The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Infinity Device

Chapter Five

Annika:

Oh man, he was asking about Anna. I had to lie for her sake. I was already feeling sick, having Rita dragged into all this. Things were going to get really bad really fast if he realized Anastasia was here. Well, worse than they already were. Where was she anyway? Surely she heard all this nonsense.

“Annika,” Rogers said impatiently, “is Anastasia Petroff home?”

Things must be serious if he was using her last name, I thought dully. I should lie. But the thought of lying—so blatantly!—made me blush furiously. I shouldn’t lie! “Annika, you have to lie!” another part of me said exasperatedly, and I knew that was true, kind of, but all the conflicting voices made me feel like a rabbit in Watership Down, gone tharn.

“Ummm…” was all I said. Was that my attempt at lying? Boy, I wasn’t very good at this anymore. I stared at my feet miserably. I just hated lying. I looked at the heels strapped on my feet morosely, and lifted my toes helplessly. I was sure Roger could read me like a book from six thousand yards.

Rogers gave a kindly smile. “Good girl,” he said, and I blushed even sharper. I hunched my shoulders in shame and I could feel my bosom jiggle and I felt gross again.

I guess I was… glad that I didn’t have to lie to him? I knew that would’ve sounded weird to me just a few minutes ago, but I guess I’m no longer the same girl I was. And anyway, maybe some changes weren’t all that bad?—I mean, lying? Swearing? Oof. Bad stuff, really.

A part of me immediately protest. Those thoughts are such fucking bullsh— but I pushed them aside. I could think about this later. Right now, I had to pay attention in case anything useful was about to happen. I had to focus because I was already fading out fast. Having reality change really takes it out on you, I thought sardonically. Boy, does it. And then I had a little second wind as my mantra came back to me. I will win, I will win, it went, in the end. I watched Rogers stalk down the hall to look for Anastasia.

Poor Anastasia. And to think I used to call her Sarah of all things. How prosaic. Back in that reality, we had met in a Freshman GenEd class, almost ten years ago—something bogusly boring about Landlocked Perspectives in Mythology, and we had bonded over the strange specificity of the class. Ugh, damsels and murderers, we said to each other, laughing at the rapine stories and hairy warriors and strange religions. And while working on a group project, we found that we liked the same shows—the same actors—read the same books—and then eight years later, we ended up rooming together, neither of us managing to have escaped our city.

Of course, in this reality, or—I guess, reality in general—I met Anna while apartment hunting over Craigslist. And she was, like, way older than me? And as a freshman I had no business contacting a grad student. “You’re not an axe murderer, are you?” I wrote her, “because your place looks great and I kinda want to live there.”

You’re a ballerina?!!” she had written back, “omg, that’s so coool! I did a statistical study on them once, kinetic forces…” displaying her consistently weird hodgepodge of ditziness and research-babe. I adored her for it. She was a dynamo, probably the most empowered woman in the state, always bringing back these younger guys.

However, as Rogers went down the hall, I saw Elmo watch him go carefully. Then he turned around with this cartoonishly transparent look of fear and guilt. Uh-oh. Was he about to do something really horrible? Great. You know you’re in trouble when you start thinking of Rogers as supervision.

The gold light was still shining on Rita, and he looked her over and started fidgeting nervously. Maybe I could distract him.

“Um… How are you doing, Elmo?” I croaked out. Why was my voice so weak?

“I’m good!” he said nervously, looking around the room like a kid about to stick his head into the cookie jar. And then he blurted out to Rita: “Uncle Rogers has to go the bathroom!”

“He… oh, no…” Rita said through her teeth, worried, “he has go… bathroom…” One of her hands had grasped her hair in frustration.

And he can’t hear us until he’s done,” Elmo said fearfully.

He… can’t… hear us…”

“Until he’s done!”

“Until… he’s… … … ah … … … d-done…”

We all held our breath as we listened down the hall. For a second, I thought nothing had happen, that he’d come back with Anna under his arms, and he’d give Elmo a dressing down. But then we heard the door down the hall pointedly close. This could be bad… I thought.

“Uh…” Elmo said, scrambling. Had he not thought this through? His eyes darted back and forth.

“You have a, a — a magic power!” he said excitedly.

Magic power? I thought.

“Magic power?” Rita said out loud, with astronomical confusion.

“Yes!” Elmo said, looking behind him nervously. “Your, uh, touch—it makes people… It makes them…”

Rita’s face scrunched. Her eyes were scrunched shut behind her glasses. “Elmo…” I said cautiously.

“It makes them lose inhibitions!” he said happily.

“My… m-m-my touch makes…” she started shaking violently and the machine did too. It clattered horrendously, shaking on the floor like a rampaging iPhone, complaining in a distinctly industrial way. Elmo looked at the device, terrified. Evidently, this was something way past the line of what he was supposed to be doing. Was the machine about to explode? Go ahead and bring the house down, I thought wickedly.

“Your touch makes people lose inhibitions!” he said urgently, doubling down, and Rita started convulsing, shaking visibly, and the machine clackered dangerously. There was a flush in the bathroom. Rogers would be washing his hands now…

“M-m-m-my t-t-t-ouch… mmmaakes people lose in-in-inhibitions…” she said, teeth chattering. And then there was a snap, and she shot straight up in shock and gave a tremendous shiver and then sighed. She rubbed herself as if she was cold. Had it worked? I clutched my necklace in awe. I mean, did the laws of the world just change? Magic powers?

The machine stopped clacking and instead started a high pitch whine, like it was venting something, and the noise declined slowly. Elmo danced around in it fear and concern, and reached out to touch it and yelped. It was hot.

“My brother Barkleton told me inhibitions are what keep people from achieving their dreams,” Elmo whispered to me, shaking his hand painfully.

We heard the bathroom door open, and Rogers came striding back down the hall. He looked angry. He scowled at Elmo — did he understand what had happened? — would he take control again? But then he scowled at me. “Where is Anastasia,” he asked, his eyes angry. I panicked. Was she not in her room? Where else would she be?

“I don’t know!” I squeaked honestly, and for a second I thought Rogers looked worried. Oh man, I thought. What if Anastasia had snuck out? Called the cops? Found some way to resist?

And then, for the second time that night, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Gosh, it was like a clown car out there or something. Who was it this time? Maybe another chick, I thought to myself, dryly. Come join the budding harem.

Everyone was silent as the knob turned and the door opened.—It was Anastasia.

I was so confused. What was she doing out there? She had just come in, like, an hour ago. My head hurt—had reality changed? Or—and this was so ludicrous, I could hardly contemplate it—had she gone out the window of her room and come back around? She was standing there in her shorts and top, and she had a large black purse with garish straps hanging off of it that I had never seen her carry before. What on earth… — and suddenly a lightbulb went off. “Maybe she did sneak out!” I thought incredulously, “and had stolen something from his car and put it in her purse…” But then why did she come back inside? My head throbbed.

Rogers cooly adjusted the beam. It rotated off of Rita, who fell into a chair, and the light fell on Anastasia, who blanched and straightened with the reality beam on her.

“Oh, no!” she squeaked, “Professor Rogers! I didn’t know you’d be in so soon!” Was she acting? I thought it was unconvincing. I watched her drop the purse a little off to the side, and with a guilty push of her foot, shove it further into the corner.

Oof, Anna. What was in there?

“That’s quite alright, dear,” Rogers said with evident relief. “But we’re all very happy that you’re finally here.”

I looked around the room again for something that could help us. But there was nothing. Just Rita, looking as slender as a totem pole in her new clothes. Briefly, my eyes got caught on the disgusting hint of her camel toe, but then my eyes broke free and I reexamined Anastasia. I still wasn’t used to seeing her like this—thin, and with a veneer of ditziness to her. Not extraordinarily beautiful, but confident, and confidently dressed. And she spoke in this higher register, maybe not a change, per se, just something she naturally put out.

Rogers tapped his chin thoughtfully, contemplating her.

“You’re older, my dear,” he said.

“I’m… older?” she said.

“Yes, older. You’re older.

“I’m older?!” she said with horror. She grabbed her herself, as if she was in pain.

I watched from the sofa in fascination, drained of energy. Her face began altering, changing. It was slight, really, — rearranging itself in small ways that ended up making big differences. And all across her face these small wrinkles broke out, like ripples, especially around her eyes, the initial hints of age.

“You’re thirty-eight years old,” he said.

“I’m… I’m…” she looked like she was about to try to resist, maybe fearsomely so, fight it all, flame like a phoenix. But then, instead she lowered her eyes, ashamed. “I’m thirty-eight years old,” she said submissively. Her expression became more mature, the microexpressions were calmer, and her body expanded a little, adding a few extra pounds. “I’m thirty-eight years old,” she whispered, unnecessarily. Her hair was cut shorter now, just to shoulder, and she brushed it back.

“You’ve always been born in 1979,” he said.

“I’ve… I’ve…” she said, stuttering, “I’ve… al…always been born in 1979.” Her eyes soared with amazement as she spoke, and her face readjusted even more. It lost all its youthful orientation, things settled, became more mature, stable. I could imagine how everything in her head was rearrange as well, all her experiences. Were like, fifteen years of experiences just created?

But it wasn’t just her. My own head starting throbbing too. My memories—they were sliding around like Tetris blocks. We weren’t attending school at the same time, Anastasia and I, were we? No… I don’t think we—… My mind blanked for a moment — Then it came to me. She’s always been born in 1979. I remembered that she was a working professional, she worked at a lab that was distantly associated with the university and some German engineering firm, she was mid-career. Right? No… that’s….

“You act like you’re thirty-eight,”

“I… I… act like I’m thirty-eight…” she said. Then she got confused. “But I am thirty-eight, aren’t I?” she said, unsure.

“Yes, Anastasia,” Rogers said soothingly. “There Elmo, see how fast she responds? Priming works wonders.”

“Neat!” he said. He still looked nervous from his off-the-books experimentation. He picked up his Switch again and turned it on. Rita and a magic touch? Did Rogers know? Should I say something? Rita was watching from a cushy chair, enervated. She was expressionless.

I looked back at Ms. Petroff—no, I mean Anastasia!—and saw her style had changed. A new outfit had winked in in a way I hadn’t noticed, in some sneaky reality warp. Gone was her youthful outfit, with thin, brand-name clothes that emphasized her build, her carefully voluminous hair—now she was wearing a trim light dress, a respectable light red, something light and synthetic, something you could walk around in, and she looked elegant and mature in it, like an established woman. Anastasia just stood there, dumbfounded by everything.

And then Ms. Pe…—Anastasia looked down at herself in wonder. She swished her dress lightly, rocking side to side, testing herself out, and then put her hands unsteadily to her hair, which was cut differently again and pinned up. She had always been a kind of rock in my life, for as long as I lived in her home. While I was always kind of flighty, she had had this life experience and…

“You’re very confident,” Rogers told her.

“Confident…?”

“Yes, you’ve very confident, aren’t you?”

“Ooh, yes… I’ve always been… very confident…” she said, and now she was wearing an unusual sash tied off to one side of her hip, hanging, looking very bold.

Extremely confident,”

“Yes,” she said, happily, “extremely confident.”

“You’ve always been confident.”

“I’ve… I’ve always been confident.”

And I remembered that too. When I first knocked on her door she answered it in a towel, waving me in in a way that was impossible to resist and made me feel welcome and comfortable and small. And the way she handled her phone calls, my gosh, listening in amazement from my room… it was like she was married to the president. “Gosh, Ms. Petroff, How do you do it?” and she just laughed at me.

“Looking good is very important to you,” Rogers told her sternly.

“What?” Ms. Petroff said, evidently a little unsure of something. That was unlike her. On the other hand, she had always been an ardent feminist, only recently a little confused by the latest wave, the gender stuff and pronouns. She had always dressed well, of course, but more in the sort of way that some people naturally kept their house clean as a part of personality. “Looking good… is… is very important to me…?”

“Yes. Looking good is very important to you.”

“Looking good is very important to me,” she said, agreeing, straightening. She gave a funny little sigh.

“You think being attractive is a very, very important quality in women.”

Her face scrunched, like that wasn’t quite right. She didn’t even respond to it, and Rogers had to repeat himself, smiling.

“You think being sexy is a very, very important quality in women.”

“Being… sexy…” she said with reluctance, “is a very, very important quality in women.”

“Very, very important.”

“Very…. ve… uuh, oh—… v-very… important…” The machine was clacking loudly.

“You think it’s a measure of their worth.”

“It’s a… ooah.” Ms. Petroff shivered. I noticed her dress was different now—it was a little less elegant, and a little more sensual, with the hem a little shorter, ending just above her knees. The neckline was deeper, and the whole thing was now black, a confident, stare-at-me dress. Her face was perfectly made-up too, with classy eyeliner and a blemishless face. Her hair was still worn up, but a little more roguishly, with a hint of wildness to it. She looked elegant and sexy and mature.

“It’s a measure of their worth.”

Shivers “It’s a measure of their worth.”

“It’s a measure of your worth.”

Her bottom quivered. “It’s a… measure of… of my worth.”

Now her dress didn’t have sleeves either, and it ended only a quarter of the way down her thighs. And—maddening, in a teasing way that was so confident it almost made my jaw drop—was a zipper that ran up and tightened her bosom, heaving her breasts together, and they rose up and down and she panted a little. Ms. Petrova placed a hand uncertainly on her temple.

Ms. Petrova?—I thought, confused for a minute. Then I remembered: she had changed it, changed it when she graduated from high school. I remembered her telling me dimly, red lips smiling, crows feet pulling in, that she liked the original, feminine form more.

I stared at her zipper. It was so blatant that even I felt like pulling on it, freeing the top of the dress, pulling it down to her waist, and then staring at her, like you were pulling a sheet off a marble statue.

Rogers looked her over appreciatively, like she was a work of art, and Ms. Petrova—who was standing there a little discombobulated, smiled reflexively. Her hand toyed with the hem of her dress in distress.

“You have a cute nose,” he said, almost offhandedly.

“Oh. Oh. … I have a cute nose,” she said. I could watch it — these changes were subtle, hard to catch, maybe not occurring through time in any normal sense of the thing — but her schnozz was shrinking and reforming, smaller, and then it turned up slightly, perfectly formed for her face. It was… gosh, cute. The only way to describe it.

I remembered housing with her. She was so confident and vain, in a beguiling, disarming way, maybe like living with an arrogant concert violinist, and smart, worked in science. But confusing, too — one of the reasons she had choose to let me room in her apartment over the other applicants—something she had told me herself, face to face—was that I was so pretty. She said it so matter of factly—“You’re attractive, and in deeper ways than the other girls” and at the time it had made me tingle, to be spoken of so bluntly, like an object—“and ballerinas are so alluring, and you’re a—how can I put it?—a sensual ballerina, like that’s what you are, at your core, I think.” And she smiled and put her hand conspiratorially on my arm and leaned in close and smiled at me with her eyes and mouth, I could smell her perfume, and the realization at that moment, of that objectification, made me feel wolfish, predatory, part of some club. I was attractive. Sensual.

Oof. What a repulsive exchange it seemed to me know. Shallow like the moon, and she was dangerously vain, delusional, almost. I clutched my head. My mind throbbed dangerously.

And then Rogers turned and looked at me and he had a funny gleam in his eye. Man, he must really be getting off on all this. And all this talk about a science experiment. Such baloney! I thought to myself bitterly. I knew this wasn’t how experiments were run.

But he kept looking at me and I had this sinking sensation that I knew what he was going to do. He turned to Petrova.

“Anastasia, you’re Annika’s mother.”

My head sheared with pain. I clutched my hands to my temples, they were beating terribly, like my brain was a drum and on fire. Oooah… I saw Anastasia give me a surprised look. The machine clattered.

Nononono, I thought. I have a mother!

“I’m… Annika’s mother?” Anastasia said with surprise. RESIST! I felt like yelling at her.

“Annika’s your daughter,” Rogers said, massaging his crotch.

“Annika’s… my daughter?” Anya said. No, I’m not, I wanted to tell her. I have a mother, her name’s… and then I stopped. I had almost said Anastasia Petrova.

The machine was whining again. Straining with wickedness.

“Annika’s your daughter,” Rogers said again patiently.

“Annika’s… my… … daughter?”

I tried to keep in mind my memories of my parents. I held on to them, kept them in my mental light, like I was memorizing a phone number or something. But I had this splitting duality in my head. I remember my mom, my real mother, Rachel Draper—I had event kept her last name, for God’s sake, I was always so proud of that—and she would bake us brownies and take us to the beach—drive me to ballet recitals—and a memory, of her dropping me off to college, really just down the road to my dorm, the tears and hugs and heartfelt advice.

But, then, overlaid on those memories, it was like Anastasia had been there too—I remember her baking us brownies, taking us to trips to the beach, her in her sunglasses and bikini top — memories of me hugging her when I had lost a theater contest in middle school, my hands around her waist, sobbing—I was so small—and mom—no, Anastasia—patting me gently on the back of my head—and later braiding my hair before school, waiting on the bench across the way, cross-legged, and she so young, maybe even my age, before this nonsense all started, or even younger, and all the guys staring at her, thinking she was my sister or something, and she humming a song…

But she wasn’t my mom. She was my roommate! I clutched my necklace…. “God, if you’re there…” I thought…

“Annika only remembers you as her mother,” Rogers said.

I paled. Oh no. C’mon, Anastasia, resist it. I squeezed my head between my hands, the chain of the necklace dangling out of my fist like a telephone wire.

“Annika… only…” Anastasia said tentatively, looking like she wanted to say it, but resisting. I had a flash of pride at her. Mom always did love me. NO WAIT.

“Annika only remembers you as her mother,” Rogers said again, with lasciviousness.

“Annika…” she said, staring at me with confusion, “she only remembers me as her mother.” She put her hands on her stomach, and looked at me. She looked so mature and stable, certainly when compared to me, tiny little me, and I felt comforted she was here. She was the adult in the room.

No… I flailed around my mind for my other mother. My real mother, I told myself. I had a flash of her face—her smiling eyes, her love—the birthmark on her cheek …

“Everyone only remembers you as her mother.”

“Everyone only remembers me as her mother,” my mom said with relief, giving in. The machine whined and made a low winding-down noise, mission accomplished. My mind felt like it was thundering. Mom, you just sold out my other mom, I thought reproachfully. I raced through my memories. If I had another mother—and I must have!—I couldn’t conjure up any other memory. Not one.

It was all gone. This was reality now. The device had changed everything, somehow, impossibly. The woman in front of me was my mother—had always been my mother. Hadn’t she? Would I want to give her up now if given the chance? God, of course not. Of course I wouldn’t want to give up my mother. (Existential horror, another part of me said glumly, kicking a stone.)

I went through my memories, as familiar and comfortable as my ballet slippers. Her radiantly hanging on the arm of my father—so young, when I was young, but also powerful, a scientist, my father old and hairy, but so happy around her. A had a memory of her straddling my father as I watched unobserved from the kitchen, her laughing and tossing back her hair and kissing him — and my father older and loving and well-established, incongruously with her, so beautiful and vivacious, such youth.

Grandma still looked askance at the marriage, even today. But mom had driven me to school, she had for years, had given me baths as a kid, cared for my siblings, introduced me to ballet.

“Gah.” I said. Mom looked at me in concern, but I could tell she her head throbbed with too.

“Whoa!” Elmo said, impressed, playing on his Switch.

“Yes,” Rogers said, amused. “Annika, what’s your name?”

It’s Annika, I thought, Annika… and my eyes flew open. Annika… Petrova? I had kept my mother’s name, just like my sister. But why was it so strange? Had my name been different before? Oh, no, it had, hadn’t it? I searched for another name futilely. I couldn’t find it. I was Annika Petrova.

Mom brushed her hair out of her eyes wearily. She’s so beautiful, I thought again stupidly, for the umpteenth time. I always admired her for it. Wanted to emulate her, and tried too—until I became so prudish all of a sudden.

In fatigue, and my vision dimming, my head slumped to the side. But then my eyes widened at my ponytail, and I had this brief flash of alarm — it wasn’t dark brown anymore—it was lighter, blonder—oh, god, did that mean my genes had changed too? What did I look like now? Anastasia genes spliced in… But of course, why not, my mother… but I must be so different now… My hair had been dark brown before, I was sure of it…

My head was splitting so terribly. What a horrible situation to be caught up in with your mother. I looked groggily at the purse in the corner that she had brought in with her—I hope there’s something useful in there—and as I saw mom lose consciousness on the sofa, and I felt myself go out too into blackness.

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