The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Inside the stark white room, a woman lay on a simple shelf of a bunk, clad in loose green surgical scrubs. Her emerald eyes fluttered open, but her vision seemed unfocused, although that might simply have been the unrelieved blandness of her surroundings; her thoughts, too, shared this fuzziness, and as she sat up, she shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.

Come on, Jill, get it in gear. What’s the last thing you were doing? She rummaged through her memories, and an answer came: That’s right, she thought, I was at the Mnemosyne Clinic. They had to run some sort of tests on me before they could implant my memories.

Jill raked her fingers back through lustrous chestnut hair, considering the procedure for which she’d opted. The craft of memory alteration was still an infant profession, relatively speaking, but ordinary citizens had been using it for over ten years, and it was no longer the half-enthralling, half-shameful thing it once was. And it’s not like I’m having any of my existing memories purged or falsified, she reminded herself, I’m having memories added. My psychological expert system agrees it’s a healthy way of coming close to realizing the fantasy. In her mind, it wasn’t a fantasy, it was the fantasy...the one she could never escape, never resist, and yet she knew that she could never, never try to live out this fantasy.

But the conscious knowledge of her fantasy’s dire consequences cut absolutely zero ice with her desires. The molten primal churn of her wants and her half-realized dreams was entirely unimpressed with the rigorous logic that explained why it was denied; and it would not be denied, and so it demanded that it be sated, never allowing the thought far from her consciousness, wearing her down with a steady onslaught of need.

Jill didn’t want to repress herself, and in any case she wondered how long she could, but she knew that to try and make her fantasy a reality was at best futile, at worst something that could cost her life.

Jill’s fantasy involved being gang-raped.

She knew that she didn’t want anyone to actually hurt her, much less kill her; she wanted that sense of helplessness, that feeling of being an object for men to use, to heighten her excitement. If she allowed herself to think about it for more than a few seconds, she could feel herself grow wet.

Jill craved the fear and anxiety, and the heightened tension, the surge of desire, that would accompany them; she had very discreetly arranged to stage a gang rape, but the simulated assault left her not entirely satisfied. The licensed prostitutes she had hired had certainly made her cum more than once, and there was something exciting to be the focus of all those men, but knowing that everything was ultimately under her control, of her own creation, kept it from being anything more than one of her more colorful sexual experiences.

Still, the failure of the enactment to satisfy her, and the way the intensity of her longing grew with every passing day, were not yet enough to overcome her good sense. She knew that if she were to try and arrange something that was not within her control, she ran a very good chance of being severely hurt, permanently damaged, or even murdered; even if she could somehow find a group of men willing to violate her yet not do her any real physical damage, she couldn’t expect them to take the time to truly humiliate and dominate her as some part of her craved, nor would they concern themselves at all with her physical pleasure. And there’s no way you can ever know with any certainty, so put that idea out of your head!

But Jill’s desires would not be thwarted, and as she found herself being distracted from important things by her own fantasizing, she knew that she had to do something.

And then she had thought of the Mnemosyne Clinic.

Sure, she had thought, the future can never be entirely certain...but the past? I can have the past tailored to order. And it was true, in a sense; she might never be able to be the grateful victim of a group of men who would practice their rapes with style and attention to detail (Like such men actually existed, she had snorted), but thanks to the technology that was offered at the Clinic she could have the memory of having been taken and used by just such a group of men. She could have the experience of having lived out that fantasy, as best she could conceive and articulate it.

And with the help of the all-but-sentient software at the Mnemosyne Clinic, that level of detail was far greater than she would have hoped, greater, she had realized, than her own imagination of the fantasy. When she had first come to the clinic, she had been momentarily nonplussed to be dealing with software rather than an actual person, but the expert system had pointed out in an expensively smooth, androgynous voice that even with assurances of the strictest confidentiality, many people were simply too embarrassed to reveal what alterations they desired to their memory...at least, to reveal such things to a person sitting across from them. The software had offered that if she really didn’t trust a non-sentient program, no matter how brilliant, a human being could be summoned to speak with her, but after her time talking with her own psychotherapeutic expert system, Jill was used to discussing her ideas to someone who, well, wasn’t actually someone at all; the Clinic’s expert system had no idle curiosity and no prurient interest, and the only judgments it made were regarding feasibility and billing.

After a few hours of describing the memories that she desired, and answering a series of probing questions from the software, she was informed that it had everything it needed to tailor the specifics of the scenario...but that in order to craft the memories, it would be necessary to do a complete scan of her body, mapping her right down to the subatomic level.

“But why my entire body?” she had asked.

For a moment, she wondered if she heard the faintest hint of irritation in the expert system’s reply, then told herself it was an artifact of her own expectations from dealing with human beings. “Not all of the functions of your perception and memory are localized in the brain, or even the brainstem. Your sense of proprioception, which is your awareness of the feeling of your body as you move, relies on neurons throughout your body. If we were to try to implant memories that had been modeled without including proprioception, they would feel very false, which would defeat the entire purpose.”

“So are you going to keep me unconscious between the time you scan and the time the memories are implanted?”

“Not at all. When people are scanned for the purpose of allowing them to live on as software after their physical bodies are no longer viable, steps are taken to try and minimize the divergence of experience between the original and the copy; most people feel better about the idea when they can conceptualize their own personal timeline as one unbroken strand.

“In your case, though, we only need the scan file to get enough specific information to encode and then implant your series of memories. If you will allow an analogy from the world of computers, we will not edit the copy and then write the copy over the original, we will study the copy to determine how we will edit the original.”

And so Jill had gone to the clinic early one Saturday, surrendering herself into the admittedly tender mercies of the medical automation that surrounded her; she drank a beaker full of nasty-tasting radioisotope-tagged phosphate solution, then disrobed and watched with something between bemusement and squeamishness when the padded slab couch of the nanometer-scale MRI slid out like a tongue. Crossing mental fingers, she had reclined on the surface and watched as she was swallowed by the machine. She barely had time to wonder how she was expected to sleep through the scan when lassitude suddenly washed over her and dragged her down.

And now she found herself in this featureless room; it certainly wasn’t the scan room...it wasn’t any place that she could remember seeing in the Clinic. Perhaps this is just the recovery room? But why wouldn’t they tell me ahead of time I’d be waking up someplace different? Maybe something went wrong and I needed advanced medical care...but then I should be all wired up and in a better bed and confronting someone wanting me to thumbprint some forms.

What the hell?

Those same words rattled through Jill’s mind again as she found herself suddenly rising from the slab; she walked towards the wall across from the bunk, and it slid aside, admitting her into a corridor. Real panic started to climb up her throat as she found herself a passenger in her own body, unable to make herself move, unable to keep herself from striding right along as if she knew where she was going.

Apparently her body did, however, for soon she was opening another door and walking into a spacious office; the decor had that sleek, pale wood contemporary look of the Mnemosyne Clinic, and she wondered if the man sitting behind the desk was the human being who’d been offered as a representative before. She closed the door behind her, then got a good look at the man as she turned back and walked closer to him; his sandy hair seemed a bit mussed, and there were dark circles beneath his glittering blue eyes, but his pale face was animated with a wicked grin that would have made Jill shiver, had her body been accepting her input. He wore plain green scrubs like her own, incongruous behind the costly real wood desk, and they rustled softly as he leaned forward, silent still as he made her the object of his scrutiny.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but clear. “You think you’re somebody...but you’re not. You’re nobody.”

The casual arrogance in his words made something in her stir, a flash of anger knifing through her fear; she was surprised as she found herself giving voice to her thought, spitting “I’m Jillian Emily Macalester, you little fucking creep, who the hell are you?”

Jill’s surprise grew as the man reacted with genuine amusement, laughing and shaking his head. “Oh, no, you only think you’re Jill. But this is Jill Macalester,” he continued, pointing to one side.

Jill glanced in the direction he’d indicated, and her eyes widened as she saw herself on the screen; she was naked, and she was sitting up on the couch of the MRI in the exam room, collecting her folded clothing and dressing herself. When she walked out the door, the screen switched to different cameras, showing her walking out of the Clinic, getting into her car, and driving away.

Jill told herself that it could all be faked, that the footage might be computer-generated as part of some trick, but the pit in her stomach, feeling more hollow with every moment, made it plain that she didn’t believe herself. Her mounting despair must have shown on her face, for the man behind the desk said “That’s right. Since we had that precise snapshot of her mind and body, we’ve been able to duplicate them. At present no one else has the technology to read a scanned mind back into a cloned body...or, like us, everyone is keeping it under wraps.

“Sure, we could actually take the scan we did and then take a computer cluster and let it crunch away for days to generate the memories that Jill wants...but why should we? It will be much, much cheaper, and far more enjoyable for my friends and I, to simply record the memories in someone who is a precise duplicate of her.”

The woman who still thought of herself as Jill gasped at this, eliciting laughter from the man behind the desk. She realized what he had in mind for her, and she opened her mouth to try and convince him not to violate her...but she only parted her lips a little before freezing, and then taking a relaxed stance before the desk.

The man chuckled, the sound almost indulgent as he told her “You were going to tell me that it wouldn’t work, that the entire time you would be aware of the circumstances and that the memories would reflect this. I know you were going to tell me that, because before we ever woke you, clone, we ran your copy through this little discussion in a virtual reality and watched how it reacted each time. I think I might know you, and Jill, better than you know yourselves.

“And we have no problem, because before my friends and I amuse ourselves with your body, we’re going to use the chip we implanted...the one that’s letting me control you like a puppet...to suppress your memories of this little talk. You’ll awaken from being drugged, just like in your fantasy.”

She felt herself blushing hotly at the sneer in his voice, at the possessive smirk he was giving her, at the image evoked in her mind as he mentioned his amusement...and at the twinge she felt in her cunt. Why is he even bothering to tell me this? He could just, just use me...oh god...just use me without needing to tell me anything...

“Because I like watching you blush, you little slut,” he growled, and she squeaked at the shock of having her unspoken question answered. The sensation made her feel so powerless, and she moaned softly.

He chuckled again, then continued speaking. “Now then...you aren’t Jill, but I’m giving you a name just to have something to call you. I think your name is...Pussy.” He leered at her, and the malice, the casual ownership of his expression made her sex dampen even as it made her tremble with fear.

“On that chair beside you, Pussy, you’ll find some clothing. I want you to strip off those scrubs and then await my permission to dress in your new outfit.”

Pussy...god, she hated that name and yet felt her palms sweating from it...found control of her body returned to her, and decided to see what resistance she could muster. “Why should I perform for you? I should make you walk me through it and not give you the satisfaction,” she spat.

“If you don’t do it, my friends and I will play very rough with you...very rough.”

Pussy smirked back at the man, retorting “You can’t do that, asshole. My fantasy has me not being really hurt, just fucked good and hard.”

“I know. I’m talking about after we’ve recorded the memories.”

Pussy’s voice was tiny as she said, simply, “Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’ indeed. Now strip, Pussy.”

Cheeks flaming with heat, she reached down with shaking fingers and gripped the hem of the scrubs; she felt her breasts riding up as she pulled the garment over her head, and as she dropped the top she blushed even more to see the man’s blue eyes avidly taking in the sight of her bare chest. She whimpered as she slid her fingers into the waistband of the green pants, hunching forward a little to pull them down off her outthrust ass, then rising and working her hips to make them fall, puddling around her ankles.

She could feel a thin trickle of wetness leaking between her thighs, and she couldn’t quite bite back her moan; the sound grew anguished, whether from shame or arousal she didn’t know, as he whispered “Very good, Pussy. Now spread your legs and tug open the lips of your namesake. I want you to display your fuckhole, slut.”

Pussy’s cheeks flushed bright crimson; the reaction wasn’t so much to this nameless man’s degrading words as it was to her own physical reaction, and the knowledge that he would see this. Still, though, better some embarrassment than a beating, she decided; she resolved to try to ignore him, and take her own pleasure in this, and so she slowly, languourously slid her hand down her belly, moaning softly as her fingers found the top of her cleft. She massaged along her slit for a moment before spreading her petals with two fingers, but even with the warm jolts of pleasure that came with ever brush of a fingertip over her clit, she couldn’t block out her sense of that man’s presence, couldn’t help but feel him leering at her; what made her whimper was how that acknowledgment of the fact of him staring at her, of her playing with her body at his command, made her wetter still.

The man behind the desk was chuckling softly; Pussy couldn’t tell if it was from her blushing cheeks or the sight of her arousal gleaming on her inner thighs. “Very good, slut,” he said, the expansive tone in his voice making it seem that he felt his praise to be a gift. “Now you may dress.”

Pussy moaned a little, not wanting to cease giving attention to her clit, but knowing that disobedience would be a bad idea; she turned to the chair, and began lifting the folded items of clothing from the stack, looking them over. The red silk blouse was not in and of itself slutty, but she imagined that with a couple of buttons left undone it would certainly fit. The black lycra miniskirt, on the other hand, was well over the line into slutty, and the thought of men seeing her in it and wanting her made her breath catch. Beneath it all, she would be wearing a matching set of demi-bra, thong panties, and hose with a garter belt, all red, all but the hose in satin; a pair of black leather spike heels, at the edge of what she would wear at four inches, completed the ensemble.

Pussy picked up the red thong, but the sound of the man’s fingers snapping halted her in mid-crouch. “Put the hose and garters on first,” he growled. “We want to be able to get those panties right off.” She shivered at his evil grin, at the delicious feeling that ran through her as she imagined them being removed, and put them aside for the moment.

She could feel the man’s eyes on her as she stepped into each stocking, pulling it up, smoothing it along her thigh, and clipping it to the dangling straps of the belt; she took the panties again, and felt a brief flash of disappointment as she covered her sex. She watched his eyes as she shrugged her way into the bra, fitting the cups; she saw his blue eyes gleam as she reached back to work the catch, the motion lifting her breasts higher. Her fingers trembled a little as she buttoned the blouse, but in a few moments she was tucking it in and tugging the hem of the skirt in place.

The man gave her a good looking-over, and apparently he was pleased with what he saw, because the next moment Pussy found herself a passenger again, helplessly observing as she turned around and marched out the door. As she walked down the hallway, she could hear his footsteps, sounding not quite in time with the clacking of her heels.

She opened a door to her left, and found herself walking into a room; she couldn’t turn her head or move her eyes, but she caught glimpses of a room decorated in the “Late 20th California Chic” style, looking like some wealthy movie exec’s sitting room...and she saw brief flashes of the grinning faces of four other men, all looking her up and down.

Turning, she smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat on a couch, and then her eyes fluttered shut; she had no sense of transition, no perception of anything changing within herself, but it was Pussy who closed those emerald eyes...and Jill who opened them, bleary and out of focus.

Jill’s head was thick, feeling like it was packed with soft, spongy foam, and she couldn’t remember how she had gotten here; she looked down at herself, and seeing the outfit, she wondered if she had been out clubbing...and then a chuckle from across the room snapped her head back up.

On the other side of this room stood five men who she had never before seen in her life; her inability to remember how she came here was disturbing enough, but the evil grins on those men’s faces chilled her. The men came prowling closer, and the chill gave way to heat, scalding through her as two of them reached out, each taking hold of one of her arms, pulling her up off the couch; she tried to jerk away from them, struggling with all her might, but they held on, walking her away from the couch, into the open center of the room.

They stood her in the cone of light from one of the baby spots on a track overhead, and Jill felt her mouth go dry as another man, this one blue-eyes and sandy-haired, stepped forward. She moaned as he roughly thrust his hand under the hem of her miniskirt, finding her crotch and rubbing her through the thin satin covering; the moan lifted slightly in pitch as she felt another man’s breath on her neck, felt him reaching to take hold of her skirt’s hem, pulling it up past her waist, exposing her buttocks, revealing the man’s hand groping her pussy.

Jill wasn’t aware of her struggles to break free slowly becoming less forceful, but she was aware, painfully aware, of the heat she felt inside her, of her nipples pressing hard against her bra, poking through her blouse, of the damp she felt collecting inside her sex. She whimpered as the sandy-haired man pushed aside the crotch of her panties, putting her slit on display; he rubbed her velvet lips along her cleft, and she moaned from the sensation burning through her, shame making her face red as he laughed “The little slut is wet, boys.” God, she thought, I am wet...these men are going to rape me and it’s got me wet.

Fuck yes!

And as the blue-eyed man tugged her panties down, letting them fall around her ankles, she thrust her hips forward, trying to draw his hand back to her sex; she blushed at the laughter this evoked, but that humiliation only stoked the fire burning inside her, made the trickle of moisture from her cunt into a steady flow.

The man ran his hands along the insides of her thighs as he rose to stand again, flicking a fingertip over her clit, and she shuddered, wondering if she’d be able to stand without those men holding her arms. The man locked his blue eyes onto her, staring into her emerald eyes, and she wondered if he could see that she wasn’t afraid; for a moment, she wondered why she wasn’t afraid, why she wasn’t fighting harder when these men could do anything to her...but that thought made her cunt twinge, and then the entire subject was gone as the man took hold of the lapels of her blouse, buttons flying and ticking off the floor as he ripped it open.

Her breasts were heaving, her breath coming fast and ragged from her arousal, and his eyes were burning with a greedy hunger as he tugged down the cups, baring her for all to see; some line must have been crossed, some threshold of lust met, for suddenly they all seemed to be pressed up tight against her, grabbing her, groping her, tearing her clothing into shreds in their frenzy to get at her flesh. Jill was helpless against this onslaught, but she simply rode the feelings, let herself be handled and posed and exposed, moaning and whimpering and trying to arch her body three different directions at once, trying to get them to handle her harder, take more of her.

Conscious thought only returned when she felt strong hands clamping onto her arms again, felt herself being forced down; opening her eyes, she saw one of the men naked on the floor beneath her, and the ones holding her arms were positioning her body as the one beneath her guided her hips. Part of her wanted to tell them that it was okay, that she’d gladly impale herself on that cock, but she didn’t think they’d listen...and some other part of her was growling with feral pleasure to be forced into doing something that felt so good.

She shrieked as her hips were slammed down and that hard cock speared inside her, the brutal thrust stretching her even with her aroused state; her shriek trailed off into whimpers, the sounds becoming more plaintive as she felt some object being pressed to her puckered star. Something squirted inside her, and some passing scrap of her mind decided it must be lubricant; her suspicion was confirmed as she was bent further forward, and she was already groaning from the feel of the cock changing the angle at which it drove into her, the groans climbing once again to a scream as she felt a thick cock slowly working itself into her clenched anus, the two shafts inside her filling her so full.

The two men inside her found a rhythm, pounding into her one after the other, leaving not one moment where she wasn’t filled; when the sandy-haired man took twin fistfuls of her own chestnut locks, it came as no surprise, and her lips were already parted as he pushed his hips forward, forcing his shaft into her mouth, and she moaned around his flesh as he took her, as he began forcing her face into his crotch, gagging her as she tried to open her throat to his invading cock.

She felt like she was the focus of unimaginably intense energies, like she was the prey of some relentless juggernaut, like she was the fuel for some raging inferno; naked men surrounded her, and she was pinned by the spotlight above her as well as the cock savagely driving into her every hole. She could feel the slick sheen of sweat on her bare skin, and she heard raspy, ragged breaths, although she didn’t know if they came from one of the men or herself. The one-two hammerstroke behind her was a steady beat, a contrast to the cock in her mouth, shoved into her mouth fast, then slow, deep, then shallow, as the evilly-grinning sandy-haired man varied his pace for his own pleasure; the way that he was so obviously using her was simply too much for her overheated mind, and she screamed around his cock as an orgasm like rolling wildfire swept through her, tumbling her thoughts away like a house of cards, pleasure so intense as to be almost painful crackling along her nerves. She barely felt it as the cocks inside her cunt and her ass pulsed and jetted within her, and she was only marginally more aware as the blue-eyed man jerked her head back and splattered his hot, sticky seed all over her flushed face.

She was still whimpering and twitching as she was hauled off of him, and even she didn’t know if her squeal came more from anguish or delight as one of those who had been holding her arms lay down beneath her, the other coming up behind while still more took hold of her again, and within moments she was completely filled once more, some small corner of her mind afraid that pleasure this intense, hot, shameful, forbidden pleasure, might just be enough to drive her insane.

Some time later...for all Jill knew, it could have been days, could have been hours...all five of the men had finally wearied and withdrawn, leaving Jill crumpled on the floor, leaking cum from her sore cunt, her aching ass, her puffy lips. She was whimpering softly, tears rolling down her cheeks, mixing with the semen; she sobbed because she had been violated, but because that violation had been the most intensely pleasurable experience of her life. Am I crying because I’m miserable...or because I’m elated?

Jill didn’t get to answer her question; the fatigue she felt seemed to reach up and pull her down into a comfortable velvet oblivion. Her eyes fluttered shut...

...And a moment later Pussy opened them. The question still hung there in Pussy’s mind, but before she could consider it, she felt fingers being thrust into her hair, closing into a fist; she was forced to look up and meet the hard blue eyes of the sandy-haired man, leering down at her.

“You’ll be happy to know that my friends were very impressed with you...enough so that they’ve decided to buy their own copies of Jill from me. The money will more than offset the expense of simulating Jill’s memories of awakening and finding herself dumped in her home.”

His voice was airily mocking as he continued. “My friends and I think it might be fun to get our toys together and watch them play with each other. Would it be a lesbian orgy or an especially exotic form of masturbation, do you think?”

Pussy shivered, flushing at the image of those men all sitting around watching her go down on other copies of herself; she thought about the woman she had been, whose actions had placed her and who knows how many more of her into this bizarre slavery, while she herself would be blissfully unaware and entirely satisfied. Can I honestly call this self-loathing?