The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mike Anderson stood quietly looking at the brushed steel container standing against the wall of the garage. He had been standing there for almost two hours, though he didn’t realize it. Had anyone seen him, they would have thought that he was in some kind of trance. Maybe that is what it was. In any case, a distant sound an ambulance or police pursuit of some kind brought his mind back to where he was. He leaned close to the metallic container.

“Imogen,” he called. “Are you alright?”

There was no answer.

He sighed. He knew that Imogen had returned to the container each night for the past week, but he didn’t know how long she usually stayed. She went in after he went to sleep and came out before he got up in the morning. Recharging her power supply. Christ! Seven days here, and she was already the most important thing in the world to him. THE most important thin? What did he really know about her, though? Where was she from? Why did she come to him, specifically?

“Thus ends our first week together,” he muttered.

Mike stepped through the door into the kitchen. He retrieved a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator, opened it and took a drink, then set the bottle on the counter. He looked around. The house was completely dark. Cold. Lifeless. He wandered through the living room and down the hall to the bedroom. He then stepped into the master bathroom. Standing in front of the toilet, he unbuckled his pants and began to urinate, but found himself suddenly bent over and vomiting.

He rinsed out his mouth at the sink and splashed water on his face then hurried back to the garage. Maybe she had come out while he was away. The metal container was still there and still sealed. He tried punching the numbers 3 3 6 2 7 9 1 into the keypad on the side. There seemed to be no effect. He leaned in close to the coffin. Christ! Don’t think of it as a coffin!

“Imogen, can you hear me? Immie?”

Still there seemed to be no change. He placed his ear on the smooth cold surface, hoping to hear something from inside. There was nothing.

He wandered back through the kitchen to the living room and sat down in his recliner. He suddenly found himself shivering, so he grabbed the small blanket that was folded on the table next to him. As he wrapped it around himself, he wondered just when he had started keeping a blanket there. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment and quite without meaning to, fell asleep.

Someone was singing next to him in a high soft voice.

“Cagaran, cagaran. Cagaran gaolach. Cagaran laghach thu. Cagaran gaol thu. Dean do chadalan. D—in do sh—ilean. Rinn thu cadalan. Fosgail do sh—ilean.” It was Imogen singing.

“Is that Latin?” asked Mike.

“It is Celtic, sir,” she said.

“What does it mean?”

“It means, ‘Little darling, little darling. Lovable little darling. Pleasant little darling. Darling of my love. Go to sleep. Close your eyes. Wake up again. Open your eyes.’,” she said.

“This is a dream,” he said.

“Yes sir, it is,” said Imogen. “But it is a good dream.”

Then Imogen was gone. The living room was gone too. Mike was still sitting in his recliner, but everywhere around him was whiteness as far as the eye could see. A man stepped toward him, stopping directly in front of his chair. He was wearing a shiny gunmetal blue suit. He looked very much like a man that Mike had seen in another dream, but it wasn’t the same man.

“You have to get rid of it, Mr. Anderson,” said the man in blue.

“Get rid of what?”

“The robot. The thing that you think of as a woman, for it is not a woman. It is most definitely not a woman.”

“She’s not a robot. She’s my girl. I’m never going to give her up.”

“She’s not a girl at all, Mr. Anderson. She’s a tool. She’s a crutch. She’s an agent of destruction. Did you never wonder why you were chosen by our competitors for such a gift?

They wish to destroy you.”

“If this is destruction,” said Mike. “then bring it on.”

“If I cannot appeal to your sense of self-preservation,” said the man in blue. “then think of the thing herself. Did you know that she has a human brain?”

When Mike didn’t reply, he continued. “You did know, didn’t you? Answer me this. What kind of people would take a woman’s living human brain, place it in the body of a robot, and condemn it forever to be the slave and plaything of another man? And what kind of man would accept such a gift, a slave in all but name?”

The man in blue leaned over and poked Mike in the chest. “Think on that.”

Pain shot through Mike’s chest. Horrible, terrifying pain. Mind-numbing pain. The kind of pain that makes one realize that there really is an end. He opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back on his bed, bathed in sweat, clutching his chest. No, not again! Please, not again! He reached to his left and grabbed Irene’s arm, as another bolt of pain shot through his chest.

“Honey, argh!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Irene. “My God, Mike. You’re white as a sheet.”

“It’s my chest,” said Mike. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Come on,” she said. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

The next half hour was a blur. Trying to don shorts and a tee shirt at the same time as fighting the pain. A fast car ride. Rushing through red lights. Sitting in the hospital waiting room. At last he was lying in an emergency room bed. A male nurse was giving him a shot in the stomach that gave him a bruise the size of a football. The pain was going away. Where was Irene? He looked around. She had been here a moment ago. Then he saw her. Lying on the bed next to his, was Irene’s broken body. She had a blood all over her. Her arm was mangled. Her legs didn’t look quite right and Mike knew it was because her pelvis was shattered. None of that had killed her though. It was that tiny bump on her head. It didn’t look like anything at all, really. It certainly didn’t look like something that could kill a person. It was. It did and it was.

“No, this isn’t right,” said Mike. “This isn’t how it happened. This was four years ago. You were lying here four years ago. You died four years ago. That’s not the same time. I had a heart attack way before that. When was it, seven years ago?”

Then Betty burst into the emergency room. “Daddy!”

Mike’s eyes popped open. He was still in his chair. The was wrapped in his blanket. The acrid taste of vomit filled his mouth. He swallowed and felt stabbing pains in both sides of his throat.

“Tonsils,” he said, to himself. “Serves me right for swimming in the fucking ocean in December.”

Mike got up and walked back into the kitchen. He was going to get a couple of antibiotics from the large plastic jar that he had bought in Mexico last spring. Before he got there though, he turned and went to the garage door. He felt pulled like metal to a magnet. This was what was important. Not whether his throat hurt. He opened the door and stopped in the doorway. The seven foot tall metal container was gone. Gone. Had it all been a dream? No. Look at the garage. The computer station that Imogen had set up was there. Hell, the garage didn’t even look like this before. Where was it?

“Oh, no no no no no.” Mike whispered.

Something landed heavily on Mike’s shoulder. He jumped and spun around. Imogen was standing there. The arm that had been on his shoulder was still outstretched. He grabbed her and pulled her naked body to him. Cupping her face in his hands, he covered it with kisses.

“Oh Immie. Thank god you’re here. Thank god you’re here.”

Dozens of tiny kisses spread across her face turned into one deep kiss on her luscious perfect mouth, which she returned. Dread and despair became longing and lust. Mike pushed her back onto the kitchen table, kissing down her breasts and stomach to that perfect pussy. In the back of his mind, he noted that the flower-like petals spreading open for his were asymmetrical, like a real woman’s labia. Another part of his brain rebelled. She is a real woman!

He kissed his way around the edges of her sex and then roughly licked up the length of it. Then he placed his mouth over her clitoris and began to tickle it up and down with his tongue’s tip. He could hear her moaning. He began to suck that beautiful bud and the soft folds of skin around it. Imogen didn’t need for him to verbalize it. She knew that he wanted her to cum and that is exactly what she did, bucking on the table top for at least two minutes. Mike grabbed Imogen around the waist and turned her over. With a single swift motion, he plunged his now engorged cock into that lovely pussy, now well lubricated both from within and without. He began to stroke in and out, watching her beautiful ass hanging over the edge of the table, and her long trim legs stretching straight back. He held her by the waist , pulling her toward him with each plunge. In and out. In and out. Imogen was letting out tiny little moans with each push. With a groan and final thrust, Mike felt his sperm shooting into her. He collapsed on her back, bathed in sweat.

For several minutes, Mike lay on Imogen, gently kissing her shoulders and back. Then he stood up, pulled Imogen up, and held her to him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course I’m all right, sir,” she said.

“No. I mean are you really all right?”

“For the most part, sir,” she said. “I completed my power initiation, but I did not follow my programming completely. I was to recharge three hours seven times, within twenty five point six hours of each. I was late for recharging twice, and I shall have to face the consequences for that.”

“What consequences?” asked Mike, feeling his balls pulling up into his body.

“Because my fusion power system was not allowed to reach its full potential output, I will have to power down on a regular basis, sir. The down time will vary depending on power usage, but I estimate that it will be between fifty seven and one hundred fifty eight minutes each day.”

“You mean, that the consequence is that you will have to sleep for an hour or two each day?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “An hour or two when I could be doing something constructive to make your life better.”

Mike clasped Imogen’s face once more between his hands and kissed her deeply.

“You know, Immie, for someone so smart, you really are stupid.”

“Yes, sir,” she looked unhappy.

Mike laughed and kissed her gently on the lips Imogen put her own hands on either side of his face and returned his affections. Then she frowned.

“You have a fever, sir,” she said. “And you taste like vomit.”

“Yea. Now that I think about it, I feel kind of woozy.” He staggered slightly.

Imogen led Mike into the bedroom and tucked him into bed. Then she brought him a glass of juice, two Tylenol, and two antibiotics. When she was sure that he was as comfortable as he could be, she lay down in the bed beside him, and brushed his hair with her hand. When he had dozed off, she got up and began her daily routine of housework and anticipating the needs of Mr. Anderson.

Mike spent most of the day in bed, eating very little, but at Imogen’s insistence drinking plenty of juice and water. By evening, he was feeling much better. He got up to shave and take a hot shower, then went back to bed and read from one of his favorite novels until he was drowsy. With Imogen once again lying in bed beside him, Mike went back to sleep. He spent most of the night with his hand on that perfect naked body beside him, either cupping her right buttock, gently caressing her thigh, or softly squeezing her right breast.

The next morning Mike felt well enough to take his morning walk, Imogen right beside him, of course, urging him to keep up the pace. Even though the sky was overcast and the weather had turned decidedly cold, they walked the full five miles. They walked at a quick pace, but instead of feeling as though he were going to pass out, Mike felt rejuvenated when they returned. He shaved, showered, and when Imogen brought him his breakfast, along with more antibiotics, he ate it and felt great.

“Do you feel up to going computer shopping today, sir?” she asked.

“I think I do.”

Mike put on a new pair of slacks and a grey sweater. He thought that he looked pretty good. Of course he realized, when Imogen walked into the room, that he would still look completely out of his league. She had on a dark blue peasant top, a pair of tight fitting capri jeans with sequins along the bottom of the legs, and a pair of black high-heeled shoes with flowers on them that she described as “Bocaccio Round Toe pumps with four inch heels”.

They hopped in the car and headed for the Pico Mundo mall. Once there they went directly to the Dell computer kiosk.

“Do you have a 2.5 T plasma MISC with saddleback BRAMM?” Imogen asked the clerk.

“Um, just what you see,” he said.

They picked out the fastest computer available with all of the bells and whistles that Mike wanted or Imogen recommended, and scheduled delivery.

They had lunch at Gyro Time. Then, before leaving, Mike insisted on stopping at Venus to buy some more clothes for Imogen. He was finding that he enjoyed seeing her dressed up in her sexy clothing almost as much as he did seeing her naked. Imogen certainly seemed to enjoy showing off new clothes to him. This time she selected something called a Marylin-collar sweater dress, which completely covered her from neck to mid-thigh, but showed off every curve and, Mike was happy to see, her nipple rings too.

As they walked across the parking lot toward the Chevy, Mike stopped suddenly and looked at Imogen.

“What is it, sir?” she asked.

“I’m falling in love with you, you know,” he said.

Imogen smiled happily. “I thought you might be, sir,” she said.

“Really?”

“It first I didn’t know. But once I got to know you and your needs, I believed that it would be only a matter of time. I am for you, sir.”

“Yes,” Mike mused. “Yes, you are for me.”

“Do you mind if we stop by and see Betty?” Mike asked as he opened the car door for Imogen.

“Of course not, sir.”

Mike was quite happy as he drove to Greendale. It was a beautiful day. There wasn’t much traffic. He had just spent a great deal of money on himself. Immie was watching him intently with undisguised admiration. She was here. She was with him. The box was gone. She’d never have to get into it again. He’d never have to wait to see if she were going to come out again! No one would ever take her away from him!

He looked over at her to see a look of alarm on her face.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you mad at me, sir?”

“No. Of course not. Why?”

“You were making an angry face, sir,”

“Was I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh. I’m sorry Immie. I was just worrying about something I don’t even need to worry about.”

“I don’t like for you to worry, sir.” she said. “I want to make all of your worries go away.”

“Thanks.”

When they arrived at Betty and Jack’s home, they found both of them there. Betty was doing some gardening and Jack was watching a baseball game on television. Betty went to great lengths to update her father and his new girlfriend on the various plants and flowers that she had added to the back yard. Mike wasn’t paying too much attention. He tended to zone out. Once Betty got started on a topic, she usually wrestled it to the ground and killed it.

“Get away!” shouted Mike, when one of Betty’s dogs suddenly stuck its nose in his crotch.

“I know you really like dogs, Daddy,” said Betty. “You just pretend you don’t.”

“I like dogs fine, when they aren’t sniffing where they shouldn’t be sniffing.”

“They are just curious about you,” she said. “I’m surprised they aren’t sniffing at you, Imogen. They don’t seem to even notice you.”

“Hey Betty,” said Mike. “Didn’t you just say you needed some more potting soil or something?”

“You’ll never know how surprised I am that you heard that much of what I said,” she replied. “but yes.”

“Let’s run over to Lowes and get it.”

“Well, I was going to make some quiche for dinner.”

“Imogen can whip up a quiche,” said Mike, looking at his girlfriend for, and seeing in her face, confirmation. “You and I can run to Lowes.”

“I thought real men didn’t eat quiche,” came Jack’s voice from the doorway.

“Real men eat whatever the hell they want to eat,” said Mike, managing to keep most of the derisiveness out of his tone.

“Come on Daddy,” said Betty.

Father and daughter took a quick drive down the block to the neighborhood home improvement store. Mike hadn’t wanted to help pick out potting soil. He had several questions that he needed to ask Betty and he did. They had a short but intense conversation on the topic at hand which ended just before they reached home again with two forty pound bags of planting soil.

“One more thing Dad,” said Betty, who only called Mike ‘Dad’ when she was angry or serious. “Try to be nicer to Jack. Don’t talk to him like he’s a moron.”

“Well he is a....”

“It’s his house, Dad.”

“Yea, alright,” conceded Mike.

Mike tossed the two bags of soil over his shoulder and followed Betty through the gate and around the house to the back yard. He tossed them down beside the flower bed and dusted the dirt off of his shirt.

“Why don’t you go see if Imogen needs any help,” said Betty. “I want to get these last two Verbena in the ground before dinner.”

“Okay.”

Mike walked in and found Imogen standing by the stove and Jack leaning on the counter nearby. Imogen gave him the kind of smile most people reserve for someone they thought lost at sea or perhaps for Ed McMahon when he was carrying an oversized novelty check for ten million dollars. There was something shifty in Jack’s expression though. Mike asked what was going on. They both spoke at once.

“Nothing,”

“Jack fondled my tit, sir.”

The look of shock had not even completely registered on Jack’s face, when Mike grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him through the kitchen and out the door into the garage. Calling for Imogen to stay and finish dinner, he shut the door after him. Jack was beginning to square his shoulders. Mike shoved him back against the wall of the garage.

“Hey, don’t get all jealous,” Jack began. “She’s hot...”

Mike grabbed Jack’s face in his right hand and slammed it once again into the wall, this time making a large, round dent in the unfinished wallboard. Mike squeezed his fingers together until Jack looked as though he were doing an imitation of a fish.

“You don’t get it!” hissed Mike. “This isn’t about Immie! This is about Betty!”

Jack’s eyes got rounder.

“If you ever hurt my little girl, if you ever cheat on her, I will kill you.”

Once more, Jack’s head slammed against the wall.

“If you want to leave. Tell her. Get a divorce. Now is a good time. There aren’t any kids yet. But if you stick around and then cheat on her, I will kill you.

“I... will... kill... you.” said Mike. “It won’t be quick. It won’t be painless. And you know what? I’ll even get away with it. Look me in the eye. See if you can tell if I’m serious or not.”

Jack’s round eyes rolled over in his head to focus on Mike’s close, way too close, face. A look of recognition crossed those eyes. Mike crinkled his nose, then looked down at the spreading wet spot in Jack’s pants and the widening puddle of urine forming on the floor around Jack’s shoes. Mike let go.

“Get cleaned up,” he said, heading back into the house.

Betty was in the kitchen with Imogen, washing her hands in the sink.

“What were you two talking about in the garage?” she asked.

“I was just apologizing for being such an ass before,” said Mike, as he heard Jack enter behind him. “But, uh, Jack spilled his drink. So he needs to go change his pants.”

“That’s fine,” said Betty. “Imogen and I are just getting ready to set the table.

Mike thought that it was the best quiche that he had ever eaten. Sauteed green beans and fresh fruit completed the meal. Betty was a little concerned that Imogen wasn’t eating anything, but Mike assured her that they had partaken of a particularly large lunch at the mall. He also pointed out that Jack wasn’t eating much either. Jack apparently didn’t feel well and everyone agreed that he looked a little green around the gills.

“I heard you speaking to Jack in the garage,” said Imogen, on their way home.

“You could hear everything?” asked Mike.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you upset with me?”

“No, sir, I could never be upset with you,” she said.

“I just thought that you might be disappointed that I wasn’t more jealous over you.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re not feeling jealous yourself? Or thinking that I love Betty more than I love you?”

“I would expect you to love her more than you love me, sir,” said Imogen. “You have known me ten days. You’ve known her all her life. Your love for your children is just one of the many things about you that makes me love you.”

“Well,” said Mike, and then trailed off into silence for several minutes. “I don’t know that I do love her more. I love Betty and Mark both, but they aren’t children anymore. They have their own lives and they don’t need me sticking my nose in. Don’t get me wrong. If that ass-wipe can’t keep his dick where it belongs, I will rip it out by the roots and feed it to him!

“Anyway. I lied before, when I said that I was falling in love with you. I knew it was a lie as soon as I said it.” He looked at Imogen and laughed at her pout.

“I love you. I already love you,” he said. “I don’t know when it happened, maybe Tuesday at the beach. Maybe before that. But I love you.”

Imogen sighed and lay down on the seat, putting her head in Mike’s lap.

“May I give you a blow job, sir?”

“No, Immie,” said Mike, gently stroking the side of her face with his hand. “Not right now.”

When they arrived home, they undressed and went to bed. They made love to each other, slowly and gently. Mike sucked on Imogen’s pierced nipples. She licked him to erection, then rolled her hips upward presenting her pussy to him. He entered and slowly moved his cock in and out as he gently kneaded her large breasts, kissing between them. Finally he wrapped his arms around her and she did the same to him. Then he whispered into her ear for her to cum. Her grasping, pulsating pussy pulled his own orgasm right out of him. They collapsed together, arms and legs entwined.

“I think I’ve had more sex in the last week and a half than I have in the last year and a half,” said Mike.

“It’s good exercise for you, sir,” said Imogen. Mike laughed.

“After you’ve slept and done your chores,” he said. “I want you to pack for both of us. We’re going out of town for the next four days.”

“Where are we going, sir?” she asked.

“We are going to Vegas.”

Her eyes dilated slightly.

“Las Vegas, Nevada. County of Clark. Population five hundred seventy five thousand nine hundred seventy three. One hundred thirty one point two square miles. Average minimum temperature....”

“That’s right, Immie,” he interrupted her. “Now with a little less microchip.”

“Why are we going to Las Vegas, sir?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning.”

Mike fell asleep and Imogen “fell asleep” still entwined together. Mike woke up alone, as he expected. He got up, shaved, and showered, and was met at the bathroom door, as he expected, by his beautiful companion, toast and juice in hand, and a towel, warm from the drier, over her arm. He ate and got dressed and met Imogen once again in the living room. She had already prepared the house for their four day absence, and packed the car with everything they needed. She had also, unbeknown to him, driven to the gas station, filled the tank, and checked all the fluids and systems.

Mike put his hands on Imogen’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. He kissed her gently on the lips.

“What do they have in Vegas that they don’t have in Springdale, Greendale, or even in Pico Mundo?”

“Casinos,” said Imogen. “an indoor amusement park, a water park, a museum devoted to Liberace, convenience stores with slot machines, wedding chapels,...”

“Bingo,” said Mike.

She looked at him without understanding. He dropped down to one knee and kissed her softly several inches below her navel. Then he looked up at her face to see her looking back down at him.

“Immie, will you marry me?”