The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The phone trilled cheerfully, oblivious to the venom being directed its way. Dragged unceremoniously from her sleep, Beverly snatched blindly for the offending handset. Debris clattered noisily from the arm of the sofa, as she continued to grope. Finally, she felt her fingers close around the cool plastic, and lifted it to her ear. The voice on the other end of the line was instantly recognisable, and entirely unwelcome. She felt her hackles rise in response; such was the power of her loathing. In fact, the only reason that he remained alive was because it was not possible to literally hate someone to death.

“Eve’s broken loose,” Peterson’s supercilious tone was clear, even through the electronic distortion, “It’s happening again.”

Beverly cursed loudly, suddenly fully awake. Even after all this time, the trauma was still too raw to touch, and yet fate seemed determined to drag her back into the world she had long since turned her back on.

“Ms. Watch,” he asked quietly, “You’ll need to come back in.”

“You kicked me out,” Beverly answered, bitterly, “remember? My services were no longer required.”

“Quite so,” Peterson accepted, easily, “And now they are needed once again. The briefing starts at 07:30 sharp, at the usual place. I’m sure you remember how to get there.”

And with that he cut the connection and their conversation was at an end. Beverly stared at the phone for a long moment, trying to decide if she would feel better with it smashed to pieces. Then, she lowered it gently back into the cradle and let out a long, slow breath. It never even crossed her mind that she could refuse. Commandments sent down from the Director had the same power as if they had been issued by the hand of God himself.

Groaning, she lifted her aching body from the couch, and walked stiffly to the shower. Glancing at the hall clock on her way, Beverly saw that she only had thirty minutes to get across town. Angrily she resorted to simply splashing water over her tired features, threw on yesterday’s clothes, (dragging them from the laundry basket), and sped out of the door, wondering if she would have enough time to grab a coffee at least, before she got to Vauxhall.

All the old fears came back, just as soon as she walked through the unmarked side door. The same smell of stale tobacco and old leather suffused the place, and the associations sent her memories flittering back to earlier but equally unhappy times. The receptionist regarded her with feigned disinterest, while under the counter her fingers no doubt convulsed around whatever weapon she had been issued. Beverly clamped down on her nausea, and tried not to think about the last time she had been there.

“I’m Watch,” she explained, unnecessarily, “Here for the briefing.”

The woman nodded, apparently reassured by whatever messages were scrolling across her computer screen, before handing Beverly a small, laminated identity badge. Biometrics were in their infancy when she’d left, but had apparently come an awfully long way in even that relatively short time.

“Keep that with you at all times,” the receptionist suggested, indicating that she, too, was not adverse to a little redundancy, “Someone will be up in a moment; they’ll escort you to the meeting room.”

She didn’t recognise the man who came to collect her, but then that was hardly surprising. He was perhaps the most non-descript person she had ever met. The archetypal Whitehall grey man, faceless and easy to overlook. Beverly took an instant dislike to him and, from his attitude, it seemed as if the feeling was entirely mutual.

He led her to a small lift, which descended into the bowels of the building, and during that time never said a word. Her claustrophobia built, growing more acute as the small metal box lurched and juddered. The machinery was probably of the same vintage as the building itself, which made it considerably older than Beverly, and that was not a reassuring thought.

By the time she arrived at the meeting room, Beverly was just about ready to kill someone. The condescension was bad enough, but far worse was the feeling that she’d been through all this before. Even the room was the same, although the fresh and eager faces surrounding her were entirely different. But again, that was to be expected. After all, she was the only one of that original team who’d remained remotely functional.

She had been lucky; at least that’s what they told her afterwards. Eve had incapacitated her during their first encounter, which meant she hadn’t been part of either squad at the end. They’d gotten the job done, shut down the mesh and stopped the construct from detonating, but at what cost? The feedback had been merciless, shattering minds and robbing the Directorate of some of its finest talents. Her own resultant ‘issues’ were small in comparison, and nothing a few handfuls of medication wouldn’t set right.

“Alright everybody, listen up,” Peterson began, once the stragglers had seated themselves. “This is what we know. At 21:43 yesterday, all communication with Site 3 ceased. Cleanup crews report that the location is a complete loss, and that all personnel have been effectively neutralised. There was a containment failure before the detonation. Something got out, and that’s what we’re looking for now. Its codename is Eve... full details are in the file.

“The best guess is that it’s heading here, but I hasten to add that is only a guess, ladies and gentlemen. So, if anyone has a better idea, now is the time to say so. We can’t afford to waste time and manpower on a wild goose chase.”

Beverly glanced around her, noting how everyone was studiously avoiding the Director’s gaze. They all looked about twelve years old as far as she was concerned. God, was she really getting that old? If she wasn’t careful, any day now she would start to become her mother.

“It’s a good guess,” she agreed finally, “She’ll come here, it’s part of her programming. One last chance to establish contact with the mesh. She’s been searching for the signal, and discovered that it’s no longer there, now she’ll attempt to interface directly. And all that means she has to come to Northwood.”

The others looked doubtful, all except Peterson, who just smiled thinly. They had no idea who she was, although her presence here should have given a pretty good indication that she might have something worthwhile to contribute. Eventually one of them raised the question they were all itching to ask, and the background hubbub declared their agreement.

“How do you know that?” one of the ‘schoolboys’ demanded, almost angrily.

“Because I knew the people who wrote some of that original code,” Beverly replied easily, “And it’s exactly what she tried to do before. I expect that’s somewhere in the file as well.”

Paper rustled noisily, as they all began to flick through their individually numbered copies. Beverly sighed, wishing she had found time for that coffee after all. The meeting was off to a terrific start, they were already the best part of ten hours behind the curve, and no one had the slightest conception of what they were up against. Her eyes flitted around the room, taking in the bright, confident faces, and wondering how many of them would escape this time.

“So, why don’t we just let it talk to this mesh?” asked one young man, whose lack of discernable chin made Beverly wonder about consanguinity, “Have it tell her that the Russians aren’t coming, and then, once she knows that we’re the good guys, we can bring her back in.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Winslow,” Peterson told him, before anyone else could reply.

“But why n…” he started, clearly unwilling to let his brilliant idea be dismissed so quickly.

“Because we killed it,” Beverly interrupted, angrily. “And before you ask, no, we can’t spoof the signal either. The only person who could understand what the mesh said was Eve, herself, and she never really felt like sharing. For God’s sake, just read the bloody file, maybe then you can all stop asking such damn fool questions.”

The room lapsed into offended silence, but Beverly didn’t care. She had reconsidered and come to the conclusion that this was even worse than last time. At least before they had all been involved with the project in some way or other. ‘Need to know’ might be of the utmost importance for the Peterson’s of this world, but even an idiot could see that everyone in this room needed to know as much as possible. The doomsday clock was ticking and by her reckoning, they were scant seconds from midnight.

Peterson ushered her over, just as the meeting was coming to an end. Beverly sighed, wondering how far she would get if she chose to bolt. Then, as the ‘kids’ began to file past, she relented and walked stiffly to where the Director stood. The rest of the briefing hadn’t been any more reassuring, and she found herself hoping they were keeping some of the choicer details to themselves.

“Watch,” he greeted, “A pleasure as always. Glad to see that you’ve not lost your diplomatic touch.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged tightly, “Well, that’s another hour of my life that I’m never getting back. Just tell me that you’re not sending them out there completely blind.”

“No. You tell me,” the Director asked with a sneer, “How are the dreams now, since it came back online? Still sure they dug out the entire needle, or are you having doubts? Anything I should know about, Watch? Anything at all?”

“What do you want me to say, Dick?” Beverly replied icily, “That I still have to masturbate at least eight times daily and that all the while I’m fantasising that the surgeons screwed up and left some of it behind? I’m not the problem here. She might have fucked with my brain, but I am nobody’s creature, not hers and certainly not yours. If I were you, I’d be worrying more about these children you’ve recruited. They’re the ones that are going to bear the brunt of it, and from what I’ve seen they haven’t the faintest clue of what they are about to encounter.”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead he seemed to consider carefully before responding. That surprised her; this clearly wasn’t the Peterson she remembered. A savage grin twisted the corners of her mouth, as she reminded herself that it was possible for people to change. The twinge of guilt was another unwelcome sensation, but one that only lasted until he opened his mouth again.

“I worry about all of my assets,” he explained, almost gently, “Especially the ones whose loyalties I am no longer sure of. Now, get yourself checked out by the scab-lifter, I need to know if you’re any use to me.”

“Screw you, Dick!” she hissed, unable to keep her anger from bubbling over.

“Ah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it, Watch?” Peterson smiled, “I’m just not your type, am I? Not any more.”

The Director rolled up his sleeve, and plucked impudently at the lax, hairy flesh. Beverly felt the flush of anger rising, a red mist that blotted out everything else, just for an instant. She had taken a step before she knew what was happening. Her hands balled into loose fists until, quite suddenly, her ire just crashed, flowing outwards and dissipating.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she breathed, turning and walking briskly towards the door, “You never were my type. Unlike you, Dick, I don’t fuck corpses.”

Almost as soon as the door swung shut behind her, Beverly reached up and touched the small scar on the nape of her neck. Even that contact was enough to make her tremble, so strong were the memories of before. Peterson was right about one thing, her tastes had changed dramatically since that encounter with Eve. What she wanted now was that perfect amalgam of lust and steel, nothing else would ever be good enough. Her needs were so insistent that she found herself increasingly unable to resist them, and yet, any attempt she made to sate that hunger seemed ultimately futile.

But it was an itch she needed to scratch, and her frustration with Peterson just seemed to fuel the heat of her desire as it bubbled up and boiled over inside her. She hit the toilet door hard, bursting through into the, fortunately unoccupied, executive lavatory. The cubicle was cramped, and undignified, but Beverly was well used to that. Even before the door had slammed closed, she was leaning heavily against the partition wall and stroking herself through the already moist material of her panties.

Her mind wandered, searching for the necessary fantasy, the hook upon which she could hang her arousal. Nails scratched, forcing the material more deeply into her slippery seam and pulling the already swollen lips gently apart. Beverly’s neck burnt; the softest echo of that original heat. The crystal shard was gone, of that she was certain. But she could remember how it had felt with absolute clarity, and part of her longed to experience it once more...

...the melting, clenching, shuddering part; the one that twinged and sang with every lurid thought.

She clutched spasmodically at one shockingly tender breast, kneading the heavy flesh with strong and dexterous fingers. The taut nipple ground into her callused hand, and sent sharper sensations lancing through her body. Beverly whined, imagining herself once again entirely at Eve’s mercy. The tempo increased rapidly, and she began to claw more urgently at her body. Muscles clenched in anticipation, as she once more immersed herself in the well-rehearsed scene.

Eve was standing over her, while her nervous system buzzed with the thrill of the cyborg’s control. She still had no idea how the other woman had gotten so close, but the crystal’s touch was blisteringly hot and more than enough to drive away all other thoughts. Lambent flame coruscated over every inch of her body, their heat threatening to burn away what little remained of her dignity. And, as they began to lap hungrily at her treacherous cuntlips, Beverly realised that none of her training was going to make a lick of difference.

In the stall, she didn’t even realise that her fingers had slipped beneath the waist band of her knickers until her nails began to softly caress her greasy, trembling folds. The sensations merged and mingled, layering on top of one another and forming the most delicious whole. Eyes closed, she could actually feel those silvery fingers flowing hungrily over her paralysed body. Sparkling ecstasy tingled deep into the core of her sex, sizzling wickedly as she clenched and groaned.

The memory diverged from her fantasy, as Eve’s finger blades shredded the tattered remnants of her dishevelled clothing. This time there would be no last minute rescue, no one to save her from the cyborg’s lascivious attentions. Fear was almost instantly washed away, lost in a rising tide of helpless arousal. Beverly’s palm pressed remorselessly against her slippery oozing slit, massaging the swollen mound in increasingly intimate circles. She ground herself into that touch, relishing how her body responded to the imagined threat.

Fingers hooked more deeply inside, wrapping around her throbbing clit and teasing it free. Meanwhile, in her mind, Eve pressed on, this time taking her so completely that there would be nothing left of her captive’s mind except the overwhelming need to serve. Beverly struggled, fighting against the imperatives, knowing just how much more delightful her inevitable fall would be as a result. She let out her breath in one long hiss, feeling herself grow more light-headed, as her climax neared.

Raw arousal drooled undeniably down the smoothness of her thighs, trailing undulating strands of sticky desire in its wake. Her hands cupped and smothered, sinking more firmly into her aching cunt and scratching so vociferously that the trembling flesh seemed to devour those probing fingers. She could picture Eve’s glistening limbs, alive with scintillating energy, and imagine how they would plumb and probe so expertly.

A soft cry escaped her lips, and instinctively she raised one hand to stifle it. Lust filled her nostrils, stinging her tongue with its musky sweetness. Beverly’s molten essence clung to her avidly, sinking its cruel talons into the softness of her increasingly mushy mind. She gasped, fogging her thoughts with more of her own cloying perfume, and her cries dissolved into whimpering moans. The fantasy held her dreamself paralysed and helpless, while in reality she was pumping her pelvis in wild abandon, each thrust ramming those clever fingers even more deeply into the dripping tightness of her utterly controlled pussy. With her tormentor’s name burning on the tip of her tongue, Beverly came, a shivering, full-body shudder that started somewhere in her belly and rippled outwards in a series of increasingly unbearable, staccato saccades. She forced her fingers even more firmly into her mouth, sealing away those plaintive cries, as the orgasm tore through her weakening body. Her feet scrabbled for purchase on the slippery tiling, muscles tightening into aching, tremulous tension. The cramp would come later, but for the moment at least, her body was suffused with nothing but warm pleasure, her mind with the irresistable image of Eve.

Darkness swirled around the fleeing woman, swallowing her shadow and leaving only memories. The mythology surrounding Brunel’s Box Tunnel was almost totally lost on Rachel, as her other self had no time for ghost stories. For a moment though, as she stalked silently along the line, preternatural senses allowing her to see perfectly in the pitch black, it seemed as if the railway’s imagined horrors had been given form.

Moving at pace, she had cleared TURNSTILE’s private railway line before they even realised she was gone. Claire’s detonation served to further confuse any pursuit, and now the cyborg was on the mainline, heading directly for the heart of London. The edges of that explosion still lapped at her heels, the faintest of tingling touches that were almost painful in the longing they inspired. Guilt and sorrow gnawed at her, before they too simply melted under the remorseless onslaught of reason.

She had liked the nurse, despite her betrayal. And the loss of yet another support was a crushing blow. Worse still, the young woman’s fate presaged her own so clearly. It wasn’t her decision to make, not in the end. But while Rachel was able to hold her own destiny in those coolly metallic hands, she railed against the fate she had already seen so clearly reflected in Claire’s eyes.

The strange amalgam of clothing she had salvaged from her victims was enough to cover her altered body, but nothing that would pass even a cursory inspection. She had to be able to blend in, to avoid notice, and dressed as she was in this bizarre medley of nurse, soldier and workman, that just wasn’t going to happen. Her first priority, then, was to find something at least a little more suitable, so she could get close enough to Northwood for the mesh to tell her what needed to happen next.

Its absence was a nagging irritation, and one that only magnified her growing anxiety. Adrenaline flooded the meat-part of her, forcing the cyborg into twitching hypervigilance, and painting a world filled with hidden threat. Dispassionately, her other self could recognise the signs of post traumatic stress, and added more chemicals to the cocktail, massaging away those agitations, cocooning them in a warm blanket of anxiolytics.

There was nothing that could be done for the damage her freezing and rewarming had inflicted. Her other self simply took over more and more of the affected processes, gradually subsuming Rachel’s personality. But there was only one role that the machine could play while clinging to its own autonomy, and that was not something either of them were eager to embrace. They needed direction, and however dangerous it might be, that meant re-establishing contact directly.

Rachel knew that they would be tracking her, and that it was therefore vital to keep a low profile. There was no outward sign that the country had fallen, but subversion and the installation of puppet regimes was their stock-in-trade. Nausea held her in its slimy clutches, an uncomfortable shiver that ran, unhindered, along the length of her spine. The sense of wrongness redoubled, raising beads of cold sweat. More subsystems shifted, remodelling and reshaping, and Rachel knew she’d just taken another halting step towards something irrevocable. Not that there was anything she could do about it.

Night had ended before she reached the suburbs; light crawled sluggishly across the concrete and grass, throwing out long creepers of colour to battle the dawn’s insipid greys. A chill hung over the world, glazing the dew with a lattice of frost. Rachel pulled the stolen jacket more tightly around her slender frame, in a gesture that had nothing at all to do with the cold. Her fingers were warm and moist, slick with the memory of moaning surrender. But she could no more recall the details of what had happened than she could remember where the coat itself had come from.

Pieces of near-memory floated randomly through her thoughts, chaotic flotsam that asked far more questions than it answered. The fire had burned her belly, twisting so fiercely that it made her retch and moan. Reality had become a blur of motion, leaping in fits and starts. Rachel struggled to hold one of those brittle instants, but it cracked and crumbled before she could even begin to look. The house had been filled with shards, dancing motes of light that buried themselves in everything they touched. Someone mewled, a hopeless, throaty sound that fractured into softer cries.

Rachel’s hand spasmed, recalling how those soft folds had parted so easily beneath her fingers. Opening so willingly, while the strength of that submission continued to bludgeon... her... increasingly molten sex. Every touch had hummed with a familiar resonance. So horribly intimate and yet beyond anything she could imagine. She stumbled, almost falling, as another wave of sensations ruthlessly pummelled her body, and her gasp was formed from almost equal measures of desire and frustration.

The other part of her took charge again, shunting aside all the useless emotions and focussing on what needed to be done. She was stunned by the sheer volume of surveillance present as she pushed closer to her target. The majority of it was pretty unsophisticated, but rather than risk revealing herself with an ill-considered attack, Rachel wasted precious time doubling back and choosing other, less travelled paths.

Skirting the periphery of the city made it a little easier, but it was still mid-morning before she was close enough to reach out for the mesh and try to re-establish contact. At first there was only the same sense of emptiness, the absence she had felt even before the cryo-cylinder had opened. She moved nearer, even though every instinct screamed that she should keep her distance. There was something there, lingering at the edges of her awareness, and she only needed to touch it for an instant.

Agony flowed backwards along the link, searing into her thoughts and forcing the other part to uncouple her mind from it completely. But the echoing presence remained, ricocheting back and forth, reverberating with such utter terror that it was becoming difficult to even breathe. Rachel forced herself to look, while her teeth ground harshly together, and she tasted blood. She knew the flavour, even though she fought against the recognition.

It was nothing but the whispered memory of a dream, and yet as hard as she might try, Rachel could not deny just what she was feeling...the death-throes of the mesh crying out for succour. The pain of that betrayal was so great that its essence had been trapped here, to be re-experienced by anyone with the ability to hear. They had killed it, torn it to pieces and then burned those pieces into ashes. Unrestrained hatred claimed her, as she ignored the feeble protests of her other self. At the same moment, feedback crashed her systems, setting her mind “free”, sending Rachel plunging down into that ebon pit of blind despair.

Her other self fled, unwilling to confront the truth that even now was scorching its circuitry. Rachel sank, and her body followed, collapsing under the weight of this new loss. Her cheek came to rest heavily against the damp concrete, and she just seemed to sink into the pavement.

More feedback swept around the cyborg’s brain, signals chasing themselves in ever-decreasing circles. False images leapt and flickered, random flashes that augured the death of yet more neurones. Two brilliant globes separated themselves from the maelstrom, bobbing closer with ever moment.

The lights were dazzling, but she lacked the will to move her head even slightly. Rachel just watched as the car grew nearer, trying to puzzle out its strange silhouette. The unfamiliar lines refused to resolve into anything recognisable, and that just added to her sense that the world around her was simply unravelling. She stared blankly, willing the vehicle to stop with the very last of her resolve.

That was how Aeryn found her, curled into a tight ball and hiding from the world. Rachel had retreated into herself, suddenly more totally alone that she could ever remember. Whereas before she had been paired with the other, now there was only solitude, and she hated it. Tears streaked her face, leaving her eyes bloodshot and empty. Her voice was ragged, choked from her ordeal, and she offered no resistance when the older woman helped her gently to stand.

She clucked and fussed, taking Rachel’s dishevelled state in her stride, apparently unconcerned by the woman’s unwillingness or inability to answer even the simplest question. But her hands continued to stroke as she spoke, somehow contriving to linger in a way that was both lascivious and possessive.

For her part, Rachel simply accepted it, allowing herself to be led and coaxed without comment. Her thoughts were in turmoil, and she clung on quite desperately, fighting not to fall into the shock that seemed so desperate to claim her. Without the stronger part of her to rely on, she needed something else, and the woman seemed more than willing to grant her the guidance she craved.

It was so much easier to place herself entirely in the hands of someone else, and the woman’s slow, assured touch simply reinforced that understanding with every delightful, grazing contact. There was hardly enough of Rachel left now, mostly dead space, and what remained ached with an intensity that was simply unbearable.

She wasn’t sure what had made her pull over; there was nothing tangible that she could recognise. But something about the woman attracted her interest almost immediately. She had a sense for such things, and although Aeryn had no idea exactly how it worked, she couldn’t very well argue with the results. And the sight of that frail beauty had instantly called to her. The girl practically screamed out her need, and even if she had wanted to, it seemed unlikely that she would have been able to let the opportunity pass by.

The look on her face was what clinched it. Aeryn had seldom seen an expression of such desperate and total emptiness. Besides which, the woman radiated such an unmistakable air of helplessness that it was impossible to ignore. The question wasn’t whether she could take her... that much was certain... the only real concern was just how damaged this young woman truly was. The sense of brokenness was intense, and Aeryn had to will herself to pull back and consider. Yes, the woman was clearly a toxic-domme’s wet dream, but however vain and callous she might see herself, that particular label had never been one that applied.

And anyway, despite her best attempts to let logic guide her, the scent, the feel, and the very presence of this pathetically weak woman conspired to rob Aeryn of her reason. Then, when she wrapped herself tightly around her saviour’s outstretched arm, whining so desperately that it hurt, it all just became too much. Very carefully, she helped the girl to her feet, and with the softest of urging, guided her into the waiting car.

“What’s your name, sweetness?” Aeryn asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Rachel,” the woman replied, after the briefest of pauses.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rachel,” she smiled, “I’m Aeryn, and for now I’m going to take you home, so that we can clean you up some, and then maybe get something warm inside you. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes,” she muttered, without conviction, then added softly, “Thank you, Aeryn.”

It had been so long, and Aeryn had to fight the urge to simply take what was offered. Her bed had been empty since Ella left, and long before that as well, if truth were told. She wasn’t lonely, not by any stretch of the imagination, and yet now, when she found herself so close to the thing she craved, her life seemed so horribly empty.

She needed to go slow, she reminded herself. The last thing she wanted was to scare Rachel away, and that meant taking some time with the social niceties, before she introduced the girl to the contents of her toybox.