The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jeanne woke in the night—lying in the room that had become a prison to her, though it was only a simple bedroom in Calla’s house. This was the only room in which she was conscious—in which she was aware. The room Calla deposited her in when she was not conditioning her; not controlling her. The only room in which Jeanne’s mind was free.

In every other room of Calla’s home, Jeanne was a slave, with Calla’s other slaves, and she was becoming more of a slave as each day went by. She could not remember what happened when she was under Calla’s irresistible control. None of Calla’s slaves could—it was a quirk of hers, she liked to deny them all basic memory.

But in this room, Jeanne was not a faceless slave, being brainwashed into deeper obedience. In this room, where she was permitted to sleep and restore herself (only so she would be fresh for further use later, she thought, bitterly) she was Jeanne. She was her old self—if she stepped out the door into the waiting hallway, she would cease to be Jeanne. The simple act of stepping across the threshold would drop her. It was a trigger that Calla put into the heads of all her girls, to make sure none of them could escape while they were in their free minds. While their free minds still existed—Jeanne knew eventually each girl’s original self was worn away to nothing, and sent into non-existence. But Calla took her time, breaking them all down slowly, so as to be thorough—and so, in the time between capture and first indoctrination, and the destination of total absence of self and permanent mindlessness, failsafes were required.

Even as Jeanne lay there, she knew how much of an effect Calla’s conditioning had had on her already. Just thinking of Calla’s thorough control, just imagining true mindlessness, and missing identity was enough to turn Jeanne on so much that she wanted to touch herself. But she was in her free mind, which meant that at least this time, she still had a choice. The decision was hers to make, and she would not masturbate to the thought of becoming another one of Calla’s mindless nothings.

Though the fact that she wanted to was proof that Calla’s control had already gotten this deeply into her, and that was a grim realization.

She reassured herself with fictions of comfort: it was alright, it was all going to be alright, because Calla hadn’t thought of everything. Despite what the scripts that she carefully wrote into each one of her slave’s minds said, she wasn’t perfect. And she certainly wasn’t infallible.

If Jeanne stepped out her bedroom door, over the threshold into the hallway, she knew what would happen—in spite of the general ban on memory that Calla upheld, for some reason she had wanted Jeanne to know this, even if she couldn’t exactly remember it ever happening to her before.

She would step across the threshold, and be triggered by that waiting trigger in her head. Then she would stay standing there until someone came for her. Jeanne knew this too, but couldn’t remember how—Calla had cameras set up all through her house, and a guard station that watched their feeds at all hours, manned by whichever slaves she had put on duty.

And they would know when Jeanne opened the door that she had tried to resist, had tried to escape. And they would see her standing there, just outside her on door, staring into the nothing she was already becoming. Blank, without thought; Jeanne-less, not Jeanne… then they would send a slave or two to gather her up and take her into a conditioning room. Somewhere where the obedience would be external, externally surrounding her, and drilling itself inside, washing her over and over, and she would be made to masturbate to it there.

There, it would not be her choice, for she would not be herself. She would be just another one of Calla’s slaves, taken in for training, touching herself as she saw obedience spin in a visual, and so spin its way into her mind—or heard it drone in a series of notes, and so hear it playing in her mind… and what started as external would creep inside of her, slowly becoming internal with each spinning touch of pleasure she’d been instructed to give herself… she would be left there, in a state of reinforcement and training until there was some other instruction for her to obey, or some other place for her to be led. Then she would do that, or be taken there. Until then she would masturbate obedience into herself; and whether she stayed in that training room, or was led elsewhere, she would remember nothing, and would not resurface as Jeanne until she crossed the threshold of her bedroom again.

There were more grim realizations for Jeanne to face. She knew that each of these things would happen if she tried to leave her room through the door. But knowing each one in turn turned her on with more power, as her understanding advanced. The arousal she’d felt first when she’d reflected briefly on Calla’s power, then the arousal she’d felt at the thought of being a mindless nothing… it was still in her now, but it had increased in temperature with the other thoughts she’d followed in sequence.

First, the thought of being triggered by crossing the threshold. That there was a trigger in her mind, lying there dormant, all the time, and that it was so irresistible to her, that she had been so conditioned into that when it triggered, it would throw everything out of her mind and erase her into blankness. That thought made her want to clench her thighs.

But then the thought of the slave-guard at her station, watching the feeds, seeing Jeanne erased, and blank, and only able to stand there until claimed—that turned her on more. She reminded herself that it was her choice to masturbate still, while she was still herself—and she wouldn’t—but she wanted to, even more than she had before. She knew how slick she would be under her own hand.

But Jeanne would be blank, and erased—slick and obedient, almost like she was right now—and the slave-guard would see, would maybe judge her and laugh at her weakness, had maybe seen the same thing happen a thousand times to other slaves who’d tried to escape earlier in their ongoing recruitment.

And maybe the slave-guard on duty would think all those things, and maybe she would think them and be simultaneously deepened by seeing Jeanne stand there, erased. Because maybe Calla had left that as a trigger in the slave-guard’s head—and the thought of that made Jeanne gasp when she felt the thought’s accompanying wave of arousal.

Maybe, when the slave-guard saw Jeanne freeze and stiffen, their mind would be erased too, and they would thoughtlessly be compelled to act, and dispatch the two other slaves to collect Jeanne. Just the way that when Jeanne was triggered, she’d be compelled to stand still and wait.

It was getting really hard not to touch herself, and she hadn’t even finished retracing her last train of thought. Even when she was awake, she couldn’t divorce herself from the idea of seeing Calla’s control as sexy. And the more absolute the control the sexier. The conditioning had gone deep enough that it could still touch her mind when she was awake. And that was grim to know too. If she ever did escape one day, it was very hard to imagine undoing what had been done to her.

But the thought that most aroused her; and aroused her the more, the longer that she went on thinking of it, was the thought of being taken into that room to be conditioned. To be made to kneel with obedience in the air all around her, driving in, and making itself a place inside of her—and all of this guided on by the compelled stroking of her own hand. The thought of the pleasure further emptying her, and helping the conditioning to come in, and nest inside of her.

She bunched her fist in the blankets. She was not going to touch herself.

But though she knew the future sequence of events that would follow from attempting escape through the door—because for some reason Calla wanted her to know them, she had left them in her head when she had taken everything else out—Calla wasn’t perfect, or infallible, as Jeanne had been thinking and reassuring herself earlier. Jeanne was going to escape tonight.

There was a window in her room, and no such drop-trigger existed for it.

She’d had enough of lying in place and thinking; she understood now she had been procrastinating. She’d been too afraid to try and fail—what would she do if she realized her waking mind had been touched enough by Calla’s conditioning that she didn’t want to go? She would despair.

But she had to try now; she’d run through every train of thought that had occurred to her—and for some reason—it had almost felt like a compulsion—she had not been able to think of escaping until she’d completed each thought’s track. But now that she had, they’d freed her, and she could think of it. She had to escape—she had to try.

She got up from the bed, fearing the appearance of sudden difficulty—fearing that she would become suddenly immobilized at the first step towards disobedience, even without the drop trigger. Or that her free self would lapse back into slavery, and she would be erased again.

None of these things happened; she stood as freely as she’d thought while she’d lain in bed, and walked to the window with no difficulty.

Once at the window, she opened it, and looked down. Her bedroom was on the second floor, but the drop didn’t look far. She didn’t think she’d be hurt. Even if she would be hurt, it was better to risk injury than stay here, anyway. Dropping from the window might sprain an ankle—or break a leg—but staying in this house would eventually annihilate her. Injury was preferable to death.

Jeanne watched herself closely, like an external observer—looking for any hint of obedience rising in her. She was still turned on, still wished to masturbate.

If she really did get free, she could masturbate later, and cry about it. The tears would be from her slave self, crying for the loss of slavery, the loss of Calla’s control, crying at being forced to leave Calla’s house behind her. Crying at the inability to be a slave anymore.

And maybe the tears would be hers —the free self’s —a little too. Crying at how much Calla had already changed her, and that she could never change back. Crying that, the fate she’d struggled so hard to escape, and now had, still turned her on.

And she felt grimly about this too—but though the obedience, the hunger for orgasm was there, there was no hesitation in her that made her balk at the open window. She easily slung a leg out of it, and made herself to sit on the window ledge.

There was a bright moon out tonight—it illuminated the lawn outside Calla’s house. It was a wide long, that stretched almost a mile long, over to the expanse of forest that was on this side of Calla’s property. There had to be forest paths in there—Calla had no direct road access to her property, but there had to be access somewhere. She had certain slaves leave and return again on supply runs. The forest was the best bet for roads, however roundabout, that would lead to civilization eventually. And when Jeanne reached civilization, she could find a more direct method of travel than walking, and get even further away from Calla, so she could never be found or recaptured again.

She’d walk all that way on a broken ankle or leg if necessary. Civilization had hospitals too; and once she was far away, she could get herself admitted to one. She wouldn’t admit herself to one so nearby—it would be one of the first places Calla would think to check when considering recapture. She had the determination, in her free mind, to walk all that way on broken parts, and suffering that kind of agony. She was ready.

She pushed off of the windowsill with a shove of her hands, and fell downwards. She thought briefly of what it had been like to fall into trance, before—in the earlier stages of conditioning, when she’d been a new recruit. That moment of streaking down, that moment of feeling suspended in the air, free of gravity, above everything—the perfection of it—

She feared memories like these would haunt her free life forever.

She landed in a crouch—she had not broken or sprained anything, so the determination that would have supported her weight on broken limbs was unnecessary. It had perhaps been enough to prepare her to jump, though, so it had been worth it. And though she had remembered trance with a half-twist of longing, she was still herself. There had not been some lurking re-enslavement trigger waiting in her head, as she’d feared. She was still free—and now she was really free—free to walk, or run, across Calla’s lawn.

She turned to look back at Calla’s house, bathed in the midnight blue shadows of the darkness, which obscured the fact that it was a faint golden color. There were no lights on in any windows; just as Calla’s cameras were all in the hallways, and not in any of her slave’s rooms. No one knew she had just gone out the window—no one was looking for her yet. As far as they all knew, she was sleeping in her bed. Or lying awake and hating Calla with what little freedom she had left, but nevertheless tacitly obeying by staying in the place she’d been left, until they came back to get her again.

No one was looking for her yet. But they could come at anytime; an order might be issued for her, and dispatched slaves might come into her room to get her, and drag her across the threshold, to make her amenable to obeying it. When they came they would find she was not there; then they would search. And if she was not far enough away, they would catch her, and force her to undergo further conditioning.

Then the next time she woke up, she would wake in a room that had a barred window. She couldn’t afford to delay—this would be her only chance. If she was caught, there would never be another.

Though even after attempting escape, she knew Calla would not accelerate her conditioning. Would not erase her in one quick move, as punishment. She would stick to her planned timetable—that was how Calla operated, and thinking of Calla and the way that she was, made devotion flutter in her, and arousal slicken her slit—even when she was free.

She started to run.

The moonlight was bathing the grass of Calla’s run. It was only now that she was out here in the cold that she realized she was naked; when she reached civilization eventually, she would not be able to blend in. It would be clear that she was in need of help. Maybe she could get someone to take her in—and clothe her—and maybe she would have to keep her latent obedience in check, and restrain herself from worshipping them just in return for their basic aid.

Maybe, once they helped her, they would take her to the police; and maybe, even if she was reluctant too, she could lead them back to Calla’s house.

She’d only have to hope she didn’t die of exposure, running naked out here, before she reached civilization.

She’d forgotten she was naked. But even if she’d remembered, there would have been no clothes to wear out of there. Calla’s slaves didn’t require clothing, from Calla’s (divine, perfect, all-knowing!) perspective.

She’d caught the slave thought that had crept in, but ignored it. As long as she was able to run—and she was—slave-thoughts didn’t alarm her. She’d have to live with them. Maybe, someday, when she was far enough away from all of this, she could get someone to help her with them, too. Or maybe not; but as long as she was free, that was good enough for her.

The grass was soft beneath her toes—she was about halfway across the lawn now, and she could see the very edge of the forest. If she squinted, she could almost see something that looked like the start of a trail. Or a road.

Maybe it was only an imagined oasis—a mirage in her desert—but it motivated her to run harder, and she drove herself by pure strength of will (such as it was—whatever remained of it after all Calla had done to her).

She thought of jumping out of the window as she ran—she thought of falling down to the earth. She thought of trance. It was a long run, and she needed distraction.

Trance. It was like she had been forced to forget all about it until the opportune moment, and then she had been permitted to remember. Trance was blissful—calming—serene—as sexy as being fucked, but so much more peaceful. So much more stimulating, even as it relaxed her. There was no relaxation like the kind trance could give—

She’d just thought a whole string of thoughts about trance that sounded suspiciously like prepared scripts. They sounded like something Calla had penned into her head with her own handwriting. That was alarming; only because now Jeanne was afraid again, afraid that these thoughts would turn her around and steer her into running back towards the house instead of away from it. She would pound on the door, they would come for her, they would take her to be conditioned and put bars on her windows.

No, it was only a foolish fear. She was still running—three-quarters of the way across the lawn now. Shivering as she felt the air against her naked skin, shivering as she felt it tickle her slit. She was still moving and that was all that mattered.

But she would never be entranced again; would never have that delicious sensation of falling through weightlessness. Nor would she have the feeling of being dropped into trance again and again, each successive drop taking her deeper and deeper—fucking her mind harder and harder, and yet never showing a trace of this power on Jeanne’s surface…

She was gushing as she ran now, and her heart was aching. She craved to be entranced. If there was anyone with her now, she would submit to their entrancement; even if it meant knowing she would be taken back into the house. And if she found anyone in the world outside this place who could entrance, she would submit to them, even if they would do something to her like Calla had, or worse. She was a slut for trance—she had to have it, and it felt less like she was running towards freedom now, and more like she was desperately searching in the night for an entrancer.

She was crying slave’s tears now, though her mind was still free. It was in her free mind that she felt these things, and that was most disturbing of all. Calla had gotten that deeply into her; it seemed, now, that there was no getting her out.

Trance—trance—if only she could have trance—she wished there was someone here who could give it to her—

She’d run into someone.

It was Calla.

She couldn’t be here—it made no sense—she would have sent a team of slaves out to get Jeanne back.

But she was there, and Jeanne couldn’t care how, or stop to try and make sense of the senseless. Jeanne had knocked into her, fallen at her feet, and now cried at the base of Calla’s stance openly.

“Please,” she croaked. “Please, put me in a trance.”

Calla drew Jeanne up with a soft grip on either arm. “Drop, and understand where you are.”

Jeanne dropped, letting out a croak of desperate relief; the kind of sound one made when quenching a deadly thirst in the desert.

She felt the grass against her bare legs, where she knelt. Felt the moonlight shining on her, the cold hair brush over her—and saw the edges of everything bleed.

She wasn’t outside; she’d never left the house. She was kneeling at Calla’s feet, in Calla’s bedroom, and she had been there, in trance, the whole time.

Calla had taken her in for direct one-on-one conditioning. She often used that tactic, along with all her other built in systems of control, but Jeanne had not been allowed to remember that until just now.

Now she was deep—she was in trance, under control, and understood perfectly. Calla used the same fantasy over and over to erode Jeanne’s identity: each time Calla dropped her into trance, she launched Jeanne into it. And it always ran through the same way. Jeanne waking in her bed, thinking the same thoughts, and getting turned on by them—then going out the window, running across the lawn, until she finally found Calla standing three-quarters of the way down the lawn, and begged to be dropped again.

It all played out in Jeanne’s mind—it had been installed in there to unfold itself, and all Calla had to do was trigger Jeanne into it, and wait for Jeanne to resurface, and beg for her next dropping.

In the meantime, this time, while Calla had been waiting on Jeanne, she’d had another one of her slaves between her legs, licking—Jeanne thrilled in her trance to think that her internal battle had brought Calla pleasure to witness.

Each time the fantasy of escape played through, it conditioned Jeanne to want it less—to want captivity more—and to crave her next dropping more desperately. She’d already been dropped countless times that night; had already run countless times that night; but she was eager for it to happen again—it felt like a tongue-bath on her clit.

Calla had not been standing, as Jeanne had envisioned in her dream of escape, but lying reclined on her bed as one of her slaves licked at her. And now that Jeanne had begged, and completed the installed fantasy narrative—Calla was looking at her, and considering her.

“Drop again,” Calla said, and Jeanne’s body jerked in response. She’d just been dropped less than a second ago, to pull her out of the narrative. Now, she’d been dropped to be put back into it. And in each run through of the narrative she’d deepened, too; each portion of it that she completed took her deeper. It was not a narrative, so much as a series of perfectly cascading triggers, one building on the next, each one deepening her. A series of dominoes—or cogs built to turn. And Jeanne was perfectly programmed to follow through. Calla had programmed her that perfectly.

“You’ve just woken up,” Calla said, launching her, and Calla’s voice was already fading away—her bedroom was fading away—

Jeanne woke in the night. Tonight was different. Tonight, she would escape.