The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

OK. School speech day, 2000. My final year. My last bow, aged 18, before going on to university. A pretty good life, so far; at the prizegiving later on in the speeches I was set to collect the physics prize, the biology prize, the maths prize and the English prize, for a grand total of about £60 in book tokens. Not all it could be, but it’s still better than nothing. Outside the general scholastic run, I’ve spent the last three years in the firsts at football (soccer, for any Americans listening) and cricket. I’m not much of a one for rugby so I do cross-country instead in the rugby term. I’ve been stepping out with Faye for a year and a half, and she’s widely regarded as one of the school’s prize catches; my age, blonde, scintillating green eyes, a perfect figure, ever-smiling lips and that indescribable je ne sais quoi that you only find in the presence of the beautiful people who know themselves to be beautiful; a glamour as strong in it’s effects as a cloud of pheromones that serves to make the good-looking even more so. I generally take second lead in school drama performances, play the piano and rhythm guitar, and I seem to be well-liked. I’ve been told I’m good looking but refuse to judge that; nevertheless, I’ve been stepping out with Faye, so there may well be something there.

My brother was, however, perhaps my best lesson; he went through school and university dedicated solely to pursuits academic. As a result he’s a Nobel prize-winner, and has collected a lovely wife, but he doesn’t have the greatest of social lives. I took heed and ensured I enriched my social life too. He is, however, ultimately responsible for what follows.

‘I can resist anything but temptation’ Oscar Wilde said, or something very close to it; I may have slightly misquoted. My brother put a great temptation in my path, due to his researches; a set of electronic devices that can do a hell of a lot with the average neural network; one box produces an EM field which somehow shuts down all conscious mental activity; this is accompanied by a watch which negates the field around the wearer. There are also a number of devices which will implant themselves in the nervous system and realign things... I’m not a Nobel winner and I don’t think I’m quite as smart as my brother in any case, so I won’t pretend I understand exactly how it works. Another device which gives the person it’s implanted in dominance over those with the other implants. Suffice it to say that the old maxim about the essential amorality of science doesn’t apply here; I can’t see any way this stuff could be construed as benevolent, not yet. I’m currently just praying no one twigs onto the applications in the way my brother did; realising what he’s done, he’s simply kept the devices in the family, trusting us not to abuse them.

Like I said, my brother’s a very odd specimen.

On speech day, therefore, I attached the dominant implant to the base of my skull and pressed the button; I felt a small area of skin touching the device go numb, and a few seconds later the nanonic interface was spreading it’s lines across my brain, forming extra branches of my mental network. And I put the watch on. A ball held in the marquee used for the speech day the night before had allowed me to plant the box within, and I pocketed the remote control in the jacket pocket of the suit that all sixth form (17-18). The other devices went into my inner jacket pocket in a sawn-off Pringles tube.

Sadly, by the time everyone was assembled and I could safely trigger the remote and switch off the thoughts of my fellow inhabitants of the marquee, I was in the middle of a row of prizewinners and extricating myself from my position would be embarrassing—not that anyone would see me embarrass myself, of course, but a man has to have some standards. As a result I decided to wait until the speeches were over and the prizegiving began (the idea of the prizegiving being that, as all the prizewinners were in a block, the row could move along each time someone at the edge went up to get a prize and the returnee sat at the other edge, so by the time I went up to receive my prize I would be at the edge and perfectly placed to take advantage of the situation.

The microphones and speakers located on the stage from which I would receive my prizes just made it all the more sensible to wait until I was going up anyway.

Of course, every possible course of action brings with it it’s own problems; in this case we’ll refer to the twin difficulties as the Chair of Governors and the Headmaster, although an equally appropriate title might have been Two Hopeless Public Speakers In Love With The Sound Of Their Own Voices (memo to Dr Simon, if she pays attention to the Archive—you got there too late with these two. There’s no room for any other voice in their private universes.)

To put the above into perspective, as far as I’m aware Belle Simon is a wholly fictional character (he says, hoping like hell) but sadly these two fine examples of the hopeless are not. The Chair’s purpose at Speech Day is basically to say how proud she is to be associated with our school and hand over to the Headmaster for an airing of all the events within the school over the year. Now, that probably took you all of ten seconds to read, maybe a bit more if you’re not as much a speed reader as I am. She took five bloody minutes about saying it, and God help me there is no one with less right to be in love with their voice. Or to inflict it on a mass gathering. Except possibly the Head, who took what I think was half an hour (I tuned it out inside five seconds and switched back to reality when I heard the Deputy Head introduce the honoured guest—more on whom shortly—for the actual prize handouts.)

The guest. Ah, yes, the guest. A balding Yorkshireman who left our wonderful if slightly antiquated institution with bugger all in the way of education and not much more in the way of qualifications. Apparently a successful businessman; further details were withheld, I can only assume in order to protect the innocent (and they need protection, working with him... Sorry. Venting.) Fortunately he wasn’t giving his speech until after the prizegiving, so we’d never find out how bad he probably was.

A field of sixty prizes meant that we had about forty-four prizewinners, in the traditional teacher’s-pets-and-one-or-two-with-whinging-parents-collar-everything manner (I fall into the latter category, though I suspect I also benefit from wistful memories of my brother, and there may be some degree of ability in there—I refuse to miss out on a potential compliment, thanks). I was about halfway through that; those behind me wouldn’t get their prizes, but that couldn’t be helped. One or two of them were going to be prizes.

In due course the twenty or so winners before me had gone up and collected their prizes and it became my turn. Sitting on the end seat of the row, I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and found the remote control.

With a pause for effect learned from years of playing the villain in the Chrimbo pantomimes at school—delicious fun, you get to ham it up and overact horribly and not only is this accepted, it’s expected—I waited until the Deputy Head read out my name, then clicked the toggle switch over.

A device buried in the turf at the base of the most central tent pole activated and a silent, invisible wavefront of electromagnetic energy rode out, engulfing everyone in a field which screws up the bioelectric field generated by any mind something chronic, unless you’ve got protection. I turned to my current neighbour—Emi, a petite Japanese girl with the figure to make Geisha of the Month—and placed my finger gently under her chin. Standing up and exerting a little light pressure on her chin, I made her rise beside me, her expression blank, her eyes having lost their usual lively sparkle. The eyes are indeed the windows of the soul... and Emi’s soul had gone to sleep without remembering to close the curtains. I curled the tip of my finger upward so that, by walking, I could tug Emi along behind me. Her mind still dormant, she followed as I walked toward the stage, subconscious thoughts automatically keeping her balanced. I left her standing a short distance in front of the stage and walked up the steps, turning the microphone on it’s stand toward me and away from the Deputy Head, and taking the envelopes containing my prizes out of his hands.

It was at this point that it occurred to me it might have been a good idea to ask my brother whether there would be any response to aural stimuli or whether I’d have to go down there, find all my selections for my new harem, and lead them up the way I’d lead Emi up. Responding to tactile stimuli the way Emi had was probably a good sign, but it was difficult to be certain. In any case, actually asking big brother might have revealed to him that I didn’t plan to leave the tech alone.

Well, you can’t win ‘em all.

In any case, trying to command them by voice before implant should be worthwhile... I looked down upon Emi, standing listlessly before me, her arms hanging uselessly by her side for want of anything else to do or consider doing, and decided to start with her. I pocketed my prize envelopes and spoke into the microphone.

“Emi, remove your jacket.”

Hands jerked upward in hasty obedience, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She finished taking her jacket off and her arms immediately dropped back to her sides, hanging limp and useless once again. Her jacket was clutched in one hand for a second before lifeless fingers allowed it to slip to the ground.

“And now your tie,” I said. She complied instantly, the thin navy stripes on maroon that marked her as a prefect falling to the floor as her arms returned to their now normal position.

I looked at her in her shirt, skirt and—tights? Stockings?—and wondered how far I should take her right now. The nearest supply of beds was in the girl boarder’s dorms, across the road. So I should really keep them clothed at least to a degree which wouldn’t provoke any complaints from neighbours.

Leave them dressed from the waist down, then, and leave their bras on.

“Now your shirt,” I said. I watched cheerfully as she discarded this last item—for the marquee, at any rate—and let her arms slip back into place, giving me an almost unobstructed view of her breasts. I’ve yet to meet an Asian girl with big breasts, but Emi’s weren’t bad by any man’s standards.

“Sarah Wilson, stand up,” I said. Sarah was a year younger than me, at 17, but still old enough to wear her own suit rather than the crap school uniform (compulsory below the Sixth). A fellow thespian, if somewhat given to screeching her ‘angry’ lines, and unfortunately typecast as a confrontational character, Sarah was a shortish brunette—shorter than Emi, who is perhaps a little below average height—who kept her hair in a style reminiscent of the early Beatles mop with a couple of extra inches. With good legs for her height—I do generally prefer them long and shapely, but the idea of a harem, to me, is to provide a girl for any whim that strikes me—and a full, firm pair of breasts, according to her boyfriend—sorry, ex-boyfriend, I was quite looking forward to what I had planned for her.

Which didn’t actually involve much sex with me; Sarah was more of a revenge kick.

“Come here and stand next to Emi, facing me.”

She hastened to comply; amusing, in it’s way, to see her suddenly so responsive toward me. Sarah and I had always had a bit of a personality clash, ever since a disagreement during rehearsals for a play. She wanted to have the power in any given relationship and so did I. So do I, in fact.

Like Emi, Sarah ended up standing with her arms limply at her side. “Take off everything I told Emi to take off, Sarah.”

She began doing so. Another question about their now somewhat limited mentalities was answered. They were aware of what was going on; but unless you directed a comment at them specifically, it just didn’t apply. Nothing did.

I moved on; Vanessa Dawkins. Vanessa was sixteen, with a mane of long blonde hair that had recently reached her waist. The teachers had begun the usual campaign when this happens; get it cut.

Along with that she had baby-cute looks, a smile no dentist could ever achieve, one which had to be wholly natural and backed with a sunny nature, delightful legs, a pert backside and a pair of breasts seldom seen at their best in the school uniform shirt, but once seen on social occasions packed into a tight T-shirt, never forgotten.

So Vanessa joined my collection of pretty maids—hah! That’s a laugh—in a row; one young girl with the mystique of the Orient in a simple grey skirt, skin-tone tights and white lacy bra, one in the tight short skirt of a sombre purple business suit, skin-tone tights and red flimsy bra—and we all know what that’s supposed to mean, don’t we?—and one exquisite young beauty in (sigh) an annoyingly concealing tartan skirt which was essentially a triple-wide scarf wrapped around her and secured with a safety pin, yet unrevealing and failing to conform to her shape, dark blue opaque tights and no bra.

This last surprised me; I told her to put her shirt back on but not to button it, for the same avoiding-complaints-as-we-cross-the-road reason as the others, but not before I’d had a good inspection for myself.

Since I had all the time I wanted, I came down off the stage and took them in hand, playing with them and pinching sharply at the nipple. I pinched them while studying her face; no reaction whatsoever, not even a flicker in those utterly vacant eyes.

Next up, of course, my own paramour; Faye, who I’ve already described. I ran my eye along the row; four there so far, and a total of eleven nanonic implants.

The head girl next, I decided; one of the tallest of the girls we have available at school. Which means long legs, and if, as Rosa does, they keep in shape, that can only be good, even if your preference is for breasts. Ample of bosom, too, with fiery red hair and a remarkable permanent expression of mingled naïveté and informed suspicion; I know that shouldn’t be possible, but that’s what it’s like.

Another two blondes (Bethany and Lucy) of various physiques, another redhead—or possibly strawberry blonde; her hair was that never-never shade balanced between the two—with incredible legs (Anne-Louise), a mousey brown seventeen-year-old with a well-developed chest and a face that hadn’t yet lost the cuteness factor of early adolescence (Jackie), a dark-haired gymnast and yoga enthusiast who should be interesting if nothing else (Philippa), and every young boy’s preference—twins, in this case jet black of hair and divine of figure (Jenny and Hayley) completed the collection.

So, with my collection, not exactly in a uniform but with a kind of informal dress code, at my heels and newly implanted with the nanonic web which would allow me control of them, I crossed the road to the girls’ dorms. I decided to start with Sarah; I would give her a chance to redeem herself, and if she failed, I was going to give the rest of the harem a pet, a lower caste of slave who took orders from them... a pussy cat, to continue the ‘pet’ metaphor; one who drank come instead of milk and was always willing to lap it up if told to. I hadn’t yet decided whether to allow her to experience this with her normal outlook or to be more benign and load a program into her nanonics which would cause her to enjoy it. As she might not even fail the test, I didn’t think it worth deciding yet.

It was simply an idea.

Well, I’m sure you’re all well aware of one of the classic urban myths; all mouth, no trousers, the man who talks about it a lot because he’s never managed to do it and has insecurity issues about people finding out. Personally, I just ignored the issue until someone—Faye, as it turned out—was kind enough to initiate me into the mysteries, and by that time I never felt the need to crow about it. But it seems Anthony—Sarah’s ex—never quite got down below; I was met with a blocked entrance. I need hardly add we had always been given to understand something quite to the contrary.

This intrigued me in the way finding out someone’s dark secrets always intrigues people. I coded a truthfulness compulsion in my own nanonics—with a direct thought interface programming becomes as easy as dreaming—and loaded it into Sarah’s neural network, and set about questioning her.

He never, it seems, got down there even with a hand, although he tried quite often; Sarah wouldn’t let him. She told me about some of his attempts and turned out to be a good storyteller when I partially restored her personality. He did get to her breasts, but only through the intervening medium of bra, and only on certain occasions; she had two types of bra, decorative and padded. Padding was employed when she felt inclined to let him at them, decorative when she felt like being cruel and just showing them to him. I found myself warming to Sarah. But not enough, and even when I gave her a few extra points since, as a virgin, she hadn’t had an opportunity to hone her skills, she didn’t quite cut it. I figured I’d rethink my decision later, when I wasn’t still in such a peeved frame of mind. Until, then, though... I reached out with the nanonics again, finding her implant’s ID code, and I shut her personality back down. Once more, like the others in my little collection, she was nothing more than... well, not a statue, let’s say a mannequin; easily posable.

I sat up and climbed off the bed, leaving her on there, since she didn’t have any instructions to allow her to stand up afterward. I ran an eye along my collection, and decided on Jackie.

I have to make a point here, and I’m not sure how. Sure, two women enjoying each other’s bodies is arousing to watch, and—I know now, and thought then—to join in with, if they’re willing to let you. On the other hand, Faye still occupied the position of ‘other half’(ugly word, but terms such as girlfriend seem to be on the way out. Such is life.) in my mind. I hadn’t adjusted to controlling her, and I hadn’t really adjusted to the fact I had her and ten others. It was far too much like a dream for me to adjust to it instantly. And... I dunno...

OK, I have double standards. The problem wasn’t that if I turned Sarah into pussy cat and immediately turned her loose on Faye that would be my girlfriend in girl-on-girl action, it was that it would be my girlfriend having sex (yes, oral sex is sex, Mr Clinton. And while we’re talking about this, why pick the fat intern? Look at her, she’s fucking bloated) with someone else. Yet I’d just had full-on sex with Sarah; the stains on the bed and the faint traces of blood that had somehow made their way from hymen into her pubic hair were testimony to that. Clearly, I have double standards. And frankly, I don’t care.

Or perhaps that should be I had double standards. I’ve got better at the don’t-care mentality over time. Probably largely because I no longer see Faye as anything special among my collection. She’s got a little extra sentimental value, but beyond that, nothing. Incidentally, if Clinton has now admitted he had sex with her, I apologise; the news coverage over here kinda dried up a while back. Actually, I don’t apologise. Not all of my double standards have toppled.

In any case... “Jackie, would you come over here, please?”

Damn. What was I doing? Why was I asking?

Semblance of normality. Fine. Getting this kind of power needs some adjusting to.

Making the operation a little simpler—programming may be easy now, but it still has to be done—she’d been wearing a trouser suit. These do generally seem to be quicker to take off than skirts; dunno why.

“Drop the trousers,” I said. “And the underwear.”

She did so, removing the bra as well, which I hadn’t expected but on reflection probably should have done. I targeted her ID tag and opened up her personality—which looks rather like a screen from something like Windows Explorer set in your mind’s eye; big brother had got a long way with the design before he realised just how nasty the equipment could be. I personally think he’s got his own set stashed away somewhere, waiting for what he reckons will be the perfect moment to use it.

I made a couple of adjustments—no temper whatsoever, so she wouldn’t freak on me, loves me and worships the toilet water I crap in, let alone the fucking ground, and isn’t possessive. I tried fiddling about with sexuality settings but my unimaginative brother hadn’t put those in. I had to do it the hard way; mucking about with imaginary events and then fiddling with reactive hormone and emotion levels. It was like a first-time computer user being expected to redesign a UNIX network from the ground up, but in the end I managed (he says with a certain degree of pride). Following this, I switched Jackie Personality Mk II on.

Then I turned my attention to Sarah. This was a lot easier; gross behavioural patterns, like exchanging one species for another, are very simple to code neural network programs for; as far as neurological theory goes, sexual orientation is a very fiddly thing to deal with. I don’t understand either. Admittedly there aren’t a lot of cats out there who think their drink comes from female genitalia and would willingly drink come, but again this is, for some reason, a simple modification. It’s because you’re rewriting the whole thing, rather than trying to change a certain setting without anything like Plug ‘n’ Play, I suppose. But the analogy’s probably false, anyway.

At this point, before loading the program into her neural net, I changed my mind over whether she should enjoy it or not. I wasn’t entirely certain whether drinking it the way a pet cat drinks milk counts as enjoying it anyway. But the main thing was the thought It shouldn’t be that easy. Which was weird, because usually I manage to take a pragmatic view of the way things are. Usually the thought would end with but it is, so let’s not worry about it, eh?

If I hadn’t been so convinced I should be changing with this technology, that would have worried me. I think, now, it was either some brief stab of conscience or—because of what I thought an instant later—the forerunner to a long-buried fantasy. I can’t remember wanting to enact this fantasy before, but on the other hand I’d thought about the whole pussy cat concept, so there must have been something there.

Anyway, what I thought led me to delete the program and simply add an extra line of code to her personality, so to speak.

The line in question could best be described as hyper-suggestibility; anything said to her would be law, with my usual command level built in—none of the girls would be able to override Sarah’s personality.

“Sarah, get off the bed, on all fours.”

She rolled off the bed, landing with unsuspected agility on hands and knees, instantly. And stayed there, knowing nothing else to do. “Look at Jackie.”

Her head turned slowly, the only part of her moving, until, at the furthest extent she could turn it, her eyes fell on Jackie. “You are a cat. Walk over to Jackie.”

Still on all fours, but displaying something of the grace you associate with most cats, she made her way swiftly over to Jackie, who decided to join in what she no doubt saw as a joke. I activated a little telepathy routine and read their emotions as they experienced them, as Jackie reached down and began gently to scratch at the rear of Sarah’s skull, where you might stroke or scratch a cat. Amusement resonated through my mind from Jackie, while deep contentment throbbed outward from Sarah, who began purring. It was astonishing; the throaty rumble she generated sounded exactly like a cat’s, despite the various differences in throats between the two species. I walked up behind Sarah and reached down myself, finding her slit from the rear and sliding an investigatory finger inside. The volume of the purring increased.

“Sarah, as far as you are concerned the sensations you are getting now,” I said, finding her clitoris, “are irredeemably intertwined; whenever anyone treats you like a cat, as Jackie is doing, and strokes you or does anything pleasing to a normal cat, you will feel my fingers working at your clitoris. You will feel pleasure build within you, but you will only be able to reach orgasm by bringing whoever treats you this way to orgasm. Jackie is stroking you; it is your only purpose in life to bring her, and by bringing her bringing yourself, to orgasm. And this will happen whenever someone treats you as a cat.” I left it at that.

Still purring, Sarah moved forward and gently pushed her face into Jackie’s pubic region. I continued to tease her clitoris until I could tell by Jackie’s slowly-dawning smile that she was hard at it, and then I left it. Out of curiosity I squatted down and watched her slit until Jackie gave out the last and most highly audible of her moans, and I saw it flood. I smiled with amusement and more than amusement.

I rose, cheerful now, and looked along the row of my charges. My cock was standing firm again now; I tried to decide who to have next.

Sarah rubbed against my legs, purring softly. Well, I thought, why not?