The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Two a.m., and Mister Talv’s apartment was cool and dark and quiet. The Takeshis were still restless, and so was I. There was nothing to do. He’d had the decency to turn Sisyphus off, or at least slightly ramp down the cycle of sexual stimulation from whatever implants this body had been equipped with, but she still twitched, distracted, in the glass case. I supposed this must be what passed for sleep, now, for Sisyphus.

The Innocent was dozing fitfully in a corner of the empty room, and every so often I heard her mumble something, dreaming perhaps. The Takeshi in the red wig was looking at me.

“I’m bored. Tell me a story,” she said, “please.”

CyberTak perked up. “Yes, do. #epiphany.”

I sighed a non-existent sigh. I had nothing else to do, so why not?

“OK. Do you remember what you were doing, why you went to Macau?”

“Yes. We’d just finished catfishing the Redhead, for Client Winter. For Mister Talv, although we didn’t know his name, then. We went to Macau for a break, a celebration. End of project. #successstory.”

“We wanted to fuck, like her,” said TakSlut, hefting her breasts at me and pouting. “No strings. No limits.” She opened her mouth and sucked on a finger, long and slow.

“Empathy,” said CyberTak. “It is part of the #methodology.”

“We liked her hair,” added TakSlut. “And the way she liked to suck.”

“Yes,” I said, “I remember.” I had boarded Takeshi through exactly that channel.

“Wish you had a cock,” said TakSlut, petulant. “Can’t you create one for yourself?”

“No. Listen, now.”

In the hotel in Macau, Takeshi had put on her new red wig and admired her pretty Eurasian face and slender figure in the mirror, her small pert breasts, before going out to party. And post project, she had been in the mood to party hard.

“Listen,” I said. “Here’s how it was. There was a man, and you met him on Cocksukr, that night. You never knew his name. That’s the point of the, the—“

“App,” said CyberTak, helpfully.

“Yes, app, that’s the word. Anyway, I was there, travelling. When he entered your mouth, I entered your mind. Contact, you see, that’s the prerequisite. I can go anywhere, with anybody, that way.”

They were all looking at me now, quiet, spellbound. I channelled the Storyteller.

“So out you went, dressed to kill, all on your own in the big city, looking for party time.”

“Had our smartphone,” interjected CyberTak, “so #neverreallyalone.”

“Perhaps. But in this story, you were alone and brand new and looking for freedom. And that’s where I found you. It reminds me of another story. The same story, really.”

“How can our story be someone else’s story?”

“Universal truths. The carnal instinct, unchained, and the myth of freedom, to be a new person, a new self. Listen. There was a girl called Clara. In the taxi to the airport I’d got to know her, a little. By the time we got to the airport I realised she offered even more potential than her friend.”

“Her friend?”

“Never mind. By the time she checked in for Mexico City, I’d freed a few of her most adventurous thoughts from their restrictions, and added a few complementary qualia of my own. By the time she boarded the plane, she was feeling very horny. She put it down to the thrill of a new adventure, freedom, you see. And by take-off, she could hardly sit still in her seat.”

TakSlut was enjoying my story very much. “Just like me, in Macau” she purred.

“The flight was an hour old when she finally cracked,” I continued. “Most passengers were asleep, by then, and the cabin was warm and dark. Clara had no thoughts of sleep, only of freedom. She was excited. She clocked a very attractive young man making his way to the aft toilet, and smelled opportunity.

“Impulse. I had gifted her the meme of spontaneity, how you really have to take it when you can get it—don’t you?—because there’s only one short life—isn’t there?—and it fit her like a—ah—a round peg into a round hole, so to speak. In a sudden access of instinct, she got out of her seat and followed him down the nightlit aisle.

“She was practically quivering with anticipation. And as the toilet door opened again, she pounced. Hand on his chest, she pushed the guy back into the cubicle, squeezed in, and bolted the door behind him. Her hand was down his pants at once, squeezing warmth. I remember a moment of shock in his eyes, and then he grinned and pulled Clara to him. Who wouldn’t? In an instant he was pulling her T-shirt over her head, his hands rough against her breasts, and as she grappled with his belt he was already pulling her panties down.”

“Does this sort of thing really happen? In real life?” said the Innocent, all agog. I ignored her.

“There was little room for manoeuvre, in the cubicle, but there was enough. He hoisted her up against the wall with strong hands on her buttocks, and she wrapped her legs around him, as he lowered her onto the rigid pinion of his cock. She opened to him beautifully, stretching wide and wriggling her hips in the restricted space as she settled down onto the full length of him.

“I gifted her something from a girl I knew, not so long ago, who would climax at entry, and then again, fully, at every thrust until she was done. A remarkable woman, and a remarkable feeling. Clara’s delight at the unexpected thrill of her new facility was a joy.”

“Just like Macau. I remember, now,” said TakSlut, wriggling with delight. “It was like nothing we’d ever had before. We couldn’t get enough. Epiphany.”

“Is it all about sex for you, O Meme?” said the Innocent. “Is that all there is?”

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s just that that’s what most people think about, most.”

“Continue, then.”

“Yes. Clara joined the mile high club three times, on that flight, with three different guys. And this was as nothing to what happened in Mexico City, let alone what happened with those girls in Rio. Best I draw a veil over that one, in the interests of modesty, or perhaps I’ll tell you later…”

… and to cut a long story short, after a while, through Contact and Contact and Contact and handshakes and kisses and backslaps and hugs and accidental touches, I had made my way to Macau. From where I remembered Takeshi and the gift of spontaneity clearly, and I told them so.

“And then I left you. But the ideas never left you, did they? They never will.”

They were silent for moment.

“Thank you,” said TakSlut, “for the beautiful gift.”

And then they slept.

Rather one-dimensional she may have been, but TakSlut was at least appreciative. In previous ages people might have called this possession, witchcraft, wizardry, black magic, dark arts, alien intrusion—whatever—and they would not have been happy, not happy at all. This is one reason I usually keep myself to myself, in peoples’ minds.

Going “Woohoo! You’ve got a visitor!” rarely goes down well, even now.

But don’t you sometimes feel that tickling awareness of an idea, a thought, an urge, an image, a concept, a story, an impulse, an itch that can’t be scratched, and think: “Whoa. Where did that come from? That’s not me”? And then, don’t you realise you like it, and then you start cherish it, and then you hide it in your most secret place, and then you start to think it often, when nobody else is paying attention, and then, sometimes, don’t you think “what if…”?

Betcha do.