The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kicking my feet back on the desk in my darkened office, I considered my position.

I was one skylight over from where I was supposed to be and now I was in a world of shit. I never would’ve figured that investigating compufraud would’ve put me on a case of deep sex hijacking. Not in a million years.

Ever since my CAT had been sexually hijacked by a really mean protocol, I had been very careful not to take any cases that could put me on my back again.

I have vague memories of complete and total pleasure, bliss incarnate—and the memories of licking assholes, roughly nibbling on the undersides of scrotums, my elbow nested between two firm asscheeks, hand massaging intestinal tracks, and far, far worse.

Pounded by a client every hour on the hour like an amusement park ride fourteen hours a day, six days a week.

The seventh day spent in refurb, reconstructing the damage to my sex, making scars that kept my body going and then erasing those scars with smooth SecondSkin.

Gotta keep up appearances, keep the ride going smoothly.

I was hijacked for only about six weeks before they found me and relinked my CAT’s protocols. And they never busted a single person. Not one. Not even a lead.

So much for the idea that the CATs would provide a safer world for everyone because the CAT Investigative Units could literally freeze any person and override them to stop crime.

That’s when I decided that being a CAT Investigative Unit officer was just fine, but the bureaucracy isn’t so great when you’re suddenly on the other side of the desk, not wanting to wear your uniform and blissfully fucking animals like an animal.

I was sure that the CAT IUs would get me hijacked again—so I quit and went into business on my own.

After all, if I wanted to be Meat I could get a legitimate license for that, get the CAT protocol overlay, and spend my days and nights as a fucktoy. A lot of people did it—and liked it. Not that they’d have a choice once the new protocols were in.

One prayed the owners held up to their end of the contract and let you out at the end of your Meatrun.

So the thinking went, I could choose jobs without any hijacking risk—like the compufraud scheme where marks were sized up by CAT hackers and through CAT reprotocoling made to divulge sensitive information. Why I’d been on the roof of that damn building at the Wrong Time.

But I wanted to save Susan—not that I could’ve saved her, anyway.

The entry chime went off and I unholstered my Neuron as I remotely opened the door.

So much for introspection.

A dark shadow became a girl—followed by a tall, greying man.

The girl was Susan—that was her name, anyway. I didn’t know the old man—but he was attractive in a moneyed, jaded way. Deep eyes in deep sockets, ravaged by some perverted excess, I imagined.

“Hello, Hommard.” Susan said—chipper, smiling.

Her black shiny bodysuit was skintight, accentuating her high breasts and the abnormal curves at her pubic area that could be mistaken for kinky panties if you didn’t know that the curves were an I-toy.

“Yes, hello Hommard,” the man said, stepping in behind Susan. He was not smiling.

I held my Neuron at the ready.

“I know Susan,” I said, nodding at the girl, “so who the fuck are you?”

“Now now, Hommard,” the old man said, “no need to be rude.”

“I’m not Meat, prick.” I said.

“No,” he chuckled, “no you’re not.”

“Sit down,” I said. Time to turn on the sweetness.

He sat—she stood—and we stared at each other for a while, while Susan stared blankly ahead. I detected a faint movement at her crotch and a few tiny shudders of her body under the suit’s skin. The I-toy, working away.

“I have a business proposition for you,” the old man said.

“Really? Do you have a name?” I said, smiling.

“You can call me Dross. Just. . . . Dross.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, what it is?”

Dross turned to Susan and quietly said, “Reward.” Susan shuddered, her eyes rolling up for a moment, and then sighed, suppressing what seemed to be a giggle.

“That’s fucking wretched,” I said.

Dross smiled and rubbed his hand on his knee. “I know, Hommard. I know. But, you have to maintain them.” He smiled.

“But, to business,” he said, sitting forward in his seat a bit.

I wanted to put an old-style slug into his grey matter—I imagined a puff, a hole the size of a pencil in the middle of his forehead and a shattered skull caved out of the back of his head.

“You see, Hommard, you know about the I-toy, or Integration Tool Y, properly. That’s why I’m here.”

I flippantly snapped: “I figured that. Why not kill me—better—why not have the girls brutalize me with your filthy fucking machine?”

I matched Susan’s smile and sweetly said, “My name’s Cyn—I forgot my last name—want me to suck your cock? Or lick your balls? I live to pleasure you.”

Dross visibly winced.

“Well,” I said, ”why buy me off?”

Dross sharply looked at me and said, “I’m not here to buy you off, Hommard. I want you to do a little job for me.”

“Really?” I paused, and just before Dross could speak I said: “Fuck you.”

“This will interest you, Hommard,” Dross said heavily.

“I have the ‘prints for the I-toy.” I said.

“I know,” Dross replied.

“I’ve forwarded them to a close associate—and several others.” I said.

“I know that, too.” Dross replied, again, a bit strained.

Without turning to Susan, Dross said, “Reward—hard.” Susan violently shuddered, her eyes turning almost opaque, and then moaned loudly and long. Her body spasmed with ecstasy, her back arching, her nipples suddenly erect beneath her bodysuit, her hands roving down to where the I-toy pulsed beneath the fabric.

“Fucking stop that,” I said.

“I can’t,” Dross said, suddenly standing, pained. “You see,” Dross said, undoing his snap, pulling down his zipper, holding his pants down, “there’s an I-toy for men, too.”

His cock was obscenely meshed with wiring and bands, glistening, fully erect—and suddenly a hard nine inches long. Back around his shaft, intricate patterns swirled to reach down and around his tightly hanging scrotum, lines of what looked to be embedded tubing running through the sac. Everything pulsed a bit, like skin with a life of its own.

“My God,” I said, seeing his member continue to grow—it must have been a full eleven inches long now.

“It’s shocking . . . isn’t it? But it feels like heaven.” Dross said, no longer smiling, his hand moving to his cock, stroking it right in front of my desk, his eyes bright, a smile forming on his lips.

“Will you suck it, Hommard? It needs to be sucked.” He said, pulling a Datasocket from his lowered pants pocket and dropping it onto the front of my desk before his hand moved to his engorged balls.

“Sucked,” he said, ”right now.”

In another moment, Dross had fallen back into the chair and doubled over—more than I thought was possible. His lips were parted and he was licking the tip of his cock feverishly—enjoying it, moaning, his tongue rolling around the swelling, purplish head. It needed to be sucked, alright.

In the few seconds I had been watching Dross, Susan had shed her bodysuit, pushing it to the floor. Her I-toy was slowly pumping her lower body, her breasts were firm, naked, nipples hard—she was stepping forward.

I pulled the trigger on my Neuron and nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

I was up and over my desk, pushing Susan to the floor and palming the Datasocket, before she could turn fully around.

As I ran down the hallway, I turned to see Susan’s hand on the doorframe of my office, her smiling face preceding her naked body as she stepped out into the hallway behind me, one hand caressing the I-toy, fingering it, dipping several fingers up and into her body around the modifications it had made.

“Don’t go, Hommard.” She said sweetly, sincerely, as the elevator doors closed.

The Datasocket was cool in my palm as I crossed the street, desperately wanting to look over my shoulder.