The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“The construction of the ideal woman is, in many ways, a myth.” Samuel walked around the table, lifted his hand, and clicked the remote in his hand. The slide changed, transitioning from a title of ‘What Makes B.I.M.B.O’

What took over in the title’s place was a picture of a woman, her lips parted in the perfect ‘O’ shape. Her blue eyes were like crystals, translucent sapphire gems, through which light shone as though a window. She had high cheekbones, a tapered chin gentle rounded off at the chin. Whoever the woman was, she was the image of a classic beauty.

“Many form this in their mind when they hear of BIMBO. Can I have a show of hands?” Samuel looked to the gathered, all middle-aged men, in full business attire. In fact, Samuel was the only one not in a suit, but sporting a colorful orange shirt and tie combination instead.

One by one, most of the men held up their hands, though there was some reluctance, as though there was a collective guilt at having formed such an image in their head before... irrespective of the fact that almost all of them were admitting to it, making it less taboo than they gave the matter.

“The truth is, gentlemen, that even if you can all agree on this woman’s beauty, you still all saw someone different.” Samuel flashed that smile that he so often used like honey to tea. “And, the woman you’re looking at, every picture the bimbo in your consensus, is actually Alice Koffman, CEO of the Dreams Unlimited Inc., parent company to B.I.M.B.O”

Instantly, most of the men adjusted in their seats, clearly unsettled by the revelation of whom they were all hardening to. Samuel clicked to the next frame, which simply held the title “Project: Metal Hearts”.

“As all of you know, the reason you were invited here today is to see the results of our newest demo project, known as ‘Metal Hearts’. The project began as an idea, two years ago by one of our scientists, a Dr. Thomas Creswell. He had stumbled upon a discovery during a different experiment which was running under a government project. The aim of that experiment was to see if we could induce others into believing something that wasn’t true using purely auditory and visual stimuli. The idea was that the government could use such to weave propoganda into common media and thereby quell civil unrest.

Samuel paused a moment, then cleared his throat. “What we discovered in that experiment was that, yes, it was possible. However, the application of such a project was far too narrow for the purposes that the government had funded. Dr. Creswell had discovered an interesting side-effect from the research. While mixing such things into common media would not be reliable or easy, targeted subjects given an ideal environment to induce a trance-like state, could be subjected to a barrage of auditory and visual stimuli and they could not only be made to believe something that wasn’t true, they could be shaped and molded to any sort of personality specification desired...

“As evidenced by your joining us here today, there is obviously a market for such a program. I will be showing you the results of our demonstration, after which we can negotiate pricing and orders.” Samuel clicked to the next slide and gave a winning smile to the room. On the slide was a picture of three young adult women, each of them staring at a screen set in the table they were seated at, in a conference room much like the one they were in at the moment. Samuel clicked again and a name appeared above each woman, “Sam”, “Nicole”, and lastly, “Kayla”.

Sam gazed into the screen silently, but that was merely in her outward appearance. Internally, Sam was panicking as she had never before in her life. Fortunately, she had never been raped, but, as a woman, she knew the fear of watching a strange man approach her in the dim light of street lamps. Yet, never had that fear been realized.

Until now.

The screen itself was, in appearances, rather innocuous. A dull blue, it flickered slightly, but she could make out no image, no words, yet she could not pull away from its irresistible lure. Someone put headphones over her ears. Even without sound they were so well-designed that they blocked off all other noise. The white noise of the room was cut off abruptly, the low humm of unseen computers supporting the screens was gone, replaced by the dead stillness of silence.

Finally, something actually flickered on to the screen. The words were white, but there was a heavy translucency to them, such was their lack of opacity that they almost completely melded into the blue of the screen, forcing Sam to focus in order to read them.

Are you Sam? The words on the screen stated simply. As she read them, a soft voice, her own voice, echoed in her ears, “Are you Sam?“

“Yes, that’s my name.” She said, or, at least she tried to. Inwardly, she had willed herself to respond, but she sat there, her mouth unmoving, and so she thought it, but no words came out.

Nevertheless, this seemed to work, for the response was instantaneous. A sharp pain, like a needle being jabbred into her, sprung up on her left butt cheek.

What the!? Sam was startled, but her question was already answered as she heard her oice once more, echoing as though she were whispering in her own ear.

“Your name is Samantha.” ‘Sam’s’ voice corrected.

Okay, yes. My name is Samantha, but I prefer being called Sam. Sam tried once more to speak the words, but found it a futile effort, she simply thought the words and a response came as soon as she was finished.

“Your name is Sanmantha.” The voice in her head corrected.

This exchange repeated back and forth several times until, exhausted, Sammantha gave in.

Okay, I’m Samantha. So what?

The situation was bewildering for the blonde. She was never someone you wanted for trivia games, riddles, puzzles, all of them were things that simply made her feel stupid, and, while she wasn’t stupid, she had been happy to graduate high school and be done with it. She had never felt very smart, but cooking came naturally to her. She was someone who moved through the world by how she felt. The only thing she felt from this conversation with... well, whatever was talking in her voice, was a sense of unease and discomfort. She didn’t like not-Samantha very much.

“Sam is a boy’s nickname.” Not-Samantha said, as though it were so obviously plain that it wasn’t worth answering.

So? I’m not a boy, but I like Sam. Was Samantha’s fiery response. She was beginning to openly resent not-Samantha.

“Sam is a boy’s nickname.” Not-Samantha repeated. And, just as before, so it went until finally, exhausted, Samantha caved.

Okay. Sam is a boy’s nickname. I’m Samantha. The entire exercise of persistent repetition was tiring for Samantha. Why did... whatever it was, care about her name?

A feeling was creeping into the back of Samantha’s mind. The words in her head also appeared on the screen, but she could barely see them. It was possible that her eyes were playing tricks on her. It was possible that the voice wasn’t real. It had her voice, it was inside her head.

It couldn’t be her voice though. Those weren’t thoughts that she’d ever had before.

What is wrong with me!? Samantha thought desperately.

No reply was expected, but Samantha supposed she should have expected one. The voice of not-Samantha, her thoughts or not, could read everything she thought.

“You’re a bad girl, Samantha.” Not-Samantha said.

Shut up! Samantha replied.

It was useless though, not-Samantha was frustratingly persistent. Samantha had always been admired for her dedication and persistence, but she still knew when to give up. Not-Samantha didn’t seem to share in that knowledge.

Alright. Fine! Why am I a bad girl? Samantha shouted into the depths of her mind.

Not-Samantha didn’t reply immediately, which was a relief.

Perhaps, Samantha thought, perhaps now she’ll shut up.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Not-Samantha teased.

Maybe. Samantha thought. Why am I a bad girl? She wasn’t sure why it was important to her, but if Not-Samantha had anything to do with her, then clearly she had some negative thoughts about herself, ones that she had never explored before.

“Because, girls don’t like boy things.” Not-Samantha replied.

That didn’t really add up well. Samantha was as staunch of a feminist as anyone. Girls, no, women, could do anything that men could. She’d always believed that, it was at the core of who she was. Her father had always supported her mother’s career as a prosecutor, and he, as a regional manager of a bank, had fought hard to ensure that the policies at that bank, and the pay, were equal.

“Doesn’t matter.” Not-Samantha said, Samantha had almost forgotten that she was even having the inner-argument. “You want to be a good girl.”

I’m already a good gi- woman... It was really difficult to think of herself in those terms. She wasn’t a child, she wasn’t good or bad.

“You want to be.” Not-Samantha replied without hesitation.

I AM!

In spite of her disagreement with her not-self, Samantha broke again under the incessant back and forth. It was impossible to argue with something that could only reply in one way, non-stop, until she agreed with it. Was it really her voice? It sounded like it, it felt natural. But she was also staring at a screen that was displaying what it said. None of it added up.

Her head hurt.

“That’s because good girls don’t spend so much time thinking. It’s hard.” Not-Samantha’s voice couldn’t have held any more sincerity in them. There was no hint of a tease or a joke, she stated it as though it were inarguable fact. Samantha knew where this would lead.

The display changed, this time it showed the silhouette of a woman and a question mark.

“I can’t spoil the show yet, gentlemen.” Samuel said, though his audience didn’t seem exactly captivated.

“What show? We saw a girl staring at a screen for five minutes.... with a bunch of... one-liners...” Said one of the men, visibly frustrated.

“If that’s all you saw, then you’re really missing out.” Samuel said, and his charming smile seemed a bit more than charming.