The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Victor Hugo once said, “A writer is a world trapped in a person,” and that’s more accurate than you might think. Any half-decent author will tell you we don’t make our characters do anything; we come up with their setting, and then they make their own decisions, leaving us to simply express in words what we see them doing in our heads. Some art schools call it “writing at the top of their intelligence,” but all it really means is, “hey, let the characters do what makes sense for them, not what you want them to do.” That’s what makes a well-written protagonist so relatable: they’re almost real humans. And you want a relatable protagonist, because people will only become immersed in your work if they can see a little bit of themselves in the characters they’re reading. And if they see too much of themselves in your characters, they might just get confused about who they really are...but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I am an aspiring author, and when I first learned the true power of language, I had been using the pen name Jaime Filigree. You can pretend that’s my real name if you must call me something. I hadn’t published anything yet, and technically still haven’t, but I was nothing if not persistent. I wrote because I enjoyed creating, not for the fame, but of course in the back of my mind I always heard my name being called out as the new Tolkien or Stephen King or Rowling. I even gave myself creative exercises to sharpen my writer’s intuition (which mostly consisted of going on an anonymous chat site, pretending to be my character, and reacting to other people without breaking face). It was a surprisingly effective way to get inside their heads, and when I got to the point where the chatters all believed the charade was real, I knew I truly understood the persona.

I often had my friends and family read my manuscripts during the writing process and give me feedback. I don’t know if they particularly enjoyed doing it, but they loved me enough to help anyway, and their comments were invaluable. Without them, for instance, I would never have realized that my novel’s screwed-up timeline implied a baby’s conception to a 6-year-old father...ew. Ew, ew, ew, that was definitely not intentional. So you can see why it was so important that my friend Bella read over my latest draft and be totally, completely honest with me.

She had a habit of reading aloud, which I didn’t mind, as it helped me understand how my audience would read the sentences I’d written in the final version.

“Becky crept downstairs, the basement lights flickering below, her flashlight completely dead. This was just like the many horror movies she’d watched late at night, sometimes triggering her insomnia, only this time the events were real. One step. One creak. One step, one creak. One step, then CRASH as the stairs gave way under her and she fell down, down, farther than the building’s foundations should have allowed, for what seemed an eternity. When she hit the ground, she blacked out, but not before becoming acutely aware that she was being watched.”

“So, what do you think so far, Bella?” I asked with anticipation.

Bella jumped about six inches off her chair. I took that as a good sign for a horror novel. “Oh, God, don’t do that! Bella...yeah, Bella...that’s me...”

I crinkled my eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘that’s me’? Who else would you be?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “I guess I just got so lost in the story that I put myself in Becky’s shoes for a bit.”

I grinned. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. So, any notes I should take?”

“Um...” Bella seemed distracted. “You could change the ‘crash’ from all caps to just italics; that might look better. But content-wise, nah, it’s really good so far. 2spoopy5me.” She giggled, knowing how much I hate when people use memes or text speak in actual speech.

“Don’t use all caps. Got it. Thanks for the help!”

About a week later, I had written more of the story and needed her input again. She started from the beginning to refresh her memory, and then read on. She read about the specters that surrounded Becky, the way they tortured her, the way she begged for any kind of escape—even death—but was denied it at every turn. The novel was supposed to make your adrenaline spike, and as Bella read, her fast breathing seemed to confirm it was right on the nose.

“So?” I asked when she’d finished. No response, just ragged breathing, and I noticed her hands were gripping the pages far too tightly. “Bella?”

She jumped again, the second time in a week, and looked at me, only her eyes were devoid of recognition. “Who’s Bella?! Why are you doing this to me?!”

“Woah!” I said, putting my hands on her shoulder to try and calm her down. “Relax, Bella, it’s just a story, it’s not real.”

“MY NAME IS BECKY!Get away, demon!” She kicked my shin, hard enough to be quite painful, and ran into the bathroom. She seemed genuinely frightened, and I was genuinely confused. What had gotten into her?

I headed to the bathroom door and knocked gently. “Bella? Are you okay in there?”

After a pause, she opened the door, and I realized she had been crying. She sniffled. “Yeah...yeah, I’m okay...I think. I just... just needed to see myself in the mirror.”

“Um...why?”

“Nothing. No reason. Um, your story’s great, no notes today, I’m going to head home.” She rubbed her eye as she pushed past me, walked out the front door, got in her car, and left.

“That was completely weird,” I said aloud to myself. “I mean, I’m not a terrible writer, but I didn’t think she’d get that immersed in the story...” I called her a few hours later to make sure she was okay; she said she was, and I left it at that. I decided to give her a break and let someone else read my manuscripts for awhile, and who better than my own mother? She’d certainly give me honest feedback.

Two weeks later, the next draft was ready for a read-over. I gave it to my mother. She read about Becky’s attempts to escape. She read about how at every turn, Becky only realized more and more that she was running in a maze, one designed to torture her with every terrifying thought she’d ever had, one where every right turn was wrong, and every left turn was hell. I noticed my mom’s hands shaking as she finished reading.

“Mom? What did you think?”

She turned her eyes from the page and looked into mine, and I saw the same fear and confusion I’d seen in Bella. “’Mom’? I don’t have any kids, stop this torture! Stop it, let me go!” She threw the pages onto the floor and started stomping her feet on the ground, flailing about as if constrained. “Let me go! I can’t take this anymore! I don’t know what you want from me! I’m no one special, I’m just Becky, let me go!” The louder she screamed, the more I was afraid a neighbor would call the police, so I tried to calm her down.

“Mom! Mom, relax, it’s me, Jaime! Your son! It’s just a story!” I tried to contain her movements, to at least stop her from pounding the floor with her feet, but I was having trouble.

“No! No, you’re trying to confuse me more! Stop it, please, just stop it and let me go! I want to go home!” Tears started flowing now, and I was terrified that my mother was having a complete dissociative episode. Which was weird, since she never had any mental problems in her life.

“Mom! You are home! Stop it, you’re scaring me!“

“I’m not Mom! I’m Becky! Stop messing with my head!” Stomp, stomp. Flail, flail. Cry, scream.

Then I remembered what Bella had said: “I just needed to see myself in the mirror.” It was worth a shot; anything was worth a shot at this point. I ran to her bathroom and gabbed her hand mirror to bring back. She was still throwing her fit when I returned, so her eyes were closed. “Mom—I mean, uh, Becky! Look at this! Look!”

“No! I don’t want to see the lies you keep showing me!” Stomp, flail, cry.

“Just look at it!” I reached up and forced her eyelid open with my thumb, to make sure she could see the mirror I held in front of her face.

She continued crying, but more softly, and the flailing and stomping ceased. “J—Jaime? Is...is that me?” Her breathing slowly returned to normal. “Oh, God, I’m so...I’m sorry, Jaime, I don’t know what came over me...I guess I just...really got into your story...” She hugged me in as motherly a fashion as she could muster. “Sorry if I scared you...I’m going to go lay down for a bit...you can let yourself out when you’re ready...” She dazedly took the mirror from my hand and made her way into the master bedroom.

“What the hell?” I said, again talking to myself, but also in a way speaking to Becky. “What did you do to them?”

For the next month, I didn’t write anything. Ideas kept flowing, of course, but I was afraid of anyone else reading my work. The inscrutable desires of the Muses, however, had other plans. So far, both times this strangeness had occurred, I was told the story was perfect. But I don’t like perfection, because it usually means someone’s lying, and I prefer honesty to just about any alternative. I remembered hearing about how two film writers wanted to pitch their ideas to various studios, but they wanted to make sure the studios actually read the screenplay before deciding. So they inserted a completely unnecessary sex scene in the middle of the script, one that made no sense, and waited for a studio representative to call them out on it. That’s how they knew who had paid attention to their ideas and who hadn’t. I decided to find out if everyone was lying to me or giving me honest feedback by using the same method.

It had been a month since Bella’s episode, so I figured it was safe to ask her for help again. I wasn’t worried about another catastrophe, because the fake scene was so terrible there was no way she’d be immersed in it. I just wanted to know if she was being honest, or if she’d tell me it was all still good. So when she came over, I handed her the new draft and listened to her read.

She read about Becky’s failed escape. She read about her pleading to go home. Then she read about Becky’s ex-boyfriend, Cody, randomly showing up in hell. And asking for sex. And Becky inexplicably forgetting she was in hell, surrounded by demons, and just enjoying the moment. Ignoring the heat of the flames around her and “focusing on the heat of his member inside her.” Seriously, terrible writing, as bad as I could make it without being obviously intentional.

And as she read, I saw Bella reach down with one hand below the waistline of her jeans. And when she got to the part where Cody took Becky’s anal virginity for no reason, I saw her start to finger herself. I was in awe, and was even more amazed when she finished reading but didn’t stop fingering herself.

“Bella? So, uh...” I tried not to make it obvious that I saw what she was doing to herself. “What did you think of the story?”

Bella turned. No blank stare or lack of recognition—that was a good sign. But she still seemed a little confused. “Bella? Is that your new nickname for me, Cody?”

“C—Cody?” I stuttered. “Bella, seriously, it’s just a story! Stop doing that, it’s really freaking me out. It’s me, Jaime!”

“I don’t understand this game, Cody,” she said, suddenly smiling coyly. “But I can be your little Bella if you want.” She stood up and began slowly and sexily gyrating as she unbuttoned her pants.

I panicked. You would, too, if your friend suddenly started acting like the character from your own novel, and especially if she was acting out the poorly written sex scene that was just supposed to be a literary honeypot. I didn’t own a hand-held mirror, so I had to get her to come into the bathroom and see herself in the one bolted to the wall. “Um...uh...okay, Bel—Becky. If we’re going to do this, we have to do it in there.” I pointed to the bathroom.

“Ooh, a little privacy? Okay, Cody, let’s go, then; I can’t wait.” She led the way, luckily; I was afraid I might block her view of the mirror if I entered first. As soon as she took one step in the bathroom and saw the mirror, she froze. She quickly buttoned her jeans and removed her hand. “Oh...Oh, God...what am I doing?” She spun on her heels to face me. “I am so sorry, Jaime, I didn’t mean to...I didn’t mean any...I’m so sorry!” She blushed and seemed about to explode.

“No, it’s...it’s okay,” I said, not fully convinced of that myself. “Maybe we should just leave it at that for now...”

She nodded quickly, then rushed out the door without another word and sped off in her Toyota. Meanwhile, I was a mess of contradictory emotions and ideas. They thought they were Becky... at least for Bella and Mom, they read my story and became the fictional Becky, until they were reminded of who they truly are in the mirror. And with what Bella was about to do, there seemed to be no doubt in their minds about their identity—and apparently mine—while they were “immersed”. I’d of course heard about hypnotism, but this was something different. Something more. And while it terrified me, it also enticed me. What could I do with this gift? What should I do? What should I absolutely not do? ...and what would I do anyway?