The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a cold, rainy day, and as Violet made her way through the crowded city blocks, she kept her arms wrapped tightly around herself, holding the warmth inside her thin rain jacket. Despite the rain, the city was no less busy or trafficked than usual, and she had to navigate her way carefully through the stream of people that never stopped flowing towards her. She avoided head-on collisions, despite the volume of people.

This changed when someone struck into her abruptly. It was not a small push— to her, it felt like a full body shove, knocking into her right shoulder and most of her right side, and bodily forcing her back 5 steps. She just managed catching herself and preventing herself being knocked over. She turned in anger to rebuke the person who had so rudely crashed into her, but they had already been swallowed by the crowd.

With a sigh, she turned and continued on her way.

It wasn’t until much later that she found it. A small, clean piece of soft paper, folded once in half, in her right jacket pocket. As she held it between her fingers, she remembered the feeling of being practically body checked that morning. At the same time, whoever it was must have slipped this paper into her pocket. It was a common tactic among pickpockets, she knew. The contact distracted the victim, allowing the thief to make off with their valuables.

But this person had taken nothing. They had put something into her pocket. It was like a reverse pickpocketing, and she’d never heard of anything like it. What could be so important about a tiny, folded piece of paper that someone would go out of their way to force it on her?

There was only one way to find out. With a sigh, Violet pulled out her kitchen chair, and sank into it. Under the light of the hanging kitchen lamp above the table, she unfolded the piece of paper with shaking fingers:

&%\\|?~$|}*{></

She stared at it, incredulously. It wasn’t even words— just a random string of symbols. A complete stranger had written a random string of symbols on a piece of paper, and then gone out of their way to plant it on her. It wasn’t a message, just gibberish. Why the hell would somebody write a string of gibberish and distribute it to strangers? What could they possibly hope to get out of it?

Shaking her head, she folded it again, and stood, walking to her garbage can. She stepped on pedal, and the lid opened itself to her. But as she moved to throw the piece of paper in, she hesitated.

It couldn’t really be just gibberish— could it? There had to be some deeper meaning. A deeper meaning that maybe she could figure out on her own. Maybe she was being too hasty in throwing this message away.

She shook the thought out of her head. If she treated this message like it had some kind of value or legitimacy, then she was just as crazy as the loon who had written it and planted it on her. She moved to throw it away again.

But again, she hesitated, and instead, this time unfolded the paper and looked at it again. It was as inscrutable as it had been the last time. Her eyes carefully traced the lines of each symbol. It was slightly disorienting to look at because the symbols did not flow into each other. Some of them were facing away from each other, pointing in opposite directions. So it was almost like as you tried to look at the next symbol, the last one was pulling you back and keeping you from getting there.

She brought the paper closer to her eyes, squinting. Maybe she was looking at it wrong.

She started at the base of the ampersand—and if you followed it in reverse, when you crossed the starting line, it actually ended very close to where the top circle of the percentage sign began. And if you looped all the way around that circle, it brought you to the top of percentage line. And if you slid down that, just like a slide, and then curved over to the bottom circle of the percentage sign, that ended just about where the base of the backslash began. And if you went up the backslash from bottom to top, it was an easy leap from the top of that backslash to the top of the next. And the bottom of that backwards slash lined up with the bottom of the straight line, and the top of the straight line led to the top of the question mark, and the bottom of the question mark lined up with the wavy line…

Pretty soon, it was clear that the symbols did flow into each other, almost perfectly. Violet felt satisfaction at having found a pattern in the nonsense. It was less offensive if there was at least some kind of marginal link between the seemingly unrelated symbols. And what a pattern it was— like flowing, coursing liquid that erased all the ends and beginnings of distinct symbols, until it just looked like there were endless loops on the page, like cursive lowercase Ls. Looping, looping, looping. Flowing. It was a very peaceful feeling. Like floating in the water on a sunny day, the sun kissing your skin, and the water lovingly lapping at your back and face as it rocked you gently in its waves…

She was startled out of it by a slamming sound. She looked down to see she had shifted her foot off the pedal of the garbage can, and the lid had fallen shut. The idea that she had been standing there for however long, holding the garbage can open puzzled her. She turned to look at the digital clock on her stove.

11 pm.

She rubbed her eyes and checked again. Still, 11 pm.

She had stood for hours… just staring at the paper, and she hadn’t even noticed. The idea unnerved her. Maybe keeping the paper wasn’t such a good idea. She couldn’t afford to lose blocks of time like this. She kept her eyes carefully fixed on the wall in front of her as she folded the paper shut again. She kicked open the garbage can, and this time, ignoring the reluctance she felt, forced herself to throw it in.

With a sigh of relief at succeeding in her narrow escape, she turned off the kitchen light and went to bed.

The next day at work, there was an important sales meeting. As was her usual habit, she sat in the meeting and took the minutes, what each of the salespeople said, what the meeting chair said, it was all pretty standard in her position as secretary to the sales team. When the meeting was finished, Violet stopped by her friend Becky’s desk, to drop off her notes. Becky was also often at the same meetings Violet attended because she was the personal assistant to the head of sales. The two of them liked to compare notes to make sure neither one of them had missed anything, before Violet went back to type them up on her computer.

When she set down the stack of paper, Becky gave her a strange look.

“What?” Violet asked.

“Vi, you haven’t written anything. It looks like you’ve just doodled a bunch of random symbols.”

Violet snatched her pad of paper back, and this time she did see.

&%\\|?~$|}*{></

How could it be possible? She had been so focused on what each person had been saying. So focused she could still remember some of their sentences word for word. It had been just like every other sales meeting— but she had filled pages and pages with the repeating pattern, and she hadn’t even noticed. Just like she’d stood for hours staring at the note last night, and hadn’t even noticed.

“You can borrow my notes this time, if you want,” Becky said, but she had a concerned look in her eye. “This isn’t really like you, though. You looked like you were taking really focused and detailed notes.”

“I thought I was…” Violet trailed off, that chill of fear licking at her spine again. What the hell kind of sequence was this? It seemed to be able to seize control of her mind, and warp her perceptions of the external world. Now that Becky had seen it… would it seize control of her too? She pressed the pad against her chest so Becky wouldn’t be further exposed to it.

“Here you go,” Becky said, passing Violet her own carefully filled pad of notes. “Just bring it back when you’re done and forward me the typed up transcript. But seriously, Vi. Maybe you should take a sick day, or something. You seem kind of out of it.”

“I’ll try to take better care of myself,” Violet promised. “Thanks for the notes.”

The rest of the afternoon didn’t go much better. She managed to type up the transcript of the meeting, but she lost chunks of time, just staring blankly at her screen. Staring blankly at her screen felt so good… it gave her mind plenty of time to marinate in the symbols.

It was like a virus, infecting her. It was inside of her now, looping and flowing endlessly in her mind’s eye, so persistently that she didn’t even notice it was there anymore. But if she didn’t force herself to work with every ounce of concentration she had, she was consumed by the warm, sunny, flowing feeling. And she just zoned out and sank into it. And the more she sank into it, the better it felt. The deeper she sank, the better it was. It was perfect peace, perfect calm, perfect quiet. Timeless, and thoughtless. Warm and comforting, and encasing and caressing every inch of her as it looped and flowed forever, one line into the next, all edges being smoothed out into perfect flow.

She managed, at last, to complete the transcript. She returned the notes to Becky, who gave her another look of concern, and returned to her desk… just to stare blankly again.

She was startled from her reverie again at 4 o’clock, when one of the sales people stopped by her desk to say hi.

“You taking a lot of notes for a phone call?” He asked.

Feeling bleary, she could only stare at him in confusion. “What?”

“It looks like you’ve used up almost all of your sticky notes. And your pen is still in your hand.” He was giving her a similar look to the one she’d gotten from Becky, now. His maybe had less concern and more judgement. It was a “what kind of freak are you look.”

“Yes, for a phone call,” She lied, quickly. Still giving her the same look, he walked away.

She stared at the sticky note dispenser. There was only a stack of 10 sticky notes left. There had been over 500 there that morning. She had just refilled it last night.

Violet leaned down under her desk to look into her recycle bin, but it was empty. As she moved to get back up a flash of yellow flickered in the corner of her eye.

She turned to look, leaning further under her desk and looking up.

Hundreds. Hundreds of sticky notes, lining the bottom of her desk. And it wasn’t like she’d written one string of the sequence in the centre and then stuck the sticky note. No, she’d started in the top left corner of every one, and written in a perfectly straight line, at about a 6 point font, and filled each one perfectly.

She had done it all without thinking. Without even knowing that her hands were tracing the chain of symbols. The chain of symbols that was still running itself like code through her brain. If she focused for a second, she could see it in her mind’s eye again. But that only brought the warm feeling back. She knew the chain was there all the time. So ubiquitous that she couldn’t even make out its presence unless she really focused.

In a haze, she stood from her desk and made her way to the bathroom. Safe inside the stall, she put her head in her hands. She couldn’t keep writing the sequence without paper.

But how could she get it out of her brain? Clearly, throwing it out hadn’t been enough. And would everyone who saw it become infected by it? Would a global pandemic happen as a result of this symbol? If she threw all those sticky notes in the recycling bin, would the cleaners be infected by it? Would the workers at the recycling plant be infected, too? Had Becky already been infected?

The nervous questions ran through her mind, but there were no answers. And the more the questions unfurled, the weaker they seemed to get. They were no match for the chain of symbols, for that warm, wet pulsing feeling of joy and peace that was consuming all of her thoughts. One by one the questions faded into silence, and it was just that feeling of peace. That feeling of total warmth, and comfort, encasing her. She didn’t need to worry about anything. Everything was going to be alright.

She came out of her haze sometime later. She had no idea how much time she had lost in that black out. But when she stepped out of the bathroom stall to wash her hands, when she looked in the mirror, she got a nasty surprise.

She’d written the sequence on her arm. The inside of her forearm was a perfect reproduction of it, and she’d traced over the lines of the sequence so many times that the skin was red and irritated to the point of almost bleeding. There was blood on the tip of her pen.

She could only stare at her arm in disbelief. Was there no way to stop herself from writing the symbol? And now, as she was walking home, would everybody see it? Would she infect everyone?

Feeling despairing (but somehow, also happy about that), she left the bathroom. As she suspected, it was after hours now. Everyone had gone home, except her. Instead, she had stayed, insanely tracing the same symbols into her arm, again and again.

Somehow, she made it home in one piece. She had forced herself to leave the pen. And when she got home, she threw every pen she had into the garbage, and then took the garbage out and threw it down the garbage shoot. She rounded up every other writing utensil she could find, and then everything that could conceivably be used as a writing utensil. When she had finally done this, her apartment was quite a bit emptier than it had been to begin with. But she felt safer having done so.

She decided next she would immediately go to bed. If she was asleep, she couldn’t zone out and lose time. And she could only hope this was the case, but the code couldn’t keep running itself, programming its way deeper into her mind, if her conscious mind was asleep. She hoped.

But sleep didn’t come. Instead, she sank again into that warm feeling of utter bliss. It swallowed her whole, erasing all her hard edges, all the things that made her Violet Smith, just as it constantly erased the edges of the symbols and smoothed them into endless loop-da-loops.

Voices permeated her bliss, but didn’t stop it, didn’t shake her out of it as had happened the day before. “She’s ready now.” It was a woman’s voice.

“We’ve been watching you, since we gave you our little gift yesterday,” Another female voice chimed in. “Not everyone takes to the trigger as well as you have, and almost nobody surrenders so completely in just one day.”

The words were meaningless to her. There was only bliss. But she knew these women spoke with authority. And she finally realized her place. It is to obey. It is to give in. She would do whatever these women told her. She knew this. But she didn’t need to understand what they were saying. She can obey perfectly without her conscious mind participating at all.

“We’re going to take you away, now. We’ve made all the arrangements to check you in to our facility. After your erratic behaviour today, no one will question it. They’ll all be glad you’re getting the help you need. And you can live in this place of total surrender all the time.”

She thought that sounded nice. But she understood that that didn’t matter — they were telling her to come with them. And so she would go.

She allowed them to help her up and out of the room, and silently, she followed them into her strange new life.

Her only thought were the loop-da-loops going around and around in her mind’s eye, stretching on forever.