The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The sound of popular music drifting down the hall told her she was approaching the main office. The secretaries always had the radio playing. The office was actually a suite of small, interconnected rooms, with the Director’s big office in the back. His door was closed.

Clara, the oldest of the secretaries, was working on something in the photocopying room. The machine hummed and flashed. Clara’s hips swayed back and forth with the music. She was sort of dancing to the tune as she pushed buttons and loaded paper. “Hi DeeDee!” she cried happily, when she saw her.

DeeDee smiled. “Hi Clara. How are you doing today?”

“How am I doing? How am I doing?” Clara responded, dancing her way over to stand in front of her. “I’m doing fab-u-lus!” Star-shaped earrings on long chains swayed like pendula as she danced. “DeeDee you are a genius!”

DeeDee smiled again. “Any cravings?”

She shook her head wildly. “Not a one. It’s like I never smoked at all! And I tried so many times to quit before. That gizmo of yours is amazing. Hey, like my new boots?” She was sort of dancing in place now, standing still but swaying and grooving to the music.

“They’re very pretty,” DeeDee replied. “You look good in pink.”

“Thanks! Got’em yesterday from a little shop off Downing Street. I love ’em!”

The boots in question were indeed pink. They were also skin-tight and thigh-high, with transparent platform heels. The bright material clung lovingly to Clara’s mature curves, inviting the eye to admire the length and swoop of her legs. She didn’t seem to mind the heels.

“That’s what you say about every new pair.”

“I know, and it’s always true!” She was dancing again, making the stars swing. There were matching stars on her bracelets.

DeeDee grinned. “How many have you got now?”

“Seventeen! Way cool, huh?” She danced her way over to the photocopier and started removing copies. The tight pink miniskirt she was wearing telegraphed the sexy undulations of her asscheeks.

One day shortly after DeeDee’s Chair helped Clara quit smoking for good, she strutted into work with a pair of black stretch thigh-highs on her legs and a silly grin on her face. She caused quite a sensation. She explained excitedly that finally losing her nicotine addiction was so freeing she felt almost giddy. She needed to do something fun and impulsive to celebrate: hence the expensive leather stretching up her still-shapely legs.

Both the sexy boots and the silly grin had been pretty much permanent fixtures ever since. Clara fancied herself something of a collector. She had decided too that since the upward-flowing lines of the tall boots was what made them so attractive, covering even an inch or two was missing the point. That problem was solved by a new wardrobe of hip-riding hemlines, often tight and stretchy, with carefully matched hose to smooth the transition between skirt and boot.

DeeDee sometimes wondered if Clara’s enthusiasm was quite normal. Then she thought about the array of shoes and boots spilling out of her closet at home, not to mention the half-dozen emergency pairs under her desk in the lab. She decided on a more tactful reply.

“Don’t you get tired of wearing like, the same style every day?”

“That’s the beauty of it! I’ve got like a dozen different colours and stuff. Every pair is different.”

“Sure, but you can’t wear thigh boots all the time. Can you?”

The happy secretary waved a hand. “Aw, that’s what my kids say.”

“What about your husband?”

Her grin grew a little sly. “Rodney doesn’t mind. Sometimes I wear my boots to bed.”

DeeDee giggled. She stepped into the adjoining room, where Murial, another assistant, was typing away at her computer. She appeared to be working on one of the Director’s endless memoranda. A younger woman was seated in a comfortable chair with her knees crossed, lazily paging through a woman’s magazine. She looked up as DeeDee came in. “Hiiiii,” she drawled.

The word could have been a greeting or a self-description. The girl was one of the Director’s assistants; DeeDee could never remember her name. Unlike the professional outfits most of the staff wore to work (DeeDee still considered her little minis professional attire, even though she had to sit down carefully), the assistant was wearing an elaborately girlish set designed to make her look even younger. Her cotton miniskirt was pink and flippy, held around her hips with a drawstring tie. She wore a tight-fitting white half-top above it, designed to provocatively display the pink bikini-style bra underneath. Glossy white stockings ended at mid-thigh, complementing the white patent platform maryjanes on her feet. Her armbands and the lacey bow in her dark hair were also white, like her long fingernails. The whole effect was like a child’s doll come to life—though children’s dolls rarely had tits like that.

It was an unusual way to dress for work, but DeeDee secretly admired the girl’s moxy. She had found a look all her own, the hot teenage sex-doll, and she wasn’t afraid to go with it. The girl smiled at her and blew a big bubble with her gum. DeeDee wondered briefly what qualifications the Director had seen in her.

The Director of the Myers Institute, a well-respected scientist in his own right, seemed to run the whole operation without ever leaving his office. To most of the scientists he existed largely as a signature on the bottom of memos. He emerged from time to time, like a groundhog testing the feeble warmth of March, to check up on things in his own laboratory before disappearing back in his office again. Somehow he kept a firm hand on the whole operation, while leaving the scientists enough freedom to do their work.

To encourage compliance with his unexpected decision to hire a fleet of new support staff, the Director had taken on a couple of assistants himself. Myra and the stoned little girly in the chair (Candy? Carla? Whatever) didn’t have much to do except sit around and look pretty, which they did very well. The Director took time out of his schedule every day to give one girl or the other a “training session” in his office. He took it seriously. The staff was under instruction not to disturb them while the door was closed.

Murial looked up from her work when she saw DeeDee. “Hey, here’s like the famous brain expert,” she joked. “Still having fun with your Chair?”

“Travis’s doing a test run,” DeeDee replied. “Becky volunteered.”

“I wondered why she hadn’t come back,” Murial said. She was a foxy blonde in a brief leather skirt and tight black sweater, chunky black shoes. DeeDee envied her generous chest.

“Can I like, volunteer too?” implored the little-girl assistant (What was her name? Crissy? Katie?) She sucked daintily on one little finger.

“Oh, and me!” cried Clara, standing in the doorway. She sort of danced into the room with a stack of papers in her arms. A few fell off. She didn’t appear to notice.

DeeDee said, “I’m like, sure there will be room for everybody. We need to test the Chair extensively.”

“Thank you so much,” Murial said warmly.

The sound of something falling over came from the Director’s office, followed by a string of giggles. “Oh, here’s something from the Director I think you will like,” Murial said. She pulled a sheet from the printer of her computer and handed it to DeeDee. She leaned on one hand and watched while DeeDee read it. She was wearing bright red lip gloss.

The page was another memorandum from the Director. It explained how, in response to widespread support for Dr. Lovesmore’s groundbreaking work, all the other scientists at the Institute had volunteered to transfer twenty per cent of their research funds into DeeDee’s account. The accounting office—the same people who now considered nail polish remover a legitimate expense—would make sure the transfers were safely buried in the books.

DeeDee read the memo several times. This was wonderful news. Collectively, this contribution would more than double her funding. She could get much more done. She could buy some new equipment, maybe even hire some more technical help. It was an act of stunning generosity by her colleagues, who normally guarded their research funds like a tiger defending her cubs. And yet . . . .

She remembered that the money transfer was originally Travis’s idea.

A bit of commotion at the door interrupted her thoughts. Becky had stumbled into the door frame on her way into the room. She looked slaked and spacey, as people always did after a session on the Chair. She was having trouble balancing on her platform boots. Her head lolled about like a bobble-dog in the back window of a car.

“Well, look who’s back,” Murial teased. “Did you have a good time, honey?”

“mmmmmmm, was fantastic,” Becky murmured. She giggled drunkenly. She wobbled into the room.

DeeDee looked at her watch. “Becky! Are you just finishing now? That’s . . . that’s far too long!”

Becky flopped heavily into a wheeled chair. She looked at DeeDee blearily. “Travis gave me extra loooonnnng seshion,” she explained. “Sooooo fun.” With another giggle she spun about on her chair, legs extended. “Wheeeee!” she shouted. DeeDee caught a glance up her skirt as Becky went spinning by. She didn’t see any underthings.

“I don’t think someone will get much work done today,” Clara said, laughing.

“I hope I can have a session, like, real soon,” said the baby-doll assistant. She adjusted one white stocking carefully.

“Mmmmm, you know it Carly,” (Aha!) Murial agreed whistfully. “That thing is totally perfect. My self-confidence is like, awesome!” She threw back her long hair and thrust her chest out proudly. Her sweater looked fit to burst. DeeDee sighed enviously. She knew from experience that Murial was likely now to start boasting about all the men she had bedded recently. Her divorce wasn’t even final yet. DeeDee decided to interrupt before she got started.

“Becky said there was a package here for me.”

“Was there? I don’t know (giggle). Oh, wait, yes, there was. Where is—here it is!” She held out a thick volume of soft-bound pages, the size of one of DeeDee’s specialty shoe catalogues. DeeDee took it curiously.

She turned it over. The book was the proceedings of the last annual meeting of the International Neuropsychology Society. DeeDee flipped through it casually. She had been hoping for a catalogue. She stopped at a page near the back. She studied it for a long time, ignoring the sex-laden chit-chat going on around her.

“That bastard!” she blurted.

Silence descended on the room. After a long pause, Clara said, “DeeDee are you all right?”

DeeDee hardly heard her. She was glaring at the picture on the page before her, as if it had personally insulted her. “That loathesome, disgusting bastard!” she spat.

The other women in the room stared at her in shock. Muffled grunting sounds came from behind the Director’s closed door.

DeeDee whirled about. “All sessions on the Chair are cancelled until further notice,” she said sternly. She stalked out of the room.

DeeDee arrived at her laboratory. Travis was sitting in front of one of the computer terminals, checking on data from Becky’s run in the Chair. He was twirling a pair of baby blue lace panties around one finger. He was grinning hugely.

DeeDee said: “Get away from there.”

He jumped. “What! Oh, uh DeeDee, hi. I was . . . I was . . . uh . . . reconfirming some results for you . . .” He hastily stuffed the little underthing in his shirt pocket. “Wouldn’t want give you unverified data. Quality control and—is something wrong?”

She stepped into the room, facing him squarely. “You have been using the Chair on me.”

“What? Why baby, I told you—”

“Shut up, you reeking bucket of pond scum. You have been using the Chair on me. On the rest of the staff. On everybody!”

“Baby that’s absurd. You know I couldn’t do anything untoward without someone noticing. Subjects remember everything that happens when they’re in the Chair.”

“Unless you set the second phase harmonics really high—combined with beta wave suppression, like you keep telling me we need to avoid feedback. Those settings produce temporary amnesia, don’t they? Not to mention a semi-conscious, trance-like state in which the subject is labile to external suggestions. That was what was so important in the missing set of notebooks, that you didn’t want me to see.

“The ones you stole.”

A look almost like panic registered on Travis’s face. He swallowed it quickly behind a mask of outrage. “Now look here, DeeDee—Dr. Lovesmore. I am a responsible scientist with a solid reputation—”

“You’re a clever computer nerd with a criminal record,” DeeDee corrected him. “You’ve been abusing my life’s work for your own profit and cheap sexual thrills. You’ve turned every woman in this Institute into an airheaded, sex-crazy bimbo!”

He held up both hands defensively. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. This is preposterous. We agreed to use Institute staff as subjects to save money. I expect some of the women have felt some increased self-confidence that has lead to a . . . certain penchant for glamour. But I will not stand here and let you accuse me of heinous things without a shred of proof or even . . . what’s that?”

He stepped forward to examine the book DeeDee was holding. She held it open to the page with the picture on it.

It was a picture of her.

It had been taken six months earlier, at the annual convention of the British Association for Brain Experimentation. She was standing on a stage before a banquet hall of middle-aged scientists, receiving the Outstanding Young Scientist Medal from the bearded president of the association. She grinned cheesily into the camera, holding up her new B.A.B.E. medal proudly.

The woman in the picture was her, but she looked very different. Her hair was short, frizzy, and its natural brown colour. She was wearing big round glasses and virtually no make-up. Clearly the picture had been taken before she started wearing blue-tinted contacts—and before she began spending an hour or more every morning making herself pretty.

Most telling of all, in the picture she was in slacks. She was wearing some sort of frumpy pantsuit, with a long, loose blouse thing on top and flat brown shoes she wouldn’t be caught dead in. Not now.

Travis looked at the picture glumly. The caption might as well have been his own death warrant. He started to say something, perhaps to protest his innocence. His jaw worked up and down but no words came out.

“That’s a picture of me,” DeeDee said. “The real me, before you started mucking about inside my head. Travis, how . . . how could you!”

He threw up his hands. “All right! All right! I have been using the Chair. You have me dead to rights. I’ve used the Chair on you. And, well, the rest of the professional staff too. Actually pretty much anybody who volunteered. Oh hell, I’ve been fucking up everybody, from the Director down to the cleaning staff.

“But . . . it’s not like you’re thinking. Or at least, it wasn’t. Not a first, anyway. I . . . I never set out to hurt anybody. I was trying to . . . you know, spice up the Institute a little. I guess I got carried away.”

“Carried away? Carried away? Travis, there’s a perfumed-lubricant dispenser in the lunch room.”

He cringed. “What are you going to do?”

“Well to begin with I’m going to sack your ass. Then I’m going to go tell the Director, and everyone else at the Institute, exactly what you have been up to. When I’m finished I’m going to make sure you go back to jail for a long, long time.”

“No! Wait, please, don’t do that! Don’t send me back to jail. Prison doesn’t agree with me. I really don’t want to go back there. It’s crowded and dirty and you can’t get a decent pint. Please, don’t do this to me Dr. Lovesmore.” He mopped his face with a kerchief, then realized it was Becky’s panties. He hastily stuffed it back in his pocket again.

He rallied gamely. “Look, on balance I haven’t really hurt anyone, have I?”

She gave him a withering look.

“Please, Dr. Lovesmore, you can’t send me back to prison. I can’t———wait, what about this: I’ll reverse the changes!”

She put her hands on her hips. “You know that’s not possible.”

“Oh but it is!” His voice was shrill with desperation. “Look, I’ll show you.” He used a key from his pocket to open one of the side panels beneath the Chair. He reached inside and withdrew two thick black notebooks. “I . . . uh, planted a suggestion that you would never think to look there,” he said, shooting her a guilty look. DeeDee glared at him.

Travis tossed the notebooks on a desk and opened one. Many new notes had been added since the last time DeeDee had seen it. He pointed to some figures on the page. “There, you see. I can’t exactly reverse all the suggestions, but I can reverse the memory loss. We can put any of the volunteers on the Chair and return their lost memories. They’ll know exactly what has been done to them, and they can decide themselves if they want to do anything else. Maybe some of them like themselves better as they are now—like the girls that have lost weight, I mean.”

DeeDee considered the figures. “That could work, I suppose,” she allowed.

Travis jumped on it. “Yes! Of course it will work. You know the neurological patterns better than anybody. Look, why not try it right now? You deserve to be the first to get straightened around. Then you can advise the others.”

She glared at him again. “Do you think I’m foolish?”

“Oh. Right. You don’t trust me. Right. Completely understandable. Wait! We’ll record it! I’ll get it all on tape!” He fairly leapt across the room to another storage closet. He withdrew an old video camera on a tripod. He quickly set it up in front of the Chair. “Look,” he urged, pointing through the viewfinder. “I’ll set it so you can see yourself and the primary monitor. You’ll be able to see everything that happens during the session. Completely safe. Afterward you can review the tape to be sure everything is proper.”

DeeDee considered it. She was still convinced that Travis should be sacked and brought up on who-knows-what charges, but he did seem genuine about wanting to set things right. Her inclination was to trust him, on the technical part at least. Travis always seemed to speak with such authority—about everything.

She came to a decision. “All right. We’ll try one quick session. Five minutes, no more. And if you so much as think about trying anything funny, so help me I’ll—”

“I’ll behave! I promise. You’ll have a complete record of the session, see?” He turned the video camera to record mode and showed her that the light was on. Everything seemed to be working. DeeDee checked the image through the viewfinder. Then she climbed onto the padded black fabric of the Chair. She watched Travis warily. He busied himself with the computers.

DeeDee settled back. She looked into the camera. Tiny server motors whined as two curved black panels closed gently across her temples. She worried briefly about the session mussing up her hair. She wondered if it was wise to let Travis try this procedure. Even now it seemed difficult to disagree with him. It was almost like she automatically believed everything he said.

She blinked. “Travis! Did you use the Chair to make me trust you?”

He grinned smugly from behind the bank of computer monitors. “Of course not, Baby. I’m just a naturally trustworthy fellow.”

DeeDee started to say something else. Travis hit a switch. Instead of speaking, DeeDee moaned as the first pulse of pleasure exploded like fireworks in her mind. Her last thought, before complete sexual abandon consumed her, was that she had forgotten to check whether the video camera had tape in it.

“Darling,” DeeDee said one afternoon. “There’s like, this thing I’ve been meaning to ask.”

She was reclining on the Chair in her laboratory, which doubled as a nice chaise lounge when it wasn’t being used. She carefully checked her hair and make-up in the big hand mirror she was holding.

DeeDee was dressed in her usual laboratory attire, a spotless white lab coat worn unbuttoned over sexy underthings, fishnet stockings, and simple white heels with long pointed toes. Today her underwear set was peach coloured. DeeDee thought the underwire bustier did wonderful things for her titties.

“What’s on your mind, Baby?” Travis asked. He was doing something with the computer, checking on her research account. DeeDee let him handle all that. As long as she had money for shopping, she wasn’t concerned. She trusted Travis absolutely.

She wound a lock of long blonde hair around one bejewelled finger. She said, “you haven’t, like, ever used the Chair to do something funny to me—have you?”

Travis looked up at her. He grinned.