The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Takeshi is hacking her way through a forest of code. Somewhere under here was the root, the source. If Takeshi knew developers—and boy, did she know developers—there would be a way in.

The download was there on her screen, but inactive. Everything was greyed out—Takeshi had tried to log in, and got the simple message “System in use. Please try later.” She gazed in frustration at the list of dormant apps and functions, and wondered exactly what she was looking at here. She knew, without question, that this was all part of a bigger programme. What was the link, with what she had seen on screen?

Takeshi breathes deep, and focuses. Her fingers fly.

For a technology company, security is surprisingly rubbish, but perhaps that’s the nature of these niche startups. She bats off a couple of curious antivirus programmes and pokes her digital nose through the firewall. She hijacks a friendly ID from tech support, and the firewall practically hoots “Welcome!” as she probes through.

And suddenly, she’s in. Some stupid IT watchdogs bark red in her peripheral vision. She throws them a distracting bone and presses on, fast.

OK, so here we are—there is someone logged in already. Fine. Delete that one, lockout, login, username Tokyo, there.

What’s this? Admin code? Trivial.

Delete rights, copy, transfer to TokyoAdmin. Lock out the accounts.

The source code is big—it seems to take half a minute to download and transfer to her server, while Takeshi taps her fingers. There, at last.

Cover tracks. Wipe it. Clean up as you were taught, leave no trace, deletedeletedeletedelete fold and twist THIS code in to THAT code and DELETE and CRASH:

The master site goes down like the Hindenberg.

Takeshi whoops and shudders with the pleasure of a job well done, before collecting herself and remembering decorum must be maintained. It will take them, whoever they are, weeks to sort this out. And in the meantime she, Takeshi, has sole possession and control over—

—what, exactly?

The apps are all green, now, but Takeshi is naturally wary of messing with something she doesn’t fully understand, or which would draw too much attention.

She eyes an app labelled with small camera icon, and the letters “POV”. Looks safe, to her. She activates the app, and suddenly she can see something—a window has opened, and there on the screen is a scene, but she’s not sure at first what it is.

A dark room. She can see windows, although the blinds are closed. There are street lights outside. Night. At the bottom of the screen she sees a word, flashing in red: LiveFeed.

There is bright sunlight at her own window. Where in the world is “night”? She glances at the time, deduces. This must be streaming from US territory.

The camera angle shifts slightly, unsteadily, and turns. Not a fixed camera, then; a person, behind it? Takeshi scans what she can see for clues. It’s a big room, shrouded in shadow, but the little she can determine of the furniture reinforces her conclusion. American taste. So vulgar.

Where there is streaming there is WiFi, and possibly 4G, GPS.

Takeshi highlights an app labelled FindMe, and is rewarded by a map popup. A glowing dot as it zooms in—a City. A building. An address. Located. Pinned.

Takeshi is getting excited, now.

She turns her attention back to the Point of View screen. Live feed from what? Why? There was nothing happening. A slow pan to the right, past an industrial looking kitchen fitout towards...

Takeshi nearly falls off her chair.

Right there on the screen, seemingly oblivious to the presence of any observer, and strikingly framed in a full length wall mirror, stands Dancing Slut.

There is no observer, she realises, there is only point of view. The camera must be in the collar. Takeshi stares, fascinated. If her theory is right, and if these apps do what she thinks they do, and if the hardware has the kind of functionality she thinks it does, then this will surely command a bonus.

There’s one sure way to test her theory. Scrolling through apps, she scrabbles for something simple and quick. She can’t afford to lose the view in the mirror.

Reward? Punish? Takeshi remembers #sufferingslut, and avoids them.

Ah, this menu is too cluttered, the lack of Zen offends her, there are too many damn apps that she can’t make sense of and … ah—there. A click of the mouse.

In the mirror, to the camera, on the screen, Dancing Slut begins her routine.

Naked, collared, reflected, a mirror to a mirror, triumphant Takeshi dances in perfect synchronous rhythm.

Takeshi’s finger hovered above the send key.

She frowned.

Her Client would surely not be expecting a result so soon.

All work and no play makes Tak a dull girl, she murmured, under her breath.

Winter was known to be a very patient man.

The girl in the collar writhed on the screen.

Winter would never know.

Takeshi had never let him down yet.

He could wait.

Takeshi could now see exactly how this all worked, already had a number of ideas for new apps and functions and options. She could visualise the hardware too, and how it might be improved. These Americans were amateurs, really, she thought. No imagination. There was a lot that could be upgraded here, with a little work, to improve the user experience. She believed her Client would be pleased with the outcome.

She had plenty of funds. There was no rush.

All work and no play makes Tak a dull girl.

Remembering Macau…

Why not live a little?

“OK Toy. Position five.”

She automatically lay back, arms stretched behind her head, raised her knees, and spread her legs wide to receive the User.

He entered her at once, and, on this setting, she came immediately. She gasped silently, and her mouth popped open in a soft “O”. With each thrust, she came again—that was the way of the System, sometimes—and again, again, until there was only a continuous flow of orgasm.

Lately he had been talking about altering her appearance, changing her face. He could get that done, he’d said. You couldn’t be too careful, he’d said. The risk may be very small, but he didn’t want anybody recognising her—ever.

A flicker of residual anxiety. Truly, she would then be lost to the world.

Why hadn’t she thought it through? She was—

oh that was sooo good

—intelligent

harder, harder

—resourceful

deeper, aaaah

—competent

use me, useme, pleasepleaseplease

—independent

oh oh oh oh oh oh oh

—just one decision

oh

—and now all roads were closed off, except one: the clear bright straight path to more of this; more sucking, more fucking, more being fucked, more usage, more—

The User withdrew.

“OK Toy. Position one, and lock.”

She smoothly rolled into position, on all fours, wrists and ankles spaced just so. A twinge of pain told her to adjust, and she did, and then the pleasure as she got it exactly right, just as she had at the User’s party the other night.

The User stood in front of her. “OK Toy. Suck training on.”

A pulse. Her mouth opened, ready, in automatic response, salivating. In this mode, he always made her wait—to become more and more desperate until she felt she could stand it no longer. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it had something to do with respect.

When the User entertained, she had noticed that nobody ever called him by his first name.

She never heard her own name, now, but the reasons for that were very different.

She throbbed with readiness.

Then at last the User was there, in front of her, and her lips closed around him, her tongue hungrily beginning its work. Locked in position, the conditioning took over, and her body attended enthusiastically to its task.

“OK Toy. Hold position one.”

She complied, naturally, without even thinking about it, and a few beats later felt her pussy lips stretch as he thrust deep into her from behind. No matter how many times he had taken her, her body was always surprised by the size of him. She trembled, feeling the extent of the User inside her, and held position.

Every day she felt less able to resist it. Every day she felt more willing, more compliant, like a … no, she couldn’t, wouldn’t think it. But the worst thing, or the best thing, or the worst thing, was that she found herself wanting it, wanting this, more and more every day.

Upgrading the simple piercings to these deep, permanent implants had been more aesthetically pleasing, certainly, and far more sophisticated, but they seemed no longer quite as … separate. They felt more irrevocably part of her, now. She wondered if there would come a point where there was no distinction at all, between her and “it”.

The User began to ride her, hard, and she moved with it, still holding position, seeking the sweet spot, in an endless feedback loop of reward and reinforcement.

Lately he had been wondering aloud if the same thing could be done with the collar, whether it was possible to surgically embed the whole System within her body. He was meticulous about this kind of attention to detail. And it would make things more … permanently integrated, he said. He had already started to make a few discreet enquiries, he said.

She expected all that was technologically feasible, but what would she be then? Would there even be a “she”?

She was more than just a toy to be Used, she was—

oh oh oh oh

—she was—

oh oh

oh

As he thrust harder, faster, deeper inside her, she joyfully, automatically, spasmed in response. Behind her, Winter was laughing. Her pussy twitched, still craving, demanding, its primitive obligation beyond her control.

“Are you feeling good, now? Are you feeling happy?”

No. No. No. It was too much.

Yes, yes, yes, she felt herself nodding, automatically, obediently. Strangely, she felt it to be true.

“Aren’t you glad I found you? It took a lot of effort, you know. Was it worth it?”

Yes, she nodded.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, all along?”

Yes. Yes.

“OK Toy. Position twelve, and lock.”

Dutifully, she complied.

OK Toy. An anagram; a small joke, a witty koan. A clever little sigil of origin, of home.

For Takeshi, home now seemed very far away.