The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t fire you.”

Blake Rogers stood in front of Myra Blount’s desk and sweated. “Because I’m working on a formula that should make the company millions of dollars?” he said in a voice that, even to his own ears, sounded wimpy.

Myra Blount, Consultant, lifted one well-shaped eyebrow and looked at Blake over the tops of her glasses. Blake looked back. Ms Blount was an attractive woman, maybe thirty, with rich brown hair and green eyes. She hid her figure very well in a severe gray business suit, though, and her expression showed no emotion at all. Well, boredom, maybe. “And what project would that be?”

Blake knew how he must look to her: scrawny, badly shaved, in need of a haircut, nose a little too big—classic Geek. He cleared his throat. “It’s a cosmetic powder that not only covers blemishes, but also corrects them.”

“Corrects them?”

“Gets rid of them,” Blake said. He waved a hand. “Uh, you know, zits? Or, uh, crow’s feet, or acne . . . scars.”

Uh-oh. Ms Blount had three acne scars on her right cheek, three in a row, small ones—but Blake knew all too well that anyone who cared about appearance would see such insignificant marks as moon craters. “Indeed,” she said.

“It’s a protein derivative,” Blake floundered. “Uh, bee—bee product, like, like royal jelly or . . . .” He trailed off.

“Yes.” She made a determined mark on the paper before her and said, “I’ll let you know my decision next week. You may go.”

Well, that could have gone better, he thought. On his way back to his lab, he began to wonder where else he could work. He was thirty himself, and for eight years, ever since graduating with his master’s degree in biochemistry, he had been on the staff of Cosmagico, one of the leading cosmetics manufacturers in the country. He’d been responsible for Night Magic, the cream that left skin soft and dewy, and for Kindnesse, the make-up remover that simply sprayed on and rinsed away. And he’d contributed to lots of other products, dozens of them. And he was so close on the corrective powder, if he had time to develop it, if he weren’t fired.

“Blakey! They let you out of the hive?” Jim Kruger’s voice.

Blake stopped and glanced back at Kruger, one of the middle-managers. “Performance review,” he said.

“Oh.” Kruger’s normally cheery face clouded. “That bitch from Consultancy, Inc.? Watch your back buddy. She’s a killer.”

“Yeah,” Blake said. He continued down the hall to his buzzing lab.

It hummed not with the power of a dynamo, but with approximately a hundred and forty thousand bees. They lived in a special Plexiglas hive, coming and going by means of a hamster-trail of plastic tubing that eventually led to the outside. During the winters, Blake chilled the hive to between forty and forty-five degrees, and the bees were dormant. During the spring and summer, he kept it between seventy-four and seventy-nine degrees, and they were active little devils, coming and going.

And that was only one of half a dozen hives on the table against the far wall. Six hives, over a hundred thousand bees, and only six bees that counted: the queens.

Except that in smaller isolation units Blake reared more queens, supplying them with workers that fed them on royal jelly and looked after their every need. Sometimes he euthanized a queen, extracted proteins and lipids from her body, and experimented with them. Eventually he hoped to be able to synthesize what he needed, to stop the slaughter.

But for now he had . . . one small test tube full of the precious golden dust.

It worked. There was no question that it worked. On mice, on small self-inflicted scratches, even on long-standing scars. If not for the side effect, it would be perfect.

The side effect.

Thoughtfully, Blake measured out a quarter of the golden powder into a Petri dish. He carefully blended it with (what else?) beeswax and a hint of fragrance. Maybe, he thought, a demonstration would work. Maybe it could save his job.

And if not, well, there were those. . . side effects.

Myra pushed back from her computer and rubbed her eyes, then blinked her contact lenses back into position. She had logged out, and now, at precisely five p.m., she was ready to call it a day. Ready for the walk out to her car in the parking deck, ready for the hostile and fearful glances. Hatchet woman, that was her job. Well, tough. Cosmagico could tighten up on its expenditures, streamline its staff, and boost its profits, and she would have done her job. If a few heads had to roll, so be it.

She opened the door and practically screeched to a halt. “Oh!”

“Hello, Ms. Blount,” said that geeky-looking guy, the bee man, what’s his name, Rogers. Myra’s face froze into icy indifference, not that a guy like Rogers would have registered her flicker of scorn at his frayed white lab jacket, his oversized specs, his untidy mop of hair. “I don’t think I explained it very well, so here’s a little sample.”

He held out a tiny plastic container, the kind that samples of blush came in.

“What is that?” Myra asked, not taking it from him.

“It’s the corrective,” he said. “I’ve put it in a moisturizing base. It has some volatile compounds in it, and that’s why I’m working to stabilize the powder form. The pure powder is more effective, but it needs work. This is my project. Here, take it.”

Myra took it and popped the lid. The small cosmetics container was only half full of a gold-colored substance. “And what does this do?”

“It improves the skin,” Blake said. “Erases little age lines, permanently, with continued use. It can smooth scars, it speeds healing of any small wounds, like shaving nicks on the legs, for example. It gives the user a wonderful youthful complexion.” He shrugged. “But right now it’s hard to make, so hard that it’s impractical. I have to isolate the specific compounds and learn how to synthesize them so . . . . ”

“Thank you,” she said, and pushed past him.

At the end of every career girl’s day comes the moment of truth when she removes the makeup, stares into the mirror, and thinks, “Damn, I’m tired of this.” Myra reached that point at about nine p.m. Alone again. Naturally.

Well, if the men in this town couldn’t stand an ambitious, hard-driving woman, screw them. Except she wasn’t exactly getting the opportunity to do that these days. Men.

She leaned in close to the mirror and stared at the scars she’d had since the age of fifteen. Most were hardly noticeable, especially when she wore makeup, but those three on her cheek, the three in a chain, looked like craters on the moon.

“Let’s see if the geek keeps his job,” she muttered, dipping a fingertip into the golden, waxy compound. It felt good, anyway, silky and smooth. She dabbed it onto her cheek and gently massaged it in. It didn’t make any difference that she could see, except perhaps it made her cheek look shiny. She snorted, picked up a good book (Femme Totale: Six Women Who Succeeded in Business(), and headed to bed.

She got her eight hours and a bit more and woke up feeling delightfully languid and warm. She stretched like a cat, poured herself out of bed, and padded to the bathroom, where she took care of nature’s business, then showered. Then, as she began to apply her makeup, she paused, staring at the reflection of her cheek in the mirror. It was smooth.

Absolutely smooth. The three acne scars had vanished. Overnight.

“Oh my God!” She touched her cheek and smiled at herself. The horrible scars, the disfiguring chain, had faded away as if they had never been. Oh, Blake had done this for her, wonderful Blake, sexy. . . wait a minute. No, not sexy, definitely not sexy, not at all. Ugh. Blake the geek had done this.

“He’s a geek,” she told her reflection firmly. “But he’s a damn good geek!” She pulled off her nightgown and stared down at her belly, at the appendectomy scar slanting across the curve of her tummy. She reached for the little cosmetics container, opened it, and dug a fingertip in.

As she massaged it into the scar, she felt a strange heat. Her nipples were erect, and she felt a little, well, wet. The stuff had a kind of warmth to it, very sensual. In fact, if she had time, she would have fingered herself to an orgasm, but this was a Tuesday, and she had to be at her desk in, yikes, forty-nine minutes. Sex could wait. She had necks to chop.

On Thursday morning, Blake was running a centrifuge separation, leaning over the instrument and making notes on a pad, when someone tapped him on the shoulder and made him jump a mile. He spun around and saw a grinning Jim Kruger. “Hey, sorry,” he said in a loud voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Guess you didn’t hear me knock, huh?”

“Well,” Blake said, waving. “The bees. The centrifuge, you know.”

“Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Her Bitchiness called me and said you weren’t answering your extension.”

“Huh?” Blake looked across the room. He’d missed hearing his phone before when wrapped up in work, when the bees were especially active. And the whirring centrifuge was loud.

“Blount,” Kruger said. “She wants to see you in her office.”

The centrifuge cycled off and hummed to a stop, leaving the room buzzing only to the song of the bees. Blake stared longingly at the centrifuge. Nothing in it would spoil, but still he was eager to finish his work. “Now?” he asked. “She wants to see me right now?”

“ASAP, she told me.” Kruger stepped back as Blake hopped off his lab stool. “Hey, good luck, man. If she cuts you loose and you need a recommendation, you know you can call on me.”

“Right, thanks,” Blake murmured. The two of them left the lab, Blake locked the door, and then he hurried to the elevator. Myra Blount’s temporary office was on the top floor.

The receptionist waved him in, and he found Myra looking rosy, settled behind her desk. “Good morning, Mr. Rogers,” she said. “And how are things in your neighborhood?” She gave him a quick smile, like a paper cut before the blood starts.

“My. . . you mean my lab? Uh, fine, thanks.”

“It was a joke,” Myra said. “Your neighborhood? You’re Mr. Rogers?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

The smile again. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve evaluated your contributions to Cosmagic and find you are a deserving employee. Your position is not in danger.”

“Thank you.”

She stared at him, then leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “You are welcome. And by the way, the sample you gave me of the corrective compound seems to be satisfactory.”

“Yes. It works.”

She raised a fingertip to her cheek. “I’m very satisfied with the results. Very satisfied. It worked so well on two blemishes of mine, some small imperfections and a surgical scar. It’s amazing how they cleared up in just a couple of days.”

“Yes,” Blake said. “That’s because the structures of the proteins involved incorporates itself into the cellular structure of the underlying skin layers.”

Myra licked her lips, and her cheeks became rosy. She took off her glasses and set them down on her desk. “It might have other uses, too, Blake. May I call you Blake?”

“Sure, Ms Blount.”

“Myra.”

“Okay, Myra.”

“Have you ever considered marketing the compound as an, uh, erotic aid?”

“A what?”

“An aid to women who might have difficulty in becoming . . . aroused? Interested in sex?”

Oh. The side effects. “No,” he said. “I see it as a cosmetic aid.”

Myra’s cheeks became redder. She licked her lips again. “I applied the compound with a fingertip,” she said huskily. “Later, I happened to touch my . . . my erogenous zones, you know, accidentally. I became tremendously .. . . excited.”

“You did?”

“I did. My nipples were so sensitive, and my clit . . . " she closed her eyes. “Mmmm. Blake, I had the best orgasm of my life after . . . touching myself down there. If there had been a man with me. . . you . . . I can’t imagine.”

Blake cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a side effect,” he admitted. “Fortunately, it will pass. That’s why I put the powder into a wax compound, you see. If it is inhaled, the effects are much more pronounced, but if it’s merely applied to the skin, the tendency to, ah, arousal, well, it peaks after a few days and then fades.”

Myra rose from her desk and walked around him. He watched her lock the door. She turned with her back against it. “I don’t want it to fade,” she said in a voice softened with an outrush of breath. “I’ve never felt so goddam sexy. I’m out of the mixture, Blake, I used it all up on my tits and my pussy. I need another sample.”

Blake felt his own cheeks heat up as she used the coarse words. “I don’t have very much,” he said. “Just a few cubic centimeters. You should know that this is a psychological state as much as a physical one. You’ll feel differently in a day or two.”

She stared at him. He could see that she was sweating, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. “You work with it,” she said. “My God, you must be horny all the time!”

He shook his head. “No, not at all. I should explain that the properties of the compound differ with the genders. It is derived from secretions of the queen bee, you understand. The . . . the arousal, the sexual drive, it’s part of what controls worker bees, what makes them so devoted to the queen. But all worker bees are female. The compound promotes healing and so forth in the male, but it doesn’t create a sense of arousal or . . . or dependence.”

Now Myra was breathing hard. “I could take care of the arousal,” she whispered. She shrugged off her jacket, and it lay in a crumpled heap in front of the door. Then her fingers began to fumble with the buttons of her white blouse. “I’m still horny,” she said, and this time her smile was impish and quick, making her look years younger.

Blake backed away. “Ms Blount, Myra I mean, you need to understand that you feel that way because I was the source of the compound. You’re not really, uh, in, uh . . . . " Damn, she had shed her blouse and had reached to unhook her bra. And her tits were large, the nipples distended and pulsing. He backed against the wall.

She trapped him there, a hand braced on each side of his head, and she leaned forward to kiss him. He felt the warm pliancy of her breasts against his chest, felt her hot lips on his mouth, felt her tongue probe into his mouth, felt his cock instantly respond, hardening and straining at the front of his trousers. It had been a long time.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. “Right here, right now. I can’t stop thinking about being fucked.”

“I, you’re very pretty, but . . . .” He felt her hand drop to his cock, caress it through the fabric of his lab coat and trousers. “That feels good,” he confessed.

“It’ll feel better.” She ripped his lab jacket open, buttons spanging off the walls, and then frantically unfastened his belt and trousers.

“Wait,” he said desperately. “I’ll do it. I don’t have a change.”

While he undressed, she quickly shucked her skirt and pantyhose. “Mm,” she moaned, looking at his bobbing cock. “Quick, quick, please.”

She turned to stand with her ass against the wall, and he took her standing up, plunging into her hot tight pussy with one movement. “Yes!” she said, and then she stood on one leg, her left leg raised and bent, her heel against his ass cheek. “Yesss, yesss, fuck me!”

Blake pistoned into her, driving the shaft of his cock into the clutch of her pussy. She played with her own tits, pinching and stretching the nipples, moaning. Then she threw her arms around him and clenched him to her, groaning, “I’m coming! Make me come!”

Blake couldn’t hold on much longer himself. He felt her twitch and jerk, felt her pussy grip his cock shaft hard, saw her face close like a fist holding onto pleasure. But he managed to delay his own release for another minute or so, and in that time she came again, whimpering, groaning with orgasm. “Don’t come inside me,” she gasped then. “I’m not on the pill, we’re not wearing protection.”

“Oh, shit.” He was too close. But he pulled out of her, frustrated.

Not for long. She dropped to her knees, grabbed his cock, and hungrily took it into her mouth, pumping him, sucking him, until he blasted his load into her hot mouth. “Mmm,” she said, sounding like a greedy kid sucking on a lollipop. “Mmmmm.”

His cock began to go limp, and at last she stood up, glistening with sweat, licking her lips. “Oh, that was so good,” she said. “Oh, Blake, you’re a good fucker. We’ve got to do this again.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

She hugged him, rubbing her slippery tits against his chest. “Me too, lover,” she whispered. “Only I need a little more of the sample, okay? You’ll give me some more, won’t you?”

“It’s hard to make,” he told her, holding onto her, stroking the small of her back, he swelling ass cheeks. “And I don’t have much. But, yes, I’ll see what I can spare.”

“It’s in your lab?”

“Yes. I’m working on a fresh batch right now, in fact, trying to get around the side effects.”

“You’d better get dressed and get back to your lab, then,” she said, kissing him. He could taste the salty tang of his own cum on her lips. “I’ll be on the pill next time. We can . . . enjoy each other more fully. Get me some more of the sample, lover.”

“All right,” he said, thinking to himself that this was even better than lab rats.

And later, after he had dressed, after he had gone back to the lab and found another jacket to wear, he told himself really they hadn’t harmed anyone. Probably after the weekend, Myra’s passion for him would cool, unless she really overdid it with the sample he would provide her. It wasn’t as if she had inhaled it, after all.

If she had. . . well, that would bring on a whole different set of side effects.

Not, he reflected, that he would necessarily object.