The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Syd had expected a fun weekend on the Outer Banks, baking in the sun and enjoying the beaches before shore erosion made them vanish.

Instead she found herself in a room with two strange men, bound to a chair and gagged, with no notion where she was or how she’d ended up there.

The room seemed a bare kind of office, with only two armchairs by a coffee table and a desk in the far corner. Tall windows on the right had white blinds lowered all the way.

“Apologies for the unpleasantness.” said the older man. In his sixties, thin and balding, he stood across the room, arms folded in a relaxed manner. “I assure you, your discomfort will be short-lived. Oh, no, no.” As Syd’s eyes widened, he waved a hand. “I did not mean we plan to kill you, Miss Sheridan. Only that our treatment will ensure you do not remain frightened and uncomfortable for long.”

Treatment? Syd’s heart raced. What treatment? And how did he know her name?

Her head hurt, and the sour taste in her mouth reminded her of old hangovers from tailgating parties. Had they drugged her? With effort, she managed to remember driving on 95 with Lou—Lou!

Syd glanced around frantically: Lou wasn’t in the room. Only the two men, the older one and a brawny goon looming by her chair.

What had they done with Lou?

“I’m sure you have many questions,” said the man. “I always find that explaining things to our subjects helps smoothen the process; so let me enlighten you, briefly.”

He leaned into the desk, while Syd fought the restraints tying her wrists and ankles to the chair. They were made of thick plastic, and all she managed was to chafe her skin.

“Your friend Louise delivered you here on her way to the beach.” He smiled. “You look incredulous, Miss Sheridan. I believe you can agree that, as you’re already in my power, I stand to gain little by lying. I will tell you only the truth.”

Syd thrashed again against the thick bonds. His calm tone and the genuine amusement in his eyes made the whole situation even more surreally creepy. He sounded like a friendly high school teacher—except he was explaining to her her own kidnapping!

And Lou... Now that she thought about it, what did she really know about Lou? They’d met at a convenience store, for crying out loud. But Lou had seemed so—nice.

“Don’t judge Louise too harshly,” the man said. “As you’ll soon understand, she was only obeying orders. She was instructed to befriend you in that store two months ago and do everything to gain your trust and make you available to us for two weeks.” He shrugged at Syd’s surprise. “Yes: your schedule at the salon will not allow such long absence. We had to adjust our plan. It’s not ideal, but a weekend will have to do.”

Do for what? Syd wanted to scream. But all that came through the gag was a hoarse, pained whimper.

“Since we have so little time, I will shorten my explanation. Louise drugged the gas station coffee you picked up, and she drove you here. In two days, she’ll return to drive you back, and you’ll both tell everyone what a fun beach trip you had.”

Would they? Syd gritted her teeth. If he truly wouldn’t kill her, she’d walk out of here eventually. Then she’d make him pay—and Lou, too. Syd knew enough club bouncers and night guards to teach her kidnappers a bruising lesson.

“As to why we want you—you’re an entry point, Miss Sheridan. Like Louise. We need access to a difficult target, and it’s been determined that you’re our best point of contact. So we used Louise to acccess you, and we’ll use you to access one of your clients. Don’t worry about which one. It won’t matter to you.”

Syd stared at him. Her clients? Sure, Lulu’s Salon served many well-to-do high society ladies...but surely their enemies could afford a better accomplice than a hairdresser’s assistant! Syd barely spoke to Lulu’s clients; her role was usually shampoo and rinse and sweep the hair off the floor...

“You see,” the man went on, “my business here is reshaping psyches. Clients hire us with a target in mind, and we deliver within three months. The usual treatment only takes a couple of weeks, really—but making the target safely available for those weeks requires planning. In this case, for instance, we had to recruit two more subjects, Louise and yourself...”

Syd shivered at his casual use of the word ‘subjects’. Resharping pysches—the man truly was mad.

Yet they’d already drugged her. They could do it again. Syd had seen enough drugs mess up people’s heads. And tied to a damned chair, what could she do against it? Nothing.

She moaned deep in her throat and struggled again, but the chair restraints held fast.

“Truly, you needn’t fear. In fact—please remove the gag.” The man addressed for the first time the goon behind her. “Miss Sheridan, you can scream, but no one in this building will care, and you’ll only hurt your throat.”

Syd screamed anyway, as soon as the gag was out, until her throat was raw and she choked on her own tears. The goon put a glass of water to her lips. Syd swallowed eagerly—then spat it out.

“It’s just water,” said the old man, who’d listened calmly to her screams. “I don’t put much stock in chemical manipulation—not for the sort of subtle effects I seek. The drugged coffee was merely a convenient way for Louise to deliver you. I don’t plan to drug you, going forward.”

Syd still wanted to spit the water in his face. But if she had to put up with whatever mad ‘treatment’ he had in store, she stood a better chanche if she wasn’t starved and dehydrated.

She let the goon tip the water glass into her mouth, then asked for another. When that was done, she looked down at her wrists.

“The restraints are hurting me. Can’t you undo them? Like you said, I have nowhere to run.”

The older man smiled again, that chilling, knowing smile. “They won’t hurt you in about, oh, fifteen minutes or so.”

Syd shivered. What was he planning to do to her in fifteen minutes? She stared at the empty water glass in the goon’s hands. Had they drugged her, after all?

The man straightened and nodded at the goon, who gripped the edge of Syd’s chair and wheel it toward the door. She yelped.

“What are you doing?” she choked out, as the goon pushed her out of the room, into a grey, windowless corridor.

The older man fell into step beside them, hands casually joined behind his back, like he was out for a pleasant evening stroll.

“Normally, I take my subjects on a tour of the facility,” he said, “so they can witness the various phases of the treatment. However, as we’ll be using the...expedited version on you, I’m afraid it would be rather useless to show you the parts of the process that you won’t be experiencing”

The expedited version. Syd’s fists clenched. What did that mean? She was lucky, perhaps, that they could only kidnap her for a weekend. Surely, she’d have a better chance surviving a shorter ‘treatment’...

The goon stopped before an unmarked metal door on the right, and entered a series of digits on a small entry pad.

The door slid back to reveal a small, metal-walled room. A huge screen filled the wall opposite the door. A rolling table sat against the left wall, several grey electronic boxes stacked atop it. On the bottom shelf of the table, a tangle of wires surrounded a black, cyborg-like helmet.

“The expedited processing room,” said the man. “I dislike shortcuts, so we rarely use this transcranial stimulation technology,” (he pointed to the boxes). “But as we only have a weekend with you, I’m afraid we shall have to make do.”

The goon pushed Syd to the center of the room and locked the wheels. She thrashed and tried to wheel herself away, but all she managed was to pull a neck muscle.

“You’re crazy,” she cried out. “Let me go! You can’t do this. I’ll go to the cops! I’ll—I’ll send people after you. I’ll—”

“No, you won’t.” The man signaled the goon, who disentangled the coil of wires before carrying the black helmet to Syd.

“Stop,” she gasped. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll—I’ll help you get the client you want, alright? Just tell me what I have to do. Please—you don’t have to hurt me.”

“This won’t hurt,” said the older man.

“I’ll help you!”

“I know.” He smiled. “By the time the treatment is done, you will help in any way we require.”

“No!”

He patted her shoulder gently. “Relax, Miss Sheridan. As I said, one advantage of the expedited treatment is you’ll have little time for discomfort. In fact, the magnetic stimulation often achieves initial results within minutes. And once the first treatment phase has succeeded, you’ll be free of fear and worries—”

“No,” Syd cried again. “Please. Stop. I don’t want to—”

“But you will.” He stepped away, leaning against the far wall while the goon connected more wires. The helmet covered Syd from forehead to the nape of her neck and down her temples.

She choked out a terrified sob. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything to you.”

“I’ve already explained our reasons...Hmm. If you’re too distressed, we can skip further explanation and simply begin.”

“No!” cried Syd. “No. Tell me...tell me what the expedited process is. What this machine does.”

The man chuckled under his breath, as though he knew she was just stalling. But he answered, nonetheless, while Syd glanced frantically around the sparse room searching for an escape.

“Our treatment has four phases. The expedited process accelerates them, but the basics stay the same.” He smiled. “The first phase is suspended awareness. Simply put, you’ll cease to be aware of your surroundings, of yourself—of anything.”

He’s mad, Syd thought again. “So you’ll knock me out? By hammering my brain with magnets?“

“Nothing so crude. A few well-placed magnetic pulses will simply shut down areas of your brain that transmit messages to other areas. You won’t be insensate, merely unaware. And not for very long; this phase only makes it possible to enter phase two: hyperfocus.”

As if on cue, the goon turned on the screen before her. The display flickered, then showed her a sort of spinning color wheel, with color shades spiraling inward.

“Usually hyperfocus follows quickly after suspended awareness,” said the man. “By then, all your fear and anxiety will be long gone. Your attention will fixate entirely on one object.” He laughed as Syd instinctively looked away from the spiral. “Not yet, Miss Sheridan. As I said, it’s a process.”

“You’re insane.”

He ignored her. “After hyperfocus, we’ll move you into suspended volition. You’ll no longer experience wants or preferences...though you won’t realize that, of course. You really needn’t wory about this phase. It’s merely another brief intermediary before phase four: hypersuggestibility.”

“You’re talking brainwashing. That’s crazy. You’re crazy. Let me go,” Syd screamed again. “Help!”

They let her scream, while the goon arranged more wires and fixed the helmet with rigid bars to the sides and back of her chair, making it impossible to move her head.

“Keeping the head immobile ensures the magnetic pulses hit the right areas,” said the older man. “If you move around, things get imprecise and everything takes longer.”

Syd struggled harder. If she could get some wiggle room, throw off the damned machine and have it hit the wrong brain bits...

“Once you’ve achieved hypersuggestibility,” the man went on, unconcerned by her thrashing, “we will provide you instructions and lead you gently into a state of complete obedience. By the time we finish, you will follow orders perfectly and happily. And that will be that: a painless process, as you see.”

“Let me go,” Syd said again. “This will never work. I’ll bring this whole thing down on your head. Let me go!”

“I will,” said the man. “In a little while.”

And, ignoring Syd’d scream, he gave one final nod to the goon.

Syd screamed until her throat hurt and her screams faded into hoarse moans, then whimpers.

The spiral spun slowly on the screen. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lips to the point of pain, hoping the distraction would be enough.

But nothing could block out the noises in her head.

The helmet clicked against her skull. No—not clicked. The sensation was louder, more forceful. Like... pecking. A dozen tiny woodpeckers peck-peck-peck-peck-pecked across her head. A couple of her forehead. One on each temple. Two above her ears. One at the top of her head, and a couple more at the back.

“Stop it,” she coughed out. When silence greeted her entreaty, she opened her eyes and glanced sideways, ignoring the vivid spiral, until her gaze found the two men by the far wall.

“Stop!” Syd cried. “Please! It hurts!”

The old man shook his head, as though to contradict her. It was true that the pecking didn’t hurt, exactly. But it wasn’t pleasant. It was—it was...

“Stop.” Syd strained against the restraints. The effort aggravated her pulled neck muscle, and suddenly the clicking woodpeckers on her head seemed even louder, even faster. Peck-peck-peck-peck-peck-peck.

“Stop! I don’t want to! Please! It’s not—it’s not...”

She caught herself staring at the spiral and squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t let them get her. Wouldn’t let them... what had he called it? Suspended...no. Hyperfocus. She wouldn’t look at the strange, spinning colors.

No...there was another phase before the focus...? Syd tried to remember, but her thoughts kept scattering. The pecking on her forehead had changed rhythm, she noticed. It sped up and slowed unpredictably, out of tune with the others. What did that mean? What was it doing to her?

The beautiful colorwheel with its spiraling shades spun placidly at the center of the screen.

Wait—why were her eyes open? When had she opened them? She moaned and squeezed them shut. “No. No. Stop it. Let me be. You’re crazy! Stop!”

The pecking in her head was louder than her shouts.

“Please...”

She tried to yank her head sideways, but the pecking remained. The rhythm on her forehead was irregular, out of tune with the rest. What did that mean? What was it doing...?

Hadn’t she already thought that? A strange sensation of deja-vu muddled her focus. What was she supposed to be thinking about?

The spiral colors really were quite pretty.

No! She wasn’t supposed to look. It was dangerous.

Wasn’t it...?

She tried to shake off the woodpeckers on her skull, but they stayed put. The one on her left temple tapped a happy little polka. The one one her right temple went much slower. Peck... peck... peck... The two on her forehead were dancing with each other in sync...

Her eyes were open again. She shut them.

“No.”

Her neck muscle burned. She wanted to look to the old man, but she didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know...

Her vision was fogging up.

“No...”

She closed her eyes.

Peck-peck-peck-peck-peck. Peck. Peck. Peck... Peck-peck-peck.

The pretty colors were still there. They were bad. She looked away. Or shut her eyes. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Something pecked at her forehead. Something... no. Bad. The pecking was bad.

The pretty colors were there again.

She... looked away...

The noises were...

Pecking...

On her...head...

It was...slower...

It...was...

The men watched the young woman’s clenched fists relax. Her mouth dropped open slowly. Her blinks became languid, rare, as did her breaths.

Her eyes stared sightlessly at the top corner of the screen. The old man smiled. She’d accomplished her goal to not watch the spiral, he supposed. He wondered how long she’d managed to hold onto that thought.

Not very long.

His assistant picked up a rod-like measuring device from the rolling table and held it up before her glassy left eye.

“Pupil diameter within acceptable parameters,” he said.

Pressing a button on the rod, he released a puff of air into her eye. The young woman blinked, then her eyes opened into the same empty stare.

The assistant checked the rod. “No change in pupil diameter.”

He repeated the procedure—measure, air puff, blink, measure—in her right eye, then he pinched her neck.

“Still no change.” His hand lowered to her left breast, sliding deftly between the buttons of her dress to pinch her nipple. “No response. Suspended awareness successful.”

The older man nodded. He’d known right when it had happened, without any measurements. After hundreds of subjects, he’d learned to read the most minute signs in their bodies. A hitch that preceded the smoothing out of their breath. Last twitches in their fingers, before the muscles relaxed utterly.

In Miss Sheridan, he’d noticed her lips part into a slack little ‘o’, right before her body had gone imperceptibly limper.

“Processing time?” he asked, and the assistant checked his watch.

“Thirteen minutes, twelve seconds.”

Average, thought the older man. Then, he smiled. Just under the fifteen minutes he’d promised.

“Ask her if she’d like to be released from the restraints,” he chuckled, and the assistant grinned back. Then, because no order could be ignored, he put his hands on the girl’s shoulders and asked in a firm voice.

“Would you like your restraints removed?”

Miss Sheridan stared blankly somewhere past his left ear.

The older man waved a hand, “Move on to hyperfocus.”

The next two phases should go faster. Especially hyperfocus: for some reason, the human brain found it a lot easier to lock onto things than disconnect. He’d seen subjects take as long as an hour to finally lose awareness to the magnetic pulses, then slip seamlessly into hyperfocus within a minute.

The assistant released the rigid bars holding the subject’s head fixed. There was no risk now that she’d try to yank herself out of the chair. Her head canted loosely to the side, as far as the helmet, still held by wires, would let it. He gently moved it back, resting it against the back of the chair so that her glazed eyes stared lifelessly toward the screen.

A perfect response, the old man deemed. Of course, he had yet to meet the subject who didn’t show a perfect response to the expedited process.

Too bad the speed sacrificed depth and permanence of reshaping. The business would increase its earnings tenfold if they could churn out perfectly-reshaped subjects within two days, rather than several weeks...

“Initiating hyperfocus phase,” the assistant said, tapping his tablet. The screen flickered, and the spiral began spinning faster. The magnetic stimulation device clicked to life.

As expected, the change didn’t take long. A few clicks of the device, and Miss Sheridan’s blank gaze fixed on the center of the spiral.

“Like a charm,” murmured the assistant. “Makes you wish we could use the machine on the regular subjects. Sometimes they take forever to come out of their daze and catch the focus image.”

Truth. “The state cements better when it happens naturally,” said the man. “Results from expedited treatment fade after a few months.”

“Still.”

The older man agreed. Much to be said about being able to bring someone’s psyche from utter disconnect to singular focus within seconds, simply by bombarding a small cluster of brain cells with a few magnetic pulses.

The assistant picked up a small touchpad, barely the size of his palm. “Testing focus,” he murmured, and he swiped a finger, slowly, across the pad.

On screen, the spiral moved right. The young woman’s eyes remained fixed, not tracking it.

“Hm. A little more, then.” The assistant moved the spiral back to the center of the screen, then tapped the pad. The device clicked a few times, and Miss Sheridan’s gaze became even more intently fixed on the colors.

The assistant swiped left on the pad, and the spiral slid, slowly, to the left. The young woman still didn’t track it.

“Third time’s the charm.”

The device sent another burst sharp, short pulses through the helmet.

This time, when the spiral slid left, Miss Sheridan’s eyes followed it.

The assistant moved the image right, up, left, right, weaving it smoothly across the screen. The woman’s flat stare remained religiously glued to it, her eyes darting mindlessly across the screen to track the haphazard motions.

“Reaction times within optimal bounds.”

With the pressure of a gentle finger to her chin, he turned her head left. Her eyes slid sideways, still tracking the spiral. When he kept pushing her head left, she turned it back of her own volition, just enough to keep tracking the image on screen.

“Motor response successful,” said the assistant. Hyperfocus achieved...Two minutes, four seconds.”

The older man urged him on. Suspended volition was accomplished in five more minutes. A tap on the tablet split the spiral on screen into two smaller ones: one in shades of blue, the other grey. Miss Sheridan’s eyes moved seamlessly to track the blue spiral; Louise had accurately informed them that was the young woman’s favorite color.

The helmet clicked on briefly. Miss Sheridan’s glassy gaze became, if possible, even flatter. Next time the spiral split, her eyes, rather than move to the blue one, remained fixed blankly ahead.

“Preference extinguished,” said the assistant. “Suspended volition accomplished.”

He fixed earbuds into the young woman’s ears and reclined the chair. Then he dimmed the lights, until the glow of the slowly-spinning colorwheel spiral was the only light in the room.

The old man headed to the door. The hypersuggestibility phase was long, and he didn’t need to watch Miss Sheridan absorb the instructions from the earbuds.

“Call me when it’s done,” he said, and he exited into the hall.