Chan grimaced. Her hand shifted to my left breast and her palm brisked the white flesh. “If only there was heat.” Her voice was husky and strained. She shook her head ‘no’ at something I couldn’t guess.

A muscle twitched in her cheek and her expression seemed to say that she found my slender lack of curves almost as unattractive to touch as a standing corpse. I nodded and shivered. Heat. Shame. She shouldn’t be touching me, but if she stopped, I might fall down and die with the shivering cold.

Zu Chan looked into my face and smiled when I lowered my eyes. She chuckled. “I shouldn’t be doing this, eh? Or this?”

Her other hand cupped lower, fingers tucking between my legs. Zu slowly ground her strong hand in the wet hair of my hose-covered mound. I gasped, expecting flames to burn across my cheeks, expecting tears to shower from my eyes. I was cold with the mortification.

But there was no heat.

Bold now with my lack of resistance, Zu rubbed me harder. “Kiss me, Zhang, or I’ll stop rubbing you.”

No. Too cold. Don’t stop. I didn’t resist as she kissed my trembling lips.

“You can’t stop me. You puny little thing. So cold and weak.” Her fingers probed deeper and somehow found arousal in my slit. Blessed virgin, I’d never felt such humiliation. The shivering went wild but there was no heat in what she did though my nerves were bleating with iced pleasure.

I glanced up to see such fire in her expression that for just a moment, I was hungry to share it. My blood slowed into chilled sludge. Then I passed out.

Thought I did.

Could be I didn’t want to remember the next part. Zu pushed me down on the cold concrete floor. Her panicked look back at the doors to the lab. Her greed. Her heat. My cold shame. My weak protests.

And numbly watching her fingers tear the crotch out of her stockings so she could ride my face. Her hot wet womanhood smeared on my cold lips. Blessed virgin, I swear it was the heat I needed. Nothing more. The sweet heat my body craved. I resisted the evil of it. I know I did. I wanted nothing of the lust or flavored juices that she forced into my nose and mouth.

No. Why would I want to remember it? Yes. I tried to black out then. I tried to make it all go away. But she orgasmed on me. Used me twice so quickly I was amazed. And it was hot. I could tell she was so hot and I wanted just the smallest bit of it. She used me and I wanted some for myself.

That was bad. I’ve prayed about it but can’t forget how cold I was and how much I wanted some of that sweet warmth. She knew. She knew she could.

Zu cried out as she came. “I love face-riding my Randy Zhang. I force myself on her nose and mouth. Zhang is a cold eel for my hot box.”

Of course I told no one. A word from Zu Chan and I would lose my job. Everyone would laugh at an administrator using me like a street whore. Worse, I would lose my reputation, my position. The city wasn’t big enough. Every doctor in Hong Kong would talk about it: Rui Zhang fornicating in her morgue.

The shame might kill me. Should have killed me. It didn’t. Monsters don’t die so easily.

I became Zu Chan’s sex beast. I became a thing and could not look at myself in mirrors. And Chan’s uses of me grew in perversion. Then she told others at the morgue about me after all. I was appalled. Interns could use me freely. I tried to end it then, but somehow, Chan was always stronger. I would get cold and she would heat me up again. After months of being groped, pawed and fucked, I started calling in sick. I couldn’t think straight.

So Zu Chan brought the night cleaning-crew to my apartment. They made me do things that hurt more than Chan alone. Over and over, through an entire night, I served them like an animal. It came to me then, that somehow, I must be something less than human.

I stopped going to work at all. Later that month, I was fired.

I remember Zu Chan’s whisper as I left with my last check. “Good work, whore, with no job you can only live by eating my sex. I own you now, Randy.”

Numb and cold, I knew she was capable of anything. And I would do it, hating each moment, but having no mind to end it, I would be whatever she wanted me to be. Aroused, I walked away from my career and past.

I left Hong Kong that day. Running.

Ten years later and I’m still running. I’ve seen a lot of the world. Somehow I’m always discovered. Someone always gives me a certain glance—a once-over. Then they put a hand on me, discreetly, of course. When I try to shake them off, it turns out I’m leaning into it like I want it. They’ve hooked me.

So they pinch me, sometimes they want it in public, or to rub me to arousal, or take me to some nearby set of shadows to put me on my knees so my mouth can pleasure them.

I’ve gotten quite experienced, I must admit. It doesn’t feel like pride.

Lord, do they love to change me. Everyone wants something different: hair dyed blonde, or red, black clothing, or something white and virginal. I’ve been pierced and then un-pierced only to be pierced again in some new distant city. I heal so well, even tattoos fade. The films and videos I’ve been put in. Who needs to act the slut when you’re every person’s puppet? The money I could have made if any of it stayed in my hands might have freed me.

Ten years now of meeting more people who recognized what I was. After Chan, I can remember a lot of them well. The pretty rich girl who dressed me head to toe in tight leotard, only to douse me in rubber cement and fuck my ass with her fingers. She does porn herself now. The dentist who planned to spend twelve thousand American making my tits the size of soccer balls until his wife found out. I think he ended up in an institution. The psychologist I went to for help, who was so sure I was lying that he made me clean floors with my tongue to ‘prove’ what I wouldn’t do. His license was pulled when he did the same to his next patient. The financier who insisted I walk and talk like a machine. Got caught making love to a mannequin. The traffic cops I suck off without even being asked. Who cares where they are now? The homeless women who snap their fingers and move my body like I’m on strings. Sometimes I recognize them as socialites that used me years ago. The housewives leading me on a leash into their backyards to piss, or watching me while the family dog humps me. Most divorced later.

I’m hot for all of it. It rips my soul to tell you how much I need it.

I still wonder why I bother to live. Yet always some survival instinct kicks me to running again at the darkest moment. The groups scenes get to be too much. They always want to take it to another level. Ravers get creative. Something worse always occurs to them. I fear mobs, whether they have torches and pitchforks, or just briefcases and laptops.

But I have no choice. My mind is not my own. You know what I mean. You’re reading this and using your fingers. How hot is it?

Just like this, writing it down for you, because you want it so bad. Feeling myself up and typing. Fingering my ass and making a complete story of it because you want me to share my depravity with the world. Another level, yes, the whole internet, with my email and phone number and everything here for everyone to have. Sitting here in the dark library masturbating and typing a public confession for the Erotic Mind Control Archive. Sending it to Mr. Sinister, so that everyone in the world can read it. Making my hell into a fictional turn-on for you and your masturbating friends. God, it’s so hot.

Oh. Yes, faster now? Of course.

My muscles so tight. Pinch myself? Um. I can feel you bending my thoughts over backward. I don’t know if I can—

Please—ow, yes, oh lord, uh, yes, I can.

all right i’m using my tongue on the keyboard now so i can get both hands in my sex...have you cum yet?

Have you, my liege, my one and only reason to exist? Have you cum yet? May I lick it up?

I’m an unlucky monstrosity; used wherever I go, a partner warped to your personal will. I’m the perfect kink girl. I bend where others break.

Now what you wanted is done; each reader shares the heat you forced on me. I’m a monster. If you’re reading this, you probably are too.

Unlucky me.

Lucky you.