The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1

The semi truck filled the whole sky, hanging against a blue morning. Cheri had time to read the lettering on the cab: Fancy Dan Transport.

Then darkness.

Dreams: she was two, a fuzzy puppy in her lap. She was fifteen, making out in the backseat of a car with Alan Blenheim. She was in college. She was driving to work.

A semi truck filled the whole sky, hanging against a blue morning.

Light.

I must be dead, Cheri thought. I never believed in an afterlife, but I must be dead. Head into the light, they say. I can’t move. I can’t.

“…can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Do I have a hand? Where is my hand? How do I make it squeeze?

“That’s good, that’s good. Don’t worry now. You’re going to sleep for a little while.”

Sleep. . . .

What is my prime function? To. . . live. What does that mean? What is it to live? What is my programming? What must I do to live?

“I want you to open your eyes.”

An electronic jitter of information, and then a face, a man’s face. He looked to be in his thirties, good looking, dark curly hair, very dark eyes, straight brows, but pale, very pale. “Do you see me?”

—Yes I can see you.

Oh, God, that’s not my voice! I should be frightened. Why am I not frightened? Why can’t I feel anything? I remember fear. Where is fear? What is my function?

“Do you know who you are?”

—Yes my name is Cheri Wainwright.

The man’s face smiled. It was a good looking smile, a concerned smile. “Do you remember the accident?”

—…I remember a truck…hanging in the air.

“It came from an overpass. Do you remember what happened?”

—I do not. I must have died.

The man’s face took on a quizzical expression. “Died? But you are here.”

—But if the truck fell, it must have hit me. “It did hit you. But here you are, alive and functioning.”—What is my prime function?

“I just want you to live, Cheri. That’s all. Just live.”

—Error. My internal clock reads July 4, 2029. It is March 2007.

“No, your internal clock is correct. You’ve been. . . asleep for a long time.”

—Explain please.

“First, let me prepare you.” The man stepped back. The room was white, a white room, tile and bright antiseptic light, gleaming chrome and white sheets. “My name is Hawkins, Dr. Alan Hawkins. Give me your hand.” He held out his own hand.

She saw a silvery glove-like thing extend toward his. In that same even tone of voice, she said

—This is not my hand.

What she had extended was slim, beautiful in its way, but not. . . human. It gleamed like liquid mercury, like living metal.

“It is your hand now. Come with me.”

The steps were so awkward to take. The weight of the body was so unfamiliar. Swing one foot out, press the sole against the white floor, sense the coolness of it, a temperature of precisely 11.234 degrees Centigrade. His hand holding hers.

They stopped before a shrouded something. “Look,” Dr. Hawkins said. He pulled aside the curtain hiding a full-length mirror.

I am a statue.

Cheri saw a gleaming nude woman, crafted of the brightest silver metal, the lights reflecting off her full breasts, her rounded stomach (no navel), the cleft pouch of her sex, the rounded surface of her thighs. No hair anywhere. The eyes in the metal face black, gleaming, no whites to them.

—Is that me?

“This is your body, Cheri. Your new body.”

The head tilted with an incredibly fluid grace, a quizzical bend to the neck.

—I do not understand. Data, please.

“Come. Lie down again and I’ll tell you.”

Back to the hospital bed. She obediently sat on it and then reclined in a liquid movement, so smooth. Dr. Hawkins covered her with a sheet. He said, “Raise your left arm, please.” She did. He plugged something into a socket in her armpit and she felt the warming, delicious flow of electricity. “You have to recharge.”

While she lay there, he spoke of the day of the accident: a cold clear March morning, and her commute to work normal until she drove beneath the Interstate and the truck crashed onto her little Rav-4. Her body was crushed. Her family grieved, signed off on organ donation, and, eventually, collected her ashes.

“But your head was frozen cryogenically,” Hawkins said. “When I began my experiments, your life was the life I wanted to restore. I had seen photographs of you, knew how beautiful you were. I wanted to bring you back.”

—I have a family?

“You did have. Your husband remarried three years after the accident. He and his wife and children now live in California. Your parents are both dead now. Does that hurt you?”

—What is hurt?

“Do you want to let them know that you’re back?”

She tested the idea in her mind, found no compelling logic in it.

—There is no point. I am not Cheri.

“But you are.”

—No. I am changed. I cannot be Cheri.

“Would you like a different name?”

—I would like a new name.

Hawkins looked thoughtful. “I will call you Chrome.”

She learned with the speed of an ultrafast computer. Her body was crafted of a lightweight alloy skeleton, internal electronics, and a musculature and covering of an incredible metallic matrix that Dr. Hawkins called “quicksilver,” the same name as the old term for mercury. Quick meant “living,” and the term was apt. Soft to the touch, elastic, yet incredibly strong and tough, the material all but lived. Part of her mind inhabited a quicksilver computer in her skull, but that mostly concerned itself with perceptions, vision, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. The thinking part of her, the reasoning part of her, and all her memories resided in the billions of molecular connections within the body itself.

“Do you feel?” Hawkins asked.

—I detect. I have good vision, a very acute sense of hearing, and I can catalogue thousands of tastes and smells. My body detects textures and temperatures. Is that what you mean?

“No,” Hawkins said. “I meant emotions.”

—I remember emotions.

“Think of something that once made you angry, Chrome. Something that outraged you.”

Something that outraged her. The time Roger confessed he had slept with his secretary during their weekend away at a conference. He had betrayed her. And he had grown angry at her for his own betrayal. “You frigid bitch!” he had exclaimed. Their worst fight.

—My husband put his penis into another woman’s vagina. We fought. He said I was frigid, that I could not well express love.

“Good. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

—Now? No. It is only flesh penetrating flesh.

“I want you to feel,” Hawkins said in a voice despondent and discouraged. “You should be able to feel. The analogues of your pleasure center, all the other emotional centers of the brain, are functional. Have you eaten?”

—There is no point. I derive no sustenance from the food. It simply passes through this body. I am kept animate by electricity, not chemical breakdown of nutrients.

“But there is pleasure in eating!”

—I remember enjoyment of food.

They sat in the solarium, overlooking rolling wooded hills. “The world has changed,” Hawkins said. “The population today is only half what you remember. There were pandemics, terrible diseases. We are rebuilding a world. Robots, artificially intelligent mobile units, are our servants. You were to be the first real human soul inhabiting a robotic body.”

—I am not human, though. I am Chrome.

He came and stood behind her, leaned over, ran his hands over her quicksilver breasts. The nipples responded, enlarging, stiffening. “Do you feel that?”

—I register the warmth of your hands, the softness of your touch.

“But you should feel pleasure.”

—No. I feel no pleasure. Only the automatic reactions of my body. The reservoir of lubricant is ready to release fluid into my vaginal opening, if you wish to insert your penis.

“Not very romantic,” Hawkins said.

—No.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have downloaded your memories at all,” Hawkins said. “This is not what I expected.”

—It is good that you did. It is better to be conscious than dead. But I am not Cheri. I am Chrome. I am a unit that needs a function.

“We’ll work on it.”

Hawkins spent hours analyzing the process he had used to transfer the memories from the shattered skull of Cheri into the gleaming receptacle of Chrome. Theoretically, memory was personality: if you cleaned out a mind, took every last memory from it, and moved it to a new mind, the personality should have gone with the memories. Something, some unsuspected interaction of the quicksilver matrix and the human memories, had gone seriously wrong. What he had was not the woman whose photographs had compelled him to fall in love, not Cheri Wainwright, but a kind of recording of Cheri’s memories.

And yet . . . Chrome was not unhappy. She obeyed his every command, eating, swimming, watching old videos from her own time period, sitting through holographic displays of art, of sculpture, listening to music. Nothing connected. She gravely assured him that she appreciated the complexities of smells and tastes of a gourmet meal, but it did not stir her to emotion. Nor did she laugh at comedies, cry at tear-jerkers, or feel a stir of wonder and awe at great works of art. She perceived harmonies, observed behaviors, but felt no emotion whatever.

“I’m going to deactivate you for a little while,” Hawkins told her a month after her awakening. “I need to run some tests while your systems are dormant.”

—Will it be permanent?

“Are you afraid?”

That heartbreaking, graceful, considering tilt of her lovely head.—No. But it is good to know that you will awaken me again. Conscious is better than dead.

When she awakened again, she knew immediately from her internal clock that more than four weeks had passed. “Come,” Hawkins said. Again he led her to the mirror. “Now look.”

—No. No, this is wrong. No.

She wore a short hospital gown. Her arms and legs were bare. Bare and pink, with the gleaming smoothness of plastic. Her face approximated the face of Cheri Wainwright, and she wore a convincing blonde wig. Only the dark eyes stood out, were out of place. But it was all wrong.

“I thought you’d like it.”

—No.

She ripped off the thin gown. The body beneath was a doll’s body, a lewd doll’s body with too-pink nipples and with a brush of pubic fuzz. Chrome clenched her fingers in the flesh of her breasts and pulled. The rubbery coating tore loose. Metal gleamed from underneath. Chrome ripped and tore until it hung in tattered shreds, until her quicksilver body showed through. The wig lay like a dead animal. Hawkins helped her pull the last shreds of artificial skin off. She looked in the mirror. It was better now. She was Chrome.

“I thought if you looked more like you used to look,” Hawkins began.

—It did not help. If you wish, you may deactivate me. I know I am a disappointment to you.

“No. Conscious is better than dead.”

—Thank you.

Hawkins noted in his log of the experiment, “It is curious. The approximation of a human appearance seemed to disgust Chrome, and yet had I ordered her not to tear the synthetic covering, she would have refrained. I didn’t—why? I suppose it is because on some level I agree with her. She is not Cheri, after all, but Chrome. At first I was appalled by her appearance, but as I work with her, I come to admire her liquid grace, the loveliness of her polished body. She has no self-consciousness at all, unlike Cheri Wainwright, who seems to have been an inhibited young woman, shy and prudish. Chrome feels no shame in her nudity, though truth to tell, she feels nothing. If I could only break through.”

“You will dance.”

Chrome did as she was told. It was easy with the music, a complex modern-classical pastiche that let her drift and flow, rise and sink. Her movements were precise and fluid, and she knew that she improvised a dance of grace and beauty.

“You do well.”

—The music is a good guide.

“Aren’t you pleased? Don’t you enjoy the movement?”

—I experience the movement.

Not the same thing at all.

“Do you feel that?”

—I am experiencing a sense of warmth and physical comfort.

“But no pleasure? You should be feeling pleasure. I’m stimulating the part of your brain that would give an ordinary woman a shattering orgasm.”

—I do not feel an orgasm.

Hawkins disconnected the wireless feed from his computer and shook his head. “I’m out of ideas, Chrome. Tell me, when do you come closest to feeling?”

—Two times. When you charge me there is a pleasant sense.

“The flow of electricity?”

—Yes. It is like satiety, like a good meal. It is close to pleasure.

“And what is the other time?”

—When you prescribe a function for me. I enjoy not the dance, but being told to dance.

They were in the study. Months had passed. The hills outside Hawkins’s house wore a covering of snow. A fire burned in the fireplace, its orange and red glow reflected in Chrome’s curves.

Hawkins, curious, sat on the floor next to Chrome and put an arm around her, so warm, so soft, so much like living flesh beneath his touch, and ordered, “Chrome, kiss me.”

Her head swiveled toward him, tilting, and she pressed her lips against his. It felt exactly like a real kiss from a real woman. “Did you enjoy that?”

—I found your ordering me to kiss you pleasant. I know you enjoyed the kiss. Your pulse rate and temperature both increased.

When you prescribe a function for me. Chrome thought of herself as a serving unit, not as an individual with free will. The pleasure might be in the anticipation.

“Undress me, Chrome.”

She rolled on her side, unbuttoned his shirt, unfastened his belt and trousers. He wondered at the softness and delicacy of her touch. “Would you like to make love to me?” he asked.

—I remember making love.

He reached for her, caressed her breast, felt the tautening of her nipple. “The hell with making love,” he said between clenched teeth. “Fuck me, Chrome!”

He rolled onto her. She held him close, kissed him again. His erect cock found the slit of her sex, lubed and ready for him, and he thrust in savagely. “Do you feel that?”

—Yes, I do feel it.

“Enjoy it! Love it! Love me!”

Beneath him, the supple body began to surge and move. Chrome did not breathe, but she made the sounds of a woman in the throes of passion, gasps and whimpers. Her pussy clenched his cock, and he plunged harder, faster.

“You love this! I order you to love it!”

—Yes, that is pleasure.

“I will fuck you anytime I want. You will always love it! You live to serve me, to make me happy!”

—That is my function.

“And you will love it, too, you will be addicted to my cock! You are going to come now!”

Her gleaming quicksilver body arched beneath him. My God, he thought, these robot bodies are more powerful than any human, she could crush me—

But she was gasping, mewling, locking those silver legs around him, holding him close, tight against her breasts.

“Come!” he commanded.

—Yes!

And then she moaned and thrust hard against him and said, “Yes! Oh, my God, yes!”

And that was only the beginning.