The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Darn it. I LOVE that coat,” Witchgirl says to the empty room as she plops down on her antique couch. The room is decorated with large candles, gargoyle heads, and strange, oriental pottery—mementos from some of Witchgirl’s adventures.

She plucks a bite-size Snickers Bar from the bag on the coffee table and begins to wrestle with the wrapper. She’s frustrated—that was her FAVORITE coat. She pictures it on the back of the coach in the psychiatrist’s office, where she forgot it, and for a moment she thinks of standing up and marching right back there to get it. But the Psychiatrist is SOOOO creepy, and that’s saying a lot, right, coming from a gothic-style super heroine who has battled minor demons, evil techno-sorcerers, and robotic mummies.

She pops the Snickers Bar in her mouth and lolls it around. Chocolate. Coffee. Ah. The things that make life worth living. She puts her high-heeled boots—black, freshly polished—up on the coffee table and grabs the television remote. It’s time for Batman Beyond reruns. Maybe she can simply wait for her next appointment on Friday to pick up the coat. No need to go there more often than necessary, right?

Suddenly, the phone rings. She puts it to her ear and says, “Hello.”

It’s the person known only as Him. “Hello, Witchgirl,” he says, his deep baritone voice feeling almost unreal. She’s never seen him in person. She only knows him from his voice, although she trusts him completely.

“Hi there,” she says. “I was just getting involved in something, so I figured you would call and interrupt. You have a talent for that.”

“Yes, well,” Him says. “I’m interrupting for a very important reason. We’ve found another error in the Matrix, and it’s a strange one. Please report to Agency HQ as soon as possible.”

Witchgirl hangs up the phone, spins, and is out the door. She likes to hang up without saying good-bye. In the blink of an eye, she jumps on her Witchcycle, a sleek black Ninja-style motorbike, and speeds off down the street, bent forward, hair blowing in the wind. People on the street turn their heads and stare.

“Look!” a little boy yells. “It’s that girl from the comic books. Batgirl!”

“Don’t be silly,” his mother says. “Batgirl isn’t real. She’s just a character in a story. That’s Witchgirl! And she looks like she’s going someplace very fast! There must be danger out there somewhere!”

About halfway across town, Witchgirl notices five young men in leather jackets skulking in an alleyway. Something glints in one of their hands. A switchblade. And there’s a sixth person there, an old woman clutching her handbag. Well, it looks like Him can wait five more minutes. It might not be a virtual reality sci-fi head-trip—it’s just a common purse snatching—but it’s still a crime, and it demands her full attention.

This shouldn’t take long, Witchgirl thinks, as she pulls a u-turn and drives full-speed down the alleyway. The crooks—they couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years in age—gasp in surprise as the motorcycle heads straight toward them, kicking up dirt and trash.

“Look out!” one of them screams.

But as Witchgirl jumps off the motorcycle, it vanishes. No puff of smoke or noise, but it is simply gone, as if it had never existed.

Witchgirl lands on the ground—a perfect acrobatic pirouette—and smiles. “Thought I’d show you guys a little magic trick,” she says. “And that’s not the ONLY thing I’m going to make disappear. Watch as your dignity and machismo vanishes...” She steps forward in full karate pose. “...as you get beaten up by an eighteen year old girl!”

The teenagers rush her as the old woman shrieks. Witchgirl reaches out and with a slam of her hand, knocks one right in the face. He stumbles backward into the guy with the switchblade.

“You guys need to try harder,” she says, as she performs a little sweep-kick. “I’m not even working up a sweat.”

“She’s like some kind of greased pig!!!” another teenager screams as he tries to get hold of her whirling, kicking form. Then a karate chop lands on the side of his head and he’s down for the count.

“Greased pig? Ewwwww. That’s gross,” she says, as she slams a couple of delinquent heads together. “Couldn’t you have chosen a metaphor that’s not so disgusting?”

The fifth teenager chargers her from her behind. She elbows him in the stomach without even looking in his direction, then spins and knocks him to the ground. The woman cheers her on now.

“Thanks,” Witchgirl says with a little smile. She looks down at the pile of criminals scattered around her, then over at her motorcycle, which has suddenly appeared in the alleyway again. She jumps on it and kicks the engine to life. “One suggestion,” she says to the woman before speeding off. “In the future, you might not want to head down dark alleys alone. Just a thought.”

Another three minutes of travel at top speed brings Witchgirl to the Agency HQ. She enters into a blank-walled futuristic room through sliding double doors and takes a seat in the room’s only chair, a heavy metallic recliner festooned with dials and monitors and gauges. She fastens a wire to each temple and leans back. This will be the seventh time she’s jacked into the matrix this month, and she’s impatient to get the process over with. Jacking into the matrix has always given her the willies, and it probably still will even when she does it for the thousandth time.

Computers and digital read-outs line the walls, each measuring various vital signs and brain activities. As Witchgirl hooks more wires to her arms, the read-outs beep and flash to life one after another. She is wearing her regular costume: a black body suit clinging tightly to her somewhat waifish form and calf-high black boots.

Witchgirl looks over to the control booth with concern. “Be sure to adjust the settings JUST right...things have been a little, well, funny lately somehow.”

Genna St. John is working at the connections for Laurie, making sure everything is set and each monitor is calibrated. She’s a young woman dressed in a yellow bodysuit, long white lab coat, and large dark goggles, and she’s one of Witchgirl’s best friends. “Really?” she asks. “Anything in particular?”

Witchgirl thinks about the conversation she had the day before with the psychologist, the pauses, the mirror, and the talk about her father and about her recent dreams. “Well...nothing worth mentioning.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. This is still slightly experimental, you know. Who knows what is possible when dealing with The Matrix.”

“No...er...no. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

Genna checks out the displays. “Your heart rate seems to be increasing a little. You sure everything is okay?” Witchgirl forces a smile. ““Yes. I’m fine. I’ve just been a little tired is all. This is old hat to me. Honest. You can let her rip.”

“Him is especially concerned about you recently. The systems have a hard time seeing what happens in an infected section. I just wanna be sure. You don’t really talk about what you see with us.”

Witchgirl sighs. “Look. I understand, Genna. But I’m not some amateur, okay? You have to have faith in me.”

“Okay, Laurie. Okay. I’m just concerned. That’s all.”

Witchgirl nods. “Good. Now jack me in. And when I come back, we can have that long conversation. Over dinner. And you can pay.”

Genna moves to the controls behind the chair. Laurie can soon feel the metallic rod begin to slide into the implant in the back of her neck. Genna grins and says, “Me? Paying for dinner again? Oh, then I won’t apologize if this stings.”

Witchgirl smiles. “It tickles actually. I think I’m getting used to it.”

With that, Genna presses a button and reality—the mundane, everyday reality of life outside the Matrix—vanishes. Witchgirl has now entered an entirely new world, an artificial construct that looks and feels and smells and tastes like it is real. And in a way, it is.

Witchgirl is standing in a payphone. Around the phone booth is nothing but wind-swept barren sand plain as far as the eye can see. The telephone begins to ring as soon as the reality of the Matrix seems to synch with her senses. She picks up the phone and says, “Hello?”

It’s Him again. Of course. He’s the only one who EVER speaks to her when she is inside the Matrix. “I trust you had a good evening,” he says. “Now the work begins.”

“Right,” she says. “Nice to talk to you too.”

“Yes, ummm...we have another error in the system you need to mend. It’s a small one in terms of overall size, but it could be very problematic, so be careful. It’s effecting an area of about half a mile radius, although it’s effects are mainly felt in an area of about 100 feet.”

“It’s located about a mile up the road from where you are now. And get this. It’s moving.”

Witchgirl nods and looks over her shoulder and notices a single road made of yellow bricks. It wasn’t there before. The glitch must have caused it.

“Um...Him...have you ever seen The Wizard of Oz?”

“I don’t watch movies,” Him says. “I like to live in reality.”

Witchgirl smiles. “Okay. I should have expected that. Wish me luck, okay?”

“Good luck, Witchgirl.”

Witchgirl hangs up the phone and begins walking up the road, dust blowing around her feet. Her long, black hair whips around in the wind. She wonders if the glitches are getting worse. It certainly seems that way. The last one effected almost twenty people. Turned them into rabbits and monkeys and chickens and the apartment building they were living in became a zoo. Luckily, she had found the error quickly, and it had been easy to repair.

After about a quarter mile, cornfields begin to take up the landscape along the road, stretching out to who-knows-where. Witchgirl keeps walking without really even looking to her left and right. Her feet are aching a little and she slows her determined stride just slightly.

She lifts one foot from the ground and notices that the heel of her boot is taller and narrower. “Strange,” she says to herself. Another side effect from the glitch, she guesses. She usually isn’t altered by glitch errors, but occasionally the error is strong enough that it effects her. There were the occasions when some small part of her memory was effected, and that one time she suddenly became French, and that other time her gender began to change. Good thing she had made a quick fix of that problem, before the alterations had become more profound. The idea of being WitchBOY definitely does NOT appeal to her.

In the distance, Witchgirl can see a lone bench, a rickety bus stop with a woman sitting there, hand resting in her lap as if she’s waiting for something...most likely a bus.

Witchgirl approaches and bench down and says, “Excuse me, miss?”

The woman has a wicker picnic basket sitting next to her the bench. She is dressed like a little old lady, with a pair of spectacles, and her hair in a bonnet, though her face seems oddly free of wrinkles. In fact, she is quite pretty.

Witchgirl sits down next to her. She knows from experience to be patient with how truths reveal themselves in the matrix.

The woman looks at her. “Oh, goodness me. You look dreadful.”

“Dreadful? What are you talking about?”

“How long have you been walking, dearie?”

“Um...maybe 10 minutes.”

“Oh, then you found those clothes on the side of the road or something?”

Witchgirl smiles. “No...no...these are MY clothes. I LIKE to dress this way.” She looks up and down the road to see if a bus or something else is coming, then turns back to the woman. " I should probably keeping heading down the road,” she explains. “Nice talking to you.”

The woman smiles. “Okay, dearie. Would you like some water before you go? Or perhaps a cupcake?” She reaches inside her basket and takes out a mug and a chocolate cupcake. Even her hands seem free of any sign of age. Only her clothing, tone of voice, and mannerisms seem to suggest otherwise.

“No, that’s okay,” Witchgirl says. “But thanks anyway.”

The woman holds up the cupcake and smiles. “Are you absolutely sure? Please...humor an old woman.” Witchgirl looks back down the road. “Well. Okay.”

Witchgirl takes the cupcake (although she is not planning on eating it).

“Thank you very much. I’ll eat this if I get hungry further down the road.”

“Okay, dearie.”

Witchgirl smiles at the cupcake, at the little curly-q of white frosting. It DOES look pretty tasty.

The woman chuckles softly. “And be careful on those heels. You might break your ankle or something with them that high.”

Witchgirl looks down and notices that her heels are even taller now...about three inches instead of the modest one-inch pump she usually wears. She teeters for a moment and then...as if it was a planned pratfall in a movie...she falls flat on her face on the ground.

“Whoaaa...ow!”

“Oh dear,” the woman says.

Witchgirl is on her hands and knees looking down at the yellow brick road, the cupcake on the ground in front of her. The woman gets up from the bench and walks over to help Witchgirl up, extending her hand.

Witchgirl takes her hand and gets back to her feet and then notices that the cupcake is on the ground. “I’ll get it,” she says.

Witchgirl bends down to get the cupcake. It’s smooshed. Squashed flat. She holds it out to the woman. “I’m sorry about that...but I think it’s still good. It’s just kind of mushy.”

The woman frowns, though it appears more like a pout. Witchgirl feels AWFUL. It was such a nice looking cupcake. And she smooshed it.

“See,” Witchgirl says. “It still tastes good. See?” She tastes the cupcake, as if to prove her point. “Delicious.”

The woman smiles. “Really? You like my cupcake?”

Witchgirl tastes the cupcake again—a bigger bite this time—and realizes that it IS delicious...very delicious. “Yes. It’s REALLY good. The cream filling...um...especially.”

“Thank you, dearie. Praise does an old woman’s heart good.”

She takes another bite. “Well, it’s really wonderful.”

The woman smiles as she walks back to the bench to sit down.

“But I should get going,” Witchgirl says. She turns to walk down the road again, but her heels are even higher and it’s very hard to take steps...she moves her feet with little baby steps, like she is learning to walk for the first time.

The woman waves. “Good luck.”

Witchgirl moves her feet a little bit, not getting very far away from the “old” woman. Gosh, this is hard. Why did she wear boots like this? DID she wear boots like this? It’s difficult to remember.

“Miss?” the woman yells out. “Oh Miss?”

Witchgirl slides her other foot. “Yes?

“Wouldn’t you like to take the bus?” The woman is standing before a bus that seems to have arrived ever so quietly. Out of nowhere, really. Like a magic trick.

Yes. The bus. That seems logical. “I guess...it might be easier,” Witchgirl says, and then she takes another bite of cupcake. The woman smiles and steps onto the bus.

Witchgirl’s boots now have four inch heels and go all the way up to her knees...their color has changed too...to bright pink (although the rest of her costume is still black).

Witchgirl slides over to the doorway of the bus and looks inside. The bus is a normal city bus, adorned with various advertisements for the local area. Everyone on the bus appears to be a young, pretty woman—the same woman—although their dress and demeanor, like the woman who was at the bus stop, suggests otherwise.

Witchgirl climbs aboard the bus with a little smile, and as she gets to the last stair of the bus entrance, she takes another bite of cupcake. She looks at the driver and says, “Does this bus go to...to...”

That’s funny. She can’t remember where she was supposed to go.

The bus driver yells up at her, “This bus is heading to the end of the line. You headin’ there?”

The bus driver seems a rather gruff man from the curtness in his voice, but ‘he’ is definitely a ‘she’ in appearance.

Witchgirl looks around, confused, at the bus full of people. “Um...I guess so.”

“Take a seat then.”

Witchgirl sits down next to the “old” woman. Witchgirl has to nestle in next to her because the seats are kind of narrow. The old woman smiles at Witchgirl as she sits. Witchgirl looks down at her cupcake and smiles innocently. “This is REALLY good.” The things that make life worth living. Chocolate. Mmm.

“Would you like another cupcake, dearie?”

Witchgirl pops the last bit into her mouth. “Oh, yes, please.” She swallows the cupcake, and as she savors it, she notices that her boots have “grown” up her legs to her thighs, the pink now mid-thigh or so and shinier somehow. The heels are very tall.

The woman reaches into her basket and retrieves another cupcake, handing it to Witchgirl. The bus begins to move ever so smoothly down the road. The engine doesn’t make a noise. It’s as if they are floating. But none of this seems alarming in the least. Mainly, Witchgirl is thinking of the sweet taste of that DELICIOUS cupcake. Wow, is that good. She greedily swallows a third of it in one bite and talks with her mouth full. “I guess I should have worn different boots if I was planning on walking a lot, huh?”

“I guess so,” the woman says, “but they are very nice, don’t you think? I like the color especially. Pink looks so good on you.”

Witchgirl is finding it harder and harder to think...why is she here? Her boots slide up her thigh just a little with a noticeable rubbery sound and she feels a warm pleasure move through her body.

“Mm.” Witchgirl shifts her weight just slightly, shoulder resting against the “old” lady. She notices that the boots are now more rubbery and tighter. Gosh, they feel good.

Witchgirl’s voice is confused and plaintive and more than a little child-like. “Um...I didn’t wear these here...did I wear...these?”

“Yes, dearie. That’s what you were wearing when you came to the bus stop. Don’t you remember? They are so lovely. You really are a pretty little package, dear, and I’d say that those boots are the KEY element in your ensemble.”

“Oh...okay. Okay.”

Witchgirl mouth falls open slightly, revealing a little bit of chocolate cake and cream filling. The woman touches her shoulder gently. “Eat with your mouth closed, dear. We can’t have people thinking we’re animals.”

Witchgirl nods her head slowly. “Okay.” She feels the boots slide up her thigh another half inch with a little creepy-crawly motion. She swallows the rest of the cupcake and smiles.

The bus ride continues to be smooth and quiet, with occasional stops to pick up more ageless women. Witchgirl’s boots now have a four and a half inch heel and are very, very bright and shiny. She is smiling, leaning against the old woman a little. The woman caresses Witchgirl’s arm lovingly, as a grandmother would her granddaughter.

“Where are we headed?” Witchgirl asks dreamily.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman says, “but I’m sure it’s someplace nice.”