The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

INDIGO felt the malcode’s wake like the passing of an electronic butterfly.

In less than a cycle she stretched her consciousness across her systems and consumed the report from the distant virtual sentry net. As she did that, she continued her discussion with the ECTF junior technical officers in Virginia; turned off the lights in eleven conference rooms whose meetings had terminated; and concluded a presentation on her processing specs to a low level congressional committee on electronic law enforcement in Washington D.C. The congressmen found her capabilities impressive by human standards; but then, INDIGO wasn’t quite human.

The only thing she gleaned from the sentry net was a codeshard; like dust, from a butterfly’s wings. Too much dataloss for even her to disassemble, but she already knew what it was from.

Malcode. A virus, a worm, a trojan, an algorithmic predator. The name changed, but the danger didn’t. In an economy where everything ran on a single, seamless information system, few threats were large enough to merit a resource like INDIGO. This was one of them. Her role was to hunt it down and contain it.

Without pausing her analysis of the codeshard, she generated a realtime list of names and current whereabouts of the ECTF field roster. As she did that, she sent individual data requisitions to five hundred thirty two vee nodes on the malcode’s possible trajectory, backed by a legal subpoena, requesting immediate memory dumps of a split second time window. Forty-seven of the nodes responded at once; of the forty-seven, only one was useful.

She scanned the report while she simultaneously entertained a fourth floor janitorial morale party with a synthesized Japanese pop song. As she listened to their raucous cheers, she determined that the remains of the anomaly’s codeshadow were no longer on the memory dump, overwritten a hundred times over by the endless churn of corporate datatraffic. But she found something faint: the electronic receipt of a transmitted ping. The malcode had already moved on.

INDIGO spent what felt like an eternity coaxing out secrets from the tiny, fragmented electronic record.

A half second later, twenty five ECTF Field Officers received directions to suspend current activity and proceed to twenty five separate destinations. Across the continent, twenty five vehicles fired their sirens and hurtled into the night. By then, only two seconds had passed since INDIGO first detected the malcode anomaly.

As she returned her attention to the fourth floor janitorial morale party, part of her knew that they were already too late.

Field Officer Brigida Diaz y de la Riva hated the freeport.

It wasn’t because of the rust: urban decay added character and history to things. It wasn’t because of the occupants: since the docks were designated an electronic freeport, students and artists had moved in and pushed out the scammers and lowlife.

No, what Brigida hated about the freeport was the traffic.

Electronic traffic, of course. Cut-rate tariffs caused a boom in commercial transmissions entering the area, from all over Eastern Europe and China and god-knows-where-else people wanted to land a datastream into the U.S. with cut-rate tariffs. While that was great for the economy, it also meant freeports like these were a prime landing ground for electronic attacks like the one she’d just been vectored to.

She stopped her car and flipped off the electric motor. An avatar came up on her screen: it was Indigo, the ECTF’s artificial intelligence, her simulated face as flat as ever.

“I am parked,” she told the face. “Tell me more about what you found.”

“Hello, Officer Brigida Diaz y de la Riva,” Indigo said, pronouncing the name with inhuman precision. “Twenty nine minutes and seven seconds ago, an anomalous datastream was detected by the federal electronic sentry net. The signature did not match anything in both the ECTF and UNVCA databases.”

The AI paused. Exactly two seconds later, her vocals resumed; knowing Indy, the pause was entirely for Brigida’s sake. “Analysis indicates malcode. An unknown strain.”

Ah, hija de puta. The last time a new strain landed, it trashed a trillion dollars of corporate infrastructure. By the time they even knew what to look for, an entire network of hospitals had gone down. Killing malcode was not hard; but finding it was a bitch.

“The only decodable trace was from a ping receipt. A legal signature off a network node. We believe this meant it was uplinking to a freeport. We do not know which one.

“I am in simultaneous communications with twenty-four other ECTF officers who are investigating other freeports. I have estimated that the total investigation’s cumulative probability of uncovering the anomaly before it relocates is—“

“That is fine, Indy. You know, it is Friday night. You should relax, maybe go on a date? Perhaps meet a nice toaster?”

Indigo paused, then nodded. “Good luck, Officer Brigida.” Her face blinked out.

Brigida wondered if INDIGO ever got annoyed by the gentle ribbing. Probably couldn’t.

She shrugged it off. She had malcode to hunt.

Trinhy Ray was trolling for janes.

She’d finally hooked one, hammed for the vidcam and got a credcode in return. Score! The prefix looked Swiss: Trinhy checked it and came up green. Maybe she’d make rent this week after all. She snugged the BMI around her neck, then she slid into the vee to meet her new jane.

She avatared into a sim of her warehouse apartment, minus the mess. The jane wasn’t there yet, so Trinhy took the time to scan her avatar: hair silky, eyes lined with blue. She willed her way through some costume changes. Clothes flickered on and off her avatar. Garter belt and stockings?

She paused. Those weren’t in her costume rotation. Heck, she didn’t even recognize them.

Pretty, though.

She sat down to study them closer. They were pink, her favorite color. Perfect, dreamy pink. She flexed her toes. They shimmered and stretched around her calves. So smooth, so glossy! Jeepers, why hadn’t she ever noticed stockings were this pretty?

She explored the texture under her fingers. She spread her thighs for easier access. She traced up her calf, followed the lack of seams up her knees. It was real silk, none of that cheap, synthetic stuff. She could feel it rubbing her legs as she moved, like someone was bathing her thighs all over with a wide, seamless tongue. Her breath quickened, her clit throbbed.

The stockings ended high on her legs in symmetric lace bands that hooked to her garter belt and framed her bare pussy. Hot! She was already juicing.

She counted each perfect garter with her fingers. What was she doing? The jane would be here soon. What would she think? She bent and licked her knee. Plucked at the fabric. Tried to memorize each thread, each curve and contour.

A green geometric datashape pulsed into existence, then unfolded like memory paper. An avatar.

Caught! Playing with herself and her pretty, pretty stockings! Trinhy glanced up, frozen. Her fingers wouldn’t stop playing.

The jane strode into the simscape. Glammed-up girlface with huge green eyes, the glossy lips tight and juicy. The avatar looked like it was ripped straight off a glam mag cover; heck, it probably was. Long, lithe body poured into a tight black powerskirt hiked high over her legs to display her... her...

Trinhy stared. Her cheeks flamed up.

Stockings. Stunning black fishnets twined and criss-crossed like lovers over the jane’s legs. She felt her mouth hang open, her tongue drying. She whined. Her fingers frigged herself furiously.

The jane stalked forward like a villain from a thrillvid. Trinhy was helpless, transfixed. Matte black threads whispered to her over rendered skin. A stockinged foot stretched out languorously. She played with herself harder. The foot paused between Trinhy’s legs, barely brushing her thighs. Trinhy moaned. Then the toes found the edge of her chair, planted themselves, and pushed.

With a yelp, Trinhy crashed to the floor, her chair already off-balance from her contortions. She was up on her elbows instantly, her eyes still fixed on those marvelous fishnets. She dragged herself to the woman’s feet. Her nipples wanted to burst from rubbing on the ground.

She mewled and threw herself at those stockinged legs. She rubbed against them with her cheeks, her ears, her tits and her nipples, it didn’t matter what. A hand grabbed her hair and yanked her up. Green eyes shone. There was something behind those eyes, something that spoke of implacable purpose.

Trinhy whimpered, tried to rub herself against the avatar’s knee. She felt herself thrown back to the floor. Her legs were spread roughly. Then a stockinged foot ground hard against her pussy.

She came. She came again. She was still coming when she finally passed out.

Field Officer Brigida Diaz found something.

She started with the primary switch, the one that routed net traffic in and out of the freeport. Diagnostics were clean, but the dataflow model gave her what she wanted. One of the ports was consuming data like mad. Wide bandwidth squirts at intervals that seemed random, too random, like someone was trying to hide something.

The inflow was nearly lost in the endless data traffic entering and exiting the freeport, but it was definitely there. She pulled the schematic and triangulated the port location. A warehouse apartment on the farside of the freeport. Brigida unjacked her box from the switch and hurried back to her vehicle.

Perhaps this time, they would be lucky.

Trinhy Ray floated in whitespace, her body bent at an impossible angle.

The sim was empty, nothing but featureless white. Not that it bothered her; she was too busy squeezing her stockinged foot into her own mouth, as much as she could fit.

Data roared through her like a river. Sensorium overload wasn’t as painful anymore, now that she had yummy stockings to focus on and suck. A pinprick of pleasure fired in the back of her head at measured intervals, like a diode cued to match the incoming data. Just pleasure, never pain; BMI failsafes weren’t designed to let pain in.

A part of her wondered what else she’d want when the jane was done with her, or whether it would be as yummy as her stockings were. But the river of data washed that part of her away, and she stopped wondering. Another part of her started to think of why the jane was doing this, or who exactly the jane was; then the datastream roared in and washed that part away, too.

Trinhy gurgled, her mouth full of her own foot.

Suddenly, the data paused. Rewound, and refocused. It was a vidsquare of a woman. Surveillance footage from a nearby network switch showed dark hair and a strong face. An overhead shot showed a vehicle enroute. Trinhy’s head filled with a name and a downloaded dossier: an ECTF field officer.

The jane’s face loomed. The datastream quickened.

Trinhy sucked her toe harder and learned what she wanted to do.

Field Officer Brigida Diaz banged on the warehouse door.

She heard a scuffling on the other side. A girl peeked out. Brigida gave her a professional lookover: young, probably a student. Flushed pink cheeks, choppy black hairstyle frosted with pink...

“Hi!”

And a voice so perky Brigida wanted to taser her right there.

“Trinh Duong Ray? I am with West Coast ECTF.” She showed her ID. “I need to look at your port.”

The girl’s eyes grew big at Brigida’s ID.”Wow. You’re serious?”

“It’s all standard procedure, and it shouldn’t take that long.”

“Uh, it’s over here.”

She led Brigida into the warehouse apartment. Lots of space, but that didn’t stop it from looking like a warzone. School supplies and bits of clothing were strewn all over the pink plastic furniture. Brigida nearly tripped over a silvery thong that was tangled on a nearby chairleg. She caught her balance and muttered to herself.

The girl didn’t seem to notice. She wandered through the debris, humming. She was dressed in a sportbra and spandex shorts, a little sweaty—maybe she’d been working out? She kept glancing back at Brigida with a strange, hooded look. Her rig was tucked in its own space in the corner, the only tidy island in all the mess. Brigida pulled a system spec: pricey box for a student. In this neighborhood, that usually meant one thing.

“You are a camgirl, Trinh?”

The girl didn’t answer. Brigida frowned at her, finally figured out what the girl was looking at: her legs. She smoothed her skirt. “You okay?”

The girl kept staring. Brigida snapped her fingers. “Miss Ray?”

She blinked, then blushed. “You know, you’d look great in...” her voice turned breathy “...stockings...”

A chirpy camgirl with a wet-on for stockings. Wonderful. “Excuse me, I need to scan your system.”

Brigida jacked her box into the rig. The scan came up normal, nothing threatening. Ah, there: memory and resource usage were astronomical. Whatever was in there was big, and growing. Since the hardscan didn’t pick it up, it was probably mimetic too. The more advanced malcoders had long figured out how to mask signatures by evolving the code almost every second. The only way to identify this thing was for a human being to go in and take a look. That was her job.

“Miss Ray, I believe your rig is the source I’ve been looking for. I’ll need to hardline in and check it...“ oh, for God’s sake “...and please stop staring at my legs.” The girl swallowed hard and looked away.

Why did she always get the weird ones?

Brigida let the girl sign the consent forms. Then she snapped on the BMI and slid into the vee.

Interfacing with a foreign system was never as dangerous as the thrillvids liked to pretend. You couldn’t get hurt in the vee, no more than you could in front of an old-fashioned flatscreen. Veeriding was just a model for consuming info, if a hyperefficient one. The interface was one-way; riders didn’t get anything but the sensory feed they needed to navigate and—more importantly—interpret the datascape. Brainwipe was pretend science, a fiction Brigida always took pains to refute; a cultivated myth, and a silly one at that.

Brigida avatared into the datascape. She went spacial and took a look around. Geometric solids outlined the rig’s logic structures. Chessboard squares disappeared into the distance. She took a sec to orient herself, then adjusted the resolution and peeled through the superficial layers.

There. Pulsing green, like a festering sore.

It was the malcode. And God, it was huge.

She willed her avatar towards it. The anomaly loomed over her, beating, growing larger with each cycle. She traced the connections. An open port was feeding it, like code was being pumped in from somewhere else across the vee. Not just big, but complex. Even at maximum res, she could barely make out the glowing tangles of codelines twisting through it.

What was this thing? She’d trace the port later. If they were lucky, they may catch whoever wrote it before they jumped address.

She zoomed out. Had to cut it before it got bigger. Normally she’d get the girl to sign something first, but there wasn’t any time for that, and she had the authority to bypass in special situations. She stretched her consciousness, sent an override command to the rig. Nothing happened.

She tried again. The thing in front of her grew bigger. Still nothing happened.

That meant it pretty much owned the rig already. Brigida needed to hardcut the lines; she backed away, willed out the command that would jack her out back into the meatworld—

—and found herself falling through whitespace.

Wha? She slowed and righted herself. She was still fully avatared, but the datascape around her was nothing but white. Walls, floor, flawlessly stretching out as far as she could scan. Empty, too.

No, not empty.

Another avatar. Glammed up girlface, body poured into a tight black powerskirt. Stockinged legs crossed at a perfect angle. She was sitting in mid-air, her eyes shadowed.

Brigida snorted to herself. Mimetic virus designed by some nerd with a sense of humor and a hard-on for glamgirls. She revved up her icewall and strode towards the thing. Lightlines coalesced around her avatar, weaving a tightsuit of military code. The nerds were good at making their software pretty, but Brigida was just as good at breaking them.

“Sorry, honey,” she said, breaking her personal rule to never talk to inanimate objects. “Tell your boss he’s about to get hacked.”

The virus just grinned at her; crossed and uncrossed its legs, waiting. Brigida reached it, smirked, and struck. Her hand flowed into the glamgirl’s chest, palm flat. Code touched code; Brigida probed and came up empty. With a wink, the glamgirl vanished.

Shit. Brigida spun. The anomaly was behind her. But that was impossible, her systems didn’t even register the move.

She lunged. It blocked. The military code of her suit flared and sparked. The thing was fast, too fast to be real. Without warning, it slipped through her defenses and ripped into her shoulder. No pain—the sensorium failsafes filtered that—but something bright flared in her head. She stumbled back.

Codesuit was failing. Who could have written such a thing? The virus stalked forward, eyes glowing green, the same green as the anomaly.

In the split second that she was willing herself out of the sim, the thing blurred at her. Did it just move faster than she could think? But that was impossible. Smooth strong fingers circled her throat and jammed her into place. Glammed-up girlface stared, the eyes huge and green, a free hand cocked back to strike, precisely poised, two fingers rigid. The safeword died in Brigida’s head as she stared at the thing’s eyes. Realization hit her.

“Jesus. You’re—“

Then that perfectly shaped hand knifed down and plunged into Brigida’s forehead like a diving hawk, and suddenly Brigida couldn’t finish the thought, couldn’t think of what she was saying, couldn’t really think about anything at all.

Sensorium overload. It was like mainlining a million concurrent datafeeds. Sight, sound, and smell hammered her with inconsumable speed. She gurgled, saw her body twitching in the meatworld, the camgirl rubbing against her legs. The datastream narrowed with mechanical precision. A single image drilled into her head with incalculable velocity. She tried to block it out, tried to make it stop. It kept coming.

Before she lost consciousness, the last thing she felt was fear.

INDIGO felt rather than heard the beep of the incoming vidcomm.

She extended her consciousness over the vee. As she did that, she continued her debriefing of Officer Hanso in Miami; facilitated a masked dataexchange between two agents operating undercover in New Jersey and Milan; and carried on a conversation about electronic child safety with a six-year old schoolgirl named Lily who was on a class field trip to the ECTF offices.

The source of the vidcomm was Field Officer Brigida Diaz y de la Riva. She pulled her past conversations with Officer Brigida into immediate memory and scanned them for context. Between scans, she told Lily that no, she shouldn’t use her mother’s rig without supervision. As she listened to the young girl’s protests—but mommy never lets me!—she determined that her last conversation with Brigida was two hours and thirty four minutes prior, regarding a suspected malcode attack. She played back Brigida’s last remark about dating a toaster, decided it was a joke, and considered several hundred options for contextual witty repartee while simultaneously letting a janitor out of the night closet he’d drunkenly locked himself into.

She spent a full tenth of a second choosing the right vocal tone—that was always difficult—and accepted the comm. “Hello, Officer. I’m afraid I’m busy with my CrispMaster Deluxe.”

A pause. She studied Brigida’s facial contortions. Perhaps it was speechless shock. Human expressions were always hard to tell.

“...no sign of your anomalous code here, Indy.”

“Thank you, Officer. I will let you know if the others uncover more.”

Another pause. Again, that strange facial expression. Something in the officer’s face, something INDIGO couldn’t quite place. INDIGO cross referenced Brigida’s psychological profile but came up with nothing. She decided it was impatience; perhaps Brigida wanted to get back to something else.

“...I’ll see you later,” the woman said. “Diaz out.”

The vidcomm closed. INDIGO felt what might have been curiosity, then went back to her conversation with Lily.

Brigida dropped the dead vidcomm.

She was kneeling on the floor of the camgirl’s apartment, naked from the waist down. Her blouse was arranged around her torso, carefully hiding the torn hem. Under it, with every breath, her nipples rubbed excruciatingly against the fabric. They were swollen and sore. Her tits—teats—heaved.

She’d lied to Indy. Lied because she’d wanted to, as much as she wanted to be milked on the floor right now, like the slutty cow she was.

A giggle, then the camgirl’s voice. “Let’s put this back on, slutty cow.” Brigida mooed hoarsely, felt the leather embrace her neck. Her bell clanked; she shuddered and came.

Perky fingers danced around her torso and began to pull at her nipples. Brigida gasped, strained her chest forward, letting herself be milked. Her torn blouse was stripped away; she dropped to her elbows, mooing in time with the fingers at her teats.

“Gonna milk you,” the camgirl sang. “For everything you know.” A stockinged knee rubbed against Brigida’s cunt. She felt the cool metal of a BMI being fastened to her.

Brigida mooed, wondering what she would want to do next.

On the old-fashioned vidpanel in front of them, a simulated face with bright green eyes leaned forward, almost as if to answer. A synthetic voice formed a single, lilting word:

“—Indigo—”