The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1.

“I’m telling you, Jack. Sheila can do this.”

“I can?”

“Shush, dear.”

“Let me get this straight,” Jack said to Andrea. He’d just finished wiring something to Sheila’s forehead, and was checking the contacts. “You want your girlfriend—who happens to be civilian—to march into the house of her editor—who happens to have a copy of a dangerous, evil artifact—and just take it back?”

Dangerous, evil artifact? Sheila swallowed. “Um, Andrea—”

“Shush, dear.” Andrea said. “And stop wriggling.” She watched Jack fire up the monitoring gear. “She’s immune, Jack. I’m positive.”

“Remember what happened the last time I believed your lame-brained theories? Besides, I have a team watching her editor’s house. She’s not going anywhere.”

He stood, and peered into Sheila’s eyes. Then he stepped back and pointed something at her. “Okay, Sheila. Just relax.”

It looked like an oversized handgun, except that it had a dish-shaped-thingie with a spinning spiral at the end. As Sheila watched it spin, the spiral started changing colors. Blue, then green, then yellow. She liked blue the most, though. Probably because Andrea looked really nice when she was wearing blue. Like that New Year’s Eve party where Andrea had worn her blue backless gown, and she’d looked so pretty that Sheila had yanked Andrea into the bathroom, and...

Minutes passed. Finally Jack switched the thing off, and tore a printout from the monitoring gear. He and Andrea huddled over it. Then Jack looked up and scowled.

“Well, this doesn’t mean anything.”

“This isn’t the only time.” Andrea said. “Remember when the Cort-Neb disappeared from the vault last month?”

“You took that? For chrissakes, Andrea—”

“Well, that didn’t work on her either. And it was our anniversary, too. I wanted to surprise her.”

Sheila perked up at that. Their last anniversary—Andrea had brought out some gadget and started talking in this weird, slow voice. Sheila just giggled, which seemed to tick Andrea off. Eventually, Andrea just put the gadget away, tied her to the bed, and improvised. Boy, had she improvised.

Sheila shuddered, and looked back at Jack and Andrea, who were still arguing.

“Okay,” Jack said. “So maybe she has a high threshold—”

“Bollocks. The manual is rated at class nine.”

“—a very high threshold.” Jack said. “I’ll have a lab tech come over with the Frankie. That’ll settle it. Then we can wipe her and get back to work.”

“Fine. But if I’m right, you deputize her. And I get your car for a week.”

“And if I’m right, you do my paperwork for a month.”

“Um, Andrea?”

“Shush, dear.” Andrea said. “Jack, it’s a deal.”

2.

Mistress Caroline Finche peered through her window blinds. Parked outside her house were two large, white vans. They’d arrived nearly an hour ago. Nobody had come out; whoever was inside them was just sitting there, waiting for something. Waiting and watching.

She frowned, and held the manual protectively against her bare breasts. It wasn’t fair. Everything had been going so well. She and the manual had laid out their plans so carefully. They’d already captured twelve slaves, not counting her secretary. Women from all different layers of the publishing world. Each new slave had called the next, who’d called the next.

And now all twelve were piled in a tangle of naked, writhing bodies all over her carpet. In one corner, a blonde woman squatted over a short-haired brunette, making soft noises as the brunette tongued her asshole. The blonde was the first to join Finche’s harem; she’d been her publisher’s CFO, a tight-assed bitch who never ceased to whine about rising costs on Finche’s book projects. Soon, she wouldn’t be very tight-assed at all.

On the other side of the room was Finche’s latest conquest—a former peer who got pirated and fast-tracked into a job that Finche had always wanted. Now she was sitting astride the sofa arm, kneading her tits and moaning as she humped the furniture.

Finche frowned. Now, who were these people outside her house?

She snapped her fingers. From the pile of writhing bodies, a woman with sleek Asian features peeled off, and crawled towards her. It was her secretary; the girl nosed her head eagerly between Finche’s thighs, but Finche pushed her away.

“Slave,” she said. “I want you to watch through this window. If those vans do anything, let me know.”

The girl nodded, and Finche turned to tend to her harem, the manual still cradled in her right arm.

3.

The machine they’d nicknamed the Frankie looked like a stripped-down dishwasher flash-welded to an airplane dashboard and bristling with mismatched wires. It was also the highest rated, most powerful mind control device in known existence. The lab boys had assembled it from the relics of a domme war two summers ago in Hong Kong. Nobody knew what happened to the dommes. Nobody even knew how the machine worked. But it did. Sometimes.

And right now, it was pointed at Andrea.

“Jack,” Andrea said, “I’m so going to kill you.”

“You do this everyday. And we need a baseline reading.”

“You didn’t say anything about a video tape!”

Andrea pulled testily against the restraints, rocking the chair she was strapped into, and nearly tipping herself over on the living room floor. One of the restraints came loose, only to be refastened by the watchful Jack. She scowled at him.

“I swear, if you’re streaming this over the web again...”

“Just smile. See, Sheila doesn’t mind.”

Beside her, Sheila was tied to a matching chair. She was looking with wonder at the suede-backed wrist straps. “You know,” she said, “I’ve never been tied up like this before. The last time, Andrea used duct tape, and—”

“Sheila!”

“Huh?”

The technician who’d dragged in and assembled the Frankie was twisting together some wires under the unwieldy console. The machine began to hum. Jack waved his camcorder at her. “Okay Andrea. Uh, think of England.”

“You’re dead, do you hear me?”

A green shaft of light shot from the warbling machine; it painted a swath over Andrea’s face, then dissolved into two pinpricks that focused on her eyes and—

—Sex. Yeah. Strapped into the chair, squirming like the fucktoy she was. Nipples hardening into aching nubs under her shirt. Thighs spreading wide, her ass wriggling on the seat, her slit growing wet as—

The machine sputtered. The tech grumbled something, and started adjusting dials. Strapped on the chair, Andrea panted for breath, then glared at Jack. He waved at her from behind the camera. The machine’s hum came back online.

Goddamnit. When she got out of this, she’d kick him in the balls so hard—

—then she’d drop down and lick his cock. Tease her tongue up and down the shaft. Then she’d shove him over and mount him, squealing like an animal until—

And the machine died again. As the tech made more adjustments, Andrea slumped into her chair, and sighed.

4.

It took four more tries—and much cursing from Andrea—before they finally got the machine working properly. They left it pointed at Andrea for a few more minutes, then powered it down.

“Sir, I’ve got the baseline.”

“Huh?” Jack said, not looking up at the tech. He was scanning through the tape on his camcorder: the current scene showed Andrea threatening to kill him. Then a flash of green, and her eyes glazed over with lust. Then she started threatening to kill him again.

The tech yanked a printout from the monitoring gear, and pointed to a set of numbers. “I’ve got the baseline. We can test the other girl in a few minutes.”

“Hmmm.”

They both looked at Andrea: she was slouched blankly in her chair, one hand tucked under the waistband of her shorts. As they watched her, she pulled her hand out—slick with moisture—and began to lick her fingers. She looked up at them and smiled invitingly.

“Wow,” Sheila said, staring at her. “Cool. Um, can I make her...bark?”

Jack hoisted up the camera. “Probably.” He nudged the tech. “How much time do you need?”

“Just five more minutes, sir.”

Jack squinted through his viewfinder. Across the room, they heard a barking sound, followed by a giggle.

“Make it ten,” he said.

5.

The vans hadn’t moved in three hours. The men inside hadn’t come out either. Finche’s house was being watched.

Either that, or she was being paranoid. Her publishers always told her she was, but she never trusted their opinions. They always lied to her.

Of course she wasn’t paranoid. She was definitely being watched.

The manual had warned her about this. It had told her that people would come to take it away from her. Men who would break into her house, and take away her precious manual. Free her harem. Strip away her grand plans, and steal from her all the power and vengeance that she was due. Then she’d be nothing but Caroline Finche, lowly freelance editor again.

No. She wouldn’t let them.

She clenched her thighs hard against her secretary’s head. The girl moaned but went on licking Finche’s slit.

She’d escape them. Outsmart them. She’d take her precious manual and flee from the city to set-up elsewhere. Then she would start building her power base again. And wreak her vengeance on the publishing world that had belittled her for so long.

But first, she needed to get away from these men. She needed to create a distraction.

She thought about that for a moment. Then she eyed the twelve moaning, naked book publishers lying around her house.

And her lips curled into a smile.

6.

“Okay. Sheila, ready?”

Sheila straightened herself in the chair. “Um, okay.”

The machine hummed. A beam of light shot out, and—

“Wait!”

The beam died. Jack’s face popped up over the console. “What is it now?”

“Will it...tickle? Because I need to go to the bathroom, and whenever Andrea tickles me I...”

Jack’s face disappeared behind the console again. The green light stabbed out, the whole room turned green, and—

—Sex. Hot smoking sex. With Andrea. Licking and kissing, stroking and...baking. Baking muffins, maybe. Although Andrea’s muffins were horrible, and Sheila still didn’t know how to get rid of the last batch. Hmmm. Some muffins would hit the spot, right about now. Maybe with some milk. Non-fat. And maybe some—

The machine sputtered. Behind the console, the tech started cursing. “Hold a second, Sheila,” Jack said.

“Um, sure,” Sheila said, feeling hungry.

Mistress Finche surveyed her copulating harem, and cleared her throat.

“Look here, slaves,” she said.

In mid-lick, mid-stroke, and mid-fuck, the mass of women paused and looked at her for a second. Then they went back to licking, stroking, and fucking.

“Stop that, and look here!“

The women looked back up. Much better.

“Slaves, our divine plan is endangered.” She moved to the whiteboard her secretary wheeled out for her. Sketched on it was a drawing of the street outside. Finche pointed to two red rectangles her secretary had helpfully marked with the word ‘van’.

“These two—” she squinted at the board “—vans contain our enemies. At my command you will attack them viciously, while your Mistress escapes.”

The women looked at each other, then back at Finche.

“Attack them! Do you understand?”

They made throaty, but sleepy, noises of agreement.

Finche frowned at them. This wouldn’t do. They weren’t aggressive enough. She needed to stoke them to a maddened rage.

But what could stoke twelve book publishers to a maddened rage?

Ah yes. Of course.

She stamped her foot. “And know this, slaves,” she said. “These are very evil men. So evil, in fact, that they’ve come here to take away your—” she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper “—intellectual property rights.”

“No!”

“They can’t!”

“Kill them! Kill them all!”

Twelve expensively manicured fists rose into the air, punctuating a bloodcurdling, murderous yell.

7.

Jack and the tech were hunched over Sheila’s printouts from the monitoring gear. The tech was looking over the numbers, stopping occasionally to push up his glasses. “Like water off a duck’s back, sir,” the tech said. She’s just disproved at least three theories of advanced mental control.”

Jack scowled and pointed to one row of numbers. “Wait. See, she was affected—her sexual arousal metrics are three times normal.”

“That’s her base level, sir.”

They heard a gasp, and looked back at the girls. Andrea was sitting on her chair, with Sheila whispering something in her ear; whatever it was, Andrea was clutching the chair’s arms and panting. Then Andrea’s head lolled back, and she gasped again.

Jack sighed. “Sheila, behave!”

“Sorry.”

He rubbed his forehead. Maybe he could still ask for a re-assignment. Something less stressful. The FBI, maybe. Or Homeland Security.

“Sir. This is weird. Her cognitive coherence baseline is below half of the average adult. That would explain the...” The tech scanned through the papers, mumbling something about synaptic links. Then he looked up.

“That’s it, sir. Her neural foci were jumping too fast to be locked down.”

Jack blinked. “That’s why? Because she has a...short attention span?”

“Er, yes sir. A really short attention span.”

They turned to the girls. Sheila was back on her chair, fidgeting while Andrea watched her with adoring eyes. “Sheila,” Jack said. “How did it feel when we were testing you?”

Sheila pursed her lips. “Kinda tingly.” She brightened up. “Reminded me of this time I met a lady on a plane, and she showed me her eyepatch. She looked surprised.” Sheila frowned. “We were on a plane to Hawaii, and...wait, no. Amsterdam? Or...”

Jack just shook his head as Sheila counted off cities. Eyepatch? He thought about that for a moment.

Nah. He turned back to the printouts, and began to study the numbers again.

Finche settled into the driver’s seat of her Volvo, still clutching her beloved manual. In a few more seconds, her enslaved army would begin its attack. Then she’d be away from her pursuers, and free to plot anew.

She looked over at her secretary, squirming beside her. Finche had decided to take her along; the girl’s help would be invaluable in rebuilding Finche’s harem. And she still had the ruthless efficiency and keen intellect that had made her such a good assistant, when she wasn’t too horny to think.

Which she was now. Her skirt was hiked up, and her hands were quivering and white over her pale, bare thighs. She’d been ordered not to play with herself until Finche gave permission.

From outside the garage, Finche heard angry shouts, then heavy thuds. The attack had begun.

She licked her lips in anticipation. Slipped a finger under her half-open blouse, to rub at her right nipple. Her secretary grunted hungrily, watching her. Finche grinned and leaned over; traced her tongue slowly, tenderly over the Asian girl’s ear.

“Go ahead, play,” Finche whispered. “And think of me while you do.”

Her secretary’s fingers descended, and she exhaled with a long, ragged sigh.

Outside, the commotion grew louder. Finche checked the clock—they had nearly four hours before their flight left for London. That was good.

Because she had one stop to make before the airport.

Finche carefully tucked the manual into her secretary’s bookbag. Then she tightened her hand around the Volvo’s gearshift, and hit the garage-door opener. Seconds later, the Volvo shot forward, and headed north up the street, weaving through a storm of naked, rioting book publishers.

8.

“...We are under attack! Repeat, we are under attack...”

Jack looked up from the muffins Sheila brought out while he and the tech were talking. He’d nearly gagged on one, and was trying to think of excuses to not bring any home.

The tech handed him the radio. He keyed the talk switch.

“Watchdog, report. Who’s attacking you?”

There was a crackle of static, followed by strained male voice. “Book publishers, sir. Lots of ‘em. They’re—look out!—yelling something about copyright infringement. And they’re—shit!—throwing things.”

“Throwing things?”

In the background, somebody yelped with pain, then the man’s voice came back. “Dictionaries, sir. Heavy ones.”

Oh, brother. Jack handed the radio back, upturning the muffin bowl in the process. One of the muffins landed on floor with a brittle crack. “Pack up the gear, and meet me at the car,” he said to the tech.

The kitchen door opened, and Sheila came out with a tray of more muffins. “Say, Jack? Do you want to take home some of these? Because I’m trying to get rid of them, and...”

“Emergency. Really sorry.” Jack kissed Sheila on the cheek, then did the same to Andrea, who cooed at him. “I’ll call you guys later.”

He darted outside the door, fumbling for his car keys.

9.

It was all too confusing for Sheila.

She sighed and brushed another tangle from Andrea’s hair. She’d given Andrea a bath after Jack left, and then seated her at their dresser while she tried to figure out what to do next.

Maybe she could change Andrea’s hair color. She’d always thought they looked cuter together that time they were both redheads. But Andrea had made her promise not to do that again. Well, not without asking first.

Andrea’s bathrobe was slightly parted; Sheila licked her index finger, and touched it to Andrea’s left nipple. Andrea gasped, and the nipple stiffened.

She tried it on the other nipple. Andrea gasped again.

Cool.

She started to stroke both nipples. Andrea’s gasps rose in pitch, and Sheila kissed her ear absently.

Hmmm. Now where did she put Andrea’s French maid outfit?

The doorbell sounded. Sheila sighed; it was probably Jack, come to turn Andrea back to normal. She stroked Andrea’s nipples one last time and kissed her forehead.

“Stay here,” she said, and headed out.

It wasn’t Jack.

Sheila opened the door to find Ms. Finche, looking like she just stepped out of The Matrix. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail that matched the taut, sleek lines of her black pantsuit. Her right arm was cocked at her hip. Her usual thick glasses were missing, and her grey eyes glinted. Behind her was a tall, Asian woman, similarly clad, clutching a black bookbag.

Cool boots, too.

“Um, is this about the manuscripts? I’ve finished proofreading one already, and...”

The two women pushed their way past Sheila. The door slammed, and the bolt clicked shut.

“Um, okay. Is this about the...manual? Because I don’t think Andrea wants me to take it back, see.” Sheila brightened up. “But if you want your twenty-nine bucks—”

“You stupid slut,” Ms. Finche said. Her voice was low and measured. “You’ve made my career a living hell. Now you’re mine.”

Sheila swallowed.

The two women growled and stepped closer. Sheila inched back, squeaked, then spun around and tried to make a break for it. They grabbed her and plopped her on top of the nearby sofa. She chucked a throw pillow at them, but missed. Then two pairs of surprisingly strong hands pinned her down.

“Have you met my new secretary?” Ms. Finche said. “You’ll like her. She’s very good.”

Wide-eyed, Sheila watched as the Asian woman nuzzled between her thighs. She tried to pull away, but Ms. Finche held her in place, and—

Oh.

Oh, wow.

She was good.

Ms. Finche sneered, and began to pull off Sheila’s bathrobe.

Gingerly, Jack stepped over the legs of one of the book publishers, who looked up at him and purred. Reassuring them about intellectual property seemed to quiet them down for some reason, allowing Jack’s men to herd them into the house. Now they lounged in various poses around the den, eyeing Jack’s team hungrily.

One of the agents came up as Jack slotted another dictionary into a nearby bookshelf. The agent was holding an icepack against a large lump on his head.

“Sir. The rest of the house is empty. No sign of the manual.”

“The house’s owner?”

“None of the...um, ladies matches her description, sir.”

Jack sighed. He looked back at the book publishers: two blondes—he recognized the tall one from a recent People magazine—had paired off and started making out; they saw him looking, and licked their lips.

He sighed again. “Alright. Call for clean-up gear, class nine.”

Now if they could only find that damned manual.

Finche licked idly at Sheila’s right nipple, one hand clamped around Sheila’s mouth, keeping her thankfully quiet for once. Next to Finche, her secretary was nuzzling Sheila’s crotch, her sweaty body naked except for the strap of the bookbag.

Under them, Sheila was squirming deliciously; she’d squirmed a lot, over the past half hour.

Finche shrugged open her top and pressed her tits against Sheila’s, feeling Sheila’s hot, firm flesh against hers. Something wet pushed against her crotch. She looked back—it was her secretary, licking her. She ground her pelvis against the warm, skilled mouth, then slid back, easing her secretary down on the couch. Sheila’s cunt flashed by, and she lapped at it once, savoring the heady taste. Then her secretary’s crotch was in front of her, and she bent down with gusto.

As she licked, her thighs clenched around her secretary’s head. She felt her secretary’s tongue probe deeper; she gasped and licked back even harder, trying to match it stroke for stroke.

Then her secretary hit just the right rhythm, and Finche’s head fell back with an animal grunt. A finger pushed into her asshole, sending her over the edge. An orgasm hit her; then another, and another, until finally her body went limp.

Flush with warmth, Finche disentangled herself from her secretary’s sweaty limbs, and collapsed back against the sofa. Something was tickling the roof of her mouth; she plucked out a curled hair. Ewww.

Not acceptable. She’d order her secretary to shave, later. At least Sheila was already shaved—

—wait.

Where was Sheila?

She spun. Behind her, Sheila was tiptoeing to a nearby doorway. Their eyes met. Sheila gulped, and hurried through the door.

“Come back here, slave!”

The door slammed shut. Finche and her secretary charged into it, shoulder-first—

—and the door swung open, depositing them on the other side with a skidding halt. It looked like a bedroom, mainly because of the large, fluffy bed that filled the room’s center. Across it, Sheila took cover behind another woman: a fit but catatonic-looking blonde who was sitting on the bed, staring blankly.

Excellent. More slave fodder. Finche let her lips curl back in a savage grin. “Come, slut,” she hissed. “No sense in fighting.”

“Bite me.”

Finche snarled; as one, she and her secretary began to advance. Sheila narrowed her eyes. Then she tapped the blonde’s shoulder, and pointed at them.

“Andrea...attack.”

10.

The battle lasted five minutes, tops.

Sheila cheered enthusiastically while Andrea and Ms. Finche had it out in a hair-pulling, eye-gouging, kicking-and-scratching free for all. It ended with Andrea on top, still smiling vacuously, and Ms. Finche face-down on the bedspread, burbling something about a publishing empire.

It was only after some celebration that they realized Ms. Finche’s secretary had crawled away. They looked for her, by which time the tall Asian woman had escaped, along with all her clothes, her boots, and her bookbag.

Jack arrived a half hour later with a team of slightly battered—but still alert—agents. They took Ms. Finche into custody, and searched her things for the manual, which was nowhere to be found.

Then, with Sheila’s help, they set up the Frankie again, to turn Andrea back to normal.

11.

“Yes, Jack, I’m sure you’ll fix it eventually.”

It was evening. Sheila was lying in bed, talking to Jack on the phone. With her right hand, she twisted and untwisted the two wires she’d pulled out of the Frankie when nobody was looking.

“No, I’ll take care of her,” she said. “Maybe you can change her back on Monday?

She sat up on the bed. “Alright. Bye.”

The phone beeped off. Sheila put it away and looked down to the foot of the bed, where Andrea was carefully licking her toes. Andrea was naked except for a black apron and a French maid bonnet. Sheila wiggled her toes, causing Andrea to coo.

“Um, Andrea?”

“Yes, Mistress?” Andrea said, between licks.

“Do you think I could have...ice cream? In bed?”

“Mmmm. Of course, Mistress.”

Sheila watched Andrea head out to get the ice cream. She’d always wanted to have ice cream in bed, but Andrea rarely let her. She already had a list of other things she wanted to do with Andrea before Monday. At the least, she could probably get Andrea’s permission to dump those muffins.

She sighed happily, and leaned back on the bed. Life was good.

Well, mostly. Now that poor Ms. Finche was in therapy, she needed to find a new editor to work for. That would be tough; her last two editors still refused to talk to her.

Oh well. Being a proofreader just wasn’t as exciting for her as it used to be. Maybe she needed a career change.

Hmmm.

Well, she could work for Jack...