The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Stephanie Brooks jerked awake from her post at her cabin window with a start. She’d fallen asleep, binoculars still clutched loosely in her hands, forehead planted against the edge of the glass. Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she mused idly to herself that the chip in her brain directed her motivations and controlled her thoughts, but even it couldn’t override her body’s all too human limitations. She’d had a very rough few days, making her way across the country, avoiding a mobilized manhunt for her, all the while tracking her target, trying to pin down Jimmy Frasier’s location. Her Master’s command was absolute; she would do whatever it took to complete her mission no matter what it cost her, or die trying.

On the plus side, she was actually surprised to find out what she was truly capable of. True, she was a fully trained FBI special agent, She had gone through the boot-camp program at Quantico. She had risen through the ranks, just like every other agent. But now she was, admittedly, nothing more than a glorified desk jockey. She worked as an information analyst, sitting in a room, listening to recordings and images on a computer screen, trying to discern the threat level of a specific conversation, or pick out the identity of this or that terrorist from grainy badly taken photograph.

Now, however, she had used every scrap of training and ingenuity she possessed to carry out her orders, first in securing and retrieving the micro-nukes from a heavily armed military convey, then in managing to escape the dragnet that fell around the operation due to the Frasier’s interference. Since then, she’d used skills she hadn’t even realized she had in order to stay one step ahead of the same colleagues and coworkers she’d trained and worked with for years. Colleagues who even now sought her capture. Further, she’d managed to track young James down to Provo, to the very resort cabin across from her own. It was, unfortunately, as far as she’d managed to track him, hence her staking out his room. She’d missed him earlier, apparently arriving in just after he’d left for the day, and after several long boring hours of waiting, she had—the thought shamed her now—fallen asleep at her post. However, it was with a sense of satisfaction that she noted the lights coming from Frasier’s cabin windows now. Her quarry had finally returned.

Finally! I have him, she thought to herself. The only question is...what do I do now? A simple yet complex conundrum. Her orders were crystal clear—Jimmy Frasier was to die at her hands to avenge the insult dealt against her Owner. That, in and of itself, was the issue, however. The boy was a Super, and a powerful one to boot. She’d tried with poison already, and it had failed. And she knew better than to try with something like a simple handgun or a knife—better equipped people than her had tried that approach and failed. And since she hadn’t bothered to pack a bazooka in her purse before fleeing DC, she needed to tread carefully in whatever attempt she made. Her biggest advantage at the moment was that her quarry didn’t know she was stalking him. Once she revealed herself, she would have one and only one shot. It would be him or it would be her.

This will require careful planning, she thought furiously, staring out at her target’s cabin through her binoculars. He’s strong, and tough, but he’s not invincible, she mused. And with his luck, I really only need to leave a few knives out in the open, and he’s more than likely to fall and impale himself anyway! She scowled, focusing her view, scanning the area as she caught sight of him by the window, peering down at something. There has to be a weakness...something I can use, something I can exploit. And then she blinked in surprise as she focused her gaze on what Jimmy had been staring down at.

Or rather, whom he’d been starting at.

A slow evil smile creased her lips, her chip-directed mind filling with all sorts of possibilities. Oh yes, she thought to herself as she carefully withdrew from the window to begin making plans. I can definitely do something with this.

“Can I touch it?”

“Hmm?” I murmured, rousing a bit from my contented haze to glance down at Devon. She looked up at me, nestled gently in the curve of my side, spooned against me.

“I asked if I could touch it?”

I chuckled softly, nuzzling against her naked form. “I’m pretty sure we’ve touched pretty much every spot on each other a few dozen times by now.”

She giggled in response. “No, silly! I meant that dark tendril stuff you create. Your...ah...shadows. Can I touch it? It won’t...um...hurt me or anything, will it?”

I gestured with my free hand, forming a small ball of inky darkness, sending it hovering in the air above Devon. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not sure exactly what it will feel like, though...if it even has a physical sensation at all. It’s not exactly a shadow...but it’s not exactly solid, either.” I wasn’t actually sure what it felt like. For me, it was basically like an extension of myself, my energy released in a solid form outside my body. When I touched it, it simply merged back into me. Aunt Sarah, Aurora, and Sylvia’s sparks worked on them, could be used to affect themselves as well as anyone else, and mom and Katie’s energy worked pretty much the same, able to spark the user into a stupor just as easily as anyone else. My shadows, however, didn’t work that way. They didn’t impart any special energy to anyone it came into contact with—just the opposite, it drained their energy, feeding it into me. And I couldn’t exactly drain my own energy away into myself.

I really needed to stop comparing myself to the others in my extended family before I gave myself an inferiority complex.

“Ooohhhh!” Devon said, plunging a finger through the dark swirling ball of energy. “It feels tingly...and kind of cold. Not unbearably so, but cooler than the temperature of the room.”

I nodded. “I guess that’s to be expected. It’s a kind of negative energy after all, a kind of ‘anti-energy’. I guess it stands to reason it would be cold instead of warm.” I gestured with my hand, and the shadow ball flew back to me, absorbing back into me once more. I sighed softly, holding my girlfriend, gently stroking her sides. After a moment, a thought occurred to me. “Oh! I almost forgot. You never answered my question earlier. What kind of powers do you have?”

“Hmmm?” Devon asked, sitting up this time to look at me. “What do you mean? I don’t have any powers. I’m not a Super.”

That caught my attention, and I turned sharply to stare at her. “Wh...are you sure? I mean...I always thought you were a psychic or something. You know? The visions? The dreams?”

Devon mere shrugged. “I always that that was you doing that, Jimmy...that you were somehow drawing me to you. I definitely don’t have any special powers, and aside from sharing your dreams, I have no special gifts or talents whatsoever!” She frowned slightly, peering down at me. “Are you sure you’re not psychic, too? After all, you have that thing with your sister...“

I shook my head, considering, but discounting the notion. “Oh, I’m sure. Believe me, I’m not psychic. I’ve been tested by a couple of real psychics, and I don’t have the gift, not even slightly. And what Katie and I share isn’t really psychic, either. It’ s something completely different, some kind of weird twin connection.” I’d never really given it a lot of thought, but Aunt Eva had taken the time and effort to test us years ago, and confirmed it. That said...what exactly had Devon and I experienced through sharing consciousness through our dreams, then?

Apparently, Devon was considering the same thing. “Are you SURE it’s not you? Maybe it’s just a different aspect of your powers that you haven’t figured out yet. And magic IS unpredictable, after all—”

“Wait!” I protested, “I don’t have magic. My shadows are...” And then I paused, considering, really considering my answer. I’d really tried hard not to think about the ‘magic’ part of my heritage, but it really did to be kind of unavoidable. My uncanny bad luck, and the way my shadow powers worked...before I’d saved Aurora’s life by reigniting her dying spark, I’d have brushed aside the notion that the darkness flowing through me was magical in nature. But, really, what else could I say? It DID act like magic, in a way, doing thing it shouldn’t be able to do if it were merely a negatively charged form of quasi-energy.

More than anything, I wished I could have met Aniela, Aunt Sarah’s old friend Silhouette, the only other ‘shadow entity’ that I knew of. I had so many questions about what my darkness could do, and of all the world, she was probably the best authority of how it worked. Alas, thanks for Quillspawn, another of Sarah’s old acquaintances, she’d spent more than a decade as little more than a living breathing notepad, so overwritten with ink that at last check she was being cared for by the best and most powerful sorceresses of Aunt Sarah’s family. I’d never met her, and it seemed I might never get the chance.

“Magic is unpredictable,” I agreed with a sigh. “Life itself is unpredictable. I never would have predicted all the trouble I’ve had this past week—hell, for the past several months—would end up with me meeting you this way, face to face.” I closed my eyes, simply enjoying the feel of her against me. “I don’t know if our being bound together in our dreams is my doing, or yours, or someone else’s entirely...all I know is that we’re finally together. And I’ve never been happier in my entire life.”

“Me either,” Devon purred softly, laying her head in the center of my chest. “And I don’t just mean the sex, Because, well, the sex was awesome...really, really, REALLY awesome,” she said, her voice dropping low as she blushed hotly in memory, “but it’s more than just that. All this time, I’ve felt...incomplete...as if a part of myself was missing.” She smiled brightly at me, her dark clear eyes shining. “And now, thanks to you, I finally feel like a whole per—”

Flash

Jimmy stood staring back at her, eyes wide, gaping, as she glanced down at the blackened scorch mark in the center of his check. A drop of sweat dripped from his forehead, and his hand, outstretched towards her, trembled slightly. His took a step towards her, unsteady and shaky as the hand he extended. “D-d-devon?” he breathed, his voice so soft she could barely make out the word. And then her hand spasmed, her fingers curling around the trigger of the plasma gun in her hand, as it fired again...

“—son!” she gasped, wide eyed, shaking, feeling hot and cold both at the same time. She groaned, jerking up, leaping out of the bed, the image still so vivid, so bright in her mind’s eye. She was shaking, shuddering like a leaf in a windstorm, and feeling just as dried and withered. Goddess...did I...was that...did I shoot him? Kill him? But...I would NEVER...but it felt so real...so...so...real...

“Devon? Baby?” I asked, concerned, standing up to join her. I placed my arms around her, and she tensed at first before relaxing. “Baby, what’s the matter? You’re shivering! Are you cold? Is something wrong?”

“I...I saw...” she started, shaking her head. She sighed deeply, closing her eyes, trying to regain control of herself. “I thought I saw...I mean, I imagined...it looked like...someone shot you...”

I frowned slightly. “You had a vision? Of the future? Huh...that’s kind of strange. I used to get those all the time growing up, as you know. They’ve been happening a lot less lately...and recently, in the past few weeks, they stopped altogether. And now, you’re getting them?”

Devon frowned. “Um...I don’t know...maybe it wasn’t a vision. Maybe it was just...I don’t know...a delusion of some kind? What I saw...it could never really happen.” She nodded, softly, almost as if reassuring herself. “Yeah. It could never happen.”

“Okay,” said Darryl, “Nigel’s map has us going to the Candlewood neighborhood next. You sure you’re ready to go, Constance?”

Actually she wasn’t sure she was ready to go. This neighborhood, Darcy Grove, had been the worst one yet. Her panties were completely sodden. Part of that was because the index and middle fingers of her right hand were buried in her quim up to the third knuckle. But really the causality flowed the other way. She was masturbating like a horny teenager because of the arousal. And she was experiencing that arousal because of the counting. And she was counting...she was counting because her glorious Master needed her to.

That single thought was what did it. The wonderful sense of focus and resolve that came with serving her beloved Nigel Grimalde pulled her through. My Master needs me to keep my shit together here, she thought with determination, so I shall. I WILL! I AM!

That did it.

With an effort, she stopped thumbing her clit and pulled her fingers out of her snatch. Ugh, what a mess. Damn! This is a billionaire’s limo. You would think that it wouldn’t be so hard to find a fucking Kleenex. Eventually she unrolled a set of silverware and used the napkin to wipe her hands dry and sop up the puddle between her legs. The napkin wasn’t as absorbent as she would have liked, but it did the job. Silk napkins. Who the fuck uses silk to make napkins? Oh...Right...Billionaires.

She still needed to get her head together, but Darryl was ready to help her with that. Usually if she were running an errand with Darryl, she would sit up front with him. The big guy had a million stories from his football glory days, yet he was amazingly humble. A perfect gentleman. He was also good company. But after the first night of running neighborhood counts she’d started sitting in the back. It wasn’t fair to Darryl to make him watch her—and smell her—slipping into this fever of arousal. Darryl was a consummate professional, and a sweet guy to boot, but she knew—seriously, as a telepath she really knew—what a strain she had put on Darryl that first night.

But they’d had to do it. She had to gather the data that her Master needed. So Darryl sat alone in front, and she sat alone in back, and they each did their own separate jobs.

Sighing softly, Constance thought again about how it all started.

Not much surprises a psychic, of course, but her Master really had surprised her two days ago when he called her in to his “Code Red” meeting with Angela. She wasn’t really a leader, or a decision maker, or an expert in strategy and tactics. Technically, she wasn’t an expert at anything, really. But her Master had called her in to an emergency meeting with his VP of R&D. And yes, Angela was her tall, blonde, smokin’—hot harem sister, and Nigel was her oh-so-scrumptious Lord, Master, and fuck-buddy. But both of them were, like, geniuses (“genii”? no, “geniuses”), and she was just...Connie.

Looking into their minds, though, she saw clearly that they weren’t bringing her in as a confidant. Which came as a relief! Even as a psychic she knew she couldn’t keep up with them. No, they had an important job for her. As she opened the door she replayed the last bit of their conversation, still fresh in their minds:

“So that’s the long and the short of it,” said Angela, “What now? Call the Mayor? Alert the media? Bring in the CDC?”

“NO!” Nigel shouted.

Angela is a bit shaken by that, but Connie could see what was going through Nigel’s head. God, what if Eugene’s brother Duncan is the mastermind behind this? I don’t NEED that kind of trouble!

Seeing the worry on his SVP’s face, he softened. “I’m sorry, Angela,” he said, coolly and evenly, “Whoever is behind this is smart...and powerful...and completely in the shadows. If we reveal what we know he could strike at US. And who knows what other weapons this...this madman has in his arsenal.”

“Of course,” said Angela, a bit abashed, “All these years with you and I still haven’t learned to think defensively.”

“You think just fine, Angela,” said Nigel, “And exactly the way I want you to think. You creative people should never have to be afraid. It kills the spark. I’m paranoid enough for both of us. You let me do the worrying.”

Angela smiled. Connie could see what she was thinking, Oh, how I love this man! He really does get me. Who would have imagined that getting mind raped and enslaved would be the best thing that ever happened to me?

“Yes sir,” Angela said, beginning to get a bit moist. Now Constance was getting a bit aroused herself.

“So is there anything at all I can do to help you?” asked Nigel.

“No. Not unless you have a miracle cure in your back pocket,” Angela snarked.

“Don’t rush me, girlie,” he shot back, “You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.”

Constance smiled. Nigel and his movie quotes.

Angela laughed and then suddenly became...pensive. “Actually Nigel, if you can figure out a way to gather data, to track the progress of the disease from the early stages, that might help us identify patterns, maybe even give us the clues we need to trace it back to the source.”

“Oh,” said Nigel, “Now you really are asking for miracles. Didn’t you say that there weren’t any external symptoms in the beginning? No fevers, chills, rashes, pain, swelling, nothing?“

“No”, said Angela sadly, “Just the behavioral changes, at least in the beginning. We know that the virus is present in tissues all around the body, but, at least at the start, it’s only active in the brain.“

“In the brain, you say,” he murmured softly, pausing, thinking. “Wait a minute,” he said at last, “Call me crazy, but doesn’t this sound like the job for—“

“A PSYCHIC!” they finished in unison.

And that’s when Nigel reached for the intercom and called Connie in.

So, there she was, Nigel’s shy little “ace-in-the-hole” psychic secretary, walking into a secret meeting with the two most powerful people in the company.

They had seen the emotions playing across her face as she’d approached. They knew she was already up to speed, and she knew that they knew. And so she didn’t waste any time. After all, they were all professionals here, right?

“So,” Constance has asked, her voice much more calm and confident than she actually felt, “What’s the plan and when do I start?”

That had brought her to her first evening patrol, two nights before. She’d headed out with Darryl at 7:30 pm. They did evenings patrols because, (A) that is when they could rely on most people being in the same place night after night, and (B) Nigel always wanted her at his front desk during the day. And the latter was more than just Nigel’s paranoia; she really had saved him a lot of hassle, and more than one assassination attempt, by being his gatekeeper (“by keeping his gate”? no, the first way was better).

At any rate, Darryl had taken her on her rounds, parking in the center of each major residential neighborhood. She’d cast out her net as far as she could, looking for the infected, the nymphos, the satyrs, the ones that couldn’t stop obsessing about sex, especially the ones who kept thinking “What’s wrong with me? I’m not like this. This isn’t me!“

Then she would gather them all together in her mind, and then take them, ten at a time, and block them out, pushing them out of the net so to speak. Each time she’d done so she’d placed a tally mark in the “10s” row of the clipboard page for that neighborhood. The rows were “10s”, “5s”, “3s”, and “1s”. The columns were “Stage 1”, Stage 2” and “Stage 3”. Nigel and Angela actually didn’t really know that there were separate stages at the outset, but the big brains both somehow agreed that it was a “virtual certainty”.

Truth be told, Constance had been a bit miffed at the tally mark thing... at first, anyway. After all, she knew she wasn’t a genius, like the rest of them, but she wasn’t so dumb that she couldn’t keep count! To her eventual embarrassment, she had even gotten a bit snippy with Nigel and Angela over that little detail.

Boy did she ever end up eating crow over that! After the fourth neighborhood on that first night, she was so very thankful for the tally system. Invading all those superheated horny minds was making her horny. REALLY horny. It was so hard to concentrate. She would never have been able to keep the running count straight without the tally marks system they’d insisted on.

After the ninth neighborhood she wasn’t even tallying in the “10s” row anymore. There was a hot sticky river running between her legs. Sitting next to Darryl, nearly beside herself, she knew she was putting on a show. Flushed, moaning, spreading her legs and rubbing her crotch. Just being so close to her, Daryl was also developing a nice fat wad in his pants, and Constance had wanted it so very much!

Nevertheless, she’d had a job to do. She couldn’t manage to count all the way to 10 anymore, so she’d resorted to pushing 5 out of the net at a time. That made it take longer. Which left her drowning in virus-fueled nymphomania longer. Which, naturally, just made it that much worse. Welcome to the neighborhood, Connie! Won’t you be our very special neighbor? Can you say “vicious cycle,” boys and girls? Oh. I knew that you could.

When Darryl and Constance finally finished that evening, both of them had just barely kept their clothes on and our hands off of each other’s private parts. That had more to do with Darryl than with her, but she knew how close she had pushed him to the breaking point. So, when they finally made it back home she first made absolutely sure that Darryl was going to be okay. And then she went looking for Angela and Nigel. And apologized for doubting them about the tally mark thing...an apology took all night long.

And so there they were on the third night of ‘Operation Sex Census’. She had developed something of a tolerance, but that alone was not enough. The big difference was that Angela and Nigel had helped her develop some coping strategies. For example, after her first report, Angela had told Constance just to count as fast as she could to minimize her exposure. She told Connie that there was no need for an exact count, so if some of her “10” tallies were actually “9s” or “12s” it didn’t matter. THAT helped a lot.

But the biggest help was Nigel’s. That very first night he’d told her—he’d SHOWN her—how proud he was of her. She was already primed and ready from all the psychic exposure, but Nigel took it to a whole other level. She’d been with him for over seven years now, and he’d NEVER made her feel the way he made her feel that night. Constance was his perfect good girl. She’d made him happy, above and beyond the call of duty. She’d served him better than she ever had before. And he’d rewarded her, over, and over...and over. All night long.

Until she’d passed out.

Three times.

Each time he and Angela woke her up, and Nigel had made her body sing again. She’d eventually stopped counting the orgasms somewhere around twelve, when they all started running together. And that was BEFORE the first time she’d passed out.

So now Constance knew precisely what was waiting for her when she got home. She didn’t just want to make her Master proud. No...she NEEDED to make Nigel proud of her. It gave her a steely resolve and a laser focus like nothing else possibly could. She HAD to finish the tallies. She HAD to get them home to Nigel and Angela. And when she did—Oh My God!—Heaven awaited.

It was what kept her going. She couldn’t let herself melt into a puddle of orgasmic goo during the Census. He would be disappointed in her. The thought of his disapproval made her positively ill. No...I can’t let him down. I just can’t!

Darryl snapped her out of her reverie, asking, “So what’s the total, Connie?”

He didn’t really need to know, of course. He was just trying to give her something to think about other than sex. He really was a great guy, and Constance thought, not for the first time, how lucky the girl would be (“would be the girl”? no, the other way) who ultimately snagged him.

She looked at the tally marks. Forty-seven “10s”, a “5”, and a “1”, then in the next column, five “10s” and a “3”.

“Four seventy-six stage ones, fifty-three stage twos,” she replied.

“Wow, biggest one yet!” he said.

“Don’t remind me,” she moaned.

He chuckled and put the car in gear. “Just two more. You can do it.”

He was right. She could do it. They both knew she could. Besides which, she was getting good at this. And the feeling of accomplishment, of competence, of being useful as more than just a overpaid secretary? It felt even better than the sex.

Well, not quite, she thought with a grin. I mean, we ARE talking about Nigel Grimalde here.

And so she and Darryl travelled on into the night, ready to do the next count, ready to do their part.