The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I pushed open the door and walked back in. I grabbed a can of Coke from the cooler and flipped a 50p coin onto the counter. Clea hurried to make me change and got it to me before I was past the counter, the bell on her collar tinkling all the way along.

I should probably describe the place, really. It’s three stories high, in the middle of Shrewsbury. On the first floor we have a small patisserie just inside the door, which is Clea’s domain. It’s also got a glass-doored fridge to display Coke, so that we can attract the passing-schoolboy trade, though a lot of them come in for Clea alone; the costumes for the waitresses are perhaps a little risque, and the dog collar with the bell on it has caused a couple of complaints in the past. The girls have always assured anyone investigating that they enjoy it, though, so the police can’t do much about it. The costumes don’t quite qualify for indecent exposure.

Past the patisserie is a little coffee and creamcakes area for customers to sit. Laura works this area; she’s the waitress for the ground floor, brews the coffee, and so forth.

Upstairs is a proper restaurant; me, Clive and Keith are the cooks, and we generally stay out of sight of the clientele. Cassandra, Rhiannon, and Miriam are the waitresses for this floor.

The top floor has a stockroom at the back for what we have to bring in from outside—the creamcakes and Coke, mostly—but is chiefly living quarters; three large bedrooms, each with king-size beds; one for me, Clea and Cassandra, one for Clive, Laura and Rhiannon, and one for Keith, Miriam and Tracy, who looks after the stock and cleaning the place.

Anyway, as I say, I walked into the place and took my Coke, making sure we didn’t lose money by it, and wandered upstairs. The place was shut now; our trade mostly comes at lunchtime, fat, sweaty businessmen sneaking away from their wives to revel in our six obedient beauties. Not that they ever get a chance to do more than ogle; we keep an eye on things, and we’re very protective of our pets.

We have to be; the girls can’t think for themselves. Fact is, Keith studied Pavlov at college and had a few ideas for improvements.

Something was going on and it took me a minute to work out what it was.

“...AND WITHOUT EVEN TASTING IT,” Clive was building to a full-blown peroration now, “YOU ASK FOR SALT???”

I twigged. I picked up a salt cellar and walked over quickly, put it down on the table firmly and hard enough to produce a sound.

“Your salt, sir.”

“I hate you with a passion you can only dream of,” Clive said, staring at Keith with an unusual intensity. Then he grinned, suddenly, and wide.

“Thanks for the fill-in, Dave,” he said.

“Chef,” I said. “Am I right?”

“Yup,” he said, and grinned, teeth a flash of brilliance against his black skin. Chef was the name of an old sitcom, most of which we’d forgotten. But that particular routine never really aged.

We do this a lot when the cafe’s closed. We spend most of our time relaxing when it’s open, too. Most people just come in for a Coke or a coffee; and since we’re the cooks, and especially since there are three of us, we don’t have much to do. The waitresses, though, they’re rushed off their feet. And the only way we can get them to stay with the job is probably illegal...

She sat on the high-backed chair, naked, a thin layer of perspiration standing out on her forehead, her eyes closed lightly, her whole body in a deep trance, arms at her side due to the absence of rests. She was unaware even of the passage of time.

Moisture covered her crotch, too, a result of the orgasms inflicted on her in the early stages of her conditioning, the stage in which pleasure was linked irrevocably to obedience. One breast was adorned with thin needles teased into it in such a way that they hung there, sending complaining messages along her nerves but would hardly damage the skin; healing would be over within a day. Those dated from the linking of thoughts of disobedience to pain.

In concert with the alteration of her mind’s chemical balance by drug and gas and the tailored subliminals played into her system through the video glasses—small TV screens worn as spectacles, essentially—hooked into a computer induction program, the code of which had been hacked about until the user could input new messages for the subconscious to absorb, her whole worldview, her whole self had been changed.

“All right,” the voice spoke, close at hand, “let’s review. What is your name?”

A name... a name... She couldn’t remember. She knew that was wrong and waited for the panic, the adrenaline charge of fear, that she knew would come. And it came not.

A finger lifted the end of one of the needles slightly; metal warmed by intimate contact with intimate flesh exerted a trifle more pressure on her poor, stinging breast. Pain ran through her whole body like an electric shock; but it would have been impossible to tell this from an observation of her exterior. Her eyes remained lightly shut, her body elegantly limp. Whatever impulse had fled her breast to launch her central nervous system into action, and thence to whichever muscles it sought to put that action into practice, had simply disappeared somewhere over the course of the second leg of her journey.

Her face, her whole body, remained emotionless, a blank canvas. Only when you descended into her now-murky and warped psyche could you see that an artist had already been at work upon that canvas; and a thoroughly professional job he had made of it. The voice returned, as devoid of emotion as the woman, though for different reasons, reasons of assured superiority rather than careful programming.

“What is your name?”

She still could not remember. The pain seemed to be going on; though in her world away from time she neither knew nor cared whether pressure was still exerted or whether she felt the pain because, to her mind, no time had passed. How could she care? No time had passed; it was natural that the pain should continue unabated. She cast about within herself, and the first word that reached her was the answer she gave.

Her voice, monotonous, quiet almost to the point of inaudibility, gave form to the word “Slave,” and allowed it to drift out into the air.

The needle was drawn swiftly from her breast. A finger touched the point of entry delicately; instantly, feeling left the whole area upon which the finger had rested. Blessed anaesthesia, a cool balm after the pain, which disappeared along with the feeling, timeless void or no.

Six needles remained within her; this she knew. Unknowing, she softly barked. She showed no sign of knowing she had done so, and indeed she did not, had not known she would beforehand, and did not know she was while she did so. The reaction was instinctive, second nature now. The voice returned; in her mind’s eye, she saw herself squatting on her haunches, gazing into a gramophone, and it was from this that the voice issued. Her master’s voice.

“What is your reason for existence?”

“To serve,” came her reply, immediately and submissively, her voice no longer her own. Her self no longer her own.

Another needle was extracted; another swift, featherlight touch descended upon her tender mammary. Once more the pain vanished; the pain of disobedience, she thought suddenly, vanishing from her life forever as she was reborn, now scrupulous and instinctive in her obedience. Were her mind still her own, she would have wondered about the provenance of that thought; but now, after so long in the chair, being pleasured and then suffering pain, being drugged, gassed, and gazing into a spiral she had no strength and less inclination to look away from, it was merely part of her, as firmly rooted in her as the survival instinct. More firmly rooted; she might sacrifice herself for her master, but she would never lose sight of what she was and the thoughts that drove her to be that. Thoughts she had only known since the spiral began. Instead, she barked softly once more.

Five needles.

“Who do you serve?”

The answer, this time, came immediately and readily to her lips, though it issued forth in the same subdued, unaware tone.

“You... and only you, my master.”

And she was free from the painful embrace of another needle. Another soft, unknown bark slipped over her lips and into freedom.

Four needles.

“Why do you serve?”

“Because a slave is what I am. I know nothing about other things; but I am a most capable slave. I will make no mistakes in my service and I will not require training, because that is my nature. I serve because it is my nature.”

At another time she might have wondered, as the needle slid out and was replaced by soothing nothingness, why she said this sort of thing. She might have wondered how she knew what to say; she might have puzzled over her strange voice, over which she seemed to have no control or discretion. She might have noted the way these responses came to her as almost instinctive, and with that she would have been close to the truth. But she would never wonder about those things again; she would never wonder again, because her nature was to serve, not to think. Not even to observe; merely to serve and obey her master. She barked again, like the Pavlovian animal her master had made her.

Three needles.

All of which came out in a rush; “No more questions, you’ll be pleased to hear,” her master informed her.

There followed an indeterminate length of time during which the new slave remained in her trance, unaware that time was passing. When next something happened, however, the perspiration on her forehead had evaporated and the juices of her orgasm, spread across her thighs and the chair below her, were dry. A small, unmistakably feminine hand rested for a moment on her thigh, before sliding around it. Fingers ran tantalisingly over her labia for the briefest of instants, and the slave thought of obedience. At the same time, however, her body showed no indication that the person housed within it was so intensely aroused.

She heard a bell ring, softly, nearby.

The hand slid under her thigh and lifted, sliding her leg and then the other so that the new slave sat splay-legged across the chair.

She felt hands slide through her pubic hair, teasing the tangles out. Then shaving foam—men’s shaving foam, to judge by the scent—enveloped her bush, and she felt the cool steel of a razor begin to separate her from her hair. A finger ran over her newly-mown flesh, and she thought once more of obedience.

And, once more, she was left to herself, deep in a trance that admitted nothing of the possibility of passing time.

Her eyes opened, to what stimulus she did not know, and she saw her master in the flesh for the first time. Nipples hardened instantly and her pussy flooded, but her body did not otherwise stir. Still she sat immobile and splay-legged, arms hanging by her side as if the life had left them utterly. Behind her master was another slave, naked save for the bell on a collar around her neck—she recognised the fact by the glazed appearance of her eyes—but this other slave wasn’t even background—she was a phantasm, a conjuration that might as well not have existed. Her master was in the room and that was all that mattered.

He saw her arousal, and smiled. In reaction, she came again, and she thought of obedience.

He undid his belt, and dropped his trousers. Her eyes locked themselves instantly around his groin, still obscured by a pair of boxers. He slid his thumbs inside his waistband and began, deliberately slowly, to lower them, revealing his prized treasures. She couldn’t have torn her eyes away from them even if she’d been able to think about it, but she had no choice in what she thought any longer. Her head was frozen in position, and she knew it without knowing how she knew it. She came yet again, and she thought of obedience.

Then the other slave stepped in front of him, obscuring her view. This other—this lesser, this equal to herself—blocked her view. She wanted to move so that she could see him in his full glory again, but without instructions she remained immobile. Only her eyes could move.

“Meet slave one,” her master’s voice said. “You are slave two.”

On the other hand, this woman was attractive. Naked women were more attractive than any men, except master. Master was the most attractive human being imaginable. She knew this instinctively, as she knew everything else. After all, a slave could not learn; a slave simply was. A slave was a lower form of life, not sentient. A slave was a bisexual slut, obedient to her master’s every whim.

These were simple facts.

“Rise,” the voice commanded, and the slave stood. A bell tinkled gently, and slave two realised she wore the double of her fellow-slave’s collar. Slave one—she who had shaved her—remained as she was.

Then she began to bend forward at the waist, head slowly raising to remain level. As her back came into view, the slave could see her counterpart was being eased into position by the master’s hand on her back.

Both women came, and they thought of obedience.

Slave one’s face ended up resting lightly against slave two’s shaven pussy and thighs, with her nose corresponding to slave two’s pudendum, one pointing outward as the other sloped inward.

“Slave one, touch your nose with the tip of your tongue.”

Tongue tip, as could have been predicted, met labia. Slave two felt an orgasm like a furious jolt blast through her system, and she thought of obedience.

“Feet shoulder width apart, please,” master said, but slave two knew somehow—instinct—that the instruction applied only to slave one, who was automatically making the adjustment her master required.

Slave two felt slave one’s face press more firmly against her as master entered her, but stood firm. She wasn’t permitted to give ground.

“Slave two, reach under your colleague and find her breasts with your hands. Grip them. Pinch her nipples between thumb and forefinger, and hold that position.”

Slave two did as she was told. Master began to fuck one, slowly, which repeatedly drove her tongue around slave two’s labia. In her conditioned state, this was enough to make slave two come. Several times. Slave one came with every thrust of her master’s cock, and the two women thought of obedience.

That was the first two. The procedure has since been somewhat refined.

The girls can’t really be expected to look after themselves, not any more—I mean, they can’t even remember their own names; we picked them new Christian names more or less at random out of a baby book—so we look after them. They’re our pets, after all; little bundles of conditioned reflexes all geared toward obeying us in any way possible and making sure the customer enjoys himself while he’s here, though not to the extent of physical contact. As I say, we’re very protective; the British have always been protective of their pets. I personally don’t much care for the dog motif, but Keith did admire Pavlov, and it’s on his dogs we modelled them, so that’s the way it goes.

We don’t have to pay them; we give them room and board, and in return they work all the hours God sends. It’s a good arrangement.

Part of me wonders what we’ll do with them once they lose their attractiveness and we bring new ones in; Keith did a very thorough job of programming them and I don’t think we could unpick it. But then, I’m sure we’re not the only people doing this; perhaps by the time it happens we’ll be able to send them to an animal sanctuary, and some kid with a bit of money and indulgent parents will come and pick them out, take them home with him, like they do with real dogs at the moment.

It’s not likely, but it’s a nice thought.