The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It is two thirty a.m., and Kira is asleep. Her BodyClock schedule dictates a precise amount of rest, and while she sleeps messages and numbers scroll behind her eyelids. This is a good thing, she knows, because even in the hours of darkness, while she isn’t aware of it, her precious BodyClock will push her to optimization.

She isn’t aware of the tiny voice that tells her to adjust her sleeping position like this, as she turns over. She isn’t aware of the ideas and prompts that speak to her resting subconscious, but she knows they can only be beneficial, because she always wakes with a renewed and stronger sense of purpose. She isn’t aware of the soft and insistent rhythm that relaxes her while she sleeps, synching with and then moving her alpha waves to exactly the right frequency. She isn’t aware of the complex sequences of overlaid tones that keep her Kegels going through the night, her pelvic muscles rippling automatically. She knows BodyClock doesn’t sleep, and is comforted by the knowledge. She doesn’t like the thought of being unconscious, helpless, unprotected; anything could happen.

She’d once had a nightmare that BodyClock had stopped working, that she was suddenly alone, deaf and blind in the world. It had jolted her awake in terror.

Kira is dreaming. She dreams of her childhood, and feels the free joy of tumbling in the air, Little Miss Magic somersaulting through the grass as she runs besides her parents. They always laughed to see her doing her tricks. She dreams of her early years, mastering the formal routines as best as she could. She dreams of her first fumbling kisses, the sting of first crush and the anticipation of true love to come. She dreams of the sign by the side of the road. She dreams of the BodyClock leaderboard, and she isn’t aware that it is always there in her sleeping vision, ratings scrolling behind her eyelids like a stock ticker.

She dreams it is the state finals. She knows she will win, now.

Mom and dad are in the stands, of course. Coach Jeffries is talking to her, gearing her up for the last routine. His words are unclear. Jack is looking on. He gives her a smile, and a clenched fist of encouragement. Even now, she knows he wishes her well.

She dreams of messages scrolling, and she doesn’t know that some of them are real.

Clock it for the community, Miss Magic!

Good luck. You’re our golden girl.

You can win this. You must win this.

Focus. Focus!

Don’t fuck it up…

She knows she will beat Mel. Her rival has been distracted, she knows, by this business with Jack, and tiny margins of focus will make the difference today. With her better, sharper senses Kira has also started to notice minute errors in Mel’s technique, errors that Mel has always masked through natural grace and elegance. But Kira can see them now. She is frustrated that Coach Jeffries cannot. This doesn’t matter, in the end; she knows her scores will be perfect today. She will be magic.

In the dream, the ritual is always the same. She takes off her BodyClock and stows it in her sweats. She stretches, approaches the mat, and follows her programme. Asleep, she isn’t aware of the scrolling prompts and almost inaudible tones that trigger her dream routine. She isn’t aware of the occasional tiny messages correcting this or that.

In the dream, she dismounts to thunderous applause. The routine is perfect. She knows she will win. Her followers are going wild, thumbs ups and smiley faces everywhere. She basks in the glow of the community.

Kira orgasms in her sleep.

She dreams of the pickup bar, and her mouth works in her sleep. She dreams that there is a way to test for the dreaded imbalance without triggering a full on alert, and driven by compulsive lust she does so, over and over again. There is always another man. Over and over again, she leaves the bar on his arm. In the motel room, she evades his kisses, which always trigger a full alert when there is an imbalance, and she gracefully drops to her knees before him, registering the perfect flow of her movement. She unzips his pants and takes his cock in her mouth, tongue working gently, carefully, always alert to her biochemical signs. As she sucks deeper, she watches the HeadsUP glowing in her peripheral vision. His cock is hard in her mouth, and he has one hand on her head as if to prevent her escaping. She doesn’t want to escape. This could be the one.

She checks her HeadsUP. There are no warning signs, so she tightens her lips around him, drawing his cock deeper into her mouth, and sucks. It is good exercise for the neglected muscles of her mouth, she thinks, as she gets into a rhythm, and it requires a pleasing degree of co-ordination. She knows she is getting better at this with practice. The man’s cock is throbbing urgently in her mouth, and he urges her on. He is calling her a slut, a cocksucking whore, and she responds with new vigor, determined to get what she needs. She is in heat.

She checks HeadsUP again. There are no red lights, no misaligned signals at all; this time, surely, she will get what she craves. She imagines herself stretching open to him joyfully—at last!—her hungry pussy muscles spasming and clutching him in delight. This one is big enough to satisfy her, she thinks. On her knees, she wriggles in anticipation and takes a long deep draw on his sweet cock.

As she feels the sudden hot jet of him in her throat, Kira swallows jubilantly. This time, surely this time—

— and then the crushing beep of disappointment in her ears, and the soft voice, and the words glowing red in the HeadsUP: Alert. Biochemical imbalance detected.

Over and over again.

She isn’t aware of the prompts and tones while she sleeps, or that BodyClock has detected a dip in her endorphin levels. It gifts her a tiny but complex series of muscle movements to compensate, and sleeping, Kira’s body complies.

Kira orgasms in her sleep.

She is screamingly horny when she wakes up. Going through her morning routine, she can’t get the thought out of her head. She’s ashamed to think she has lost count of how many men she has tested over the last few weeks, how many men she has tasted in her quest. She can’t even remember half their faces. Kira worries it is becoming a compulsion, a dispiriting, empty habit she needs to beat, but her body is craving release and it will not give up. There is something deep and innate in her that never, ever gives up. Somewhere out there is a man who will not trigger the alert. She will not be beaten, she thinks. She will find him.

Kira wonders whether she should revisit the pool of students, and she idly wonders if Coach Jeffries would be a viable bet. No, she will not go there. She is ashamed of what she has done across town; but at least it’s a different world, and nobody knows her there. She remembers the vandalized sign by the side of the road of her old home town, and she can picture the campus graffiti.

She is edging towards Very Good. She has started to master the subvocal commands of the HeadsUP, now, and she distracts herself by replying to a few messages while she works out.

She acknowledges the words of encouragement and the suggestions for new routines. She notes all the positive reactions to her video feeds, and promises them more soon. She thanks everybody diligently. Her followers deserve and expect no less.

The message is still sitting there, pinned to her feed by a tiny star. Why don’t you just ask?

She commands reply. While she does her stretching routine, she responds to the follower: Hi! What do you mean? Ask what?

Almost immediately, a reply. Ask us! Ask the community. The BodyClockers are here for you! Smiley face.

Doing a headstand, Kira ponders this. It’s true. The community have been there for her at every step; supporting, cajoling, always for her own good, and always with her best interests at heart. They have helped her so much already. Why not now?

When her routine is over, Kira opens her laptop. She needs to do more work on the subvocals, she thinks, and while she can do short replies she doesn’t yet quite trust them with a longer, more important message like this.

Hi BodyClockers!

Hope you’re all improving well.

I need some advice, and I hope you can help.

Kira pauses, her fingers poised over the laptop’s keypad. How to express this? Should she even express it at all? It is a matter of the utmost intimacy. But, she thinks, she has shared so much with the community already. They are her true friends, she knows. She ploughs on.

I’ve been having some issues in my personal life. My boyfriend Jack—my ex-boyfriend, I should say—

No. It sounds weak, and not the sort of thing a true member of the BodyClock community would say. She deletes the line.

I’ve been having some issues with biochemical imbalances. It happens whenever I come into close contact with men. I can’t seem to find a guy that doesn’t trigger them. It’s getting in the way of—

What? My love life? Sex? Can she even say it?

— fucking, she types, with a slight blush, and I don’t know what to do. Can you help?

Love, Miss Magic

She looks at the message and adds a smiley face at the bottom for good will and good luck. She takes a deep breath, posts the message out to the warm and welcoming embrace of the community, and prepares for class.

The day is a blur of study and exercise. Kira anxiously scans her HeadsUP for responses to her message. A lot of them are simple thumbs ups and general platitudes of sympathy or encouragement.

You’ll find someone, Miss M. Have faith!

The body has needs. It’s only natural…

Her long-time follower PantherPower, somewhere in Europe, whose name belies a seemingly poetic nature, is particularly sweet about it: Someday your prince will come, Miss Magic. You’re beautiful. Just be choosy!

Choosy, thinks Kira. If only they knew. She resolves never, ever, to go across town again. What had she been thinking? And yet, and yet… tonight could be the night.

Her routines are ever smoother and ever faster, and the earbuds’ tempos are increasing to near Olympic pacing. Her reflex and reaction times are impossibly fast. Her ratings have escalated to consistently Very Good on most goals. She is slowly moving up the BodyClock leaderboard, and she is edging towards the top few hundred now. She is Very Good. She thrills with pride.

For the first time in weeks BodyClock leaves an unscheduled hour in her day—some kind of reward, she thinks, for her progress—and she decides to join a few of the other girls for dinner in the athletes’ dining hall for old times’ sake. Mel is there, of course, and she waves brightly at Kira as she enters the room.

She is joined in the line by Ella. Ella’s a somewhat jaded junior from suburban Chicago, who’d been one of Kira’s slightly snotty detractors in those painful days last fall. But that was then, and how things change, thinks Kira: now Ella’s been hanging around at every opportunity, hoping that some of Kira’s success might rub off. Kira pities her. She knows it will not.

They step along the line with their trays. Kira floats across the floor like a dancer, and she thinks Ella is looking even more plodding than usual today. Her feet seem to clump like a couple of uncoordinated anvils on the cafeteria floor. They edge toward the table Mel’s bagged, when a guy in a Delta Theta Nu t-shirt shoves past them, bumping Ella as he passes.

He doesn’t do it on purpose, thinks Kira; he’s distracted, not quite looking where he’s going, because he’s staring at Kira, agog. She flashes him a quick reflexive smile, noting that he is moderately attractive in a slightly Latino way. She automatically wonders what his cock would taste like, and wonders again if she should go across town tonight. She resolves to be strong.

Kira observes in her peripheral vision that Ella is stumbling. The collision has unbalanced her in some way, Kira thinks. She finds it hard to imagine how anyone can stumble like that, but there it is, a comedic pratfall for all to see. Ella should be ashamed of herself, thinks Kira; all semblance of grace and beauty lost in an instant. The tray is wobbling in Ella’s hand.

In slow motion, Kira sees Ella’s glass is flying upward from the tray. It’s full of water, she sees, and a cascade of tiny droplets is floating now, airborne, shimmering in the light. It’s beautiful, she thinks. For a fraction of a second she admires the tiny rainbows glinting on the surface of the drops.

But this moment can’t last, she realizes. Nothing so beautiful ever lasts. The glass is going to fall, if somebody doesn’t do something, and then it will smash to pieces on the floor, destroyed, all grace and beauty gone. That wouldn’t be right. Kira whips out her free hand almost too fast to see, and snatches Ella’s glass in mid-air, sets it on Ellen’s wobbling tray and steadies it there. It is so easy.

Ella’s jaw drops. There is a smattering of laughter and applause from a few onlookers. A few of the girls are looking at her strangely, wondering.

As they join Mel at the table and sit, Ella finally asks, “How did you do that?” Kira merely smiles and shrugs. This graceless lump of flesh is unworthy of Kira’s secrets. “Magic, I guess,” says Kira, “or just plain old luck.”

She accepts the oohs and aahs and laughter of the other girls, but in that moment Kira resolves not to be attracting attention like that again.

Messages scroll in response to her question.

Who says you need a man anyway? You’re a strong independent woman! You’re a BodyClocker, for heaven’s sake!

I hate to say it, Miss Magic, but if you insist on going with any old Joe Average this is exactly what you deserve. BodyClockers are better than that.

You’ll find someone. There’s always someone!

Act like a BodyClocker, Miss Magic. Your body is telling you something. Steer clear of civilians. Civilians are poison.

And from a BodyClocker named Energy Girl: Have you thought about trying girls? Smiley face.

She gives the homilies the requisite thumbs up, but she can’t see how this is helping her. But one message catches her eye immediately. It is from AlphaWoman herself.

Hi. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get to this. Been on a punishing schedule lately. Looks like you’re clocking up the points. Well done. I can almost make you out back there on the horizon! Now, as to your question, why don’t you try BodyMatch?

Wink.