The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I.

Dr. Patricia Prozanno couldn’t help but to draw attention to herself as she rose gracefully up to street level from the underground subway station. Her dark Italian complexion and statuesque frame was set off perfectly by her sartorially perfect white skirted business suit with black accents, blouse, and shoes. Her dark mane of flowing hair was tied up neatly into a bun and the morning sun seemed to weave through the blonde highlights like a dolphin playing in the surf.

Through the nearly black lenses of the surgeon’s sunglasses, Patricia—or Trish, as she was known to friends—was fully aware of the attention she drew to herself. She could see men’s’ eyes gazing over the corseted curves of her waist as it tapered down to her rounded hips. And, she could almost taste the syrupy sweaty jealousy and disdain coming from the wives and girlfriends who accompanied many of those men.

Trish loved the attention and thrived off the thrill of it as her three inch heels clicked off each step toward her apartment building. The ten story building at 96 Amatory Place didn’t quite fit in amongst the towering skyscrapers that made up the heart of Megopolis’ financial district. The red brick walls with gold and black marble trim hearkened back to the days of yore—a time when things were built with pride and a strict attention to detail. The building was rich in history and that surely played a key role in the fact that it still stood today amongst the towering behemoths constructed with nothing more than cost and speed in mind.

The undulating sea of turning heads continued in her wake as Trish click-clicked her heels on the sidewalk in front of Jiggy’s, an upscale Gentleman’s Club on the first floor of the building. Though it would never be appropriate for one of the world’s most celebrated surgeons, Trish often wondered what it might be like to work inside a strip club. The attention she got just walking around in public was a thrill in itself, but to be up on stage and to demand the attention would surely take the whole range of sensations to a new and delicious level.

Around the corner, a U-Rent truck was pulled close to the residential entrance and a middle aged woman was struggling with a large packing container while trying to get the door open.

“Hold on a second,” Trish called. She increased her stride ever so slightly. “Let me get that door for you.”

The woman, breathing heavily in the heat and covered in a thin layer of sweat from her exertions smiled. “Oh, thank you so much. I don’t dare prop it open in this heat and I haven’t found where I packed my door opener, yet.”

Trish grabbed the handle of the door and held it for the struggling woman. “Door opener?”

“Yeah. It’s one of my silly little gadgets that I invent and subsequently neglect to market. I’m looking at changing that last part, though.” With a grunt, the woman hefted her load over the threshold and stepped into the lobby area. “I’m Stephanie, by the way. Just moving into 214.”

“I’m a bit above you,” Trish smiled as she stepped in out of the heat. “We’re in 902. I’m Trish.”

Stephanie smiled and seemed to try to shake off her fatigue with a slight shiver. “It’s nice to meet you—I’d shake your hand, but...”

The lobby area, once part of the Amatory Place Hotel that originally occupied the building, wasn’t particularly large. The mirrored walls and perfectly maintained marble flooring and trim gave it a spacious feel. Stephanie set the box down on the shiny black and white tiles and relished in the air conditioning for a moment.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

II.

As usual when Trish got home from work, the stereo was doing it’s best to win the volume war with the soundtrack of the video game being played on the flat screen TV. When she stepped out of the hallway into the large sunken living area, she frowned at how the room was as visually unpleasing as it was cacophonic. Things were out of place, a pile of unfolded laundry sat waiting on the floor—a near perfect contrast to Trish’s perfectly tailored look.

The woman on the sofa was almost as perfectly opposite to Trish, too—except for the fact that the two women were genetically identical.

Beatrice and Patricia were twins. Their sameness ended with their physical appearances, though. While Trish had always been driven toward success, Beatrice—or Trixie—epitomized the stereotypical slacker. They had been together throughout their entire lives, but somehow the two never really got along particularly well—especially surprising due to the stories one frequently heard about identical twins and their more-powerful-than-blood bonds of friendship.

In college, the girls had learned that they did, in fact, share some sort of bond. It was the first time they had been separated from each other. With Trish at Yale Medical School and Trixie at a fashion design school in Megopolis, Trish found it difficult to study and excel. Finally, after no small amount of cajoling and even bribery, Trish had convinced Trixie to transfer to Yale’s fashion design program so that they could share an apartment together in New Haven. Almost immediately, Trish’s grades and mental state began to improve.

Unfortunately, the same wasn’t true for Trixie. Though she never was on any sort of fast track to success, her grades actually suffered a bit after her move to Connecticut. She didn’t seem to mind that much, though, and the two had been together ever since. Trish often tried to motivate her sister to make something of her life, but it only seemed to amount to low paying jobs at department stores or fast food joints. Even though she had a degree in fashion, Trixie just never seemed to be truly inspired and Trish didn’t want to push too hard for fear of pushing her sister away.

Trish didn’t want to feel the emptiness brought on by the two of them being separated ever again.

“You look like shit.” Lately, Trish had been trying the negative approach to inspire her sister to make something of her life. It didn’t seem to work much better than anything else she had tried, though.

“Thank you,” said Trixie as she used her BioLink unit to command her Vampire Sim character to head off to its coffin before the sun rose over Pleasantville.

BioLink units were little units that attached at the base of a person’s skull and connected directly to one’s brain, allowing them to communicate with other wireless PinkLink enabled devices. Using her own BioLink, Trish hijacked her sister’s game and activated the “Quit” sequence. When it asked if she wanted to save before quitting, Trish selected “yes”—she might not have been particularly nice to her sister at that moment, but she wasn’t mean.

“What the hell is up with that?” asked Trixie, her frown showing the start of age lines which made her appear to be several years older than her twin.

“Why don’t you finish up with your laundry and maybe actually do something today?” Trish asked as she plopped down into the overstuffed chair and kicked off her heels. “Better yet, there’s a woman moving in downstairs—why don’t you go down and offer a hand? The exercise would do you good and it’s not like you couldn’t use some actual contact with a human being.”

When Trixie rose from the plush sofa, it was obvious that she was considerably lighter than her sister. She didn’t have a sickly frame, but she was definitely close to crossing that line. Her white, short sleeved half shirt seemed to be a size too big for her and her cutoff jeans hung squarely off her ass. Her strong features, despite the slightly premature signs of age, made up for any shortcomings of her almost boyish figure, though.

“Maybe I will go help her out.” Trixie glared at her sister. “And while I’m gone, why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

Trish smiled patronizingly as Trixie left the apartment. With a slight shiver, Trish’s mind turned toward the way the tight corset beneath her work suit held in her already flat stomach and pressed her smallish breasts upwards to give them an illusion of sensuous mass. She had always loved the way her secret undergarments made her feel as sexy as others seemed to view her.

As she continued to bask in the wonderful feelings, she decided that fucking herself probably wasn’t such a bad idea, at all.

III.

Trixie Prozanno stepped onto the elevator and smiled at the petite Darla Keegan who was standing inside. She had met Darla in passing the other day and had been reminded of her sister Trish. Darla, too, seemed to be driven toward success—a trait which had always made Trixie quite envious. She had always wanted to be inspired and driven, but somehow the fates seemed to have shorted her, there. She lacked the drive and inspiration to develop inspiration and drive.

Young Darla seemed different today, though. Her thighs seemed to shift uneasily beneath her pleated skirt and her smile seemed put on as a shield to mask another emotion entirely.

“Good morning,” Trixie smiled as the doors slid closed.

Darla’s forced smile grew bigger and even more forced. “Hello.”

“Are you okay? You look—um...”

Darla nodded. “Yeah. Got a new mantra today, though: Don’t Do Drugs.”

“A little too much partying last night?”

“Something like that. Yeah.”

The doors opened at the first floor and the girls stepped out into the lobby. Darla made a half-hearted sort of farewell gesture as she quickly ducked through the door that led into the back office of Jiggy’s. Trixie continued straight through the lobby, her somewhat ratty tennis shoes squeaking on the finely polished floor. Ahead, a woman in her mid forties was standing precariously atop a box by the front door. She was working on something up by the metal arm that helped to spring the door closed.

“Wow, you look different,” smiled Stephanie from her perch.

“Actually, I am different,” Trixie smiled. “I think you met my twin sister Trish before. I’m Trixie.”

Stephanie blushed. “Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry. I’m Stephanie. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Here, let me help you.” Trixie placed on hand on the crate to steady it and the other on the small of Stephanie’s back to provide support. “There. That should be a little better anyway.”

“Thank you!” Stephanie beamed. “That’s much better.”

“What are you doing up there?” Trixie asked.

Stephanie, finished with her installation, smiled proudly and stepped down from the crate. “It’s a little invention of mine. It’s a PinkLink enabled automatic door. You can use your PDA or BioLink to unlock it and then trigger the autodoor and it’ll open up for you when your hands are full.”

Intrigued, Trixie accessed her BioLink and searched for active devices within its range. In the “public” category there was an item labeled “AutoDoor”. One thought unlocked the door and a second activated the device. Trixie grinned as the door opened by itself.

“That’s the coolest! I love it! How come no one made one of these before?”

Stephanie nodded. “I know it. It seems that in this information age, everyone is into accessing and processing data, but everyone forgets about good old mechanics. So, I’ve sort of made it into a hobby of mine to fill that efficiency gap.”

“Do you have much more stuff to move?” Trixie asked.

“Lots, but I’ve got all day to do it.”

“Well lucky for you, I’ve got all day to help you.”

So it was that Trixie and Stephanie chatted and got to know each other while carting boxes and furniture from the street to the apartment on the second floor.

Stephanie, as Trixie learned, was just recently separated by a rather unpleasant and chauvinistic husband. She was unemployed and on her own for the first time in her life.

“What about your inventions?” Trixie asked during one ride up the elevator. “Couldn’t you sell those for a living?”

Stephanie shook her head. “Not at this stage, anyway. It costs a lot of money to move into production, develop packaging and marketing, and all of that. I need money to make money.”

As the morning progressed, Stephanie and Trixie found themselves building a fair foundation for a friendship. While Trixie had always lacked motivation, Stephanie’s had been stifled by a husband who wouldn’t allow “any wife of his” to work or do much of anything beyond taking care of the house and performing wifely duties. With Trixie, though Trish was always verbally pushing her to go out and make something of herself, her actions seemed to contradict those words. It always seemed that Trish was doing things behind the scenes to ensure that Trixie remained emotionally and financially dependent upon her. She wasn’t sure that it was a conscious effort on Trish’s part, but she shared a common ground with Stephanie in the ultimate result of it all.

About the only thing that Trixie didn’t like about her new friend was that every time she would set a box down in Stephanie’s apartment, the older woman would invariably pick it up and move it somewhere else that was somehow more appropriate. The woman was never insulting, but it did provide a sense of mild frustration inside of her.

Despite Stephanie’s seeming obsession with order, Trixie was also aware that the woman possessed a highly trained eye for artistic beauty. Even amidst the array of boxes and crates in the efficiency unit with a main room and attached kitchenette, there was already a homey feeling about the place. A few pieces of art and several plants—the live kind, not synthetic—had already managed to make the place feel inviting.

Stephanie also carried herself with a delicate, almost exquisite balance of poise and beauty. Efficiently dressed in pressed denim jeans—not too tight and not too loose—and a collared V-neck shirt it was a near perfect blend of practicality and charm. The woman, despite the fact that she was a year or so closer to fifty than to forty, would surely have no trouble finding herself a new boyfriend once she deemed it appropriate to do so.

When the truck was unloaded, Steph and Trixie stood in the center of the crates and shelves and other bits of furniture. Though much of it was already in place due to Stephanie’s ongoing efforts throughout the day, there was still a lot of unpacking to do.

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to help me out much more, today,” Stephanie mused as she stared at the surrounding array with no small amount of disdain.

“Take a break and come have a drink with me downstairs,” Trixie suggested.

Stephanie shook her head, “I’ve got hours of work here and I’ll never be able to get any sleep unless I get this stuff all organized. Maybe another time, though.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Trixie said, extending her hand. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and see if there’s anything you need help with.”

Stephanie smiled and shook Trixie’s hand.

“Until tomorrow, then.”

IV

Zarah Wilder sat at the center stage and breathed it all in. The levels of pranic energy—the very essence of life—were higher than she had never experienced in this place. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the smells and tastes of lust. With each passing moment, the she-creature grew stronger and more alert.

Vampires. Succubi. Others of the same breed as Zarah had given birth to the myths and legends of these creatures and more. The fictionalized tales of night seductions, feeding off of other people’s energies, and supernatural powers managed to capture the essence of Zarah and her ilk—but they never quite got it right.

And that was probably good thing.

On the stage before her, two woman writhed and moaned in a remarkable display of perverse pleasure. Their hands, cuffed and suspended by chains, opened, closed, and twisted in uncomfortable ecstasy. Between the constrained women’s legs, bizarre machines—like cock endowed pommel horses—stimulated and kept them at such a heightened state of sexual frenzy that the creature was starting to feel drunk from it all. The energies were so thick in this place that they were almost visible—as a swirling fog emanating from the girls on the stage and wafting purposely toward Zarah as she absorbed the power hungrily.

Vacuum tubes with clear hoses were carefully attached to each of the writhing women’s breasts. Zarah could see the milky fluids flowing through them and wondered what that stuff might be—and how two women could produce it in such vast quantities. Through the bliss created by Zarah’s gluttonous feeding frenzy, she wondered how a human being could endure the massive amounts of pleasure that most of the people in this place seemed to be experiencing.

One of the strung up girls—the dark haired one with the massive breasts—seemed to feel Zarah’s presence. Looking down at her from atop her mechanical horse, the woman smiled briefly before her eyes rolled back up into her head showing only the whiteness of bliss.

Zarah focused her attention in on this one. The woman’s long dark hair was matted and tangled with sweat and her body glistened in the flashing lights. Closing in further, Zarah felt the rush of pranic power surge and it was all she could do to keep herself from jumping up onto the stage and sucking the life from her completely. She massaged the wet spot at the crotch of her black silk shorts as she continued to explore this remarkable woman.

Closing her eyes, Zarah allowed her keen sense of smell to break down everything she was sensing.

Dopamine. Delicious.

It was a chemical produced by the brain during sexual arousal—one that numbed the erogenous zones to a point that greatly enhanced the pleasure of a touch. It also had the effect of enabling one to endure more pleasure—the more dopamine flowing from your brain, the more intense pleasure one could withstand.

And, the more pleasure one was experiencing, the better the pranic sustenance for Zarah.

Allowing a finger to slip up inside the hem of her shorts and lowering herself in the chair, Zarah continued to feed from the woman on the stage. In most cases, by now, her subject would be beginning to fail as his or her energy began to fade. This one, though, showed no signs of slowing as Zarah’s pleasure grew and her senses became even more acute.

As her self-inflicted orgasm began to rumble inside, it hit her. Zarah’s eyes shot open at the sensation that tickled at her ears like the tongue of a hungry lover.

There was another one like her—no two, maybe more—somewhere in the building. Other pranic feeders were easy to sense—they constantly took the energy rather than the usual bi-directional transference as the “norms” would do. These two, and this one especially, were definitely untrained in the art of feeding.

Zarah thrilled at the thought of taking in a fledgling of her own. Her teacher, back as a teenager, had taken Zarah under his wing. He carefully and precisely explained exactly what she was. He taught her to focus her thoughts and to balance her feeding to prolong her subjects usefulness—and to keep from harming those she cared about. Without skill and discipline, a Pranic is nothing more than a black hole that sucks the life from everything around them.

She was here! One of the other Pranics was in the club. It was the weaker one, for sure.

With her finger still running lightly over her outer pussy lips, Zarah swiveled her plush stage-side seat to scan the room and to see out into the bar area. The energy from the girl on the stage still cascaded delightfully over Zarah’s trembling flesh as she finally caught sight of her.

Zarah licked her lips and smiled. Not only was she going to repay the favor her own teacher had given her as a younger woman, but she was going to do it in a place where there was plenty of food for everyone.

She was thankful that pranic energy wasn’t fattening, because she was about to feast.