The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The following is a story of erotic mind control. Anyone under 18 or offended by material of an erotic nature should read no further.

The events, persons and scientific developments depicted herein are entirely fictional and do not represent anything or anyone from real life.

That’s probably just as well. . . .

Synopsis: Mad scientists compete for a coveted prize.

And The Winner Is . . .

The gathering in the ancient Rumanian castle was one of the world’s best-kept secrets.

Every year, the cream of the world’s mad—er, that is, “unconventional”—scientists convened there to compete for the Frankenstein Prize, established by the heirs of the infamous third Baron Frankenstein. Their latest creations were judged and the winner (or, in some years, the sole survivor) received the coveted award, a solid gold plaque and a million-dollar monetary prize, deposited, these days, to the discreet bank account of his or her choice. Naturally, the contest was kept out of the public eye; after all, many of the participants were wanted by the police or mental health authorities in their native countries. Oh, there was the occasional tabloid story, but since everyone knew those rags were full of nonsense, no one worried about them.

The competitors had arrived individually over the previous several days. By custom, all were to have come by the night before the judging, allowing them time to make any necessary preparations and get a night’s rest. As usual, there were a couple who failed to make the deadline—and as usual, they were turned away. Some of the others jeered, glad to see potential rivals shut out.

Finally, the contest began in earnest.

Dr. Konstantin Schreck was the first to demonstrate his entry. He pointed a raygun-type device at a massive granite cube and announced, “My quantum minimizer will reduce that one-ton test block to the size of a sugar cube.” After adjusting a couple of controls on the gun’s barrel, he squeezed the trigger and an orange ray shot out, enveloping the test block. As promised, it immediately shrank in size.

Seconds later, Dr. Schreck walked over, picked up the now tiny stone cube, and displayed it to the audience. “You see?” he crowed. “It works! And I can shrink anything!”

“Anything?” Austria’s Professor Blucher sounded skeptical as he produced from the folds of his dark old-fashioned cloak a square of shiny metal. “Try this, Dr. Schreck.” He set the metal piece down; it balanced on a little projecting fin to face up at an angle.

“You’re on,” responded Schreck. He trained the shrinking ray on the metal square and squeezed the trigger.

There was an orange flash, followed by a shriek of panic which rose in pitch as it dwindled in volume until it finished as a rodent-like squeak. When the light faded, Dr. Schreck stood revealed as a three-inch-tall figure holding a miniature version of his shrinking device.

Blucher swooped, his foot stamping down on the shrunken scientist with an audible SQUISH! Several onlookers winced. Blucher ostentatiously scraped his shoe on the floor and said, “I guess that settles that.” Turning, he addressed the others: “That was a demonstration of my new absolute-reflection armor. Troops outfitted with suits made of it would be protected against anything up to and including a low-yield nuclear explosion; it reflects all forms of physical energy. Including, obviously, the radiation from our late colleague Dr. Schreck’s latest—er, final—invention.”

After a few moments, there was a round of applause. Competition for the award they were all after was a rough game, and they all knew it. Schreck had simply been fatally outmaneuvered.

Next up was the American, Professor Gregory Vakox. The professor wheeled up a large, heavily-reinforced cage of transparent aluminum, itself the invention which had won the 1986 prize for its inventor before his mysterious disappearance. When the audience got a look inside there were chuckles. It contained a rabbit.

“Harmless, yes?” Professor Vakox didn’t seem offended at the laughter. “But just watch.”

Producing a small vial from an inside pocket of the white lab coat he wore, the Professor opened the cage. Holding the rabbit carefully with one hand, he dripped a small amount of the vial’s contents into the creature’s water dish, then hurriedly released his hold on his furry captive and secured the cage door.

The rabbit sniffed at its water, then took a drink. It started lapping away energetically.

Suddenly, the little beast squealed—and began to change. Before the eyes of the onlookers, the harmless little herbivore grew and twisted, its voice deepening as it expanded to fill its prison. In moments it had become a roaring, lion-sized monstrosity with a spiny back, six-inch claws, long serrated teeth and blazing slit-pupiled red eyes. Only its cute floppy ears were the same as before, almost invisible on the much larger body of the mutated horror it had become. Wild with rage, it thrashed desperately against the walls of its container. Finally, realizing dully that it couldn’t get out, it settled on its massive deformed haunches, glowering and dripping poisonous saliva from its hideous jaws.

“Imagine a horde of such creatures, unleashed at will,” gloated Vakox. “Imagine my mutation formula used, not on a little rabbit, but on wolves or tigers.” He cackled maniacally. “Imagine it used against a human population! Once they’d seen what my serum can do, any government in the world would pay anything just not to have it used against them—and even more for a supply of the formula to use against its enemies!” He cackled again, eyes wild under his tangled mass of bright red hair.

Another round of applause followed, tinged with nervousness. Even some of the other contestants were intimidated by Vakox’s presentation.

More contestants followed. There were invisibility formulas, teleport devices, perpetual motion machines, even a set of “Medusa goggles” capable of turning anyone the wearer looked at into stone—all sorts of things the mainstream world thought were “just science fiction,” if not outright fantasy. Finally, the last entrant came forward.

There was startled laughter. The final contestant was Igor Igorevich Tserov, a tenth-generation descendant of the hunchbacked Igor who had served Victor Frankenstein himself. Like his famous namesake, this Igor was an ugly, hunchbacked dwarf.

“What’s he doing here?” one of the others asked.

“Throw him out!” someone else yelled.

The award ceremony’s emcee, an extremely tall, thin, bony-faced individual by the name of Caligari, shook his head. “Dr. Tserov is a legitimate entrant. The nominating committee has reviewed his work and is satisfied it meets the standards of this contest.” He smiled mysteriously. “I think that once you’ve seen Igor Igorevich’s creation at work, you will agree.”

Amid muttering, Igor Tserov pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it: “Bring in the apparatus, girls. It’s showtime!”

A set of heavy doors off to one side of the great hall opened a minute or so later, and four beautiful young women appeared, pulling a bulky device on a wheeled cart. The women, all dressed in neat, short lab coats which revealed plenty of well-curved leg and made it clear that they also had an abundance of bosom, drew their burden along until they reached Dr. Tserov. The white pumps with five-inch heels they all wore clicked on the cobbled floor. Then they stopped, let go of the cart’s handles and stood waiting.

The “apparatus,” as Dr. Tserov had called it, was a huge boxy affair, open at both ends and tall enough for a grown man to walk through. Its sides were covered with dials, buttons, switches and lights like something out of a 1950s science fiction movie. A pair of huge metal coils adorned the top.

“Not another goddamn teleporter,” groaned one of the witnesses.

“Or a time machine,” added another. There was a murmur of fervent agreement. Those present still remembered the last one, three years ago, which had unleashed a tyrannosaur in the castle when its overeager creator had pushed the wrong button. Some of the stains were still visible on the floor and walls.

“No, no,” Igor smirked. “It’s nothing like that. No, indeed.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Heh, heh—no indeed.”

“What is it, then?” This from France’s Dr. Jean-Paul Moreau. Dr. Moreau was in a sour mood even for him. His so-called “manimals,” products of what he called “genetic acceleration,” had been upstaged in advance by Professor Vakox’s killer rabbit, which was still growling and slavering in its cage.

“Bring in the first demonstration subject,” Dr. Tserov instructed his gorgeous assistants.

“Yes, Doctor,” they chorused. Moving in unison like a well-drilled army unit or cheerleading squad, they marched out, click-click, click-click, click-click, click-click. Shortly, they reappeared, half-carrying a dazed, plain-looking woman in a jogging suit between them.

“The subject has been tranquilized to make her easier to handle,” observed Dr. Tserov clinically. “My machine will flush the drug from her system in the course of its operation, but when it’s done, no such chemical restraints will be necessary.” He chuckled. “Template eighteen will do, I think, for this one.” The doctor adjusted a side panel.

Dr. Tserov’s helpers herded his woozy guinea pig into the machine, and Igor threw a large switch. The device began to hum and beep, while its indicator lights rippled and bright ribbons of static electricity crackled upward between the roof coils. A digital timer counted down from sixty.

When the counter reached zero, the machine powered down and the subject emerged. The audience gasped. She looked almost nothing like the woman who’d entered the device. Her formerly modest figure was now spectacularly curved. The plain brown hair she’d come in with was now a rich mahogany mane which cascaded down her back nearly to her waist. Her once-ordinary face had been transmuted into an idealized version of itself, a model’s face. Even her clothing was different: all she was wearing now were high heels, a G-string and a tiny tasseled brassiere. She didn’t need the bra, except for decoration; her newly massive breasts jutted firmly on their own.

She struck a sexy pose and the room erupted in cheers, clapping and wolf whistles. When the noise died down, Igor addressed the audience: “My erotic reconstructor uses some of the developments of the late Doctors Vincent Goldfoot and Ira Stepford. I use living humans as raw material, transforming them at a molecular level into ideal instruments of sexual gratification.”

Turning to the woman, he said, “What is your name?”

A rich voice answered, “Pleasure Unit has no name, Doctor Tserov, master. Unless you assign one.”

“And what is your function?”

“Pleasure Unit exists to bring pleasure to men, Doctor Tserov, master. Pleasure Unit serves and obeys. It is an honor for Pleasure Unit to offer her body to men. It is an honor to serve and obey.”

Dr. Tserov faced his audience again. “My device also reprograms its subjects mentally. Both the mental programming and the physical reconstruction can use any of a number of preset templates, as I did in this case, or can be customized at will.” He grinned wickedly. “As you can see, template eighteen’s mental program is one of robotic servitude; I based it on one depicted in an old James Coburn movie. Other templates produce different psychological readjustments, and as I said, the transformation can be customized if desired.”

Professor Vakox asked, “And is it permanent, then?”

Tserov nodded. “Entirely so. Only recording the subject’s original persona beforehand would make a restoration possible after a trip through the device. Apart from that, the only changes to be expected are those of aging—or, of course, of further treatments.”

Wild applause followed. The only person who refused to join in was Dr. Elsa Lanchester, the lone woman among this year’s nominees. A dumpy gray-haired female in thick glasses, she had watched Tserov’s demonstration coldly. Now she spoke up.

“Pfah!” she spat. “All we’ve seen is a magic trick! A woman goes in one end, a different one comes out the other, and we’re expected to believe the one was turned into the other? Please! Any stage magician could pull off the same trick. I’ll bet if we look inside ‘Doctor’ Tserov’s miraculous machine, we’ll find its secret is a trap door and a false bottom.”

A low rumbling came from her hearers. Some of them were all too willing to believe an Igor couldn’t really be a scientist himself, and would have to fake it.

“Very well,” Tserov responded. “If you’re so sure my machine’s a fraud, why don’t you take a look inside yourself?”

Dr. Lanchester snorted. “As you wish.” She stepped through the entrance to the device and knelt down to probe for seams or catches in its floor.

Dr. Tserov stepped to the controls, taking a bit longer to adjust them than he had the first time, then pulled the lever with savage enthusiasm. “Fake, you say?” he snarled. “I’ll show you fake!”

Just as it had before, the device hummed, beeped and crackled, lights rippling on its sides, while the digital counter ran down. When it reached zero, the noise and lights died down. Dr. Lanchester crawled out.

Or rather, what had been Dr. Lanchester. When she got to her feet, she was now a towering six feet eight inches, counting the tall beehive haircut she was now wearing. Her hair was no longer gray. Instead it was a deep black, except for a dead-white stripe down the middle. Her face was a perfect oval with young, sexy features: green eyes, an elegant nose, full, pouting lips. She was dressed in white boots and a white zip-up bodysuit, which fit snugly over her now handsomely curved form.

Looking down at herself, she gasped. “I’m . . . I’m different,” she managed after a few moments. She shook her head, trying to clear it. “Inside, too,” she said, and giggled, a girlish sound utterly out of character for the harsh-tempered female scientist. “I can’t think about . . . science stuff anymore.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Dr. Tserov inquired.

“Don’t care,” came the reply, followed by more giggling. “I just wanna party!”

There was a round of laughter, both over the way Dr. Tserov had turned the tables on his bitter critic and over the particular form he’d picked for her. The movie it came from, after all, honored the man for whom the prize they all sought was named.

“My helpers are more products of my transformation process,” Igor observed. “They’re utterly obedient to me, although unlike the former Dr. Lanchester”—he bared his teeth—“and the test subject I treated earlier, they’re all capable of sophisticated thought. There’s nothing more annoying than a stupid lab assistant!”

More laughter.

Dr. Tserov commanded his assistants, “Bring in the other experimental subjects now, girls.”

“Yes, Doctor,” they responded in unison. They click-clicked out and brought in more women, one at a time. Each one was put through the transformation machine, allowing Igor Tserov to show off different templates. Finally, he was done.

A row of gorgeous women stood lined up on display. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, redhead, black, white, Asian—every combination. Igor had been a busy man, kidnapping women all over Europe and America for this presentation, and now it was paying off.

His fellow scientists roared approval.

“What do you say we all celebrate, hey?” Igor called out. “Girls, pick a partner and let’s party!”

The women obeyed, attaching themselves to the scientists and contest judges. There were more than enough babes to go around. Even the lugubrious Caligari got one—the transformed Elsa Lanchester, who was now even taller than he was. The next few hours passed in a hot pink haze of bodies heaving and thrusting together.

Finally, the party ended. One by one or in pairs—mostly in pairs—everyone went off to their rooms to sleep. Dr. Tserov was the exception: he took all four of his lovely lab-slaves with him.

The award ceremony the following morning was a mere formality. When Caligari opened the envelope, no one was surprised to hear: “And the winner of the Frankenstein Prize for the year 2004, for outstanding work in science outside the narrow confines of conventional research, is Dr. Igor Tserov of Russia.”

The congratulations Igor received from the others were heartfelt.

END.