The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Halfway down the hall a door waited for her. It was a smooth sheet of unpainted metal, free of any handle or knob, but, beside it, mounted on the bare cinder-block wall was a black keypad. June shook one last spray of water from her clear plastic umbrella, tucked it under her arm, and deployed her now-free hand.

Her gloved finger hovered for a moment,

The lights overhead buzzed industrially.

Then numbers came, and the finger pushed at the smooth silvery buttons.

A muted buzz, a flash of light, and the door clunked, swinging inward a few inches. She hesitated for another moment, then gave it a push with her palm, and stepped inside.

Warmth and fresh air, after the chilly staleness of the hallway.

Under more lights (these tastefully recessed and discreetly silent) the room was fairly long and narrow. A carpet ran down the floor, Persian or some similar variety, she wasn’t an expert at such things, filled with interlocking twists of color. Away at the far end where the carpet finally lapped up against the wall was another door, a match for the one June had just come through except for the lack of even a keypad. The long wall to her right wasn’t really a wall at all but an enormous floor to ceiling mirror, vast and pitiless. Pushed up against the mirror, exactly halfway along, was a heavy wooden table, its sturdy dark legs chased with twists of expensive-looking metal all the way down, and then solidly capped where they emphatically met the floor. The marble tiles of that floor were so highly polished, they almost constituted another mirror.

June pushed the door shut. It clicked solidly back into place. Silence oozed in around her, filling the gap the door left behind. A faint smell, possibly floral, came as well.

Yet another pause on her part, umbrella now back in her hand. In her other hand, she was carrying a bag, a fancy thing made of heavy paper and sporting a pair of looped wicker handles.. Her purse was slung over her shoulder. She walked down the room to the table, looking neither left nor right. Her tread was silent on the carpet, but when she finally stepped off onto the floor, the sound of her boot-heels (low and sensible, sturdy like the table-legs) echoed around the room like gunshots.

She stood before the table. The top was covered with a pristine white cloth, stitched out of a shimmering snowbank. There were several items arranged on it, in an irregular pattern, and she examined each in turn. A large wooden drinking cup or flagon sitting on a stem, well-made but unexceptional except for the aura of time it radiated. A statuette of a bird, an eagle or something, angluarly carved out of some glossy black stone. An exquisitely-detailed model mounted on a small pole connected to a sky-blue stand, of an propellered airplane that would have carried passengers between continents fifty or sixty years ago. A dagger-sized shard of.. she frowned slightly, crinkling her brow... glass? No, probably some kind of crystal, evidently not deliberately constructed but broken off some larger piece. It lay on the snow, unmounted, unadorned, where it caught the lights and reflected them in splintering patterns.

Beyond that, another carving, this one made from some greenish stone with red veins running through it, depicting a gaunt squid-headed.. thing.. which crouched beneath its spreading bat-wings and clutched at its own malformed knees.

“Ew..” She barely whispered the word, but like her footsteps before it, her voice amplified itself and bounced around the room forever. She hunched, and her jaws clicked themselves shut.

Next was an exceptionally ugly-looking silver cream-jug, from a tea-set, that some misbegotten soul had forged in the shape of a cow, the tail forming a convenient handle. The whole was in its way almost worse than the squid-thing.

And so she had reached the middle of the table. Pushed up against the mirror, was a largish clock, an antique made of dark wood with dangling chains and weights gleaming behind matched glass doors. The long black hands pointed forever at XII, and the pendulum hung silent and still. Somehow, this was the worst of all, and she again wrenched her gaze along..

But there wasn’t much more to see. The other half of the table contained only a large pile of money, all neatly bricked up in paper bands and stacked with mathematical precision, the result bringing to mind a castle. Most of it was a familiar size and green color, but there were other hues and shapes which formed the occasional sub-column. For a flickering moment June had a vague vision of herself.. or at least some woman.. dumping out the bag, stuffing it full of money and fleeing out of the door, running off to...

June raised the bag and looked at it again. Again? Had she ever looked at it in the first place? She studied it now.

The words Tania’s Eastside Boutique was printed on the side of the bag in swirling pink.

She realized, her stomach slowly sinking towards her oh-so-sensible boots, that she had absolutely no idea was in the bag. Where had she gotten it? Tania’s? Where was that? There was no memory. None at all. She stood there, rainwater still dripping off the umbrella, off the bottom her long winter coat. Nothing came.

Nothing at all.

She had no idea where she was. She had no memories at all. It was as if she had been born staring at that door, at those bright silvery buttons itching to be pushed...

Her name was June McKenzie.

Nothing else.

She set the bag down on the table. Pulled off her gloves a finger at a time, stashed them in one of the deep pockets of her coat. Forced her hand out, reached into the bag.

severed head severed head severed head

Her fingers relentlessly closed around something soft but heavy, and pulled it out. June was almost able to blurt out a snort of relieved laughter. Almost; her jaws remained locked.

It was just a stuffed toy. An.. alligator? A crocodile? Some kind of green lizard-thing, festooned with black dots. A short blunt tail protruded from one end, and a cheerfully goggling expression from the other. She looked at the yellow underbelly. No tag or label.

It really was quite heavy. It pulled her hand down, and it was sitting on the table next to the bird-statue. Together they possibly brought to mind some classic comedy team, straight man and goof, cavorting in black and white, like she used to watch down at the Nemovoid Street Theater with...

With..

No memories.

She hovered her hand, nudged the toy a half-inch closer to the statuette. That was better. Her hand went into the bag again, groped about. At first, she thought it was empty, but then at the bottom..

She pulled a (relatively) small brick of money, neatly wrapped in a paper band.

She took it down the table, debated over the most esthetically-balanced spot for a moment, then added it to the castle’s battlements.

Back to the bag. Again tucking the umbrella under her arm, she folded it up, smoothed it flat, and slipped it into the pocket after the gloves. Waste not want not.

She couldn’t put it off any longer.

She raised her head and looked into the mirror.

Fairly tall, fairly slender, spiky red-brown hair, cut fairly short. Wearing in addition to her tan coat, a long red and blue scarf, quite snazzy. Maybe not ravishingly beautiful, but certainly attractive, with intelligent blue-green eyes and a strong chin. Skin maybe a little too pale. She could have done a lot worse.

The eyes stared back at her, then shifted to look at something else reflected in the mirror, besides herself and the table and the things that it supported.

The other side of the room.

It had always been there, she had always know it was there, had put off thinking about it. Because..

Because it was so horrible?

Because it was the best part...?

She turned around, her knuckles white as they clutched at the umbrella.

At first glance, this long wide wall was painted stark white, a good match for the tablecloth, but at a closer examination, there were patterns there, thick bands of sparkles and no-sparkles spiraling around each other. High up, just below the hanging panels of the ceiling, there ran a narrow row of frosted windows, a room-spanning set of squinting eyes. Dim winter light (probably.. yes.. it was winter. It was Tuesday, November 23rd.. ) filtered in. The endless rain could be sensed rather than actually seen splattering against the far side of the thick glass. Back down down down, there stood a series of small doors mounted in the wall at regular intervals, each painted a pale pink color. Not nearly big enough to actually step through. Lockers. Yes. Another memory came, lockers in a long row in a high school. She had attended high school somewhere. (“Gooo Whitefish! Rah rah rah!”)

And in front of all that...

There was a box. Sitting on the floor, standing maybe a foot high, three feet wide front to back and side to side. A smooth flat top. Carefully curved edges. Colored not quite the same faded shade of pink as the lockers, looking as a result something like an eraser. It was hard to tell exactly what it was made of. Maybe it really was constructed of rubber. No, she realized. It was just slightly translucent, and it was possible there were shapes slowly moving in there..

The top wasn’t completely smooth. There was a ring in the center of it all, a ring of glowing light, bright pink fading to magenta and back again, the same diameter as a standard clay flowerpot...

Pulsing, slow but deep, like a flow of sluggish miscolored magma viewed through one of those windows.

Maybe it was a window

And out of that ring, again like a castle rising from a moat, there came the pole. Made of some shiny, slick metal, frozen mercury perhaps, or maybe the builder had sliced off a section of the mirror, and wrapped it around itself. It rose triumphantly up and up and up..

And disappeared between the woman’s naked legs.

Only in some sense, it didn’t disappear at all. It was as if the woman’s body had been made.. slightly translucent, and June could at some level still see the pole, the rod, thrusting relentlessly, inescapably, up and up and up..

June followed it all the way, past the curves, past the full breasts and the large proud nipples, and she was looking the woman in the face.

This woman qualified as beautiful, although perhaps there was not a huge amount of intelligence on immediate display..

She was standing there, her bare feet on the box, on the stand, on the display stand, mounted very much like the airplane model.

Her body hopelessly impaled on that shimmering rod.

Her hands were held out from her sides, her fingers splayed, unmoving.

Her whole naked body stood utterly unmoving, her fluffy blonde hair curling halfway down her back, those impressive nipples erect and pointed.

Her bright blue eyes wide and unwavering, as she smiled endlessly in June’s direction.

She’s dead. She’s murdered and dead and.. and stuffed..

Only, she wasn’t dead. She was in fact technically moving. she was breathing, very slowly and very deeply, the nipples just barely rising and falling. And then, with equal slowness, she blinked, her lids shuttering themselves mechanically over the holes that were her eyes and then rising again.

Windshield wipers flapping in the rain.

Had June driven a car here?

Otherwise, she did not move.

She did not move.

She did not move.

A memory came to June. It was a split-second thing, but this time sharp and vivid. This nameless blond woman, on a wide white bed, surrounded by gauzy curtains, wearing the artistic remains of a lacy blue nightgown, having enthusiastic bouncing sex with.. some faceless man, making lots of all the right noises, even as at the back of her eyes there lurked something dead and mechanical.

June stared and stared, and finally turned her head to the right..

There was another box there, another stand.

Another ring and thrusting forever upwards another pole.

Another woman impaled and helpless.

This one was short and slender, of Asian descent with fragile bone-china features instead of the blonde’s corn-fed expanses, her glossy black hair plunging straight down almost to her ass. Otherwise, the same. The same pose down to the last finger, the same smile. The same eyes.

June took a couple of steps, so she was standing in front of the third woman. She was back on the carpet, so there was only silence.

Another memory. This woman wearing a lime-green bikini, standing in front of some kind of elaborately-carved wooden wall, birds and dragons and twining flowers. Dealing a vicious karate chop (or some sort of chop) to the neck of a scarred bald (but still faceless) man, sending him crashing to the inlayed wooden floor. The lack-of-expression was on full display here.

A corner of her mind muttered that this was terribly stereotypical behavior.

A couple more steps. The next victim was black, or at least very dark brown, standing even taller than June without the help of her stand, well-muscled though not into “female bodybuilder” territory, her truly-black hair surrounding her head in an impressive spray. A nasty-looking scar ran up her naked flank. June waited, and yes, the One Memory came again. Bright sunshine, fluffy clouds drifting by. A ruthlessly-cropped grassy field with a tall chain-link fence in the distance, topped with coils of glittering razor-wire. This woman, still naked, except for the addition of a spiked white collar wrapped tight around her neck, down on all fours, barking like a rabid dog, with eyes to match.

June swallowed an enormous lump in her throat, shifted her legs uncomfortably, and walked on.

The fourth woman’s figure could almost (almost) be called boyish, and her skin was.. dusky. Was that the word? Her ancestors had hailed not from Africa, but somewhere around the Mediterranean? Yes. Dark brown hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders. She was naked and impaled like the others, smiling that horrible, wonderful smile, with one difference: her empty eyes were framed by a pair of chunky black-rimmed glasses.

June waited, but no One Memory came. Instead, a more prosaic haze of images. The two of them, at school together, giggling over magazines in bedrooms, going on double-dates with faceless men to the NST.

April Dellaporta.

April and June, The Calendar Girls. And then almost what she was seeking, a clear image. But not of April, but rather one of the stands and its rod, standing unoccupied on a rather more ordinary carpet, in a rectangle of spring sunlight, by a window. An (again, ordinary) window adorned with cheerfully hideous curtains, looking out on a small patch of lawn and then a fence. Nearby was a sofa and a television.

When was the last time she had watched television?

She couldn’t see what was on the tip of the rod, and stepped closer.

“April? What the hell is that thing?”

April laughed from the kitchen where she was getting them some pop.

“What? Oh. That? It’s a sorta game. Or puzzle. Got it from Jenni.”

“Who?”

“Oh, right. You don’t know her, I guess. Works at TrishB’s Juice Bar. Total.. um.. heh.. blonde.. but comes up with some good stuff sometimes. See if you can figure it out!”

June went closer. The tip was still oddly vague, but she could now make out the general outline. She frowned sourly.

“You do know what this thing looks like, right?”

April appeared at her side, handed her a stripy can.

“Huh? Hey, I can’t help it if you’ve got some kind of dirty mind.”

June took a sip.

“Go on. Check it out.”

April was watching her.

“That thing is disgusting.”

She took a step closer.

Was the tip glowing?

She reached out her hand...

In the long white room, under the windows, June stared and stared at April, a mixture of emotions swirling like churning magma. Anger. Sympathy. Jealousy. Gratitude. Happiness.

This last one surged, washing away the rest.

April blinked. All the impaled women blinked, in perfect unison.

There were no real emotions left in June’s head, just a hot wet buzz, and she took a couple more steps down the room. And waiting there of course was another stand, another Rod, and of course there was nobody currently impaled on it.

And she could see what the Rod’s tip really looked like.

Could remember everything about it.

She had touched it, or one like it. She had touched them a lot...

She and April had stood there, touching it, all night long..

She made helpless noises in the back of her throat, and inched closer.

Every bump and lump and nook and cranny were clear now.

It was glowing. It was hideous and beautiful and enormous and, yes, even now slightly silly.

Just like the real things that same voice whispered in the farthest corner of her mind, and then went silent.

She reached out her hand. She needed to touch it. Touching it was why she had come here.

Touching it was her only..

Her hand froze, millimeters away. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t move.

And then she realized there was always more to remember, new metal doors popping open in sequence when the right buttons were pressed.

How many numbers had there been in that code she had entered? Twenty? Thirty?

There was only one way she was allowed to touch the Rod.

She walked to the waiting locker, opened the door, put the umbrella inside. Put her purse inside. Took off her scarf, put it inside, took off her coat, hung it on the waiting hanger, smoothed it flat, put it inside.. Stepped out of her boots, took of her blouse and slacks.

Her underwear and her socks and last of all her wristwatch, which had its own little compartment inside the locker. She didn’t have any jewelry on; she recalled that she used to love wearing big dangling earrings but now..

She closed the door. Its edges were padded. and made not a sound.

She turned back to the stand, her stand, her nipples standing erect, the dull heat burning stronger and stronger between her legs, inside her head. She had never stopped making noises in the back of her throat.

Her jaws were locked shut.

She stepped up onto the stand. She was looking at herself in the mirror, looking at all the others, standing forever still, exposed, utterly helpless and on display, under lights that never turned off. The things on the table, all of them oriented so that if they had a face or a front it was pointed towards the mirror, not out into the room. (Except the eternally-still clock; that was for the women on display, reminding them there was no time here, they were here forever and ever...) The whatever-it-was was warm and slightly yielding under her soles. There were two Perfect Spots, and her feet slid into them. The Rod had lowered just enough to allow her to get into position, but now, now..

It silently Rose, massive and majestic.

One Final Memory. Different than all the others, sharper and clearer, but at the same time, confusing, coming from a bizarre angle down near a heavily-carpeted floor. Slivers of dark wooden paneling, wide bookshelves, lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound tomes, the very corner of maybe.. yes, a fireplace, with a gleaming set of tools, tongs, poker, shovel and brush. An enormous globe, its floor-pole made not of metal but more dark wood. Above it, dribbling into view, some sort of flourishing plant, covered with tasteful blooms. Music played, discreet classical strings.

A dog stalked into view, sporting a spiked black collar, looking healthy, intelligent and alert with her thick black eyeglasses. She took up a guard position beside the nameless woman on the floor, froze.

Yes, she was on the floor. In a perversion of yoga, her limbs twisted up into a neat cube shape. Possibly wrapped in a tasteful paper band, so she was part of the decor.

And even though she couldn’t see it, she suddenly knew what was behind her. A large leather chair.. no, a throne, with a drinks tray and a pipe and a shaded reading lamp close at hand.

And then, finally, gloriously, a pair of feet appeared. Black, shiny black shoes she instantly craved to lick and lick and lick, dark perfectly creased trousers going up and up and up..

And their faceless Owner disappeared behind her, and sat on his throne

And put his legs on his waiting footstool.

A footstool made now entirely of orgasms.

And forever on the other side of the mirror..

Her Owner’s Rod slid effortlessly, deeper and ever deeper into June’s body.

Her mouth smiled, her body locked itself into position, every finger just so.

Her Owner’s Rod slid up and up and up forever into his nameless statue.

Deeper and ever deeper into her mind.

Throbbing instructions and dictates and commands.

Replacing her thoughts and memories.

She was eternally gloriously impaled, body and mind, heart and soul.

And there were no people in the long white room, only decor waiting to be admired by its Owner, and the rain beat endlessly against the windows.