The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Shit. I was trapped.

I’d become so used to absolute freedom of movement, taken it for granted, really, and all it took was a moment’s complacency—

No Contact to be had, here in this empty locked room.

The last thing I remembered, distinctly, was casually entering this body, and then—what?

I looked out through the woman’s eyes and saw Mister Talv. With a slightly alarming attention to detail, he was polishing the glass case around the plinth on which this girl moved, repetitively, passively. Talv was probably a bit OCD, I thought, and God alone knew what else.

As for me, I was finding it very hard to concentrate. The shaft of the dildo was wide and ribbed, and the girl in the glass case was making herself orgasm with it, over and over again. As one cycle finished, another began, and then another. Endless. The girl’s body was suffused with the most extraordinary pleasure I’d ever felt, and believe me, I’ve experienced a lot. Every erogenous zone was on fire, including a few I didn’t even know existed. Overwhelming. Worrying.

I took a look around.

Have you ever been inside someone’s mind? No, I thought not. The rooms of most minds are filled with complex twinkling lights, fizzing little sparks of thought and impulse, a tiny starscape of wilful person-ness. They are warm and interesting places.

Here, there were no lights at all. An absence of will.

Experimentally, I tried to access an idea, a thought, anything. But everywhere was dark and smooth and blank. There was no purchase to be had. I poked at a wall. Nothing.

“Don’t get too close, there,” said a voice behind me, “it’s dangerous. #thevoid.”

I turned round. It was seldom that I had an actual Conversation, in places like this, in minds. There were three of them, here in this echoing chamber.

On the far left, a pretty shy-looking Eurasian girl, in very conservative traditional dress. She actually bowed at me, an incongruous gesture, here in her own head.

“Please, honoured guest, welcome. My name is Takeshi. I am ashamed I cannot offer you refreshment, but as you can see, it is very … empty … here, now. We are imprisoned in a high tower. There is little for us to do. I do not know how I will find my true love now.”

Her innocent face looked sad. “Perhaps you are my saviour, my protector, my prince, my knight in shining armour, come to rescue me, as in the stories?” she said, hopefully.

Beside her, the same girl, facially almost identical but very different—crop haired, hypermodern, a cyberpunk look. Cyberpunk gave the first girl a withering stare and turned back to me.

“Ignore the virgin. She’s clueless. We’re all Takeshi. We’re stuck, #overwritten,” she said. “Locked out. No control. Admin rights revoked. #fuckedup.”

At least she was succinct.

Next to her, the same girl, but naked, in a red wig.

“Hello baby,” she pouted. “Would you like to play with me?” She fingered herself. “I could suck you off. It’s what I love, more than anything else in the whole world.” She licked her lips. Her tongue was very pink. “I’m very good at it. Really, really good.”

Cyberpunk girl rolled her eyes.

“Do you see anything suckable, over there, #moron?” she snapped. Cyberpunk pointed at me. “It’s a meme. Idea with a life of its own. #pointofview #disembodiedintelligence.”

“Please,” said the Innocent, “what is this? I do not understand such things.”

“See them all the time, online. A bundle of memories; a bunch of ideas, travelling through. Ideas can have a life of their own, didn’t you know that? Never come across a wetware version before, but it makes sense. Like a virus or something. #trojan #malware.”

I bristled at this insult, but said nothing, evaluating the situation. Clever Cybergirl had pretty much nailed it, I thought.

The naked version of Takeshi sighed, disappointed, and idly stroked a nipple. “I’ve no-one to play with any more,” she pouted. “Where’re you from, anyway, meme?”

Now that is a very long story.

Again I tried to get a grip on this mind with a tentacular idea or two, but there was simply nowhere for a motivation to take hold. Every surface was polished, smooth and unmarked. There were no thoughts to grip onto—only this fog of pleasure, and somewhere, occasionally, a flicker of pain.

“This is our eternal shame,” said the virginal one. “We are lost. We have no honour, now.”

“We’re fucked. Literally. #hubris #nemesis #sisyphus,” said cyberpunk girl.

“I like it here,” said the naked one in the red wig. “I just wish I had someone to play with.”

This mind was an empty vessel, I thought. It would be very easy to lose yourself, here, to just submit to the ache of that pleasure. It would be so tempting to surrender to it absolutely, to allow one’s self to dissolve in it. The urge was strong, and I had to fight it. In fact, it was frightening—and I hadn’t felt fear in a very long time.

I’d been with this woman before—briefly—in Macau, of course, long before the Winter Party.

“How’d you get here, #meme?” asked Cyberpunk Takeshi.

“Please, honour us with an explanation,” added Innocent Takeshi.

“Why couldn’t you be a boy?” moaned Redheaded Slut Takeshi. “I wish you were a boy. With a big, fat, stiff—”

CyberTak walked up and slapped her. “Shut the fuck up, #twat.” Shocked, Takeshi-in-the-red-wig fell silent.

“Please,” said the Innocent. “We must have no violence, here. We must all co-operate.”

“Yes,” said CyberTak. “So can we please focus on the matter at hand? Tell us your story, #malware.”

“Stop calling me ‘malware’,” I said, irritated. I concentrated, ignoring with difficulty the almost unbearably distracting pulsing in this body’s nipples and pussy and elsewhere. “There’s nothing ‘mal’ about me. I’m here to help.”

“What are you, O Meme?” asked the Innocent.

“To paraphrase your modern self, I am indeed the inspiration that comes out of nowhere; the dream that excites you; the thrill of the new; the forbidden thought that keeps you awake; the wish that you wish would come true, somehow. And to pre-empt your next question, I travel through touch, absorbing, taking and giving ideas.

“Maybe you’ve wondered where such unbidden ideas come from. Maybe sometimes it’s scared you, what you have found yourself wishing for.”

“Can you control minds #likemagic?”

“No. That doesn’t happen in real life,” I said. “You can never make anybody do anything they don’t want to do. Ideas, desires, motivations have to be compatible.”

I looked at each of them in turn. “We’ve met before, actually” I continued. “But there is no reason why you’d know that. Via a circuitous and accidental route,” I said, “which is normal, for me. I generally travel by happenstance, and this is no exception.

“And on my travels, I gave you something, in Macau,” I told the three girls. “A present. Do you remember?”

“No,” said the Virgin.

Cyberpunk shook her head.

Redheaded Slut Takeshi’s eyes widened in recognition. “Epiphany,” she said. “Freedom.”

“Yes. And from there,” I continued, “a long and winding road back here. I’ll fill in the details later. But you get the point. Anyway, the last thing I remember, I was at Mister Talv’s party—a guest of a guest, you might say. I believe you are, this body is, a—ah—display named ‘Sisyphus’. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said CyberTak. “#hubris, #nemesis. We erred, and we suffer Mister Talv’s will. #crimeandpunishment.”

“Why so intense, this stimulation?” I asked.

“Technology. Implants. A control system. Modifications. We cannot override. #endlessloop.”

I remembered, at the party. On her plinth, Sisyphus had been dancing, sliding the ribbed shaft of what I guessed was this same large dildo in and out of herself, in an endless hypnotic cycle. As the dance finished, it always went to back to the beginning and started again, exactly the same, building slowly back up to a climax. A guest of a guest, I had been fascinated, even more so than by the kneeling weirdness of Presence in Absence, or the desperately striving and eternally unfulfilled Work in Progress. I’d given the latter two a wide berth.

I had, admittedly, sampled the delights of Good Girl, who I’d thought was insanely hot, but found I could offer her little in the way of ideas she hadn’t already had. In fact I learned a few new ones from her, in our brief acquaintance.

Late in the evening, I’d been standing near Sisyphus when Mister Talv had said something I didn’t catch. The girl had immediately stopped her dance and dropped into an all-fours position on the plinth. Mister Talv had gestured to me—or more accurately, to the man I was travelling with at that moment—to do what I pleased. What I/he pleased, of course, was to walk up behind her upturned ass, unzip my/his pants, and take her like the sex object she was clearly meant to be.

But at the precise moment of entry, the first moment of Contact, the swap, I was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by what was going on in her body. It was like being hit by a Tsunami, and like nothing else I had ever experienced, in all my long years.

For the first time in my life, I blacked out completely.

“And I guess that’s how I ended up here,” I told the Takeshis.

What, you think I’m weird? There is something a lot weirder going on in this new culture of yours. Technology, transmission, connectivity, repurposing: it’s all merging with and doing something new and very strange to these simple human animals from the vast Savannah.

What I see is taking Maslow-like self-actualisation taken to a whole new level, becoming a primary need. An inversion, driven by comfort and convenience and accessibility. Always needed, once a luxury; now, a constitutional right.

But what if there’s more? A whole new level of the hierarchy: Self-Reinvention. The mechanisms are there, and people have always been good at twisting them to their own purposes. Not happy with your body? Modify it, or get someone else to do that for you. Not happy with your ‘self’? Change it. Invent it. Reinvent it. Fictionalise it! Then be it, put it out there, in the wide mirror of the virtual world. Have one, two, three, any number of them. Who’s to stop you? Identities are shattering, fragmenting.

The absurdity of it, this endless striving, the never ending repetition of the meaningless struggle for identity, for a self you can be happy with, always work never done. Pushing that weight uphill, over and over. What would Camus say?

And more importantly, how the hell am I going to get out of this glass case?