The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Sirena!”

As the vivacious, five-foot-six-inch redhead with the impossibly pert 34 C breasts and the bright blue eyes slinked out onto the stage in her skin-tight black sheath with the scandalously short skirt and her four-inch CFM stiletto heels, she knew that every eye in the arena was trained on her. She loved the cheers, the waves, the wild jumping in the aisles. She loved how the crowd noise grew even louder and more frenzied as her band started playing the first song. And she especially loved what would happen in just a few seconds.

Sirena took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and let out a sweet, high D-flat.

And every other mouth in the place fell silent.

Meanwhile, across the country and around the world, people listening to the concert on the XM satellite live feed or watching it on pay-per-view television or Internet hook-up fell just as silent. Malls, parks, ballfields, subways, clubs, schools, restaurants, bars, streets, and homes all around the world slipped into that same hush as they listened to the titian chanteuse.

She was the most popular singer in the world, and had gotten there just over a year after her first concert. All of her recordings were triple-platinum. Her face graced the cover not only of every major entertainment magazine, but most news magazines as well. When she sang “Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini” on an HBO special, women’s swimwear sales increased 2,000 percent in 48 hours, even in Muslim countries. Over 50,000 yellow polka-dot bikinis were sent to her Malibu beach mansion.

There was no doubt that Sirena was attractive, and her alluring features turned heads when she entered a party or walked down a street. But this twenty-something music sensation had truly pulled attention away from Christina and Britney and all of the others because of her voice, and not her musical ability. By modulating her voice in certain ways, the world’s newest and greatest singing sensation could enrapture everyone within her hearing, and deeply arouse most of them, women as well as men. Having discovered this talent just two and a half years ago, she had used it to get an agent without a demo tape, and a concert headline with no previous professional performances, and her first recording and broadcasting contracts, all within a month. Never had the young beauty truly believed her extensive music education would pay off so well, so quickly.

And yet, it wasn’t quite enough for her. Once again, during this evening’s concert, her personal fortune would increase by much more than her unusually generous share of the gate. While Sirena sang her new number one hit—“Give Her Whatever She Wants (And She Will Make You Feel So Good)"—a team of young, athletic, but terribly feminine women in catsuits arrived, individually and simultaneously, at the offices of a Genevan bank, a jeweler in New York, an exclusive clothing designer in Milan, a collector’s private library outside of Montreal, and half a dozen other carefully selected locations around the planet. These young lovelies met various managers, guards, curators, and collectors who were listening to Sirena sing, and made her words real, if just for a moment, thus increasing her personal fortune, her private collections of what she called “stuffs I like,” and her wardrobe, with no reports of robberies, no traceable information, but several smiling faces left behind.

That night, as she kicked off her shoes and lounged atop a new ermine coat, thumbing through a twelfth century illuminated manuscript with a nine-carat ruby nestled in her lap, the singing sensation was feeling content . . . almost.

She had read about an ancient song codex, a sort of musical grimoire, composed by a wizard contemporary of the legendary Merlin. It was said that anyone who sang these songs could transmute matter, and the fables prophesied a singer whose transcendent voice, applied to this composition, would allow her to transform her world; she would never want for anything again.

This was the rarest songbook in the world; for that reason alone, Sirena had to have it. Add to that her firm belief that hers, of course, was the voice of the prophecy, and that one more song would give her a world where she would have everything she wanted-a delicious thought, because there was very little she didn’t want-and the songstress could feel tingles deep inside her, far more powerful than any sex she had enjoyed of late.

When an enthralled investigator brought her reliable information about the book’s location, the vexatious vocalist set herself another record, booking and selling out London’s Royal Albert Hall and then performing the concert all in just five short days. Early the next day-she had hardly been able to sleep at all-her limo was driving her to one of the more obscure Oxbridge colleges. Singing little more than a jingle, she had students and faculty more than happy to show her to the college’s ancient, cavernous rare book library.

There were rumors that Melchior Newin, BA, MA, MLS, MPhil, PhD, DLitt, the current head librarian, had been around as long as the building, perhaps as long as the school. This, of course, was impossible. While he was bearded and graying, he was far from ancient. Never mind the fact that mandatory retirement was 72 at this university, and there was no way that someone could slip by unnoticed after all these years. Despite his out-of-fashion haberdashery, his perpetually mussed hair, his glasses that seemed to spend half their time perched on his head, and his somewhat absent-minded behavior at times, both his mind and his body seemed to have the agility of a thirty-year-old. Nobody seemed to remember how long he had been there, but nobody ever seemed to want to think about it too much, either.

Sirena looked at the quaint figure across the reading room and smiled to herself as he shuffled among the stacks, apparently noticing nothing but the books piled in his arms. If the codex was actually here, however, she was sure that looks were deceiving in this case. With the library nearly empty this Saturday morning, she felt comfortable testing her theory. One of her young lovelies, an expert archer, had found the perfect perch among the carrels; after a sigh from her mistress, she fired a perfect shot, only to have it caught in mid-air by Newin, who never even looked up from his book. A wave of her fingers sent a rather large, well-formed wrestler bounding over a table, grabbing the librarian in a headlock. This was enough to make him set his books down, then reach behind his own head in a swift move that ended with his fingers pressed firmly behind his assailant’s ears. Within a few seconds, Newin turned his fingers, the wrestler’s eyes rolled back in his own head, his grip released, and he slumped silently to the floor.

“Really, miss. When one has been training for as long as I have, one does not find such crude assassins to be an interesting challenge.” He looked up for the first time, just as Sirena shed her fur, revealing a translucent white blouse and black miniskirt that left hardly anything to the imagination. Newin gazed intently over the top of his glasses for a long moment, raising an eyebrow.

She noticed the librarian’s appreciation of her form, however nonchalant. This may be an ancient Guardian, a mysterious presence who has kept this and who-knows-how-many secrets safely locked away since time immemorial, but he was still a man. There was blood in his heart and mind and muscles; she knew she had the skills to move that blood to places that would be more useful to her. “Come and be with me right now . . .” she began to sing, and Newin stood, left his books behind, crossed the long room until he was standing just inches from her self-satisfied form . . .

. . . and he playfully touched his forefinger to her nose, turning on the ball of his foot and activating a nearby computer catalogue terminal. “I’m surprised that you believe this would be so simple . . . Sirena, isn’t it? Yes, I have heard about you; it is my business to keep track of popular trends around the world. I know quite a bit about your side business, as well. Of course, until now, it hasn’t been my place to interfere.”

“Yes, I know all about your rules, old man. So I know you will not act with physical violence against me unless I physically attack you, and you won’t even eject me from this library.”

“Quite right, miss. Anyone is welcome in the library. Though that does not mean that anyone may access all of the materials.”

“Oh, darling,” Sirena purred as she traced a fingernail lazily along his back, “once I find the proper set of tones, I’m sure you will let me access whatever I want. Simply a matter of finding the correct key,” she smiled at her bad musical pun, “to open you up.” She began to sing “Turn and kneel before me,” in various harmonics around the circle of fifths, but nothing seemed to phase him.

After several minutes with no results, she was wondering whether he might be tone deaf. As she pondered her next move, she idly hummed an old medieval chant from Asia Minor. The singer heard a sharp intake of breath, and spun around to see the bookworm biting his lower lip.

A mixolydian mode! Of course! Given his probable age, an ancient tonality might be just the thing to resonate with this Guardian. She stepped up behind him, moving up and down this near-forgotten scale in random nonsense syllables, all dropped directly into Newin’s ear.

The librarian’s eyes closed, his hands stopped moving, and his muscles visibly clenched. “No, no, I must resist,” he quietly moaned. Her hot breath and these tones in his ear were producing sensations within him that he had almost forgotten. Each tone made his breath shallow a bit more, his palms sweat a bit more, and his mind fill with more thoughts of attacking her like an animal. He removed his glasses as tears began to stream from his eyes.

“There is no reason to resist dear,” she sang over and again as her hands moved down his arms, then reached around, undid his bowtie and unbuttoned his shirt, her passion-pink nails grazing his chest, her vocalise never missing a beat.

Within moments, the formerly stoic Guardian was panting and whimpering. Sirena wheeled his body around, stroking his rapidly swelling cock through his pants, then pulling his face into her cleavage. Still singing, she decided she could have some fun and consolidate her control as well. Gently but firmly, she applied pressure to his shoulders until the wise and powerful protector was on his knees, his head under her short skirt, his tongue going to work between her legs. The singer quickly realized that the mysterious Dr. Newin had done this before in his long life, and his skilled lingual assault on her clit combined with the unusual sensations she felt on her thighs-she had never been serviced by a bearded man before-made it difficult to remain in the correct modality. The sounds she made upon orgasm broke several windows, but the old scholar’s mind was too far gone to notice.

After she removed his cum-soaked face from between her legs and stood him up, she hummed through his closed fly onto his cock, thoroughly sealing the erotic enslavement of his once-invincible mind. She sang to the librarian, “take me to the codex.” Wordlessly, mindlessly, the keeper of secrets led her to a distant, secluded, locked room in the library, and then to a cabinet that could only be opened by his retinal scan and a short Persian chant in the same mode.

A panel swung open, and Sirena knocked Melchior Newin to the side and grabbed the volume. She quickly scanned the first few pages, found the fabled song, and began to sing it. Newin sat in the corner, glassy-eyed at first, then with a growing smile on his face. Far too late, the chanteuse realized that his smile was not adoration, but self-satisfaction. The old man had known something about how her world would change, something she had never imagined.

Within just a few weeks, Sirena was all-but-forgotten as new singing sexpots grabbed the world’s attention. Almost all of her acquired wealth was returned to its rightful owners, though a few select items were now in the care of a certain British rare book library, which received a generous new endowment. And Melchior Newin was back to work as head librarian, a job he had held for longer than anybody seemed to remember.

And there was a new marble statue in the library’s reading garden, a sculpture of a lovely young woman, simply titled “Siren.” And, on certain days, when the wind was just right, passersby paused, sure that they heard singing.

And, true to the prophecy, she never wanted for anything again.