The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On inspection, the loft above the Club turned out to be big and bright—it had once been a fitness centre, or maybe a dojo, complete with shower room, bathroom, and a mat-covered floor. There were even kitchen facilities. In a word, it was perfect. We hung a sign on the Club door—“Open Thurs/Fri/Saturday night—knock’—and then everyone moved upstairs to settle in. We were perfectly content to pass the time eating, fucking, and basking in the sunshine.

The next few days went pretty much according to plan. Emile started setting up our finances, gradually collecting autographs from the Latex Girls (and our two human minions) on a growing pile of paperwork. It seemed he’d earned most of a business degree on a football scholarship, before blowing out a knee and winding up working as a bouncer at a sex club—where he was now promoted to manager extraordinaire. He’d brought along his little sister—Trixie—with whom, as I mentioned, he got on with very, very well.

Meanwhile, down in the lab, Molly worked on filling her special requests. First Pantoufle’s new friend Jasmine was brought down for her refit. Her suit consisted of a red latex halter-top with matching panties. These melded nicely into her body, leaving her with substantially enhanced boobs and—I loved this touch—a rubberized pussy that was an oval copy of her other mouth. It came complete with a little pink tongue. There were even three bumps on her mound that looked like a pair of closed eyes over a button nose, so she had this little face going on down there. When I leaned down for a better look, it licked its lips and smiled at me.

Put her in a little black dress, though, and she was good to go out in public. (Although anyone peeking underneath was in for a rude shock. Literally—it turned out that her cheeky cunt had a habit of sticking its tongue out at you.) Her new rubber bonded-on collar, even with its iron ring, looked at a glance like a black choker. Sort of Goth, maybe; but easy to cover with a scarf, in a pinch—provided you left the leash at home. Mistress P and her new slave took over grocery detail.

Next up was the French Maid, who now called herself Coral. By Tuesday Molly had prepared a spiffy rubber tail for her, and had taken her down to poolside to get her suited up.

As usual, Molly was singing as she laid out the costume:

“The maid, she’s French, she’s got no sense She’s wild for Crazy Horse And when she strips, the chauffeur flips The footman’s eyes get crossed ...”

Coral lay down on the deck and eagerly pulled the material up to her waist. Her legs fused together as we watched. Once transmogrified and tipped into the pool, the girl looked more half-Orca than half-fish, but she was thrilled with the result. She zipped in big circles and splashed us with her big tail, giggling madly; then she zoomed to the bottom and shot out high enough to nearly reach the ceiling. I could see we were going to have to take her to the seaside once in a while. Or maybe get her a job at SeaWorld. (Although maybe not so much, what with those big bouncy tits. Not to mention her hungry pussy-slit, a deep pink gash against her black bottom skin, which practically screamed: STICK IT HERE.) Hopefully there would be a lake out at Ms. Lewis’s ranch.

We put Coral in charge of the pool, of course. She soon had a regular stream of visitors (Latex Girls, not sailors—yet). And especially Matrix Guy, who’d discovered a fetish he didn’t even know he had—mermaids. The two of them pretty much shacked up together, down there. They spent an inordinate amount of time experimenting with positions, both in the water and on a king-sized air mattress, which they dragged ashore to sleep on.

As for Doc, after only three days of walkies, we even managed to come up with a solution for him. It turned out Coral knew the Commandant’s civilian name. Molly gave her a call, and offered to sell her our beloved pet at a substantial discount. She was keen, although before her purchase she’d wanted to sample Doc’s doggy charms. We left the happy couple tied together in the coatroom. Like Molly reminded me later, as she counted out the cash, there’s no accounting for taste.

The grand re-opening that Thursday went rather well, on the whole—there are a remarkable number of kinky people in this town. Word of mouth had spread, and most of our guests had heard garbled accounts about the unusual events of the previous week. Many costumes were guesses of what the citizens of my latex Empire might look like.

In the interest of keeping the place at least somewhat under the radar, the Latex Girls mostly stayed in the loft, playing with each other (as usual). Molly and I canoodled together and watched the sport downstairs on the closed circuit TV Doc had installed. While we were no longer in the abduction business, we were still on the lookout for people who might be worthy of full membership.

Emile was down there, sort of floor manager, and his boys were on security at the door. Trixie had practically a degree in mixology, so she took over the bar. Together they were enough to run operations. To keep up the buzz, we also sent down the three generic Subs—Carla, Destiny and Raven—as teasers. In the poor light, they could pass for clubbers wearing very, very good costumes. Naturally, Pantouffle and Jasmine were also there. They wore just enough clothing to camouflage their Latex modifications. They looked like mini-skirted barbarians—but hot. Jasmine in particular was popular with the customers. When she did that tribad thing with you (which I had discovered didn’t mean it took three people), well, she could eat you out. And I knew for a fact that if she got around to straddling one of the men, later on, she could blow him and fuck him all at once.

As I said, things went smoothly—at first. We even found a few people to discreetly invite up to the loft. The wrinkle was Mad Max. The guy wore full road warrior leathers—even the thigh-holstered shotgun looked real. He and his pal were behaving like dicks, but that wasn’t the real problem.

The thing was, even on our crappy surveillance monitor, Molly recognized him as a previous customer. Like Carla he’d bought two base model S-001 units (in black, without the lady-pleaser modification). Luckily he hadn’t brought them along, because then he’d have brought along his own portable mind control machine.

Except for Carla, none of Doc’s customers knew about the Latex Club (or rather Clubs, since Doc and Molly had been moving from city to city, collecting fresh raw material and moving on). But even if Max hadn’t expected to see Subs like his own when he’d come in, he must have immediately recognized ours for what they were. No doubt he was wondering who was controlling them.

In fact, even as Molly was filling me in Max, he and his buddy approached Raven (I only knew it was her on account of she and the others had put colour-coded ribbons on their collar rings—Raven’s was black, naturally). The three began talking. So far, so good—if asked, she’d name me as her mistress, which would tell him nothing. Of course, I wasn’t around, and there was no machine to be seen. But if invited, Raven would fuck him like a bunny, regardless.

Whatever she said, it didn’t serve, because Max’s buddy pushed her against the wall and got his hands around her throat. Now, I’m the first to admit that there’d been some rough sex in the place, but I was pretty sure they hadn’t arranged a safety word. Even as Molly and I got to our feet, I saw Emile and his guys approach and Max reach for his shotgun. Very bad.

“Trouble,” I shouted, and launched myself for the stairs. Molly, Pril and all the rest were right behind me.

But by the time we got down to the Club, it was all over. Apparently the bully handbook must fail to mention that you should look behind you for angry girlfriends with heavy chairs. Max and Buddy’s general lack of popularity can be guessed by the applause that greeted our dragging their unconscious bodies out the back. Particularly since quite a few of our customers already had ideas about what went on in there.

Max was the last to wake up. He found himself zap-tied to the same chair that had laid him out.

Molly leaned over him and asked, “Who’s up for a shot of vodka?”

Max was completely unaware of how his Latex girl-toys had been made, but he sensibly refused Molly’s cheerful offer. Buddy accepted, but the look on his face suggested that he had visions of our untying a hand and giving him a nice, breakable glass for a weapon. I’d sent most everybody back to their stations, except for Candy, as back-up. No doubt he thought he could take on three girls, rubbery or otherwise.

What he got was a plastic cup of spiked liquor, served through a straw Candy held to his mouth. Meanwhile Max stared at her unusual mouth with a look of horror. She blew him a kiss with those tiny cock-mounted lips, and then delivered him his shot worth by pouring it in his lap. As I recalled, that would also work, but much more slowly.

Buddy quickly got that glazed look that told Molly he was ready to be untied. While he docilely stripped for her, she laid out his new costume—a standard issue one-piece Sub suit. I couldn’t help but notice that the thing’s crotch-hole probably wasn’t big enough for the guy’s significant tackle to project through.

“What happens when ...?”

“Watch! At-a-boy. Just step into the back of it—that’s it, pull it up. Now pull on the hood.”

He did, and he finished up looking a little bit like one of those ballet dudes, the guys in tights that are all muscle. But, you know, all hooded and shiny black. His cock was visible as a great lump crammed down along his left leg ... except that, as we watched, it just melted away.

Even I cringed a little, and Max actually whimpered as his toady friend’s cock disappeared. Gradually, Buddy began to grow tits and hips; meanwhile the gap between his thighs widened, and an opening appeared down there that soon developed into a rather lovely pussy.

Max may not have ever seen the manufacturing process, but he knew the end product—after all, he had a pair of Subs locked away in his mansion. And he knew he was next. He cursed and threatened and bargained, but Molly was oblivious.

Buddy didn’t pay any attention either. He just caressed his newly rubberized skin. Or rather, her skin—by this point, the transformation was almost complete. She trembled whenever her touch passed over the sensitive bits—which, as I well knew, were mostly all of them. Even her face had been feminized, including the plump-lipped open oval of her mouth. She looked pretty much like all the other Subs, except that she lacked any add-ons.

It was Max’s turn next. His struggling had wound down as the drug took effect. Just as Molly commenced to untie him, Emile showed up and asked him enough questions for us to both rescue his Subs and relieve him of any other assets. “Any other passwords or account numbers? No? Sign here ... and here ... and here.” He was good.

It wasn’t long before we had a lovely brace of matched rubber-maids, standing with their legs planted wide and their pussies open for business.

“Damn, they’re big,” I said.

“Conservation of mass,” explained Molly. “Right now, we’re just rearranging what’s there. Ordinarily, they’d get smaller over time—that particular suit will produce our standard size 10.”

“Ordinarily?”

“The thing is, the drug’s gonna wear off, and they’ll still be assholes. Luckily, I got a cure for that. Doc and me were looking to come out with a new line—something that didn’t need the machine to control,” she explained. “Remember how Doc called the operation ‘Doc Abseil’s Animatronic Orgasmatron Manufacturing Enterprise’? He claimed to build high-tech sex machines, so he wanted me to come up with something that fit the bill. And these babes deserve to be the prototypes.”

This time Max—now Maxine -went first. Molly started passing out various accessories out of a big trunk. There were big sections of hard white plastic, like protective sports gear, which fastened like armour onto Maxine’s shoulders and arms, and likewise her thighs and calves. Another assembly strapped around her middle, under her shiny black breasts, and yet another enclosed her crotch. Boots, gloves, and a close fitting white helmet followed, with a smoked visor that covered her eyes.

Just as with the original transformation, within minutes the stuff began to fuse onto her—become her. What had looked like knee and elbow pads soon became hinges for otherwise rigid arms and legs; in turn her limbs were secured to her shoulders and hips by swivel sockets. Of course, that’s basically how she was built in the first place, but now there was every appearance that she could be disassembled with a big screwdriver.

That left just a few contrasting stretches of black rubber skin showing—soft bits for playing with. The biggest was the zone from her cock-sucker lips down to her jiggly melon breasts; plus her waist.

“Check out its undercarriage,” said Molly. I’d called Clyde ‘it’, back when I was under the influence of the mind control machine. I’d sort of mellowed since then, but Maxine now really did look like an ‘it’—a machine.

Candy and I knelt down to peek at its crotch, as directed. Its pussy was now a perfectly circular hole in the white crotch-plate. The opening was decorated with a riveted metal ring around the opening, and seemed to be rubber-lined, like a socket for a vacuum cleaner hose. The Maxi-bot was running its fingers around the inner rim and moaning.

“Stop diddling yourself,” commanded Molly. Maxine froze. “Let us have a proper look at you.” Its sticky hands dropped away to its sides, allowing its juices to drizzle out freely.

Molly reached over and gave the pussy-ring a twist, and inside the plates of a metallic diaphragm slid closed. “Keeps it from leaving a trail around the place.” She opened the orifice again, and the already backed-up juices splashed free. “This is tool number one,” she announced, as she flourished a two-foot rubber dildo. The thing was fitted with a metallic band in the middle. She pushed one end inside Maxine and twisted, and I could hear the click of the bayonet-mount locking in place. “That also connects the servos.”

Then, to Maxine, she ordered, “Erection. Rotate quarter speed and vibrate at level one.” No sooner said than done: the attachment rose from a downward cant to point up at my face, and the tip began to trace a three or four inch circle in the air. The vibrate function was making its surface almost a blur.

“Cool,” I said.

Abruptly, Molly took hold, twisted, and yanked tool-number-one free. The Maxi-bot trembled but said nothing. I wondered if it could.

“Tool number two,” Molly announced. She had tossed the previous one in the trunk and now lifted out a six-foot monster. The thing was ridiculously big, and had three fat ridges that spiralled from end to end. Like the other, it had a metal band about a foot from one end. “I call this one ‘the Serpent’. It’s adjustable. Watch.”

She lodged the shorter end into the waiting Maxi-bot, and locked it home. I heard the faint whir of servos, and the thing began to writhe, actually twisting around Molly’s arm. “It’s set on auto. This length is for us—for other Latex Girls, that is. Obviously,” she added, as she demonstrated by spreading her arms to take hold both near its base and at the distant tip. Then she laid the thing’s length over her shoulder, got a fresh grip close to where it fitted into Maxine, and began to push and twist. It began to thread through its mount ring and disappear into its host.

“You may speak,” said Molly told it, as she forced more tool inside.

“Oh. Oh my.” Maxine’s voice was a little mechanical, but sounded sincere. As the bit of its exposed belly between upper and lower body plates bulged, Maxine said, “Oh my goodness. It’s filling me up. Thank you, Mistresses. Oh. Now it’s in my chest.”

Molly kept shoving and turning, and soon I could see Maxine’s neck swell. The newly minted robot had to tip its head back to let the tip of ‘the Serpent’ slide up its throat. Even then, it tried to keep up a running commentary, as ordered. “It’s coming ... up my ... geck.” And then the dildo forced its way past those pretty lips.

When there was a foot or so of protruding rubber cock writhing at both of Maxine’s ends, Molly stopped cramming it in and said, “This setting is for civilians. Sorta two for the price of one.”

“Cool,” I repeated. “Max—Maxine—go entertain our guests. Oh, and quit trying to talk.” The weird gargling sounds stopped. “Candy, go with, and tell everyone it’s our new automaton.”

“Animatronic Orgasmatron,” corrected Molly.

“Whatever.” Like they’d believe it anyway. I watched Candy lead our newest creation away. “Does it know who it was?”

“I’ve got no idea. Does it matter?”

“Not really. Serve it right if it did, though.”

There was enough gear in the trunk to fit out Maxine’s pal to match. Molly locked the ‘Tool Number One’ in place, and it was done. I called it Maria, and sent it out to join its sister—after I tested it out, of course.