The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jill was making shitloads of cash for me, now. Not only had I opened up a whole new vista of customers by putting the cultured college co-ed fantasy out there, but the other clients started to favor her more, too. Val Vincent, who used to have a real thing for short brunettes who would spank him and call him degrading names in Spanish, was now regularly seeking Jill out instead of Maria—a fact which pissed the latter off to no end. I had to break up a catfight in the dining room one morning; I had no idea what a “puta” was, but judging from the vehemence with which Maria had emitted it, it was not intended to be complimentary. Jill had apparently understood the term, though; while I’m not sure it insulted her, I think she was just sick of taking guff from the other girls. She’d plunged into her own tirade en Espanol, sunk her claws into the Hispanic girl’s hair, and yanked her across the table before several of the other ladies had started pulling them apart. I docked them both a hundred bucks that week for fighting—I can’t have that sort of behavior going on in my establishment. Outside of the bedroom, of course; Ted Slobodov pays good money to jerk off while watching two elegantly coiffed and (faux—)Gucci-dressed ladies scratching and hair-pulling and at each other’s throats.

The punishment annoyed Maria, but Jill was devastated. She’d been very close to some financial goal or other, and pleaded with me to punish her in some other way, but I was firm.

Thus it was a little under a month before Jill got enough cash scraped together to buy herself a computer. Who knew she could budget?

It amused me more than surprised me; the iPod had been forgotten once little Jill had tasted the wonders to be found on the internet. She spent more and more time at my desk, constantly reading about one topic or another—one week it was animal husbandry and the next it was early Siamese monarchs. At first it was merely annoying, but when it started to interfere with my work (and the office started to smell more and more like Jill’s pussy—I run a whorehouse, but I don’t need that in my personal space, thank you), I cut her access time down to twice a day, one hour per session. She got surly, but adapted when my tone of voice grew very chilly and it became evident two hours per day would be better than none. Grace charged Jill fifty bucks an hour to use hers, and I’m sure she partook fairly often—I don’t think she could help herself.

I should have guessed she’d soon want her own, and when she did finally get a large package delivery in the mail, her eyes glowed with glee and she offered the mail guy a freebie (which I don’t object to, in principle, as long as my girls pay back the house out of their own pockets for the lost revenue). He stammered something about being a married man and hurriedly left the premises (he returned as a paying customer months later, but that’s another story), and Jill asked one of the other girls to help her lug all the boxes into her room.

After that, she was locked up in there for hours, setting it up, and didn’t come out again until her eight o’clock appointment with Mr. Sosnowski. He was a new customer: a not-unattractive college professor who had obvious ethical issues with fucking his students but had even-more-obvious sexual issues with not fucking his students. Jill (or “Gillian”, as she went by when she played the college-gal role) led him into one of the fuckrooms and begged him to help her pass his class. Before the door shut, she had asked him for special tutoring on molecular biology, and I could tell, with a twinge of pride at my own cleverness, that the eagerness in her voice was not faked as he began to lecture his way into her panties. She spent four whole hours with him (cha-ching!) before reluctantly letting him leave, but at least she was happy to go back to her room and play with her new toy. I listened outside the door as she emitted sighs and moans, and from time to time I heard words like “operating system” and “partition” and figured she must have been reading a manual or an online tutorial of some sort. I grinned, wandered back to my own office, and laughed out loud when I got an email from “gilliangirl” thanking me for being so nice to her and letting her work for me.

I added the good professor’s latest contribution to the Tess VanTrin Retirement Fund into my accounting software, and I’m sure I looked smug as I did it.

It didn’t take long for Gillian to get sick of using AOL.

It was kind of funny, actually; I heard her bitching about the idiocy of the software at breakfast one morning, and the other girls were absolutely floored. Maria made some not-so-subtle comments about Gillian getting too big for her britches, but Gillian blew the comments off completely. Which only made Maria angrier, of course, as will happen when the target of your offense refuses to get offended.

Gillian was going on and on now about how we should get broadband so our access times and download speeds would be faster, and the other girls basically glazed over. All except for Grace, who was ecstatic because it would improve her ability to get music from iTunes. She was fully in favor, and both ladies came over to my table to ask if we could get high-speed cable access. I informed them that I didn’t see a reason to, at which point they offered to pay the full cost monthly, and Gillian even offered to network the brothel so that all three of us could share the connection. How could I possibly say no to a deal like that?

So two days later Grace had over a thousand songs on her iPod, my web pages were available at blinding speed, and Gillian was spending more and more time fucking herself silly in her room to the cadences of coefficients of sliding friction, analyses of Ibsen’s dramatic plays, and cognitive science (whatever that was) She was not derelict in her duties, of course, and our good friend Dr. Sosnowski had apparently recommended her services to several colleagues. I was surprised, but not shocked, at how many tenured professors of both sexes harbored desires to fuck their students, and had even added a new fuckroom, complete with desk, chairs, and shelves holding several textbooks I’d scrounged from some sale on eBay—that had been Gillian’s idea. Or “Anne-Gillian”, her new moniker. I asked her why she’d changed it again, and she said that the hyphenated name carried connotations of high-class with it, and that this subtly improved the mood and arousal of her clients. I thought that pseudo-psychological tirade sounded like absolute nonsense, and told her so, but I had to admit the new name was fetching. It got me a bit horny when I heard Sharee Blimtonhaus, dean of a local women’s college, yelling “Anne-Gillian Raydon, you will eat my pussy right now or I will have you expelled.” I spent an entire hour online finding co-ed pornography and vibrating my clit while mouse clicking with the other hand. I’d been spending more time online lately, what with the broadband access and all, and there was definitely a lot of good fuckmyself material out there. I came hard when I saw a petite blonde with pigtails and a plaid skirt slurping on the twat of a stereotypical schoolmarm. Spending time on my computer was giving me more orgasms, lately, than I’d enjoyed in the last ten years of whorehouse management and “sampling the goods”.

The money was rolling in, now, and this goldmine made me think that perhaps I needed to alter the other girls in a similar way—Anne-Gillian had only so many hours a day to spread. I considered each girl individually, and decided that the vast majority just weren’t suitable for the hypnotic modification.. The only ones I could come up with, solidly, were Nikki and Maria. Both were the fairly unintelligent sort, though never as moronic as the old Jilly had been, and both were smoking hot fucks (and I verifed that with my own pussy the moment I had them hypnotized). I gave them the “orgasms for knowledge” spiel and watched them go to work. There was enough money pouring in that I bought Anne-Gillian a beautiful new laptop on the sole condition that she would give her old computer to Nikki and Maria, and I encountered little resistance from her.

The new laptop was apprently enough to smooth over any antagonisms of the past, but she warned me that the old computer was running Linux instead of Windows and that she’d have to do something to it (delete partitions? modify the boot sector?) in order to make it more easy for them to understand. I waved it off, knowing she knew a hell of a lot more about that crap than I did, and delivered unto her the Laptop of Gloriousness, and I know she spent all morning in her room with her hand up her snatch—because I spent the whole time watching the hidden USB camera I’d installed in her room while she was on an outcall at the university. She was looking at websites about particle physics and something called “Linear A”. Or so I gathered from the things she was chanting in between sucking her own juices off her fingers.

Maria and Nikki didn’t advance as quickly as Anne-Gillian had; perhaps it was because they had more limited intellectual capacity to begin with, rather than merely having a psychological aversion to learning, as was the case with their predecessor. Still, the two women did learn how to use the computer in their room (I had moved them in together to facilitate their improvement), and even advanced enough to spend time teaching some of the other girls how to use it, too. Soon enough, Anne-Gillian was not the only whore I had who could play the smart, cultured girl role, though, unlike her, they plateaued at a certain level and didn’t progress much farther. They certainly didn’t spend time in their room looking up obscure facts about biofeedback mechanisms and opto-electronics; instead, they took turns reading translations of ancient Greek verses to each other, the listener using her tongue to reduce the orator to convulsions whose meter had little to do with the poetry. Their increased intelligence must have given them some sort of empathy for Anne-Gillian, and after a tearful apology the three girls became close friends. Sometimes they’d take turns letting Anne-Gillian read them poetry.

Anne-Gillian herself had gone back to her natural color, or perhaps a shade darker, and was making more outcalls; she’d get dolled up in expensive dresses and jewelry and leave the house for entire nights, bringing back some cash from her conquests and putting it in my coffers—and it was always extravagant, so I didn’t worry about her cheating me or anything. Too much, anyway.

When, one night in my office, I mentioned that some of her clients missed her and asked her about where she’d been going, she hesitated a bit, and I took the opportunity to put her under with a little trigger phrase I’d implanted when I’d first given her the learning bug. While in trance, she had no compunction about telling me what I wanted to know: she’d been frequenting high-class bars and even getting invited to parties where she plied her trade, under the name “Angeline”, with high-power executives. That was the source of the cash influx, and I wasn’t upset with her for buying herself expensive clothes with some of the money—that was mere “investment capital”, as she called it, for the real money she raked in as a result. I had a hard time disagreeing with that logic, though I was a little miffed at her for not telling me straight up. I gave her the suggestion that from now on she would tell me anything I asked of her, and she agreed without hesitation, smiling at me with her eyes closed.

My cunt was puddling into my panties as I watched her lie there; she was so much tastier as a brilliant little brunette vamp than she ever had been as a dopey blonde, even though she now wore clothes which covered her body more thoroughly than ever. “Angeline,” I said, “tell me how you feel right now.”

“I am sexually aroused, Tess. Very intensely.”

“Very good, dear. Because I am about to lick your cunt until you scream. Feel free to lie back and enjoy my tongue and the ecstasy it brings you, dear.”

And she did, drenching my cheeks and chin with her wet, drooling sex, even grabbing my head with her interlaced hands as she fucked my face. It was wonderful, and I don’t even remember bringing her back out of trance afterward. She must have snapped out of it on her own, because when I woke up on the floor of my office, my face smelling of Angeline, I was alone. I used one hand to funnel the aroma from my mouth to my nose while I fingered myself thinking of her, what I’d done to her, and what she’d just done to me.

My cunt was sore from coming when my hands finally gave it a rest.

Things kept improving for Angeline; she raked in the cash from the outside at night, and spent her days alternating between sleep and fucking the most high-profile college professors she could seduce into our little house. Maria and Nikki behaved similarly, but were always willing to give Angeline her pick of the litter; they’d come to that agreement at some point. I don’t think they got as much out of the infodumps as she did; each was happier staring at their computer screen, whispering what she’d found there while being serviced by her partner. Consequently, their customer base was both narrower and less affluent than Angeline’s. They didn’t seem to mind, though.

Me? I collected the money, as usual, but Angeline commented that she was concerned the tax men were going to notice the large influx of cash in my current bank accounts. She recommended some offshore banks and guided me through the steps to make the cash virtually untraceable. I thanked her with pussylove, and she smiled and told me, “Anything for you, Tess, baby.”

I laughed my ass off when Nikki brought me the morning paper, and there, right on the page six, was Angeline’s photo, under the headline, “Nobel Prize-Winning Physicist Mitchell Schaeffer Hobnobs With Elite at Charity Ball”. On the illustrious little man’s arm was, of course, my delightful, profitable protege, identified as “socialite Evangeline Royton”. After Nikki left, I dug through the camera archives for the last several nights. Sure enough, two nights before, “Evangeline” had dragged a slightly drunken Mr. Nobel-Prize-Guy into her room. I fast-forwarded to the good part.

Evangeline was astride Schaeffer, and I was impressed the guy could hold his own against her sharp, powerful strokes without breaking. Her eyes were wild, her movements uncontrolled, and she was urging him to “Come on, baby, just a little bit more...” It was evident she was right on the edge, but what threw her over—I shit you not—was when the old geezer groaned something about wavefunctions and intrinsic mass coefficients. She exploded into a frenzy of screams unmatched by anything I’d ever seen before (let alone given her), and ground her pussy into his lap, heels curled under the chair to give her more leverage. For his part, he was gasping and slightly blue in the face, but he was able to thrust into her with his fading strength as he climaxed.

He relaxed back onto the chair and caught his breath, and as he drifted off to sleep she slowly extricated herself from his collapsed embrace. She tucked his deflated manhood back into his slacks, gave his bald pate a light kiss, and drew her skirt back down to knee-level. I personally thought she should have checked his pulse before she left, but she pulled a compact from her purse and checked her makeup instead. When everything was satisfactory, she unlocked the door and strode out of view of the camera. He’d left an hour later; she’d not returned that night.

For my own part, I didn’t replay the recording I’d made of the event more than once. That night, anyway.

Twice, maybe. Three times, maximum.

Evangeline hardly ever showed up at the brothel anymore, but over the next year or so she showed up on decreasingly smaller page numbers in the newspaper.

I worried, at first, that all of this publicity would be dangerous to my business; prostitution is tolerated, at best, by law enforcement, and if people—especially gossip columnists—made any sort of connection between high-society parties and high-priced hookers, I would be in jail faster than you could say “Heidi Fleiss”. But Evangeline was entirely discreet, and I found myself worrying about it less and less. After all, if she’s got this big apartment flat in the ritzy side of town, she’s barely ever going to be seen here, anyway. But I missed her. Her pussy most of all.

Business was still excellent, though admittedly the college kids and professors missed “Anne-Gillian” a lot. Nikki and Maria double-timed them, and that brought in sufficient revenue. I sent their earnings overseas, and even lost track of how much of it was in there. I didn’t need it—all the working capital I needed to run the business was available from the take on the other girls. This I was stashing away for some other purpose.

It wasn’t until my final meeting with Evangeline that I understood what that purpose was.

She called me on my cell phone and told me to meet her at a lunch establishment downtown. I’d been there before—had made my play at paying off the D.A. there, in fact—but it was very expensive. I chose my most stylish dress and heels, and hoped that if I wore no panties she’d get the hint and we could go somewhere more private. I’m not bad looking for my age, and I still know a few tricks for seducing men and women.

She arrived late, the valet taking her BMW into his care as she threw him what I was sure was a large denomination bill.

She looked amazing.

Her dress was satiny, short, but all class. Her makeup was professionally applied, and I complimented her salon-styled hair as she shook my hand delicately and sat down across from me. I pulsed with erotic tension as her manicured nails left my palm, and I looked at her with what felt like love.

“Tess, darling, how are you?” Even her intonation had changed, subtly. She spoke with more confidence, and an air of joy with life. Why, then, did it sound sinister to me?

“Evangeline, you’re stunning.”

She didn’t need to be told. “You’re too kind, dear. But thank you, anyway.”

“We’ve missed you, back at the house.”

“I know.” She smiled. I thought of vipers and my stomach tightened. “That’s one of the reasons we need to talk. I’m not coming back to the house. Not now. Not ever.”

I was stunned. How could she not come back? She was the center of the new business, she was the help I needed to shift the money around properly... and I wanted her. Needed her. How could she?

“Evangeline, no! Dear, if it’s the workload, I assure you, you don’t have to do anything with clients. Nikki and Maria are handling the education-fetish set, and the money they bring in is entirely sufficient. You won’t have to do anything except act as my assistant.” I discarded my shoe and slid my toes up her silken-hosed leg to let her know how I’d assist her. Or she’d assist me, rather.

“Tess, you stupid fucking whore, stop it before someone sees you.” She hissed at me, eyes flicking to either side to ensure no one had seen either my movements or her angry retort. I instantly withdrew my foot from the early depths of her skirt, hurt, embarrassed, and angry. “I have a reputation to keep up, and it’s dangerous enough to be meeting you here in public without you letting your pussy doing your thinking for you.”

I sat quietly for a moment as she explained further. I didn’t hear most of it, as I was slowly building to my own monologue. Before she was finished, I interrupted her.

“May I make a comment, Evangeline? Or should I say, ‘Jilly’?”

She looked furious but, smiling fiercely, gestured to me, letting me continue.

“You can’t do this to me, Evangeline. You can’t, and you won’t, and let me tell you why. I own you.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, you don’t think so, you think you’re too good for us anymore, with your high-society parties and your Versace dresses, but I have one thing you don’t know about. I have video.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Lots of video, in fact. Of you fucking countless men—old men, young men. And women. In pigtails, in schoolgirl outfits, in leather and vinyl. And those are videos I don’t think you want getting out in the society pages, hmmm?”

“You don’t know. That could drive me up in their estimation.” She smiled wryly. “So that’s it? If I don’t come back and work for you, you’ll expose me for a dirty, filthy whore and ruin everything I’ve built?”

I was charitable. “Now, Evangeline, dear, you can certainly keep most of what you have built. I just want you to come back to me. To us.” I smiled thinly. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get you back.”

“I see. Fuck you, too, Tess. I’m not going for it. If you dare try that, I’ll have your whole operation exposed and destroyed, and you’ll be in jail.”

The bitch had called my bluff, but I had my ace in the hole. “Well, dear, there’s no need to get nasty about it. Casablanca potato.”

It was her trigger phrase, the one that would put her under for me. I could easily get her to come back to me, now.

Unfortunately, instead of falling into a compliant trance, she laughed at me. Loudly. People were staring.

“Oh, Tess, you’re hilarious.”

“Did you hear what I said? I said—”

“’Casablanca potato’, my trigger phrase. And a stupid one, at that, you obscene cow. That’s old news, dearie. It was one of the first things I removed.”

“You... removed...?”

She was smiling broadly. “Tess, you’re incredibly stupid, and it’s a wonder you didn’t fuck me up seriously with your stage hypnosis. I wasn’t about to have you put me in trance again at your whim. There was no telling what else you’d do to my head.”

I was stunned. “How did you know?”

“That you’d put in a trigger phrase? I guessed, but I wasn’t sure until you told me.”

“Told you? You mean when I triggered you to find out where you’d been going at night, you somehow knew?”

More laughter. “No, I faked that night, too. I was never under for you, since that first time.” She paused and looked me in the eyes, a smirk playfully gilding her mouth. “You told me in your email, and don’t remember a damn thing about it, do you?”

I had no idea what she was talking about...

“Tess, I’ve been in full ownership of your mind for months. What do you think smart girls do?” She paused and winked. “Well, I suppose they’re not all sociopaths like myself. Most of them have grown up smart and well-adjusted to a life of being bright, and of people treating them as bright. Not me,” and now she was bitter, “Not me. No, I’m an obsessive, somewhat loony bitch with a brilliant mind, a newfound superiority complex, and a hatred for the people who took advantage of me when I wasn’t all that intelligent. That includes my father, that includes most of my old clients, and that includes you.”

I said nothing. What did she mean by “full ownership”?

It didn’t take long to find out.

“Cognitive science is an interesting field, and I know all about it, now. Adjacent to it is behavioral science, and I learned all about that. I’ve been told by experts in the field that I have the rough equivalent of PhD knowledge in both disciplines. Or at least I do, now, after fucking the best data out of them. I’m also an expert in several other fields, none of which you’d understand, relating to subliminal messaging and computer-generated signalling. Your PC has been serving as a tool to subvert you almost since the day I networked it. And I got you to forget about emailing me, of course, but I certainly have not forgotten what you wrote.

“It wasn’t too long after you altered me that I figured out what must have happened; I was desperate, craving more and more information each day, and coming loudly when I obtained it, and it was obviously not natural behavior. I started looking around on the internet, and found some very interesting sites. Hell, there are even people who get off on reading about hypnosis and other mind control. Fucking sickos. Anyway, I knew you had hypnotized me to be smarter somehow, but I didn’t trust you and wanted details, so I ordered you to tell me what you’d done to me while I was in trance.”

“Ordered? How?”

“You think you’re the only one who comes up with trigger phrases? I programmed your computer, and your computer programmed you. And those fucking bitches Nikki and Maria, for that matter. It’s all very simple. When I tell you—”

(And here, whatever it was she said, my nipples stiffened and everything grew fuzzy and surreal...)

“—you’ll go compliant for me and... Oh, I see it’s working.” I saw her grin through a haze of mushy obedience.

“I’ll admit, my first idea was to make you reverse the whole thing, to make me normal again... but, why? Why be ‘normal’? Why go through life like everyone else does, stumbling from day to day, year to year, bored out of their skulls? No, I enjoyed learning. Even beyond the orgasms, it felt good. I suspect the orgasms conditioned me to associate learning with pleasure in general, but whatever the source, I’m now long past caring.” I saw a look in her eye I normally associated with people in need of a cigarette—or a crack pipe. “And I wouldn’t give it up. I just keep wanting more and more.”

Even in my mental state, I think I looked at her like she was nuts. Technically, she probably was.

“And that’s how you’re going to help me, Tess. You, who never helped any one of ‘her girls’ unless there was a percentage in it for herself.”

“What do you mean, Evangeline?”

“The offshore accounts I set up were not meant for you. I’m taking them. You will keep filling them, and I will drain them whenever I need to.”

“But... what...?”

“I need investment capital. I’m starting my own company, and I need to put up some of my own cash or venture capitalists won’t even talk to me.”

“Your own company?” It was hard to think, to question. “To do what?”

Here she smiled and got a far away look in her eyes. “The eyes and ears can only process so much so quickly, Tess. I’ve got some ideas on making it all much faster.”

I could only guess what she was playing at. “Why do you need my money? These venture... people... Can’t you just control them like... like you’ve done me?” I loved her, why shouldn’t everyone else?

She shook her head. “I suppose I could, but it takes too long, and I’d need to know them a lot better. And have control of their entire network or the traffic would be obvious. No,” she continued, “I’ve analyzed the risks, and this is the highest leverage path to what I need. Your cash is mine.

“And you’ll keep providing it for as long as I want you to. Won’t you?”

“Yes, Evangeline.”

“And do your best to hide from anyone who you’re really working for?”

“Yes, Evangeline.”

“Very good, Tess. You bitch.”

I smiled at the term of endearment. There were more instructions, but I don’t remember them. I’m sure they were too important for me to know.

And that’s the way of the world, now. It’s business as usual, of course: my girls give men what they want, collect the proceeds, and I rake it all in. A substantial chunk of those proceeds is now squirreled away into Evangeline’s offshore accounts, for use when she needs working capital (or probably even just a new pair of shoes). I think her investments are more profitable than anything I can provide, and that she just keeps this arrangement going with me because she is vindictive about our former relationship.

Last night I saw a front page spread in the paper which showed a victorious-looking Evangeline, with the caption, “Royton Enterprises CEO reveals new brain implant technology.” The article said that Evangeline’s company had perfected an interface between the neurons of the human brain and an external computer which could, with some effort, be used to pass information from the electronic system to a person’s conscious awareness. The article went on to discuss the potential medical uses of the device in assisting handicapped people, but all I could picture was Evangeline, my Evangeline, with a wire jacked into her skull, data pouring in, and her body coursing with orgasm, repeated over and over, as she learned anything and everything the world of man could provide her.

I wondered what the limit was to how much information the human mind could contain, and how soon she would reach it. I wondered if Royton Enterprises would eventually discover how to let her exceed this limit with offline data storage, or if they’d find her a way to erase what she’d already learned so she could “learn” it again. Her head swiss-cheesed with hardware so she could eke out that one last strand of knowledge and hit the orgasm she craved, as she instructed subordinates to discover more and more ways and things for her to learn.

I wondered, and I fucked myself in front of the computer, this tool which had been used to enslave me. Sick with horror, and lust, I came to orgasm after orgasm at the thought of Evangeline, inhuman, cyborged, knowing everything which could be known.

And wishing she’d let me join her, love her, lick her. She’s made me think that, I know, but that only makes it all the more delicious.