The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Akiko’s New Protégé

Part Four

The people and events in this story come from my brain, not the real world Regardless of what that tells you about my brain, it means that I’m not writing about you, your mom, your friends, or your friends’ friends. So you can’t sue me. Neener neener.

If you’re underage in your territory (and you know what I mean), then read something else, please. If you’re easily offended by sexually explicit fetish content, may I suggest reading something else? If you’re easily offended by sexual content and are determined to help yourself to a dash of moral outrage, I put it to you this way: you have too much time on your hands.

Contact update: If you want to comment or drop me a line, my email address ( ) and web address ( http://www.asstr.org/~AK_Home ) remain the same, but I’m no longer keeping up with the MC Forum, old or new.

Note: As usual, I sat on this one too long. Sorry, thanks for bearing with me.

Synopsis: Devon just won’t play her unseen hijackers’ game. Finding this unacceptable, they opt to try harder.

* * *

Granted, pairing me up with Akiko was clever, because we were almost perfectly suited for keeping each other in line. We triggered and tranced each other along like a collective Slinky going down the stairs. Meanwhile there were agents just like us all over the world, quietly doing Stingray’s dirty work of rotting out the Global Intelligence Agency from the inside. But I said we were almost perfect. You’ve heard about how I wasn’t the best hypno-slave. Well, now you’re going to hear about how it nearly got me killed.

I don’t want you to think I ran out of that lab because I thought Akiko fancied Natsumi Sato more than me. I probably shouldn’t have said that, because you probably didn’t. Okay, I was upset by what she was doing with that doctor, because part of my conditioning was to believe that I had discovered my latent bisexuality, i.e. I’d been converted to a bean flicker On paper, it’s smart to have your brainwashed underlings liking boys as well as girls, because you can use sex to manipulate them any time there’s more than one person in the room. So whenever I was triggered I thought of Akiko as my First, and these romantic notions did a lot to smooth the rough edges off the whole mess. That’s why sex and love are such useful tools when it comes to mind control.

Thus, watching Akiko molest Dr. Sato peeled away the Band-Aid that had been applied to the raw wound on my psyche. When she teased me about it and then ordered me to kill a fellow agent, she essentially rubbed salt into it.

I aimed my pistol at Miyu Ohmori’s back as she fled from us. As I began to squeeze the trigger, all my implanted thoughts and artificial feelings jumbled together with real ones. The alarm was so loud. I don’t usually react to things like that, but nausea and claustrophobia have a way of demanding your attention. Adrenaline raced through my veins. Faintly, I could hear the part of me that had been screaming itself hoarse every time I was triggered: this is wrong, this is bad, this is wrong, this is bad… Without the rosy foundation of Akiko’s illusory love, everything came crashing down.

So I dropped my gun and bolted. You may be thinking I should’ve just turned myself in. Surely someone in the GIA Mind Control Counterforce Bureau could’ve helped me, right? It might have worked and I might’ve been safe, but Stingray was seemingly everywhere, and I never knew who was who. The first person I ran up to, babbling for help, might just as well take me off to a dark room and shag me into submission, which was the reason I was running through the halls in the first place.

Instincts are funny things, and serious people who’ve been through things you don’t want to know about helped to develop mine. Raw panic helped me to tell my own judgment from the Stingray brainfucking, so I stuck to shadows, pressed myself against walls. Listened. Crouched. Ran. I disabled a fire door alarm and slipped out into a bleak, foggy Tokyo morning. My first reaction was suspicion of the ease of my escape. Turns out I was right, as you’ll see.

My hands shook, and all I could do was walk away. I had no idea what part of town this was. Anywhere you find yourself in that magnificent city, you know in your bones that it goes on forever in every direction. The great thing about it, though, is that you almost never feel like you’ve suddenly wandered down the wrong street. At that moment, the sense of safety was most welcome. In order to keep walking and not become a total basket case, I told myself everything that had just happened was a dream. Walking these crowded streets with ordinary people doing ordinary things helped me pretend. I didn’t even mind the late winter cold that nipped at my arms and legs. I didn’t have a coat, and although my outfit was kosher according to GIA regulations, it was relatively brief, as per Akiko’s.

Sometime later I found myself in a kind of square, where enormous pedway bridges enveloped an expanse of cobblestone, and a huge jumbotron on the side of a building relayed a newscast. It was here that I began to finally calm down. My feet were already starting to ache in their new sensible shoes, and there was a train station nearby. Emboldened by the English signs, I hopped on the Yamanote Line and rode for a while. Tokyo definitely wants you to feel free to explore.

I don’t know how long I sat on that train, but it did wonders for my nerves I realized that I should call in; get in touch with someone I was absolutely sure I could trust. That would be Chief Fothergill. The problem was that Akiko had cleverly ganked my phone. All I had was some money and the clothes on my back.

Awareness returned right after common sense. Moments after my decision to find a pay phone, I sensed I was being shadowed. It wasn’t immediately obvious which person in this train car was on the job, but I intended to find out before a cadre of Stingray agents closed in on me.

Pretty paranoid, yeah? You have no idea.

Ikebukuro Station sounded good. Lots of people poured onto the platform with me, so my pursuer(s) remained anonymous. I wanted to know exactly who they were before I called in, so I could guard against being snuck up on and triggered or stuck with a needle. I wandered the underground passageways for a bit to draw them out. Eventually I ended up in a plaza and took the escalator up to the street. The station and the crowd had prodded me toward a huge department store. The perfect place to discover my shadow…

Inside it was all warm lighting, faux wooden floors, busy shoppers and the smell of coffee. I rubbed the goose bumps from my arms and pretended to browse. But I must have appeared confused—possibly entranced – because I made him, quite easily, on my second lap around the first floor: a young guy in a nice suit, with long-ish, swept back hair. He was looking right at me, mumbling into a lapel mic. Cheeky bloke was being pretty bold about things Time to deal with him before more showed up.

I would make my stand in the lingerie department. An intensely cheerful young salesgirl made a beeline for me as soon as I stepped into her section We didn’t share a common spoken language but we communicated just fine. I picked out some racy bras and she put me in a changing booth. The trap was set.

Within moments, I heard my pursuer strike up a conversation with my helpful attendant on the sales floor. I knew exactly what he was up to even if I couldn’t understand what was being said. He was pretending to be my guy, asking if he could check up on me in the changing booth, the sly bastard. Of course he could, replied the salesgirl.

“Darling!” I exclaimed, throwing back the curtain just as he reached it, which startled him, and since I was naked from the waist up, he went from startled to flummoxed. I used to go out with this bloke who’d blurt out “Wha-bam!” at the sight of my unadorned Brit-Thai physique. That’s exactly what this one looked liked he wanted to say.

I grabbed his hands before he could compose himself. “Would you mind awfully?” I begged. “I can’t make up my mind!” For emphasis, I shook the three little bras dangling off my wrist. Before he could answer, I jerked him into the booth and shut the curtain.

There was a brief scuffle while he fumbled for the dart in his jacket pocket, before I succinctly clocked him on the head. Pity, he was cute. I dressed, stepped over him and took the bras back to my eager attendant. Then I left her department, which caused her no small amount of confusion. She followed for a bit, asking me questions, but seemed to remember the unattended male in the changing room. By the time I made it to the escalator, she had given up on me. The second she found my sleeping friend, a good deal more people would be interested in finding me.

I ducked out a different entrance than I’d come in, noting the black van pulled up to the curb, and got lost in the crowd before anyone stepped out. Presently, I found myself in a seedier area. Neon blazed everywhere, even at this time of day. There were love hotels, brothels, casinos. Burly blokes stood on the sidewalk, enticing businessmen inside. Finally, I made it to a futuristic green pay phone and gave a nervous glance over my shoulder before dialing my SOS: a special emergency prefix in place of the country and region codes, then a red extension at GIA London. The comforting ring tone of my homeland buzzed in my ear.

“This line is secure,” a woman’s voice assured crisply after the third ring

“Knightley, Devon, 361-42-L1100.”

She pecked at a keyboard. “How may I direct your call?”

“Fothergill, please.”

I scanned the street, bouncing nervously. Everyone seemed to be watching me, though I knew that was just my nerves. There was an odd click on the line.

“Banana rancher, Agent Knightley,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“Oh… No…” I protested, but it was already too late for that. My eyes widened, my shoulders slowly sagging as my failing strength went to holding the phone—white-knuckled—with both hands. Emptiness blanketed me. There was a final, frozen thought in my head: the sudden flash of my vulnerability on this street corner. It was terrifying, but presently that faded too. I swayed in the cold wind, using the phone cord to keep myself from pitching to the ground.

“It was foolish of you to try and escape,” the man said.

“Yes,” I admitted meekly, body responding to the control with a hot flash that made me shiver. My eyes went wide as dinner plates.

“You will wait there to be collected.”

“I’ll wait here to be collected.” I felt so light. If it weren’t for that phone I’m sure I’d have wafted down the street like a tumbleweed.

“It is perfectly natural to do as you are told,” he said.

“Yes, it’s perfectly natural.”

“You will obey and wait there because you are too relaxed to resist.”

My head drooped forward, and I gave a little surprised moan that caught in my throat because my body’s betrayal felt so damn good. “I must obey and wait here.”

He went on like that until the van arrived at the corner. I barely remember two guys jumping out, hanging up the phone and leading me away.

* * *

The next thing I remember is waking up in a cold, bare room. It was night outside. A microphone and an IV drip on a rickety stand invaded my personal space. My wrist itched from the drip’s business end, taped underneath scratchy gauze. I sat in an oversized chair, wearing a potato sack of a white slip that did nothing at all to flatter my figure or keep me warm.

The woman across from me was Russian. She asked me questions and I went on and on, even when short answers would do. She fussed over the mic periodically, but otherwise let me run my mouth.

Eventually she said, “We’re making excellent progress, Devon.”

* * *

Water lapped at my neck, the waves splashing oddly against thin metal. I struggled to open my sleepy eyes, but there was no point because the room was completely dark. I could tell that it wasn’t quite big enough to be a room, actually. More like a chamber. The water was warm and my naked body floated freely. My head was strapped to a little pillow that kept me from drifting off or drowning. Somehow, I knew hours had gone by since my interview with the Russian.

There was a voice. I splashed around, startled, as I realized that it had been coming out of speakers just behind my head the whole time. It was like I’d been numbed to it long before waking up. I groped for some way to calculate how long I’d been there, came up empty. I couldn’t even tell how much time passed between each thought. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? It freaked me out so I gasped. The sound echoed off the metal walls, which startled me, and I kept making scared noises in a paralyzing feedback loop.

Through it all, the voice droned on and on, which wasn’t helping, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then abruptly, she changed tone. “Devon, it’s time for you to pay full attention.” Where the hell had I heard that voice before?

“I have some things to say, and you need to hear them with your grown-up mind, now.” Patronizing cow. My fingers strained to find the edges of whatever I was inside of.

“I can tell from your EEG patterns that you aren’t listening,” she chided.

Then I froze.

Because I knew who she was.

“That’s right. They own your voice now, Devon, and they’re going to use me to own the rest of you.”

Ever have a dream where you’re having a screaming, out of control fight with someone, and you wake yourself up because you’re trying to yell with your real voice? You know how your real voice makes these bizarre sounds because you’re not awake enough to work your mouth? That’s what I found myself doing. Strange, guttural noises filled the air and I couldn’t stop making them.

“There’s no point in struggling, Devon,” she told me. “I really wish you’d finally realize that, because we can’t move forward until you do.”

I was wide-awake, but I still couldn’t say anything. This only scared me more, made me scream wordless things, and the dumb, reverberating noises only made it worse.

On the other hand, I couldn’t hear my other self, the one that was apparently trying to own me.

Then the chamber exploded in phosphorescent light, and I stopped screaming like someone had flipped a switch.

“Look and learn again, my lovely,” she said.

* * *

The waterline teased my neck, the waves echoing strangely, like I was in a tin basin. My eyelids were so heavy, but only blackness greeted me when I finally succeeded in opening them. The warm water lapped at my arms and tickled my stomach. I floated, naked and free as the day I was born, except for my head. I tried moving it from side to side but couldn’t, really. The only thing I was sure of was that I’d been here before.

Sorry for the repeat. I’m just trying to paint a picture. This is how every day started. All seventeen of them, I’m told. That’s how long they tried to crack me open. The lights were the worst part.

Ever date or live with someone who had to be at work before the sun rose, maybe two or three hours before you had to be up? Ever have them flick on the light as they got ready, without thinking? Right. This was kind of like that, if the night lasted for a week. That, combined with getting smacked in the face so hard you see stars.

When they started in with the lights, it felt like my sensitive eyes burst into flame, as the graceful, explosive plumes of blue and white spiraled into my optic nerves. First I would scream and shut my eyes tightly, my tears dripping into the water. I’d even take a gasping breath and try to submerge myself for protection, but my head was stuck to that pillow, and my thin eyelids were ill use against this cruel, dazzling assault anyway. Eventually – quicker and quicker each day – I’d grow accustomed to the brightness and give in.

Then the real invasion began.

See, these brilliant Russians had figured out a way to express thought in abstract light and images that the brain could understand. Whatever my synthesized voice told me, the lights would repeat. I was being told things in one language, then another. It wasn’t long before they ran together. The more proficient I got at speaking Light, the further inside my head they got.

Only I know now that they were having a tough time breaking me wide open. For whatever reason, I was harder to turn into a blank slate than most of the secret agents that were sent here to be rewired. Hence the two-week stint in the brainwashing pod. They tried anew every eight hours, and each time I awoke with no memory of the previous sessions. Before long, I couldn’t really perceive my body anymore, or the chamber, or the water or the lights. I thought I was just dreaming, listening to myself think. And that was where things got dangerous.

Now I can remember one session in particular. “You were only teenagers and he just wouldn’t leave it alone,” the narrative began. “You couldn’t figure out what the big deal was, so you let him shove his hot little hands up your sweater and grope around. You remember laughing at first.” Yeah, that sounded about right. “But he kept stroking and squeezing, and his greedy little tongue strained to slip between your lips, and somewhere along the way you started liking it. Your breathing got heavy. You wrapped your arms around him in encouragement.

“He was clumsy, though, so you started to get restless. You shoved him away and peeled off your sweater, before the little wanker ruined it. He almost tore your bra before you undid it for him and put it somewhere safe, but he wasn’t at all interested in your nice clothes by then.”

I smiled to myself. Colin, the little shit who’d got my cherry, just from being persistent…

“He was rough, so you couldn’t decide whether to smack him or let him keep gnawing on your tender nips. They swelled between his teeth, so you let him shove your knickers down and pin you to the bed. You thought it couldn’t hurt to let him have a little more fun, then kick him out before mum and dad got home.”

Bloody right, I remembered. No sense giving up the goods for this skinny boy and his fast hands.

“So you let him slobber all over you in your cozy bedroom, getting sweatier and slicker and more antsy by the minute. But those fingers of his found their way inside the waistband of your blue panties, and before long you got his face out of your tits long enough for him to shrug out of his clothes. Then it was his hot skin and pounding heart against yours, and all of a sudden you weren’t so sure you wanted him to go home yet. You just kept chewing against his lips as he worked you, moaning softly around his tongue.”

I did remember that. The naughtiness of letting him have me, the worry that my parents might be home any second. The thought of getting caught only excited me more.

“’There’s a c-c-ondom in my nightstand…’” Synthetic Me did a flawless impersonation of my trembling young voice. “He couldn’t figure it out, so you rolled it on and hoped to God he wouldn’t go off in your hands. The little bugger couldn’t believe his luck, and he wanted to get on with it before you changed your mind. You didn’t know he was seconds away from bursting inside that condom, before he even climbed on top of you. You just kissed him hard and squeezed his ass.

“Then you opened your legs like a pretty new butterfly, thighs swishing against your pink bed sheets as you offered yourself to him.” That bit sounded odd, even aside from that overly zealous simile. I remembered tackling him, not offering myself to him.

“He slipped inside you, all full of young confidence, and you melted as he pressed a hand against the small of your back.”

No. That wasn’t quite right. I distinctly remembered doing a lot more work.

“You went limp in his arms as he fucked you, finally realizing what it meant to be a grown woman getting what she needed from a man.”

What the hell? I distinctly remembered him diddling around outside of me forever, before admitting he didn’t know what to do. I’d had to roll on top of him and blow him through that old condom. I still remember the bitter taste of latex as I resolutely prepared him to finish what he’d started.

Somewhere outside my little world, my reluctance to accept this version of the story was noted. “This really is the way it happened, Devon,” my memory insisted. “Let me tell the story.”

I nodded.

“You worked against him until he taught you the rhythm. You were still worried about your parents walking in on you, but it felt so damned good you couldn’t stop.”

“Actually…” I said, trailing off at the surprise of hearing my soft voice. My real voice. “Um, I threw him down on that bed and rode him. He shot off as soon as my ass touched his hipbones, but I made him lie there until I was good and done. Then I tossed him out the back door just as my parents got in, flushed the condom down the loo and jumped in the shower before they even got upstairs.”

“That is incorrect, Devon, and you know it. That was the night you realized how wonderful it is to be willing and subservient.”

“Oh pants,” I observed. “If I hadn’t taken over, we would never have gotten anywhere. He would’ve shot off on my leg and I wouldn’t have come so hard it made me squeal.”

“You’re making things up, because you’re afraid to admit how good it felt to let him have you,” my memory told me. “You have a problem with the truth, Devon.”

I’d forgotten about the lights. They began to pulsate in yellow hues. It made me nauseous.

“I want you to tell the end of the story, Devon…”

My head throbbed in time with the agitating plumes. Tendrils of red curled away from yellow flowers, and I wanted to throw up. “I had to push him down and nurse his limp willie…” I said. “Please… I don’t feel well.”

“Then tell the end of the story the way it really happened.”

“But my head hurts.”

“The truth please, Devon.”

“I told you what happened,” I protested. “He couldn’t figure out how to stick it in.”

“That’s not the way it went and you know it.”

The only response I could manage was a dry-heave. The lights went from yellow to orange.

“Say it…” The angry orange flowers began to orbit around me.

“Mmmh… Stop!”

“Tell the story…”

“Stop it!”

“Tell the truth!” The lights whizzed around my head, faster and faster.

“Sod off!” I yelled, fighting back acrid bile.

“Tell me the story…”

“Aaaghcck…” That was it. I threw up all over the place. Evidently, they were feeding me solid food in between my visits to this hellhole.

The lights dimmed and vanished. Presently, I felt a little better, even though my head still spun and my ears rang.

“The story, Devon,” Fake Me prodded.

I couldn’t remember what I was talking with… myself about. “Huh?”

“The night you first had sex…”

“Oh, we’re still on that?”

“Yes. It’s important to remember.”

“Well, I let him get me all excited, and then I decided I wanted to do it.”

“Yes?”

“And I… Think I lied back against the pillows on my bed and… Opened my legs to him, and… Let him take me.” The old memory was coming back to me now. I was hoping that if I told the whole story, they might come in here and clean me up.

“Excellent. And then?”

“He was pretty good for the first time.”

“How so?”

“I remember how sure of himself he was. And how it felt to relax and let him teach me how to fuck.”

“Very good.”

“It felt nice to relax and… submit to him,” I decided.

“That’s good, my lovely. Now, who sent you?”

It got very cold all of a sudden. “What did you say?”

“I said that’s fine for now, Devon.”

“No, after that.”

“That’s all I said.”

I considered this as I stroked the water lazily.

“Who sent you?”

“That isn’t funny,” I warned.

“I think she’s having another episode,” Fake me said.

Then something curious happened. I heard a conversation over the speakers. It took me a minute to figure out what was going on, because everything that was said came out in my voice. That was because every word that passed through the mic—wherever the people who were working in shifts to scramble my brain were located – went through a filter that processed the signal to sound like me. The result was very disconcerting, to say the least.

“God dammit. She’s flipping out again?”

“I think so. She’s experiencing auditory hallucinations.”

“Is it that repressed memory again?”

“There’s no way to tell.”

“Well fucking ask her!”

“You know how disingenuous she can be. For all we know she’s been playing us all along.”

“I don’t see how this is possible. This procedure has a one hundred percent success rate.”

“Had, you mean. Here’s your control subject, genius.”

“Fuck you, Oxana. God, you left the mic open…”

“Well if you weren’t interfering, I wouldn’t have—“

It was quiet again. All I could hear was the water. I drowsed and floated and wondered what was next. Then I heard a familiar hiss. The cloying anesthetic put me out almost immediately.

To Be Continued