The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’m not a cruel man. At least I like to think not. Since I invented the Gizmo, I’ve not used it (as I could have) to revenge myself on the teacher who humiliated me when I was twelve or the girls (many girls) who humiliated me when I was sixteen. And tenty-two. And thirty-three.

And I’ve even done some good. I’ve helped friends off drugs and alcohol. (Without telling them how I was helping, of course.) And the Police have been delighted with the sudden spate of unsought confessions and incriminating errors made by criminals in South East England in the past few years. I’ve enjoyed being the Scourge of Criminals: the secret Avenger and Righter of Wrongs.

But that’s not the primary use I put the Gizmo to. Oh no.

I’ve managed to make myself, if not rich, at least comfortable. A few visits to casinos, a few chats to their managers, soon found me the ones where the games were rigged. For one night only they were rigged in my favour. Afterwards the hard eyed men forgot that I had even been there. I didn’t go too often to any one well and afterwards I put the money safely where it would earn me enough to stretch the pay of a University Professor to cover the little luxuries I had always dreamed of.

I didn’t give up the job. I actually enjoy teaching and besides the job was helpful in pursuing my main use for the Gizmo. Every year there was a new batch of students. Graduates and undergraduates. I could take my pick of the best. And no one could stop me.

Let me tell you how I use the Gizmo. I won’t (even here) write down details of how it works. I hope that the secret will die with me. I keep watch on the papers to see if anyone is getting near making the discovery I accidentally made. I dread waking up one morning and finding that the country, perhaps the world has fallen into the hands of someone unscrupulous enough to use the Gizmo for political power. I’ve made myself immune to the effects but still....

Sometimes I wonder if I’m not already too late. The results of the last two elections in this country were very, very puzzling to the pollsters....

Anyway, I was going to tell you how I put the Gizmo to use. This story isn’t one of the early episodes. I was both nervous and inexperienced then. I made some ghastly mistakes and once came very close to being exposed. This is how I use the Gizmo now, with those experiences behind me and the proper safety procedures in place. The time I am thinking of was just at the beginning of the academic year. It was autumn in England and the trees were turning the first tinges of brown. I had returned to the University after a summer spent on the Mediterranean. I had taken my last ye ar’s toy with me: a graduate student who was going on to work at Harvard. I don’t stop my women from advancing their careers. Oddly enough all of them seem to have prospered after knowing me. Perhaps I’ve a weakness for intelligent women. And after all, a change is as good as a rest. Each year I liked to find a new candidate and experience the pleasures of breaking her in. When I got back to my office there was a week’s worth of paper piled high in my in tray and I plunged into the details of university administration for the next few days. When I came up for air, it was at the sound of a knock on my office door.

A woman stood there. She was slim and rather petite, only a little over five foot two. Her hair was dark brown and her eyes hazel, rather severe behind National Health Glasses. She was dressed severely too, in something grey and brown. (I don’t pay a lot of attention to women’s clothing: unless I’m using it as part of my... scenarios.) Her bust though, was generous for her small size and I didn’t like the way she failed to present it properly. She slouched, in short, as if to de-emphasise her female attributes. I don’t like that.

“Ah, Professor Hillman. So glad I caught you. My name is Cynthia Mattel. I’m the new equal opportunities officer. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”

I gestured at the seat opposite me and she sat. What followed was the most boring twenty minutes of my professional career. What we had here was a woman with a Mission. I had to listen (I think it was four times) to the same basic lecture on What We Are Doing For Minorities and Women.

I had promised the figures on student intake to her three times and she had given me the same lecture four times and failed to hear my hints about how much work I had to do five times before I decided that she, although older than my usual companions, would perhaps do very nicely. My mind drifted during the fourth repetition of her tedious little speech (she had been on a course, I decided: your tax money at work.) and I wondered what she would look like... My hand wandered across to the PC on my desk almost without thinking. A touch of a control and the program on it halted and switched to the control screen for the Gizmo.

TO INITIATE NEW SUBJECT PRESS F12.

My hand hesitated for a moment over F12 and then I heard the dreaded words “and for our Single Parent Access Program we will require...". I pushed down firmly. The Gizmo hidden in the recess behind the bookcase clicked and hummed to life. Ms Mattel fell silent.

After a moment, I took a deep breath and stood up. Cynthia was sitting still, a slightly glazed expression on her face as if she were listening to something very important but very, very far away. I went to the door of the outer office, past the desk were my secretary usually sits and locked it, turning off the light in the outer office as I returned. As I seated myself the PC beeped and the screen showed:

SUBJECT PROCESSED.
ENTER TRIGGER CODE

Below there was a brief list of code phrases. Each was a pair of English words which were unlikely to come up in random conversation. I chose one and then the program asked me to choose a ‘deactivation code’ from a similar list. When that was done the Gizmo hummed again. I took out a little book I carry at all times and wrote the phrases down in it. I then picked up a phone and rang a member of the staff at the University Clinic. A female member of the staff who had once spent a delightful summer naked except for a collar and some tackle pulling ‘pony carts’ around the estate of an acquaintance of mine. Not that she thought much about that sort of thing, nowadays. I spoke a few words to her and then hung up.

The PC screen said

PROGRAMMING NOW COMPLETE
F1 to EXIT
F2 to RUN AGAIN

I touched F1 and Ms Mattel blinked, shuddered for a moment and looked confused.

“I..I’m sorry. What was I saying...”

“Nothing important, Ms Mattel. I’m sure I’ve got the gist of things.”

“Oh, but I haven’t told you about...”

“Jade Fondue.”

She stopped instantly and said: “How may I serve you?” A slight smile was on her face and for the first time since she entered the office her body relaxed from its normal stiff posture.

“Tell me about yourself. Are you married?”

“Oh no.” (Good.)

“Any current boyfriends? Or girlfriends?”

“Oh, nothing like that. I’ve just moved down from Derby. I hardly know anyone here.”

Better and better. A few moments questioning established that she lived alone, had no children (I once made the error of not checking on this: an unexpected toddler asking “What are you doing to Mummy?” has a negative effect on my sexual performance.) and was free of social commitments.

“Excellent. Now I think you ought to stand up” (she sprang to her feet, eager to do what I asked) “and take off your clothes for me. Don’t you?”

“Oh yes! Yes of course!”

It really was a shame, I thought, that I couldn’t keep her like this the whole time. But in this state she was not only vulnerable to everybody’s suggestions and orders but also not a whole lot of fun to play with. It was more enjoyable to watch them struggle against the instructions and to gradually rebuild their personalities to what I wanted.

She stood naked in front of me, uncertain what was to happen next.

“No don’t hide yourself. Stand with your hands clasped behind your neck. That’s right. Hold yourself upright. Chest out. Display those lovely breasts. That’s right.”

She really was a gorgeous sight. I had perhaps let myself get too used to the bodies of girls barely out of their teens. Cynthia was....

“How old are you, my dear?”

“Twenty eight.”

Ahh, yes. The prime of life. She clearly kept good care of herself. Her skin had a nice, not too deep tan and her arms and legs were firmly but not grotesquely muscled.

Her breasts were, as I had speculated, lovely to behold and ended in large, brown nipples that were erect, perhaps just because of the effects of the cold air on them. I was delighted to see beneath her upraised arms tufts of dark brown hair the same colour as that which hung so long and lovely down her back and stood out from her mons.

I walked around and took her all in. Yes, all in all this looked like a worthwhile project. I went back to my desk and sat down. My cock was throbbing and demanding, in its own special way, that I do something about its desires RIGHT NOW! But I’ve learned to be more cautious.

“You are very lovely, my dear.”

“Thank you.” And then a frown crossed her face. “I don’t think you ought to address me in that sexist, patronising way, Professor. It’s just the sort of thing....”

Hmm, a bit of her main personality showing through the conditioning. Still, it was early days. And this might be fun...

“It is perfectly alright for me to call you anything I want. Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. Perfectly alright. I was just...”

“In fact, you like me to call you that.”

“I do. I like it.”

“In fact every time, I call you, my dear from now on, you will feel sexually excited and you will picture yourself down on your knees before me, naked and sucking my cock.”

“Really, Professor...”

“Yes, my dear?”

She turned bright red. I mean she blushed ALL OVER HER BODY! It was quite a sight to see.Her breathing became shorter and she licked her lips.

“Now tell me my...good woman, when was the last time you had sex?”

We spent a good fifteen minutes discussing her sex life, which seemed to consist of starting relationships with muscular young men in the student body and then driving them away with her nagging behaviour and insistence on remodelling their lives in line with her feminist dogma. She frequently faked orgasm with these men, feeling their frail male egos couldn’t cope with failing to satisfy her. All in all, I decided, a subject crying out for ‘attitude adjustment’.

“And finally, tell me: how often do you masturbate?”

“Oh, I hardly ever do....that.”

“Why ever not? You are alone, with no one to satisfy your sexual needs at the moment?”

“It would be....childish. Adolescent. And any way you shouldn’t let your mere bodily needs dictate your behaviour.”

Oh, dear. This would have to change.

“Take your hands down, Cynthia. Now I want you to start playing with your breasts. That’s right. Start to feel them. Squeeze the nipples. Get them hard.” She obeyed and the lovely flush that she had exibited earlier began to return to her body.

I rummaged around in the bottom drawer of my desk. I keep a selection of my favourite works of fiction there, to help in the training process. DANCER OF GOR? Not till later. THE PASSIVE VOICE? Too ‘consensual’ and ‘politically correct’ for my purposes

Ah, yes. A.N. Roquelaire’s BEAUTY books. Just the thing.

“You are enjoying playing with your tits, aren’t you, Cynthia?”

“I...I...Yes....I suppose....”

“You are getting very wet in your cunt, aren’t you my dear?”

“I...In my...Wet...Yes...”

“You want to put your hand down there and frig yourself don’t you? Frig yourself until you come?”

“I...Yes... I want....”

“Tell me what you want, Cynthia.”

“I want to put my hand on my pussy....”

“Your cunt, Cynthia!”

“Yes, yes, I want to put my hand on my cunt and f..f...frig myself until I come!”

“Good girl! You may now do so.” Her right hand went down to her cunt and began to dance around and about her clitoris, in and out of her labia, plunging in, one, two, three fingers. A moan escaped her lips and she began to gasp.

“Oh, yes! Yes! Christ, fuck, oh god, ahh ahh ahh...”

She was a magnificent sight. Her body shook as her orgasm hit her and she threw back her head and gave off a little scream of pleasure. I watched as she came down. A light sheen of sweat covered her body and my office was filled with the scent of her lust. I wanted her very, very badly just then. But sometimes a pleasure delayed is a pleasure increased.

I ordered her to dress but as she did so told her to leave off her panties and bra. I told her that from now on she would never wear either and would not think it strange that she did not. I took the offending articles and put them away in my drawer.

Once she was seated I handed her the books I had chosen.

“You will take these with you. You will remember having found them...in a corridor at the University and taking them with the intention of handing them in. Instead you will read them every night before you go to sleep. You will find them very exciting.

You will have intense sexual fantasies centred on the situations in these books. You will picture yourself as Beauty and me as her Prince. You will masturbate each evening after reading the books and fantasise about situations in which you are a slave and I am your Master. You may find that disturbing but you will not want to stop. And you will mention your fantasies to no-one.”

I took out a business card from my little notebook and wrote the date and time of the appointment I had made at the University Clinic.

“You will go to the University Clinic at the date and time shown on here and ask to see Dr Merriman. Show her this card. She will know what to do. You will co-operate with her examination and answer all her questions freely and without embarrassment. You will believe that this is part of the regular examination required of all new staff members.”

“Do you understand all that? Good. Then it is time for you to leave. Topaz Timetable.”

She shuddered and was again Ms Cynthia Mattel, the dogmatic, determined Equal Opportunities Officer. Not a trace of memory remained of her time under control but she would carry out her instructions perfectly.

“Well, if all that is clearly understood, Professor, I’m sure we will have no problems. I look forward to your reports.”

She stood and took up her briefcase and went towards the door. I stepped neatly in front of her to unlock it.

“And I look forward to working with you, my dear.”

As she stepped through the door she stopped as if shot and turned to look at me, a red flush creeping along under her tan. Then she nearly ran off down the corridor.

Well begun, I thought. My new project was well begun.