The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I used to be part of an Internet community of mind control fetishists. Whether we liked men or women, wanted to be on top or on the bottom, liked it soft or hard, there were a few things we all agreed on. One of those common articles of faith was that mind control was only erotic in the context of fantasy, and that in reality, as practiced on other real human beings, it could be nothing but horrific.

How right we were.

It started (I believe, looking back on it now) with the movies. Comedies, mostly: Ella Enchanted, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind... The Stepford Wives, for God’s sake. There was also a rise in the number of commercials that used hypnosis for humorous effect, including one memorable ad campaign which informed viewers that when they awoke, they would remember nothing, but would be compelled to go out and buy a box of cookies. Reality shows jumped on the bandwagon; every week, The Hypnotist would put another photogenic group of people under and make them act ridiculously (prompting the usual arguments over how much of the show was faked). Even record stores began to expand their selection of so-called “trance” music.

Those of us in the community joked and applauded that our fetish was finally going mainstream. Some worried about the increased exposure, but the public reaction seemed to be mostly positive. A few of us started cautiously “coming out” to friends and loved ones. It was a hopeful time.

Things really got weird during February sweeps. No less than six series, from soap operas to action dramas to cartoons, had episodes or whole arcs featuring hypnosis and other forms of mind-control. Such stories had been done before—many of us had carefully hoarded collections of blurry pictures and old videotapes showing blank-faced actors—but these scenes were surprisingly intense. The camera would linger on the subjects or their controller, and the old axiom about hypnosis not being able to make you act against your nature was brought up only to be immediately “disproved.” Secondary characters were compelled to commit murder and sometimes suicide.

And most startling of all: the bad guys won.

That was something that we used to complain about, always with a wink and a smile: in traditional plots of this sort, the villain would meet his (or her) deserved end and the hero (or heroine) would be released from control, if they hadn’t already broken the conditioning on their own. That wasn’t happening now. Rescuers were being betrayed and converted by those they’d come to save. Strong-willed characters were being crushed instead of breaking free. Episodes were ending with a gloating villain admiring their new pet (often someone whom no one had suspected of being controlled), or a hero crying over the body of a friend who had escaped slavery only in death.

We’d seen it all before in stories we’d read or written for ourselves. But to see it on cable (and even one broadcast network) during prime time was shocking. It was amazing. It was, for many, incredibly arousing. We discussed this new trend endlessly in the privacy of our message boards. What none of us really noticed, in our excitement, was that the “mainstream” media wasn’t talking about it. At all. The regular viewers seemed to simply accept it.

I finally started paying attention when Univision went off the air. They’d been showing more stage hypnosis shows, which I’d been taping, as well as some commercials that were even more bizarre than usual (doubly so because I didn’t speak Spanish). Then, overnight, it was gone. There were some complaints but no explanation, and the cable companies soon filled the slot with another channel featuring—what else?—trance music videos. I stayed away from that after an evening when I sat down with dinner and started channel surfing. The next thing I knew, it was an hour later, my food was cold and the phone was ringing. If my brother hadn’t called, I might have sat there all night.

I began to worry. I swore off TV and switched from tap water to bottled (in hindsight, a pathetically token gesture). Feeling a little silly and alarmist, I created a separate anonymous account to ask around on some of my favorite sites if anyone had noticed the same thing. Some laughed and accused me of reading too many stories, but there were enough serious responses, reports of worrisome incidents and familiar (to me) patterns that I went from being vaguely concerned to genuinely paranoid.

So when Google threw a pulsing fractal in my face on the morning of June 1, I didn’t stop to think; I reacted. I threw myself out of the chair as if the monitor was about to blow up, earning a bruised shoulder. I was still cursing as I picked myself up off the floor and risked a wary look at the screen from the side, confirming what I thought I’d seen. I leaned over, keeping my eyes averted, and turned the monitor off. Then I noticed that quiet, soothing, repetitive music was coming from the speakers. If I wasn’t still twitching with fear and adrenalin, I don’t know if I would have had the strength to yank them out by the wires.

That’s when I knew the balloon had gone up. I didn’t try to call my family, my friends, or my boss; it was too late for that. I went to the closet where I kept the leftovers of my Y2K buying binge, threw it all into a suitcase with some clothes on top, and took it out to the car. My neighbor’s car was still in the driveway, and I feared what I might have to do if he came out of the house, but he never did.

I stopped at an ATM to try to cash out my account, but when I entered my PIN, the little screen showed me the fractal instead. I looked away fast and decided I didn’t want my card back.

The streets were eerily quiet on the way out of town, as if it was a holiday. I passed an appliance store where I saw a scene out of an old movie, but twisted: a small crowd had gathered in front of the window, all of them staring at the flowing colors on the row of televisions. I nearly rear-ended a Civic whose driver had slowed down to rubberneck and gotten sucked into the screens. After that, I kept my eyes on the road.

One of the gags on the cartoon Futurama was an imaginary show called the Mass Hypnosis Hour. Like a lot of old jokes, it suddenly wasn’t funny anymore.

I found the rush-hour freeway empty except for a few commuters and long-haul truck drivers who hadn’t gotten the Word yet. I felt terribly conspicuous and exposed with empty lanes to my left and right. I briefly thought of trying to stop one of my fellow motorists... and tell them what? What would we do? No, my only chance was to run as far and as fast as I could (while diligently obeying the speed limit, so as not to attract attention) before the noose closed completely.

I had a bad moment at the Canadian border, seeing the uniformed guards walking along the rows of stopped traffic. But by then I had settled into the almost inhuman calm that sometimes accompanies fear for one’s life: cool tranquility overlaying a hypersensitive readiness to act. I told them that I was visiting Canada because I felt like getting away from civilization for a while, and that the things in the trunk were emergency supplies, all of which was true. They did not try to show me the fractal or any other designs. When they waved me through the gates, I finally let myself begin to hope that I had gotten away clean.

For the past fifteen months, as near as I can reckon it, I’ve been living at my dead uncle’s cabin in the Canadian Rockies. I’ve lost some fat and gained some muscle. It’s been difficult getting used to a simple and solitary life without electricity, running water, supermarkets or the Net, but I’m getting by. It beats the alternative.

Sometimes I lie awake at night wondering about the new world beyond the horizon. Who controls it? What does it look like? How many of my former correspondents walked into the arms of their new masters with open eyes and glad hearts? Are my parents or my brother still alive? Why did it happen? The unanswerable questions chase each other around the inside of my head until at last I fall asleep.

One sunny morning I’m out chopping firewood when a helicopter, an honest-to-God black helicopter, comes stealthily whup-whup-whuping over the trees. For a few precious seconds I just stand and stare at it in disbelief: another piece of what used to be pure fantasy rudely intruding into my life. Then I turn and run for the cabin, dodging from tree to tree, wishing that I had brought the rifle along for all the good it would do me.

They don’t shoot. I’m about halfway to the cabin when there’s an earsplitting wail that completely drowns out the muffled sound of the helicopter’s blades overhead. I grab for my ears as I run, trying to shut out the awful noise, but the world begins to tilt and slide away from under my feet. I fall to my knees, grabbing tufts of grass to hold onto, and vomit the sour remains of my home-made rabbit stew all over the wildly spinning ground. Then, almost mercifully, I pass out.

When I come to, with a terrible headache and an empty stomach, I’m sitting in the back seat of a black SUV. I’m in a straitjacket and my ankles are chained together. On either side of me sit my captors (my captors’ tools, I should say): one male, one female, identically anonymous in black uniforms without rank or insignia. They both have that severe military look and a thousand-yard-stare that’s fixed forward. I look ahead, and see the backs of the heads of two more in the driver and passenger seats. No one says a word.

I get hard. It’s creepy as hell, and I know I’m going to die or worse... but I still get hard. Not for the first time, I curse the kink in my brain that makes me feel this way.

I stare at the woman next to me for over a minute. Dark brown hair drawn back in an efficient ponytail, steely blue eyes that blink every once in a while, strong nose, narrow lips. No makeup, of course.

“Hey,” I say. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even glance in my direction, the way a normal person would. None of them do.

“Where are you taking me?” Still no answer. They must not be programmed to respond to me. I start to lean forward, my ankle chains jingling as I get my feet under me. That gets a response: two iron hands close on my swaddled arms and shove me firmly back into my seat. My bookends do this without looking at me. Kicking the driver is probably out of the question too, even if my feet could stretch that far.

For the next dozen miles I idly contemplate suicide. I’d done this back at the cabin, making morbid plans for what I could do if they came for me. (Call me selfish, but I’d rather not have someone else walking around with my body after the real me is dead and gone.) Unfortunately, my captors have been quite efficient and thorough. Even if I wasn’t in full restraints, and my courage didn’t fail me at the last instant, there’s nothing I can reach that I could jam into my eye or use to slice open my femoral arteries. My guards don’t seem to be carrying guns—why should they? With a sigh, I resign myself to the unattractive prospect of living.

The SUV seems to be headed south, and once again I, or we, have the highway to ourselves. Now and then we pass a semi; after the first one, I don’t bother to look at the drivers. Once an hour or so, there’s a bus—Greyhound, charter, school, they’re all the same now—with blank faces lined up in a row behind the windows. I catch myself wondering why they don’t ship the people in trailers too. The best answer I can come up with is that it must be easier on the bodies this way.

The SUV only stops for gas. The prices on the signs are the same as I remember, but no money changes hands. We pull into a station, the attendant—practically an extension of the pump—comes out and fills the tank, and we drive off again. After the first two stops, I become aware of a pressing need. I complain, plead, thrash about (that gets me restrained again, and I suspect that if I’m too rowdy, they’ll start breaking limbs), and finally, humiliatingly, wet myself. My bookends are apparently programmed to hold it. Bastards.

My pants are dry again and the sun is setting by the time we reach the border. The signs rouse me from my sleepy stupor and I peer out the window just in time to watch the station roar by. The lights are off, the gates are up, and it seems abandoned. Figures. I turn and admire what may be my final sunset until the last light fades from the sky.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know I’m being hauled out of the back of the SUV and marched through an underground parking garage. There are more black SUVs in some of the nearby spaces, and as I’m being hustled over to the loading dock I see a mixed group of men, women, and a few children boarding a prison bus. They’re all wearing olive green nylon jumpsuits, even the kids, and they all have that expression that tells me no one is home. I lose sight of them as I pass through a reinforced door into the building proper.

I can tell immediately that I’m in a jail, just from the look and feel of the place, even before I see the signs that inform me it’s the King County Jail in downtown Seattle. Either my captors are connected to the government, or they’ve adopted the places and trappings of power for themselves.

God, I hope there’s not a horny geek behind all this. Bad enough if aliens or the CIA are running things now, but it would be just too pathetic if civilization as we knew it ended because some kid couldn’t get laid.

Four new black-uniformed security drones step up to flank us and my former escorts peel off, vanishing together down a side corridor. It’s done so smoothly and quickly it’s over before I can react. I think back to a school field trip where I visited a bottling plant: thousands of mechanical parts working together in an intricate ballet, moving the bottles down the line to be filled, capped and packaged for shipment. Guilty admiration tickles my heart.

I’m led to an interrogation room. It’s well lit, no bare bulb, but the small table and two chairs are otherwise as shown in countless police procedurals. My guards strip me, first the straitjacket and then the clothes underneath; it all goes into a plastic basket (PROPERTY OF KING COUNTY) placed there on the table for that purpose. I don’t see the drone in white until he’s jabbing the hypo into my ass. I flinch and yell and would probably break the needle off if I wasn’t so tightly restrained. The medical drone leaves without a word and the ones in black sit my naked, punctured ass down in one of the chairs and cuff my left wrist to it before following him out.

For the first time since this ordeal began, I’ve been left alone with my fears. I look around the tiny room for something to help me. The walls are smooth plaster, not even a one-way mirror to drag the chair over to and break. Maybe the overhead light... I stand up, wondering if I can get up on the table, and sit right back down again because I’m too dizzy to stay on my feet. What the heck did they shoot me up with? It must be hitting me extra hard on this empty stomach.

By the time my interrogator arrives, I’ve decided that escape is hopeless, and that I don’t really care anymore. Then she walks in, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. Or hallucinating.

It’s an FBI agent. A hot, blonde FBI agent. Dark suit, white shirt, tie. All she’s missing is the sunglasses.

She’s the first woman, the first real woman, I’ve seen in over a year.

She’s the Enemy. I don’t care.

She spends a minute going through my clothes as I sit there, dry-mouthed and hard as a stone. Then she puts the basket on the floor and sits down in the other chair, looking not at me but at the file folder she brought. Finally she speaks, low and throaty.

“Mr. Thomas.”

I can’t stop the giggle. It bubbles up inside me like a soda burp.

“Not ‘Anderson’?”

One of her eyebrows rises a fraction, but if she gets the joke, she doesn’t acknowledge it. She repeats my name, reciting the date and place of my birth, my schooling, my past residences and other dry biographical facts. I find myself nodding along, my head bobbing and lolling on my neck. God, I’m flying. At least I’m going to be a happy drone.

With those preliminaries out of the way, she starts asking the important questions: have I been in contact with anyone else? Did I help anyone else to escape? Was I living alone at the cabin? Sometimes she has to ask more than once. It’s hard for me to concentrate. I keep staring at her chest.

When she pauses to turn a page in the file, I think to ask a question of my own. “Izzat how you found me? Someone talked?”

She looks up and a faint smile plays across her lips. “Satellite imaging picked up the smoke from your wood stove, Mr. Thomas. Your location’s been known for months. Bringing you in simply hasn’t been a priority. Do you know you’ve missed a World War? The last one. All that’s left now is rounding up the stragglers.”

There are more questions. I start playing with myself with my free hand, starting with little strokes and working my way up until I’m jacking my cock good and hard, imagining her without that suit and how I want to fuck her. She doesn’t seem to mind or even notice.

We’re halfway through some kind of medical questionnaire when suddenly she just freezes up. Her eyes glaze over and she stops in mid-syllable, lips slightly parted. Through the blur of the drug and my rising excitement, I focus on the tight coil of insulated wire just below one perfect ear, leading down under her collar. An earpiece. I didn’t think anything of it before, but...

She’s not one of Them. She’s just another puppet. A different kind of drone.

With a groan of pure lust, I spray helplessly all over the bottom of the table.

She comes back as I finish, sagging in the chair and panting for breath. My head’s so light it feels like it’s going to float away. I hear more than see her push back the chair and rise, taking the file with her as she leaves.

A thought slowly assembles itself from the shards of my consciousness: if that was the last orgasm I get, it was a pretty good one.

I don’t get to enjoy the afterglow very long. Another four-drone goon squad arrives a few minutes later to collect me. I’m uncuffed, hauled to my feet, and marched out of the room and down the hall. At first I have to lean on them a lot—my legs don’t want to hold me up—but after a while my head seems to clear some. Maybe the stuff is starting to wear off. I wonder if I want more.

More corridors. I’m completely turned around now. I don’t even know if I’m on the same floor as when I came in. Finally we come to a door. One of the guards opens it and the others push me through, closing it behind me with a solid thud and the click of a lock.

This used to be a bathroom, but all the stalls and fixtures have been torn out, leaving just a big empty room with bare walls and an old tile floor and some capped pipes. I’m not alone; there are about a dozen others, all naked and miserable. About half of them are grey-haired hippie types, some fat, some scrawny. There’s a guy about my age standing close to a woman with milky eyes, whispering to her and holding her hand. There’s another guy who’s missing his left arm below the elbow, and a woman curled up in a corner sobbing.

Everyone in here is either old or has something wrong with them, and my drug-fogged brain is still trying to figure out why that’s really bad when the speakers in the corners start to hum loudly, filling the room with a standing wave. The arousal hits us all at once. My wilted cock springs back to life, ready for another go. I look around for a hole to stick it into. Women are grabbing men and pulling them down to the tile. The hippies are doing it in couples and threesomes. The woman in the corner (I can see now that she has an eyepatch, and I don’t care) has stopped crying and is rubbing herself frantically. I go over to join her.

We’re all busy humping away like rabbits, rabbits with electrodes in our brains, when the vents open a minute later and they start pumping the gas in.

And that’s how it ends.