The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bridget dropped off an envelope with before and after photos of Liza Weston while Jon was working out. He looked at the pictures; Bridget was not exaggerating about the change in the girl’s physical appearance. He wondered if it was a rebellion against her born-again stature, but after a brief consideration, decided that the change was a little too radical to be explained that easily. Rebellion would have been a flirtatious walk on the wild side, and Lolly Popps was the wild side itself. He spent his post-workout bath trying to avoid arriving at Bridget’s conclusion. No matter what devil’s advocate he played, it all came down to the same thing: this was a paranormal problem. Somewhere in the United States (and possibly the world), there was a psi that liked pretty young women and enormous tits. One who possessed the power, skill, and money to make his dreams come true. Most psi talents he ran into weren’t that powerful or that skilled. This one could cause real problems. It was going to be Jon Cain’s job to find him, and stop him.

The place to start would be Lolly Popps’ last place of employment. Capitol Hills was a strip club frequented by the powerful and horny in Washington. Jon’s first visit to the joint was a casual walk-by in the early afternoon. It didn’t look like much; it was just a storefront with the doors shut tight. There were some neon beer signs in the window, but nondescript drapes that had clearly seen better days hid any other clues to the nature of the business within. The neighborhood was a little rough, but not terribly dangerous—at least not during the day. This was probably the most discreet strip joint Jon had ever seen in his life. There was something being hidden here.

He had to wait until the sun went down to find out what it was. The street was alive after the sun went down. Jon noted the myriad of cheap whores and pimps prospecting for customers and the virtual absence of police as he walked around, trying not to seem too obvious. He was hoping to steal a look inside Capitol Hills using somebody else’s eyes before he actually went in. However, luck failed him. One of the pimps tried to interest him in a young, very drugged out woman just as someone went in. Unfortunately, the young man left after only a minute or so, and Jon was otherwise preoccupied—the pimp was subconsciously sizing him up as a potential robbery victim if he ascertained that Jon wasn’t going to do any business with him. Jon convinced the pimp that the blank piece of paper he gave him was a $100 bill. In a flash, he had a young black woman hanging on his arm, slurring something about sex. He couldn’t hide his disgust. Her mind was a mess. Somewhere, he remembered a woman’s voice, soft, and sweet. “Remember, Jon, my darling son, it’s the small differences you can make...” He decided to detox the would-be whore.

He took her to a nearby crude diner and sat in a booth facing her, while he drank what the proprietor tried to pass off as coffee. The poor girl was so drugged that she kept trying to fondle him underneath the table, even though it was impossible for her to reach his lap. “What’s your name?” he asked, trying to distract her from her pursuit. She was turned to the side, her head on the table, one arm extended almost vertically, the other underneath, with the hand vainly questing for Jon’s groin area. He tried not to laugh at her unintentionally comical pose.

She turned her fogged eyes to him, the lidded appearance more drugged than sensual, and tried to seductively say, “Anything you want to name me, baby.” It came out as a rough approximation—that is, if you were to ignore the consonants.

“No, I mean your real name.” This was going to be a bigger job than Jon had thought. The haze in the woman’s mind was too thick for Jon to get any information directly. “It’s—a thing with me,” he lied. “For a hundred bucks, you’re supposed to give me anything I want, including conversation in a coffee shop.”

“Well, hey, OK, vanilla man. They call me ‘Sweet Chocolate.’ But you can call me Treece.” Almost under her breath, she finished, “Easiest damn money I’ve ever made.”

“Treece—look at me,” Jon quietly commanded. Surprised, the girl complied. “You can feel me in your mind... sense it... try.” Treece’s quiet gasp was the only sign that something special and amazing was happening. Her mouth hung open. “Very good. Now let me help you. I’m going to start clearing the fog, removing the cobwebs. Your job is to come find me inside your head. Yes, that’s it. I’m coming to release you from your prison... let me come to you, Treece.” The girl’s chest began to rise and fall rapidly, huffing quietly through her still-open mouth.

Beads of sweat began to form on Jon’s forehead. He patiently, delicately worked through the drug-induced haze in Treece’s mind. Tiny squeaks started coming out of her mouth as she hyperventilated. “Yes, Treece, I’m coming to find you, the real you... to free you from your prison...” Jon had undone the majority of the mental damage. Now it was time for the hard part. He used his ability to search for a very small, well-hidden, special part of her brain. It took several minutes, and once found, he had to focus his power in an effort to get it to respond.

“Oh... oh... ohmigod... oh... ohh...” Treece’s shock became more than squeaks. “What... are... you... doing?” she panted, her eyes and mind clearing by the second. “Ican’t... believe... ohhh... oh shit... ohshit...” Treece gave a final, loud, long gasp, causing patrons to turn and look at her. She sat back against the seat of the booth, catching her breath. Clear, beautiful brown eyes regarded the man who had removed the permanent haze and constant craving from her mind and body. She knew that somehow, she was, for the first time in two years, clean. “How the fuck did you do that?”

Cleaning out Treece’s mind and then getting it to take care of her body had required a serious effort. Jon leaned back in the chair, exhausted. “It’s—a gift,” he exhaled. His power had its limits. There was no way he could have done this without her help.

Treece looked down, her fear subdued by the awe she felt. “Ummm... I guess you’ll want your money’s worth now.”

Jon was not in the mood for, and physically incapable of having sex at that moment. He wanted to see if he had misjudged her. “Only... Only if you want to, Treece.”

“I mean, I don’t want to. I don’t have to. But... you... you...”

“Then don’t,” he replied. Jon pulled out a card. “This is the number of a friend of mine. She’s with the FBI, but she can give you protection from that pimp and a way to get back into the system. It’s up to you.” He closed his eyes and concentrated, jamming the perception of the three other people in the diner. Reaching into his wallet, he produced two pieces of paper that definitely were not blank. “This will give you a start.” Jon pressed the two hundred-dollar bills into her hand, and folded her hand shut with his free one. Treece opened her mouth, but Jon interrupted her before she could say anything. “If you want to do something for me, make something out of your life.” He stood up, turned, and walked out, leaving a very awestruck young woman in the diner. It was too late for Liza Weston, but maybe not for Patrice Rodgers. Jon hailed a passing taxi and settled wearily into the back seat as he told the driver to take him to the hotel. Bridget’s mystery could wait another day.