The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She stood balanced neatly at the very top of the roof, watching what went on beneath her through her nightvision goggles, cars dull patches of lighter green in a sea of green darkness, people somewhat brighter, smaller blotches.

Not many of either at this time of night, not in the suburbs. That was why her quarry had come here in the first place; the suburbs are an area where no one notices a car and pedestrians are even less noticable, no matter the time. As perfect an anonymity as you could wish; if you live in isolation, when you do surface people notice.

It was time for payback.

Tensing herself, she slid easily and unnoticed down the slope of the roof until she hung from the guttering, neatly balanced and with access to his house by the window.

Reflexes and agility came with the lithe frame he had forced her into; they sat at odds with her large breasts, which he had persuaded her to have surgery to keep as her figure diminished in other ways until it became a gymnast’s dream.

The implants were soya, and soon she should have them removed, to judge by the health scare; another reason for her revenge. But she needed him to see her with them, first; needed him to see her as he had made her, as he had persuaded her to become with the ease his control granted him. And she needed... she needed to kill him. What he had done to her... those years of total unknowing, unthinking, subservience, instinctive obedience and soulless lack of initiative and intelligence... all of it was unforgivable, sadly even unforgettable, a truth she couldn’t yet live with. She had to lay it to rest; had to know it could never happen again, not to her or to anyone else. That was all that was left to her.

She planted her feet on either side of the window, gripped the guttering ever tighter, and pushed herself away from the window, swinging back in with feet locked into position.

Thick, thigh-length, high-heeled leather boots—another of his legacies, but useful for this—kept her legs safe from the splintering glass. The thick blackness of the rest of her garments saved the rest of her. She released the guttering and landed nimbly, in a way her old self could never have hoped to do, in his dark and empty bathroom.

She paused, and looked outside, checking for any interest aroused by the noise. Nothing; this neighbourhood was hardly one for Neighbourhood Watch. As with so many suburbs, neighbours did not know each other; as with almost as many, this did not matter to them. And at this time, all were asleep or absent; none aware of what she intended to take place in their quiet cul-de-sac.

She pulled her backpack off her shoulders and removed her night-vision goggles, tucking them away in the pack. She pulled her thick woolen black turtleneck over her head, rolled it up so that all clinging glass was hidden, and packed that away too, revealing a shiny black leather bra, cut so low it hid less than half of her nipples, which hardened quickly. She considered this for perhaps a second, but dismissed it as a reacton to the sudden cold. Nevertheless, it was important that she looked as he had known her when she slit open his chest and allowed all that sustained his life to fall loose and free. She could not have said why, but a return to the costume of his mindless slave was essential; she knew it as well as she knew her own name.

She peeled the thick trousers that had protected her legs above her boots off and stuffed those into the pack as well. Now she stood revealed in dark clear tights, thigh-length black boots, low-cut black leather bra, and a black PVC g-string with a knife in a black sheath hooked into it. She pulled a compact out of one of the side pockets of the backpack and briefly checked her hair and makeup. She had to be exactly as he had known her; she simply knew it, though not why.

She pushed the bathroom door open and peeked out into the rest of the house. There was one door on each side of the bathroom, and a staircase heading downward. All was in near-total darkness, but now she was in the house she had to dispense with the nightvision goggles; they would obscure her features, and she felt that was utterly wrong.

She thought back to all her memories of her time, her imprisonment here. She remembered, dimly—for only the diabolical acts he had made her do came easily to mind—ascending the stairs and turning left, following him—her old master—into his bedroom.

She drew the blade at her side and, for the thousandth time, tested it’s edge with her thumb. It was as sharp as ever, and she felt reaffirmed in her zest, more determined to kill him than ever.

She turned right, and pushed the door open almost without looking, stepped in-

- An image seen before; an image she knew and yet did not, because she could not look upon it without feeling she needed to sleep, to allow her mind to wander and roam free; she knew that she could not see it and think for herself, or think at all. She fought to tear her eyes away, but failed miserably. Her whole body seemed to have lost it’s life, it’s vigour. She found herself standing to attention, nipples harder than ever and pussy wetter than any point five metres behind the Hoover Dam, her knife forgotten and on it’s way to the floor, and with her last vestiges of independent thought she seemed to form the words planted memories -

Had she never met him, she might have gone through life as she was before; a little too chubby to be really attractive and unaware of her own capacity for attractiveness, and so never presented in a way that would show her best light to anyone; she might have gone through life an old maid, or might have met and married in her thirties for security rather than love.

But somehow he had seen through all that; had seen the underlying sexual potential and had chosen her; a family who she had grown away from, no significant others and a nondescript job he could have her retire from easily. Because it would not be long before he could simply suggest, and...

And it would be automatic to follow that suggestion; not even a pleasure to obey, an emotionless necessity. Because she didn’t have emotion anymore; she simply had compulsion.

She wished she’d never gone to the local Blockbuster, but it had seemed reasonable at the time. And he hadn’t been there when she started renting; he joined the staff after a couple of years. By which time her favourite videos were pretty clear from the computer listing; repeat rentals in a list as long as his arm, one every weekend for those two years. And one weekend, a couple of months after he started, she thought he was smiling oddly when he handed her the tape, but dismissed that as bizarre paranoia, quite unusual for her.

That had been a Friday night. She couldn’t remember much of the following weekend; what she could remember seemed to be largely rewinding the tape. A lack of dishes on the counter and a neatly-made bed was all that told her she hadn’t eaten or slept.

On Monday night she enrolled in a gym.

Three months later she had a stable, athletic build, and her trips to the gym became solely a way of keeping that figure, and a week or so later she had her first semi-conversation with him.

She was about to rent the same video again, but instead of simply taking the box and going to fetch the corresponding video, he took the box and lowered it casually, let it rest on the counter.

“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” he asked. He reached under the counter and pulled out a box, set it on the table. “Why not watch the sequel?”

She noticed that in title and theme the two videos were completely unrelated; but that didn’t matter. It was the sequel, she could feel that in her bones. So she smiled, picked up the original box, and said “Sure; I’ll just put this one back.”

“No, no, I’ll do that,” he said, giving her a charming smile, and taking the box back. “I’ll just sign this one out for you first. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it; you’re about ready for stage two.”

She felt like she should ask what that meant, but the inclination passed in a moment. She felt... somehow unfit to question him, and she didn’t know why. But that didn’t matter, because it seemed perfectly natural. She just took his recommendation home and put it in the video player, wondering why she’d let him recommend The Terminator to her.

And then she pressed Play, and it didn’t matter any more.

By this time she no longer thought anything of losing her weekends; and after a few more weeks of weekend subliminal saturation, she found herself in the puzzling position of losing interest in romance or sex of any kind, but developing a serious masturbation habit and finding herself wet whenever she saw him.

A couple of months and another video down the line, she checked into a London clinic for the breast implants.

And were this the history of her last year of semi-freedom that she remembered, all I have told above might have come out very differently. But her master had a cardinal rule; always condition them twice, that you will know what they intend for revenge, and that they will come back should they break conditioning. Instead, therefore, all that she remembered of her encounters with her master before accepting total subservience was the second, different conditioning, the conditioning that, among other things, reinforced the hold of the image she was stricken by during her revenge.

Only one of her conditionings had broken, and so she still danced to his tune though without knowing it. The symbol, so commonly on the screen as subliminals washed over her during the videos, had sent her back into the trances that lasted all weekend.

It was in the second round of conditioning that he attended to her sexual appetites, after covering over her memories of the first conditioning with falsified times. Her personality had simply been altered before so that he could predict her future behaviour should she break away.

At half past seven the following morning her old master woke up in the bedroom on the left of the bathroom. He sat up and rubbed his face thoughtfully. She should be back by now, he thought. He turned the alarm off, switched on the bedside light, and stood up. He pulled the door open to be greeted with her back view; still with the figure he had trained her into, still in the type of clothes he had instructed she wear... and a knife on the floor. Still, she wouldn’t be using that; as a test, he reached out and around her body, finding her breast, and he squeezed vigorously. No reaction; no sound, no physical reaction. He leaned forward and studied her face for a moment; fixated totally on the symbol. He smiled grimly and went into the bathroom, leaving her standing motionless.

After shaving and in other ways making himself more presentable, he walked back out of the bathroom carrying her backpack. He bent, picked up the knife, and slipped it back into the sheath. Then he unhooked the sheath from her g-string and placed it in her hand, closing her unresisting fingers around it. He lifted her hand and posed it so that she seemed about to swallow the blade in it’s sheath, and walked back into his bedroom. He emerged ten minutes later, having dressed himself for the office, and walked into the ‘shrine’ he had set up for her recapture. He tapped a key on the computer keyboard and the screensaver image vanished, replaced by a program which began slowly to repeat the introduction into sexual and domestic servitude that had formed her second conditioning. He disabled the screensaver and went downstairs for breakfast, giving her breast another playful squeeze as he went.

Still no response.

He returned at half-past five, after a day’s work at the office. She had still not moved, but even without motion her posture was different. Her subservience and total obedience radiated from every pore of her body.

He walked upstairs and switched off the computer. Despite the sudden lack of visual input—for the room that housed the computer was still as dark as the house had been the night before—she continued to gaze at the blank, black screen. She had not been permitted to move, and if she had been she would not have done; she would have to be ordered before she broke her stance. It was the stance in which she had returned to the world of her master, and thus it was almost as sacred as his person. “You will give me a blowjob now. The best you can do. And then I want some tea,” he said. “The usual way. And I want you to start cooking me dinner. I’ll just have bacon and egg tonight, nothing to over-tax your clearly limited intelligence. While you’re at it—” he pressed something into her hands, “— I note you’ve got a credit card again, and I assume this means you secured a new job in order to finance this charade. Just as you were programmed to. Now, repeat after me: Some kids broke the bathroom window with a cricket ball.”

“Some kids broke the bathroom window with a cricket ball,” she said, slowly, dully, unhesitatingly.

“That’s right. So we need to get it fixed. Call someone. I’ll let you cover the costs; and then you can call your employer and explain you’ve come down with something fairly serious and you won’t be back for a while. You can also resign. After that, the glazier will be on his way, so you’ll have to get back into your clothes for when we have company. All right, Nicola...” he drew the moment out to it’s fullest, then snapped his fingers. “Obey.”

Freed from her prison of immobility, she knelt, unzipping his fly and teasing his cock loose from his underwear. Enveloping it in her warm, wet, practised mouth, she brought it swiftly to attention and just as swiftly brought his come spilling forth into her mouth. As if it were a baptism, she treasured this moment, the first blow job of her new life. Afterward, she disengaged, stood, turned downstairs and went to do as she had to. The tension on the g-string pulled against her painfully, but she did not react. She did not—could not—even notice. When he let it snap back against her, she still did not either notice or react.

“Come,” he called, after her. Her thighs ground themselves together immediately as her pussy exploded into orgasm, a sensation of ecstacy that never reached her mind.