The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The next day, Sunday the first of April, 2068—a date that I would always remember—she needed to go for her monthly servicing, so I had to put her old brain back in. Seeing her dull and silly again made me uncomfortable. Anyway, I stashed the new brain with the rifle for safety, tried to clear up any loose ends and marched her off for servicing.

Jake was on duty again.

‘Well, well, well…what’s all this then?’ he quipped. ‘Done in a jiffy, come back at two.’

I set her up and wandered off to a restaurant to have lunch. I didn’t really like eating by myself in a restaurant. There were only two other tables occupied, and I managed to find myself at a table in the corner, facing the enemy, as it were. To give myself a countenance, I pretended to be engrossed in my communicator, though I was actually just reading the exploits of Sherlock Holmes as I ate my stew and pudding. The waitress, who strongly reminded me of Lynn from the clinic, scarcely spared me a glance. Customer interface jobs where about the only ones left in Deva by that time, and there was very little enthusiasm about doing them. Afterwards, with time to kill, I wandered around the town, avoiding the hostels zone. After a while, I found myself on the street that contained the controllers’ villas. They were modelled after Roman villas. Cloistered courtyards could occasionally be glimpsed when the sturdy gates were open, with small windows high up in the outside walls. Their tiled roofs sloped inwards to catch rainwater in fishponds and tanks, and at the back of each one was a small garden for herbs and fresh vegetables. I counted seven villas in all. Lucky bastards!

Looking at the nameplates, I spotted the one marked “Arthur Buonaventura”. I know where you live now, I though to myself. Not wanting to be noticed loitering, I kept on moving and walked over to the town square, a dreary place with cold stone benches grouped round a massive iron sundial marked ‘vulnerant omnes ultima necat’. This, my communicator told me, was a Latin inscription meaning ‘every [hour] wounds, the last kills’. A cheery thought, possibly to discourage people sitting around on the benches too long. I sat on one of the benches anyway. It was chilly and damp. I watched a young mother unsuccessfully trying to stop her little girl from clambering over the sundial. No doubt she would have got a clip round the ear if I’d not been there. When the sundial shadow finally reached two o’clock, I drudged off back to get Anna. The mother gave me a faint smile of complicity as I passed. I nodded. Not too bad looking.

When I got to the workshop, Jake was looking worried and embarrassed. There was no sign of Anna. ‘Slight problem here actually,’ he said. ‘Buonaventura says there may have been tampering; know anything about any tampering, James?’

Uh-oh: red flag. Act dumb and deny everything until they tip their hand. ‘No idea, Jake, must be some mistake. Shall I come back a bit later? Is this some sort of April Fools’ joke?’

He just shook his head. ‘We’ll call you when she’s ready.’

I just gave an aggrieved snort and clumped out. As soon as I was back in the street, I dropped the bluster and a wave of fear invaded me, wondering what was going on and how things would develop. And I suddenly missed Anna, the feeling was sharp as a physical pain, and realised everything that she meant to me. There was nothing for it but to go home. I summoned a pod.

As soon as I opened the door of my module, I realised that something was wrong: a faint sour smell, the ghost of unfamiliar footmarks, a book not where I had left it. Someone had come visiting. Shit!

I slumped down on the sofa, not knowing what to think, my legs tired and my face hot from the sharp wind outside. After sitting for about ten minutes, I took my coat and shoes off and went over to my computer. Someone had tried unsuccessfully to log on, and I felt another chill of fear. An hour passed and still Jake hadn’t called. When would I get Anna back? I should have known better than to try anything like this. I felt lonely and dispirited.

I called the Warden centre to report a break-in. A female voice said, ‘Warden Centre, how can we assist you?’

‘Somebody was in my module while I was out.’

‘Can you give me some details?’

‘There are footmarks on the floor, and someone’s tried to use my computer.’

‘We’ll send someone round right away. Don’t touch anything. Can I have your name and address?’

‘James Walters, Residence 6.’

There was a slight pause. ‘Please hold the line a moment.’

There was silence and a long pause, then a man’s voice. ‘Mister Walters? Are you really sure that someone has entered your module in your absence?’ He sounded a bit bothered and apologetic. ‘We are a bit overstretched right now, but we’ll try and send someone round to have a look tomorrow. We’ll call you.’

‘Of course, I’m sure.’

‘Well, maybe it was some kind of prank.’

‘Yeah right.’ I understood.

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘No.’ I hung up.

In the end, I made myself a cup of tea and sat, pensive. Time rolled by and still nobody called. Night fell and I finally went to bed. It was a clear, moonlit night. Alone in my bed, worrying, I didn’t get to sleep until late.

When morning came, there were still no calls or messages. My fear, worry and loneliness were a constant dull ache that I couldn’t shake off. I made myself a cup of coffee but didn’t feel like eating anything. I messed around with my computer listlessly. After a while I started to get a grip on myself and decided that I needed to think this out logically. I washed, shaved and made myself some food. There were no work assignments waiting, so I decided to play a new computer game. I found it hard to concentrate. I decided that if there was no news, I would go to the office tomorrow and try to find out what was going on.

The next day, fresh and debonair, I rode a pod over to the Xeron centre, trying to put on a brave face. When I walked in, Andrew gave me a bold, challenging stare and said ‘How nice to see you, Jim. I trust all is well?’ Jake couldn’t look me in the face, and Sandra looked sad and seemed to want to say something.

‘Morning all,’ I said with faux self-assurance, ‘any assignments in?’ I slid over to my workstation and logged on. Of course, there was nothing there. ‘Nothing there,’ I announced. I pretended to be doing something useful. After a bit of this I stood up. ‘Well, I’ll be getting back then.’ Turning to Jake I said, ‘Any news about the android, Jake?’

‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ he croaked. Nobody was laughing, Andrew had his head down and muttered something. Jake turned away. Sandra looked pained.

‘Bye then, I’ll be off,’ I said, trying to salvage some comradely good-feeling.

I was soon back on the street, wondering how my performance had appeared to them: “not too convincing” was my impression.

With nothing else to do, I walked home.

I found myself back in my module at a loose end.

To keep my mind clear, I decided to take a long walk in the glacis that afternoon. After lunch, I put my boots and coat on and ambled down to the town gate. It had turned mild, and there were signs of spring everywhere. The hawthorn hedges were a mass of white blossom, and dandelions and primroses were flowering everywhere. Little yellow flowers dotted the pasture, and green shoots were showing in the cropland. I soon started to feel better. I finally walked for more than two hours and got back tired but in better spirits.

I went for a walk again the next day and the day after, ever finding myself going in the vague direction of Aigrefoin but never crossing the valley.

Then I received a message summoning me to report to Arthur Buonaventura at his villa at 5 pm. I didn’t like the look of “you are summoned”; who the fuck did he think he was? But I still felt a bit relieved at the idea that I might find something out. I felt cautious too. He’s been seasoning me—softening me up to get me blabbing. I got myself ready that afternoon and sallied out to see the great man.

When I got to the villa, there was a warden standing outside with well-polished boots and a gun in a holster on his belt that was propping up his fat belly. He turned an insolent gaze on me and said, ‘Technician Walters, I presume. The boss is waiting for you in the peristyle.’

Peristyle, eh? A difficult word for a fat bully-boy. I said, ‘Yes, it’s me; which way?’

‘Follow me, mister,’ he grunted, and shambled off, beckoning me to follow.

It turned out that the peristyle was a cloistered garden with plants in pots standing on its gravelled surface, which was reached through a little courtyard. In the middle, like a fat spider, sat Buonaventura on a white plastic chair, blinking in the strong spring sunlight. He was a plump, jowly middle-aged man, and I recognised him from the video chat I’d had with him. He waved the guard away and gestured for me to sit on a second plastic chair.

‘Ah, Walters,’ he said, ‘there is something I need to talk to you about.’

‘Yes, sir, what might be the matter?’ I said in phoney surprise and deference.

‘What’s all this I hear about android-tampering?’ he said, peering at me.

This man is fishing for information, and I’m going to give him as little as I can. But maybe he has some cards to play.

‘Tampering, sir?’ I answered, ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean.’

‘Yes tampering,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Bloody tampering— that android you won came back for servicing with clear signs of tampering.’

‘Signs sir? What signs?’

‘Don’t act the innocent with me, Walters; you have been accessing her brain bay.’

‘Ah! Oh, just curious about how she was built. I’m a technician you know.’ It seemed safer than a flat denial.

‘You are familiar with The Code, I take it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you’re no doubt aware that there are severe penalties for breaking it. SEVERE PENALTIES.’ He was wearing jogging pants with slippers and no socks. Quietly and nastily he said, ‘Well you can’t have her back until the current investigation is completed. And if you have been found doing anything untoward, God help you. Do I make myself clear?’ He seemed to be winding down. They didn’t appear to have any hard evidence. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose our star programmer now, would we?’ The threat.

‘I assure you, sir…’

‘Now get out,’ he hissed. I got up and walked out, trying to look cocky but feeling shaky.

The warden raised an eyebrow and gave a sneery half smile. Back in the street, I was feeling a lot safer—and angry. At least he had not said anything about the medical centre, so I supposed they didn’t know about our little caper.

When I got back to my module, there were no messages, no calls and no Anna. There were also no assignments. Nothing. This continued for a few days until I started to feel desperate. In the end, I went to the office and found that my access privileges had been revoked “pending the results of the current investigation”. When I got back, there was a secure message informing me that a consignment was waiting for me “in the usual place”. This was either the brain that I had ordered or a trap. So, what to do? I decided to take a chance and go get it, taking Anna’s new brain and the rifle with me to get them beyond Buonaventura’s reach, giving me plausible deniability.

The next day, I set forth for Aigrefoin as if I were going on one of my walks, but this time with the rifle rolled in a bundle, and the brain and ammunition box in my pack. To the warden at the gate, I said, ‘Lovely day, going fishing,’ to explain the bundle, and kept walking. This time my pace was a lot brisker than the first time I went to Aigrefoin: across the field, bright in the rising tide of spring, down past the ruined village and over the Mérantaise bridge, up the other side and across the level land beyond. Soon the farm buildings came into sight, and I was filled with the pleasant anticipation of seeing Monsieur and his household again and warming myself through contact with their rich life. The lane was greener now, lined with flowers and ringing with birdsong. Life in the township was easy, safe and hygienic but totally lacking in savour. For the household at Aigrefoin, there was little safety, life was hard and medical assistance uncertain, yet they seemed to prosper—and they were happy. I remembered something about the Vikings that I had read long ago, written by Crossley-Holland who (had translated Beowulf from the Anglo-Saxon): “Fearlessness is better than a faint heart for any man who puts his nose out of doors. The length of my life and the day of my death were fated long ago.” Thinking about this made me feel better and the heavy rifle and pack, lighter. My long walks had toughened me up and strengthened my spirit; I felt ready for anything to get Anna back and settle Buonaventura’s account.

Before I reached the gate, it swung open, and there was Edward grinning at me in dungarees and Wellington boots.

‘Bonjour Monsieur,’ I quipped, exhausting my French word-hoard.

‘Where’s the doll?’ he asked. ‘Come on in.’

We were soon sitting in the farmhouse parlour with Madame, sipping homemade absinthe. I unburdened my sorry tale to nods of understanding and commiseration, as well as some expostulations by Madame in French that I couldn’t understand. At last, after pondering, Monsieur said, ‘You can’t go back to Deva; they are just playing cat and mouse with you. Maybe I can help a bit. There is an organisation called The Network that opposes these tin pot township dictators. They have a sleeper in Deva that I can put you in contact with. Her name is Meg Lockhart.’

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Of course I knew Meg Lockhart, my loathsome boss. Trying not to show my surprise too much, I answered, ‘Actually, I know her quite well.’

‘It shouldn’t be a problem then; go back to Deva and speak to her. By the way, I know a way to sneak in and out of Deva without being spotted. I can give you the keycode.’

At this, he looked up at Madame for approval, she nodded and he went off to get it. Madame turned to me and gravely said, ‘You did the right thing to come to us, we will help you as best we can. Be brave and do your duty to yourself.’ My heart rose.

When Monsieur got back, he showed me a scrap of paper with lettering on it and told me that there was a postern gate in the wall near the hostel zone. Then he said, ‘You will have to leave the Lee-Enfield and that spare brain here with the new one I have for you, they will be safe in the armoury. Also, let’s make your story about fishing true, in case they catch you. Anyway, having the code means you can get in the gate and sneak out later if you need to.’ At this, Madame gave him an I-should-have-known-it look and he gave her a sheepish grin. He added, ‘We are going fishing this afternoon,’ and led me off to get ready.

After much discussion about what tackle would be needed and fond handling of rods and lines, off we trudged. A path led away from the back of the farm buildings into the woods behind then turned left onto a larger track. ‘This is the way to the Yvette valley,’ he said, ‘a short walk.’ As we walked along he told me about the place. It seemed that these woods were extremely old, having long been coppice, a source of firewood and poles. The trees were all very long, thin, crowded together, and regularly cut when they were only about thirty centimetres in diameter. The result was that they re-sprouted from the stumps, some of which were centuries old. The trees were oak, sweet chestnut, ash and occasionally holly. The forest floor was covered with rustling leaves and the remains of old acorns and chestnut hulls. There were patches of brambles and what looked like grass but were actually bluebells hurrying to come into leaf and later carpet the woods with their blue flowers before the trees overshadowed them. He told me that there was slough nearby where the wild boar came to wallow and that the woods were now teaming with game: a hunter’s paradise. The track ran straight for a while then ran down a slope in switchbacks. At the foot of the slope, we were passing ruined houses and soon reached a road that showed some signs of use. We crossed it and reached a stone bridge. Here we paused and leant over the parapet to see the stream rushing by between stout willow trees, now showing green. Beyond the bridge we turned left along the bank, pushing our way through the thick, dank vegetation. He handed me a rod and told me to just put a worm on the hook and let it trail through the water, and if a fish seemed to bite, to give a smart tug then pull it in quick. Easier said than done! ‘I’ll try my luck a little further on. Walk softly and don’t frighten the fish.’ My rod was light and easy to handle. There was a tiny bubble float on the line and a hook below baited with a small red worm. It was clearly all too easy to get tangled up in the branches, but I tried to be careful. I let the float run into the calmer eddies near the opposite bank, and when I was about to give up in frustration, the float bobbed then disappeared. I gave a smart tug and felt a wriggling resistance: a fish! I had trouble landing it, but in the end I managed to drag it onto the bank—a speckled trout flapping on the grass. I grasped it and unhooked it. I felt absurdly proud of myself and put it in the basket. That was the only one I caught, but I’d just missed a few others. Later I heard Monsieur crashing through the undergrowth back to me. ‘Any luck, James?’ I showed him my catch with hypocritical humility. ‘Well done! I’ve bagged three. We don’t have much time; we’d better be getting back,’ he said regretfully.

Despite herself, Madame was pleased to see the fish we’d caught. We agreed that I should take the one I had caught back to Deva in the rifle wrapping and, more to the point, should eat the other three immediately. Fresh trout with sauté potatoes in a French farmhouse: a memorable meal! Later, feeling fortified, I headed back to Deva without the rifle and brain but with fishing rods, a fresh fish and the keycode snug in my brain.

The warden at the gate wanted me to show him what I was carrying, so I artlessly displayed my bundles. This set him off with fishing tales, explaining that I was doing it all wrong and in the wrong place. ‘There are big carp in Deva Ponds, pike too, and it’s much nearer than the Yvette.’ I finally left him, chuckling to myself, and put the trout in the freezer for another day.