The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“So here we are at round two. Six boxes from twelve, this time. Are you ready, Emma?”

I nodded at Jack. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I purred. Equations ticked across my field of vision.

Another damn Bimbo Box! I pouted in displeasure, although I knew it didn’t look that way to anyone else who may have been watching.

“Clothing style, Emma. How would you describe your current—ah, look?”

I didn’t think Jack meant my panties. “Conservative,” I purred.

“Well that’s about to change! Our theme is ‘group transformations’. Audience, here are your options. A, second skin; B, show what you’ve got; C, gym bunny; and D, down and dirty.”

What the hell had any of that got to do with group transformations, Galois or Abelian or otherwise? It didn’t make any sense. But it sparked an idea. I turned my attention to the farthest reaches of the Hypothesis. Yes—maybe that could work…

The audience shuffled, murmuring amongst themselves as the votes came in.

“Show what you’ve got!” cried Jack. “We couldn’t agree more, Emma.”

The Collar of Fate thrummed. The first thing I felt was an irresistible tightening in my calf and thigh muscles, and then I found myself rising, beginning to stand on tiptoe, and then more so, until I was balanced on the points of my toes. But it wasn’t uncomfortable; in fact, I realised, it was the only comfortable way to stand. Experimentally, I tried to press down, to flatten my feet, but nothing moved. Looking down, I saw the Collar of Fate, through whatever mechanism the thing used, had equipped me with a pair of the most vertiginous heels I’d ever seen, in shiny black leather.

Suddenly my breasts were constrained, too, and on the monitor I saw I’d acquired a black latex crop top. The Collar might as well not have bothered, I thought; the thing was so tight and so precisely moulded to my figure that it may as well have been painted on. It left nothing to the imagination whatsoever.

As I watched, fascinated, a black latex skirt-belt—that’s the best way I can describe it—was suddenly hugging my buttocks, every curve and crevice on proud display. And underneath that, even without bending I could see my panties had somehow disappeared.

The audience went wild. “They are loving that look, Emma! And do you know what?” he paused for effect.

“What, Jack?” I purred, my wide-eyed pout dominating the monitor, a picture of permanent sexy surprise.

I could see the heels were dynamite for my posture, and everything was sticking out, beautifully displayed.

“Group transformations, Emma.” Jack peered at his cue card in some consternation. “It says here, ah, a description of symmetries of an object or set of objects. The essential elements of the object are described by a set, and the symmetries of the object are described by the symmetric group of this set, which consists of the, ah, something something something transformations of the permutation group. And the implications of this are, of course…”

I sighed. “It means, effectively, that once constructed, any element in the group can be transformed into any other element, using the inherent symmetry of the group. There is no difference between one configuration and another.”

The audience positively squirmed in their seats.

Jack grinned his shit-eating grin. “Let me translate that for the audience. The Collar has determined that group action implies this is all you will wear, now. Like your very only uniform! Try to slip into something else, anything else, and it will simply change those clothes to these. A wonderful symmetry! Takes all the complications out a woman’s wardrobe, for sure! And as a bonus, I bet wearing this will be a big turn on for you, as well as for everybody else. A win / win!”

Through some action of the Collar, I could feel myself becoming more comfortable with this outrageous idea as he spoke. The constricting feeling of the latex, skin tight; the stretch and strain of my leg muscles, perfectly straight now. A tickling sensation in my mind as the Collar of Fate adjusted something there, and suddenly I knew this outfit was exactly perfect for me. Foolish Emma! How could I ever have thought of wearing anything else?

So it can affect the mind, too, I thought. I knew this to be true from watching the show, of course, but experiencing it was a different matter entirely. An NP problem running in P time… what if—

The next one was a money box, but I was starting to get worried now, and the achievement seemed irrelevant; I was still only in the low thousands. And my next pick, inevitably, was a Bimbo Box: vocabulary. I’d seen some pretty weird outcomes from this one, and wondered what was up.

“So here are the vocabulary options, wonderful audience. The theme is a theme dear to your heart, Emma: ‘randomness’.” Jack’s teeth were incredibly white, I noticed. “A, random cockteaser; B, unpredictable stripper; C, ‘c’ word Tourettes; and finally D, stochastic words. Press your buttons to vote now!”

I imagined randomness might play out in some fairly horrific ways, here, in the worst case. I certainly didn’t want to be shouting out the ‘c’ word in the middle of every sentence. It would make Professor Wilson’s seminars particularly difficult.

But ‘stochastic words’ was the choice, by some margin. The Collar of Fate pulsed warmly for a few seconds. I couldn’t feel anything happening. What could ‘stoachastic words’ mean? I guessed I was about to find out.

“How are you feeling, Emma?”

“I’m feeling good, Jack. What’s this stochastic words business all about?” was what I wanted to say. What actually came out, in my sensual Scandinavian purr, was “Mmm, good.”

I was shocked. I tried again, pouting as hard as I could to force the words out: “My name is Emma and I want to tell you, this sucks.”

Which came out, in a slow and sultry purr, as “Emma wants to suck.”

Oh God. The audience exploded into laughter. I clasped my hands over my mouth, and looked this way and that, confused. One more try. “I want to stop. Stop it, this is bad, no more changes now please.”

Which came out, for no reason at all, and no matter how hard I concentrated, as: “Want it bad, now. Please.”

Stochastic, then: randomly determined; having a distribution or pattern that may be analysed statistically but may not be predicted precisely. It all sounded pretty damn predictable to me. I suspected the Collar might be cheating, slightly.

And standing there, mortified, another insight. Prime number theory seemed to have little relation to a field like the algebraic topologic properties of quantum-complex manifolds; but what if I brought in the heavy machinery of suitable bordism groups of morphisms? With a stochastic twist, like this? Could that make a difference to the P/NP problem? And if so, Reimann would surely fall…

“Yes, Emma, your vocabulary has been thoroughly tweaked, and forms what you double-domes call a bounded set. There are certain words you just can’t say now, and the Collar has its ways of making what you do say that little bit more interesting too—stochastically speaking. Let’s try a few out. Say ‘I want’.”

“Want.”

“There is no ‘I’ in ‘random’, Emma. Is there anything you want in particular?”

“Cock.” I couldn’t help it. Missing words, new words, too.

“Yes, a brand new random word! Say ‘no’.”

My mouth worked and twisted in its pouty rictus, but all that came out was a long and sensual moan. Jack smirked. “The girl who just can’t say no!”

“Jack, please,” I tried to say, “I don’t want to play now; with all these changes I’m almost not Emma any more, and there’s some work I need to do urgently…”

Which came out as: “Jack… please play with Emma…need urgently…”

I wriggled and squirmed in frustration. The audience was beside themselves. I mourned the loss of the ‘I’ word but for some reason the third person seemed to make that deep Scandinavian purr even more sexy. It all seemed to fit, a weird kind of consistency, and I was even turning myself on, I realised. Either that or I was getting aroused by this whole new equation, crystallising slowly in my head, nascent; an equation I knew—if it worked—would be the key to everything.

Suddenly the telephone was ringing, and with a serious look on his face, Jack picked it up and listened. Chrissi was beaming at me from behind the last rows of boxes, and I shot her a wide eyed pout of pure annoyance. God, she was stupid.

“The accountant has an offer for you, Emma. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Jack, please to play,” I purred. No choice but to accept the limitations of my vocabulary for now.

“He will offer you one hundred thousand dollars plus two Bimbo Boxes to stop now.”

At last, I thought. This was what I’d come for.

The balance of marginal utility was in my favour at this moment; I knew this was the time to deal. I nodded, and waited for the question.

I ran through the calculations in my head. There were four bimbo boxes left: career change, compulsion, fetish, and the dreaded intelligence. That was the big one. There were four money boxes left too. I was up to $10,000 on the money board. You could do the math; there was still, roughly, a 50/50 chance of hitting the billion before having my brain turned to bimbo mush. The problem with the utilities was that the money increased exponentially.

Let’s keep it simple, I thought. Fifty percent of a billion was five hundred million dollars. Fifty percent of the sum of career change plus compulsion plus fetish plus stupidity was—what? How could you value a qualitative attribute? Was it worth more, less, the same as a billion dollars? Was it a zero-sum game?

Face with this temptation, could even I, Emma—IQ 185 at last count—rationally value my intelligence at a billion dollars…?

This is where people went wrong, I thought. The irrational pull of the billion was too strong. People weren’t used to dealing with exponentials.

On the other hand, the deal. The one hundred thousand dollars was banked. In return, I could concede career change and compulsion: two completely unknown variables. What value would one subtract from the hundred thousand?

I realised they’d constructed this exactly like Pascal’s wager, to keep people playing. If we believe in God and he exists, we will be rewarded with eternal bliss in heaven, utility: infinity. If we believe in God and he does not exist then at worst all we have forgone is a few sinful pleasures. If we do not believe in God and he does exist we may enjoy a few sinful pleasures, but we may consequently face eternal damnation in hell: utility, minus infinity. If we do not believe in God and he does not exist then our sins will not be punished.

Would any rational gambler think that the experience of a few sinful pleasures is worth the risk of eternal damnation? Or, and this is where the billion came in, is it not more rational, given the utilities, just to believe, whatever the actual evidence?

The logic was flawed, somewhere. The utilities didn’t stack up. I would stick to the plan.

“Emma, you have heard the deal on the table. Do you want to play on?”

No. Whatever the temptation, I certainly didn’t want to play on. I shook my head. “I want to take the deal. I’m not going to play; stop the game now, please.”