The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Charles M. Sweets sighed deeply, rubbing his hands together in glee. Before him, a large clear beaker of thick yellowish bubbled away as he carefully, carefully added a single drop of his special formula. Taking a quick step back, he glanced down at the beaker as the contents rolled, churned, and bubbled...and slowly, ever so slowly, the yellowish tinge faded and became a clear milky white.

“Haha! Success! Success!” he cheered loudly, doing a careful jig around the room, careful not to upset his chemicals. “I’ve done it! You old farts thought you could get the best of me, could steal my ideas, my discoveries, and then toss me aside like refuse? Well, think again! Where are you now, eh? Gone... forgotten in the pages of history...and I’m still here, still around...still alive and kicking! And now that I’ve recreated my formula, I’ll show you all by doing what you both failed to do!”

Removing the beaker from the heat, he walked into the back of the large abandoned factory he’d taken as his base of operations. Walking up to a large metal vat, he opened a small panel and poured the contents of the beaker inside. Then, walking over to the main control panel, he flipped the switch, activating the motors. Machines whirred to life, and the giant rotors inside the van began to turn, sounding very much like a helicopter preparing to take off. Charles danced another jig, giggling gleefully in amusement. After all his years of suffering in anonymity, he was finally, finally, ready to step into the spotlight.

“HONEY! SWEETIE! SUGAR!” he called out loudly, turning back towards the entrance to the main office. A few seconds later, three lovely buxom young ladies appeared, each dressed in white, in a fetishist’ version of chef’s apparel. “Ladies,” Charles said, grandly, gesturing to the machinery behind him, “we are in business! As I speak, my formula is being mixed with the other ingredients I have carefully prepared for my all-out assault on this city! Within a few short hours, the first real fruits of my labors will roll off the assembly line, ready to make its way into the hands of this city’s simpering masses—”

“Um, Chuck, baby?” Sweetie said, holding up a hand, smacking a piece of gum loudly as she did. “You said ‘fruits’? I thought you was making, like, cakes and cookies, and stuff like that?”

Charles blinked, then sighed, rolling his eyes. Damn. And you used to be the smartest of the three. Sometimes I deeply regret testing my formula on you. Good minions really are so hard to find...

“No, Sweetie.” he said with a shake of his head. “That was just a figure of speech. I am indeed making baked goods! Cakes, and cookies, and pies of all sorts! All of them ready to be distributed throughout the city, and all of them tainted with my special formula, which will enable me to dominate and control this city!” He laughed again. “Think of it girls! In a few short days every sentient and thinking being in this city will have their intellect stripped away by my seductive sweet treats...have their mental faculties conscripted by my captivating confections—”

“But, um, Chucky,” Honey cut in, her lovely face scrunched up in obvious confusion. “I thought the, like, plan or whatever, was to, like, totally turn everyone into hot sexy brainless bimbos like us!” She snapped her gum, twirling a piece of long platinum blonde hair around her finger as she asked. Charles merely grunted, rolling his eyes again.

“Yes, Honey, that was what I just said,” he replied, resisting the urge to smack his palm against his forehead. “And don’t interrupt! Now....as I was saying—”

“But, Chucky, baby,” Sugar cut in, blowing a large bubble with her gum before slurping it back between her large plump red lips, “I don’t understand how making a bunch of cakes and cookies is, like, gonna make everyone into bimbos! If you eat a lot of sweets, it gives you a tummy ache...so, does that mean tummy aches turn you into bimbos?”

This time Charles really did smack his forehead with his palm. “Okay. New rule. Nobody talks while the evil mastermind is talking, okay?” He grumbled loudly, shaking his head. And people wonder why supervillains always monologue when they capture and subdue a costume wearing super hero. Huh...I don’t know about the rest of them, but in my case at least, it’s for the chance to actually finish a damned speech from beginning to end for someone who can actually appreciate it, without getting interrupted with stupid damned questions!

The loud whirling noise from the main vat finally wound down, and a green light showed on the control panel. “Ah. Never mind. Looks like the first batch of creme is ready. It’s time to put my plan into motion. Honey, I want you to go and get the truck, and back it up to the loading bay. Sweetie, I want you to begin unloading the creme into the containers for transport. And Sugar, I want you to go over and move vat B into position and get it ready to mix the next batch.”

“Huh? That big ol’ thing?” Sugar protested, staring at the five hundred gallon vat. “Like, how the hell am I supposed to move that thing by myself! It must weight a ton!”

“It weighs five tons, Sugar,” Charles snapped, beginning to lose his patience, “and for the last goddamn time, Sugar, you move it with your goddamn super strength! You have super powers, remember?”

“Uh...I do?” Sugar asked, wide eyed. “OH! Yeah! Tee hee...I remember now! I was...like, totally a Super heroine or something before you, like, hired me! I forgot!” Giggling, she sauntered down the catwalk, over to the van, and, heaving, lifted it up off the ground.

“Careful, dear,” Charles said absently, already heading back towards his office. “Remember to lift with your knees, not your back.”

Sugar wasn’t the only Super he’d corrupted, of course. All three of his minions had once been costumed crime fighters of minor distinction before they’d crossed his path. A few of his delectable sweets had radically changed their outlooks, however, and now they served him faithfully, if not intelligently, to the best of their, well, diminished abilities. For what he had planned, having super-powered support was almost a necessity after all. He knew all too well the fate of his predecessors, men just as brilliant as he, just as driven, yet cut down in the midst of their grand schemes by costume-wearing do-gooders. He, however, did not intend to follow in their footsteps. He had already surpassed them, in terms of intellect and sheer genius. Now, it was merely a matter of surpassing them in terms of his success.

“Chucky, darlin’,” Honey replied, sauntering back into the office a few minute later. “We’re like, totally packed up, and junk. We’re, like, ready to go whenever you are!”

“Good! Excellent!” he said, shutting down his computer. “Then let’s go. The preparations have already been set for our store’s ‘grand opening’ tomorrow morning.” Leaning forward, he gave his sexy little slut a deep kiss, which she returned eagerly and passionately. “River City has better sleep soundly tonight...for tomorrow, Sweet Tooth will make his presence felt!”

“Who?”

“Gahhh...ME!” Charles yelled, exasperated. “Me, you ditzy, brain-dead dolt! I’m Sweet Tooth. It’s my supervillain name! I told you that in the car earlier on the trip up here from Midas City!” Grumbling to himself, he stomped out of the office.

“Geez...I, like, just asked a question,” Honey murmured softly, following along behind. “Not my fault he turned me into a sexy dumb slut...”

Laraby J. Fredrickson sighed softly, tranquilly, lying on the cold hard ground. He’d been lying in the same position for nearly five hours straight, yet he was completely relaxed, comfortable even, completely oblivious to his situation. Time meant nothing to him. Rain or shine, through bitter winds and stifling heat, he held position, the slight movement of his chest with each breath the only sign he was even alive. His pulse, his heart rate, his breathing...everything about him read as calmness personified, utterly and completely relaxed and aloof.

A bit of movement caught his attention, and his focus suddenly sharpened. His awareness, virtually non-existent until this point, flared out in all directions, becoming hyper sensitive to the very movements of the air currents, the scent of the surrounding flora and fauna, the temperature and relative moisture in the air. All of these factors, and a hundred more, all taken in subliminally without even trying, twisting into a long complicated and complex series of adjustments which he performed flawlessly. The bit of movement he’d sighted before sharpened, coming in to focus, as he adjusted the sight of his scope.

His target was finally making his move.

Laraby allowed himself a slight smile. The target, one Reginald Gibson, formerly of Empire City, had departed his hometown with a bit of property that was not his own. That, in and of itself, was nothing new. Most big cities were ripe with crime, and Empire City was no exception. Still, most people were not foolhardy enough to steal from The Fist, and even fewer were arrogant enough to think they could get away with using that stolen property to set themselves up as a rival to the Fists’ established drug trade.

There were few things Laraby enjoyed more than ridding the world of fools.

A quick glance at the watch around his left wrist confirmed what he already knew. Twelve-sixteen PM, to the second. Just getting out of bed, about to take your morning shower. Reggie, you poor deluded creature of habit, you almost make this too easy for me.

Truth be told, all things considered, the target had NOT made things easy for him at all. The chateau in which he’d ensconced himself was very well protected, with the latest in state-of-the-art motion and heat sensors, a seamless stream of guards monitoring every square inch of the house, three separate generators linked on a redundant folding circuit to prevent the power from being cut...and every window was fitted with bulletproof glass, while every door and wall was reinforced blast proof steel, capable of surviving a fifty millimeter shell. Naturally, any other assassin would be somewhat daunted facing such seemingly insurmountable odds.

To Laraby, it merely meant that he needed to do a little research and preplanning.

Adjusting his stance slightly, he moved his right hand forward, twisting it into position, sliding his finger onto the trigger. Without needing to glance at his watch, he counted in his head, his heartbeat perfectly in synch with the second hand...counting...counting...picturing Gibson’s movements in his head, knowing without seeing when he was moving into the kill spot.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Now.

His finger pulled, smooth as silk, sending his target a farewell gift. Moving at supersonic speeds, the bullet travelled across the area, closing the distance of a half mile in nearly half a second, zeroing in on the target without fail. An eye blink later, and the high powered bullet struck true, hitting the edge of an open water pipe, travelling through the line, striking another edge and ricocheting off at an angle, further down the tube, hitting a junction at a perfect forty-five degree angle, and ricocheting once more, losing power but continuing down its preplanned path.

In the house, Reggie paused, frowning, hearing a loud metallic ping sound from somewhere outside but close by, following by a second and third ping later. Frowning, he glanced up at the showerhead in confusion as one last metallic ping sounded...

The bullet, badly deformed from its journey but still whole, burst forth from the showerhead, piercing plastic...then flesh and bone, as it penetrated the space directly between Reginald Gibson’s eyes, possessing just enough momentum to exit out the back of his skull, painting the shower in a spray of crimson and white.

Half a mile away, Laraby sat up from his hiding spot, working the kinks out of his neck and limbs, ejecting the spent shell, his calling card, leaving it in the center of his hiding spot to be found by anyone careful enough to investigate. And why not? He had no fear of reprisals, no concern at all of the police tracking him down. He’d become a ghost long before, destroying any and all ties to a past years ago. The only ones who knew how to reach him were people interested in his skills...and those people, knowing of his skills, were the least likely to give him up no matter what pressure John Q. Law chose to dish out. He’d had only one client in ten years who’d broken a contract by trying to flip and turn state’s evidence by giving him up.

In retaliation, he’d eluded capture and taken the client himself, then forced him to watch as he killed the client’s wife and children one by one before putting a bullet between his eyes. The charges against him were, of course, dropped, but it wasn’t enough for Laraby. He arranged ‘accidents’ for the arresting officers, and the prosecutor who’d prepared a case against him...virtually anyone who had seen his face or knew him name. When he was finally done, no one who had any direct contact with him was left alive. As a result, his reputation and notoriety in the criminal underworld became legendary.

Packing away his rifle, he’d just entered the vehicle he’d parked several yards away, when his cell phone buzzed. Huh. A message. He read through the message, then sighed, calling back the number. “It’s me. So, you have another job lined up for me already? I just finished this one.” He listened frowning, the pulled his PDA from his pocket. “Uh huh. I got the file. Nice looking kid. Kinda cute and fresh faced. Any reason why someone wants her dead?” He frowned slightly. “Sending a message, huh? No, I don’t have a problem with it. A job is a job. I was just hoping for something more of a challenge. This one looks like a walk in the park...hardly worth the million I charge for a job.“

He frowned, listening again. “Huh? Really? River City, huh? Haven’t been there in a while. Could use with a change of scenery. But I still don’t see wh...wait. What? She’s who’s kid?” Laraby frowned, the gasped in surprise. “Wait...is this some kind of a joke? You want me to take out Omega Girl’s daughter?!? Are you out of your mind? Omega Girl is the big leagues...missiles and mortar shells bounce off her hide, forget about bullets! There’s no way I could even....oh? The daughter’s completely different, huh? Definitely not bulletproof?"” He frowned, considering. “Lucky, huh? Wait, let me pull up the other file you sent.”

Tapping his PDA he played the video file attached, watching it intently for several minutes. Slowly, a smile creased his lips, and he felt something stir within him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “I see what you mean,” he said after a moment. “Yes, that will definitely be a challenge. If any gun pointed at her simply misfires, then I’ll first need to determine the range of that guardian angel of hers, and determine how far away I need to be to strike.” He chuckled, his mind churning eagerly at the sheer number of calculations and adjustments he’d need to make. “The man who never misses his target versus the girl who can’t be hit. Sounds like a worthy challenge for me. Alright, tell Mr. Frasier that I’ll take the job...but that he can keep his money. I’ll take this one for the sheer thrill of the hunt.”