The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Allow me, as they say, to introduce myself. Ian Starkey at your service, head of Aesthetic Removals Ltd.

I and my merry band are, so to speak, in the removals business; our clients are people who, for the sake of argument, think that certain objects shouldn’t be in Place A and would look much better in, say, Place B, which is often on the other side of a formidable security system or thick walls. Sometimes we even move people; our clients sometimes express an interest in moving someone from where they are, because they think they’d look better in Place C, which is generally at the bottom of a river.

Or used to be, anyway; the slave trade’s picking up again. And we’ve got an advantage there...

Karen’s the one responsible. Wonderful girl; about five foot eight, sheer black hair down past her breasts, big, firm breasts, legs a plastic surgeon has wet dreams about sculpting, and a face which is beautiful all the time and incredible when she smiles. And brains enough for a regiment, which you’d expect from someone with a bachelor’s in computer science and machine code and a master’s in engineering; her ex—another lovely woman, incidentally; when I first met her she was a lesbian—got a doctorate in neuropsychiatry or neurophysiology, or something similar—which was how Karen got interested in the thing to start with. She’s one of those people who always has to have something to work on, something to keep her mind occupied. I wonder sometimes how often she was actually concentrating on sex with Laura; I imagine lesbians know if their partner is faking for sure but I don’t know about these things. I’m pretty sure she concentrates on me, though, for the same reason I’m sure she won’t return to exclusive lesbianism.

Essentially, the idea was that it’s possible to imprint information into the brain through laser pulses through the eyes. She worked at this for ages, raiding Laura’s books as much as anything of her own, until she could convert sentences involving instructions, emotions, and much other stuff that could hook directly into the active centres of the brain. Imprinting, say, school lessons this way has problems; it wouldn’t hook into the right things, so you wouldn’t have access to it. But commands... post-hypnotic suggestions, so to speak... they stick. And they can even override other instincts.

We’d been sleeping together for three years before she told me about this, before I found out about and met Laura, by that time a mindless robot. It appears Karen worked out a prototype design, overrode the alarm system in an electronics store, and came away with enough equipment to piece it together. And she managed to squirt a control burst down Laura’s optic nerve, programming it so that Laura was really reduced to a mindless servitor.

It took her three years to decide she trusted me enough to let me know about this; a mistake, as it turned out, since it disappeared from our flat a couple of days later. We’d been burgled; the TV was missing, the computer was missing, the phone was missing; if it hadn’t been for my mobile being in my jacket at the time, we could well have gone out of business as our contacts were eroded.

If the imprinter hadn’t vanished into my other jacket pocket, things would have turned out very differently, but they didn’t. This was imprinter mark three, with emphasis on miniaturisation; while Karen hadn’t done any more active imprinting, ideas on miniaturisation kept occurring to her; the same mind that kept her pursuing it in the first place drove her to refine it. There wasn’t even a connection to any way of programming it any more; instead she’d taken an old Psion apart and soldered herself some new circuit boards, written a new program; you plug in the faux-organiser and select some options, hit enter, load the instructions in, and the imprinter’s primed.

I’ve always been a night owl, and at the time I was going through a prolonged bout of insomnia; so when I found myself still awake at half-two in the morning, I wasn’t altogether surprised. Karen, now as then, could sleep through all-out nuclear war if she lived in a missile silo, and didn’t react in time. I went through the options, and selected a neat little program:

Obedience Level: Irresistible hypnotic, specific to master

(the hypnotic meaning that trances could easily be induced and her psyche thus further fiddled with)

Surface Personality: As before

Sexual Orientation: Bi

Likes: sex, Ian Starkey (I was fairly surprised you could specify, but she later explained that so long as a subject’s brain could associate the symbols with a person or item it already knew, the imprinter could link to that), threesomes

Dislikes: Bad come-ons, polygamy with males (At this stage I was really beginning to be impressed with Karen’s attention to detail on an invention that no one would dare market to a species with the sort of problems humanity has), Eastenders (As above; not having to watch the bloody thing every night would be a major bonus)

There were a dozen other categories, but none of them really interested me; personal quirks, fetishes, behavioural patterns... Karen had to convince the rest of Aesthetic Removals that nothing had happened, unless I wanted my men turning on me and throwing me off what would almost certainly be a worryingly tall building, so I left them alone. I doubt I’d have touched them anyway, but that clinched it.

I snuck one hand onto her forehead with the sort of gentle touch I used to use back when mechanical locks were all we had to deal with, before I needed someone like Karen, spread my fingers so that one rested above her eye and one below, exerted a little light pressure, got the imprinter ready, and moved my fingers further apart.

I heard a gasp of indrawn breath as the invasive motion startled her out of sleep, and hit the button. There followed a brief moment of light, of which I only saw a little scatter; lasers keep their beams pretty tight, as most of you should know, and then I let go of her face and rolled over in bed to put the imprinter back down. I wondered if she knew what had happened, and what her reaction would be if she did.

After a few moments, she spoke. “Bastard,” she said, vehemently.

“Oh, yeah?” I said indifferently.

“Yeah,” she said, still sounding peeved. “Sexy bastard, but you’re still a bastard.”

“You, uh, don’t mind... too much, then?”

“Mind?” She sounded mad. “Of course I mind; you just fucked with my brain, why shouldn’t I mind? On the other hand, there’s bugger all I can do about it, if—”

She choked that sentence off in a hurry. I thought about it, caught the drift she’d hoped not to convey, and said, reflectively, “Karen, I’d appreciate it if you went into a trance now.”

Her face lost it’s annoyed look and she settled back down into calm repose, looking as fast asleep as she had been when I was programming the imprinter.

“Karen, I don’t want you ever to even think of using the imprinter on me, or you, again. I don’t want you to tell Laura to use it, or to write her instructions, or to let her know if you want her to in any way.” I considered. “I want you to forget I used the imprinter on you,” I said. Might lead to fewer rows in the future.

“Wake up now,” I said, running out of ideas.

She opened her eyes, blinked, and opened them again. “Still dark,” she said. “What’s the time?”

She reached out to her bedside table and picked her watch up. She inspected the time and pulled a face. “Shit.”

I reached out and patted her hand. “You get used to it,” I said. She turned her head slightly and smiled at me. “You’re probably right,” she said. “Hey, since we’re both awake...”

I grinned at her. “Sure, why not?”

I had all the stuff I’d arranged to be stolen replaced afterwards; no need for the pretence anymore.

I never told Karen about what had happened again; no need, after all. We just turned our attention further toward the slave trade.

“Eleanor Peters,” Karen read aloud. “Five foot four, slim build, strawberry blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and to judge by this photo, the fattest backside this side of the equator. Still, no accounting for taste...”

“He wants her bi,” I said. “So we’ll leave it to you to test her conditioning. Everyone ready?”

I was greeted with a wall of nods; Rob, the designated driver, Laura, who we use when no one still in possession of their own mind wants to risk themselves or there’s heavy lifting involved—like when we were hired for a Henry Moore sculpture—Karen, of course, Dave—who holds them down while we get the imprinter ready—Phil, who keeps lookout, Jack and Jeff, who deal with bodyguards... all were ready.

“Good; it looks like one of the easier runs. All right; let’s go.”

Fifteen minutes later two stunned bodyguards were wrestling with electronic cable which Jack and Jeff had improvised into a neat little trap; with any luck on their part they’d realise what the rest of their confinement was perilously close to; stripped live wire was very close to a full bathtub, and if they managed to unravel themselves it’d be time for the towering inferno. In the meantime a now very calm and docile Eleanor Peters was walking arm-in-arm with me and Karen down the stairs, singing a Meat Loaf medley with cheerful abandon, while Dave, Laura, Jack and Jeff were investigating the contents of her suite’s minibar. This was, as far as we could work out, a marriage for turf in the Irish underworld; Peters’ father wouldn’t disown his daughter, and so long as he didn’t know exactly why Eleanor was so pleased to be married to a notorious womanising flash bastard everything would be OK. If he did suspect, I was quite prepared to reveal the mastermind of the whole operation; after all, Laura doesn’t care.

I leaned my head back and took a sly look at Eleanor’s backside; despite her liking for threesomes, Karen is still a jealous woman, and I haven’t got around to changing it—at heart, I’m a lazy man, and I keep forgetting when there’s time. I’ll get around to it some day.

It didn’t seem overlarge to me; I shrugged inwardly and put this fixation on the size of arses back into my ‘Reasons men will never understand women’ mental folder, which grows larger by the day. It has been pointed out to me that this lack of understanding may be part of explaining lesbianism, but somehow I doubt it. It fails to explain gay men; after all, we’re blokes, and we’re pretty straightforward. We like sex, beer, and Sean Connery best as James Bond. That’s what being a bloke is.

Eleanor lay naked on the bed—my bed—mine and Karen’s bed—and I wasn’t what she was there for. This is why I don’t like the initiations of new bisexuals; we have to check the produce—we had an accident once which proved that pretty thoroughly; sometimes, the imprint doesn’t take first time around—but when we check a new bisexual, I know two women, both very attractive and receptive to orders, are, to use the words of an old friend, ‘doing the squelchy’on my bloody bed AND I CAN’T JOIN IN.

I can watch, and I can see if not watching allows me not to think about this—it doesn’t, going on experience—but I can’t join in without risking the fuckup of the imprint and having to call Dave in while we get the imprinter ready again. And I don’t like other men poking about in my room; a bedroom has to be a sanctum sanctorum. It’s where I stash the accounts, among other things.

Karen finished stacking her clothes away neatly—her ability to tune her surroundings out is uncanny, and kind of annoys me, in that I can’t duplicate it; I think it’s something to do with the way her mind keeps flicking from item to item, like I said earlier—and turned back to the job in hand. Professionalism, perhaps paradoxically, vanished as she did so.

She approached the bed, slowly, luxuriating in her dominance. That alone is probably the major reason I enjoy controlling her; it’s what she likes. I still haven’t figured out why she didn’t get the drop on me before I got it on her.

She stepped up onto the bed and walked up it’s length, halting when her feet were either side of Eleanor’s head. She knelt, lowering herself so that her naked, soaked pussy came to rest just lightly poised above Eleanor’s mouth.

“Your lips open,” she said. I could barely hear her from where I stood, leaning against the doorframe, but from long experience I knew Karen’s favourite routine. “They slowly rise upward, questing. They come to rest against my own lips, my damp lips, and they stick. Your mouth is locked into this passionate kiss, this most wonderful of kisses, as your tongue seems to rise of it’s own accord. You run it experimentally around my lips, gathering up all of the juices that touch the dividing line between me and... ah... ahhhhhh... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh...” I could hear her clearly now. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s goooooood. Now find my clitoris... yesssss... lick me. Make me come, and then make me come again, and do not allow your lips to leave mine to any degree at any time until that has happened. Then you may swallow all that I have given you, and then you may release your lips from mine. And you will sleep, and not awake until you are dressed in your bridal gown and ready to marry your new master, ready to marry and serve him, and serve also his mistress...”

Her voice trailed off, replaced by steadily mounting moans. I was becoming more excited myself, as expected, and was quite annoyed when I heard Jack call my name.

I tore my gaze away from the scene in front of me and looked along the corridor; Jack was advancing upon me with a pint glass of Guinness in hand.

I took it from him with a smile of thanks and returned my attention to the scene in my room. Jack followed my gaze.

“Bloody hell...” he managed, through almost closed lips.

“Yeah,” I said. Then a thought struck me. “Hey, that’s my girlfriend you’re admiring! You mind taking a walk?”