The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cheryl hated handling boys. She still couldn’t figure out what was the most demeaning part: the tight outfits she had to wear to get their attention, the boorish inductions she had to sit through and pretend to listen to, or the groping she had to endure so they could have the illusion of control. Yeah, now I remember why I let Fifi take care of Reggie, she thought. Forget the incest taboo, somehow my parents produced both me and a first-grade Neanderthal!

In some ways, though, life with her brother had served to inoculate her against most male-dominant tactics. That was also a testament to her natural resistance. Even Harvard-level brains get bleached, she reminded herself as she went into the cafeteria. She was young enough to blend in with the blue and gold masses, pretty enough to get guys’ attention, and not already marked property of someone else. Someone would try to pick her up and give her the information she needed.

Ah, yes, your standard controller’s cafeteria. At this counter we have standard-issue sorority bimbo... at this corner we have prime schoolgirl pussy... over here are the ones who bite back, if you’re into that kind of thing, she thought, looking at the tables full of girls and seeing them as the meat market most of the men saw them as.

Someone slid into a chair next to her and offered a smile. “What, you’d rather one of us just take them over and have them every which way but loose? No, the sororities are off limits, hand-picked pick of the litter for the best of the best. You don’t get near one of them if you aren’t an athletic star, or you’re not carrying better than a 4.0, or if you haven’t spent so much time in the community that you’re too tired for any fun. Yeah, they’re picked on looks, but you should see their grades first.” His smile broadened. “And the frats are just about the same way. Please, you cops are all the same. At least you laid off the leather short-shorts. Too many of you get the wrong idea about what happens here. You don’t make three Women’s Final Fours without a few lesbians, after all. Oh, I’m sorry, I got so distracted I forgot to introduce myself. Happens a lot around here. Lance Craig, at your service, here to learn how to do just that. Yeah, we controllers stick out. We’re proud about it, but not too proud. Not like we need a wall or anything like those rats in the cornfield. We treat our women with respect.”

“Gosh. I bet you say that to all the girls,” Cheryl said in a monotone as she continued to look around. “You’re such a charmer.”

“Actually, it’s a different style. There’s a reason I didn’t shake your hand. Craig’s an Anglicized form of Craginsky. We’re of old Romani blood, and I’m a third generation Arctic Bear. Our palm reading tricks go back centuries, and my grandfather was so powerful that he was able to turn the Nazis’ own brainwashing tricks against them,” Lance said with pride.

“Then we’ll both keep our hands to ourselves, won’t we? I never was big on those games,” Cheryl said.

“Such charming manners. You must be Cheryl McGee, with that seen-it-all attitude,” Lance said.

“Okay, that’s a little creepy. How do you know all about us? Who told you why we’re here?”

“Two questions, two answers. Why you’re here, we know. We’re trying to protect ourselves. Look, Cleveland wasn’t even working here anymore. He was some retired old fart who did sick things, and as per the rules, was punished—and in a lot harsher way than the mundane would have dished out. They caught him somewhere else. I agree, one kid is more than enough to hang. They caught him somewhere else, not here. Doesn’t matter. Isaac still found him. Case closed. Look, I get that you have to question our whole system, and there are worse things, but go chase those TV heads instead. We’re peaceful.”

“Yeah, and you know our names, our styles, and our mission. What the hell were you told about? How did you figure out everything? Maybe I should be asking how much do you know?” Cheryl snapped, her temper fraying.

“We know because we’re controllers. Just like everyone else, we get the Green Pages. We get told things by professors that most people only see in movies. We know you’re a bunch of vigilantes out for our blood—if not us personally, then someone we know. But let me tell you one thing—we’re proud of what we’ve built. It started with Isaac, but it came down to our grandfathers, and our fathers, and us. Yeah, even that perv Cleveland played his part.” Lance realized that Cheryl wasn’t interested in his spiel and followed her gaze. “Oh, Mu Delta. They’re there to keep the female-inclined athletes in line, same as Sigma Theta does for the male-inclined athletes. They may seem spacey, but they’re built to make the millions that the jocks think they can make until they realize they’re not pro material. We put actual knowledge into their brains instead of porn, so at least there’s something in there. As for the controllers... I don’t think I have to tell you that it’s a good thing when an allure controller isn’t wearing a green dress.”

“Well, I’m sold on your survival instincts,” Cheryl sniped.

“Now, the Alpha Omegas, they’re the ones who are dedicated. They grow up to run the town and make Great Lakes as successful as it can be despite us being in the officially charted geographic middle of nowhere. They keep the wolves away, and their ranks open all the businesses that keep the town thriving and growing. They’re some of the smartest people you’ll ever meet. Many end up teaching or working here, and not as disposable heroes like in Minnesota,” Lance said.

“So you just find the one you like, stick a ring on them, and call it family values?” Cheryl said, rolling her eyes.

“Not at all. If anything, the Alphas pick us out if we’re falling behind. Yeah, maybe when my dad was here, you could say the girls were going for an MRS degree, but not anymore. These days, they’re the backbone of the school, as much as the professors. Most of the RAs and staff are Alpha Omegas,” Lance noted with a hint of envy in his voice.

“Boys will be boys. One shot you down, I guess. That should convince me that they aren’t totally wiped. So is making a bimbo your version of blowing up the chem lab?” Cheryl said with a smirk.

“Like Annika the librarian? Not exactly. He was trying to prove that someone born with hyper-reflectivity could be tamed without there being a family influence. Experiment turned into a duel, and let’s just say Isaac won and leave it at that. I guess that happened a lot in the early days, before Isaac opened things up for learned controllers, like my family or voodoo priests, or people who were damn good watch swingers as kids. They’re no joke, either. I dare you to last thirty seconds with sweet Tandy’s charm necklace,” Lance said.

Cheryl had noticed something earlier and took a gamble. “So what happened? How long was Cleveland on the loose?” she pressed.

“Hell if I know! Ask my dad, he was more active then. He was more in business for himself these days, helping... yeah, fuck—but he was retired! He hung out here, but he was no Arctic Bear! We don’t tolerate that kind of shit!” Lance said.

I can almost see the smoke coming from his brain, Cheryl thought as Lance walked away. Poor little controllers. They’re more conditioned than Brenna’s hair. Lance’s breakdown had shown her that the run-of-the-mill controllers knew nothing except what would keep them from running amok and keep shit hitting the fan. Worse, while they were guilty of being controllers, they were about as innocent as controllers could be.

She took off in mock chase of Lance, lest someone get the wrong idea, as she worked through the problem in her head, not liking the conclusions she was coming to. They’re more repulsed by the way things went down than anyone knows, but they’re thrall enough not to be able to show it, and for the system to work, they have to be. Why do I have the sudden feeling that Isaac Michaelsson is a dick? Whatever the truth is, it has to be be pretty damn big to short circuit them that badly.

Not that Great Lakes had ever been safe for any of them, but Cheryl got the crawling feeling that they had gotten even more dangerous. But she wouldn’t be a woman of Wealth and Taste if she abandoned her mission. For the moment, she retreated to her car, marked down Lance’s name as someone she could potentially follow up with, and beat a strategic retreat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a redhead break ranks with her friends to watch her drive away, but she put it out of her mind.

Cynthia had hit a dead end. Entrancing lectures on quantum mechanics were a bit abnormal, as was anyone paying attention to a quantum physics lecture. The fact that the group of freshmen and sophomores seemed to understand it was a testament to the professor’s ability to control, but it fit with what she knew about Michaelsson’s ethics when it came to teaching. Of course, none of the professors would talk, except to note that Cleveland had left the school—none of them had given her the same date, though, and none of them could give a straight answer as to why. They were just happy that he was dead and happier to move on. It was like this lecture after lecture. She saw all types of controllers and people, but none of them were talking, and if they did, they didn’t know anything outside the football stadium.

The whole setup gave her the heebie-jeebies, though she wasn’t about to admit it. The controllers stuck out—no contrived uniform that tried to reflect a personality that was being chipped away into a perfect Arctic Bear, no name on the backpack to make sure they didn’t fall too far, no fraternity or sorority letters that looked more like a slave marking. The betterment was marked, but the creepiness of the operation made Cynthia wonder how it had gone on so long without someone stepping in. But none of the professors would talk, and none of the student controllers would do anything except spout Michaelsson’s dogma of how wonderful it was to make people better by controlling them.

Guess it’s true then about some controllers. Some of them get off more on the trance and seeing their victims helpless than doing anything to them. Would make sense that those kinds would make their way here, Cynthia thought as she drifted towards her fifth class of the day. A couple of cries of protest distracted her, and she turned her head towards the source of the commotion—a group of chatty black girls, all with their names on their backpacks, and one breaking away from the group.

“Hey, Alma, where are you going? We got class in fifteen minutes!” one of them shouted.

“Got called in by the dean,” the breakaway answered. “Something about my singing in the shower. Can’t imagine what it would be about, but if it’s an excused absence, I’ll take it.”

First one of these kids I’ve heard sound like a real freshman, Cynthia thought, tailing the girl. That is, if a real college freshman had to get to college before she realized she was a siren.

Alma didn’t seem to know where she was going, looking down often at a folded and wrinkled piece of paper that had her directions on it, and seeming more and more nervous as she—and Cynthia behind her—wound her way through the main administrative building and down a long hallway to a staircase that led into the basement. Armed guards waited on either side. “Alma Ross?” one of them asked.

With her hands trembling, Alma took her ID out of her backpack. The guards looked at it and escorted her down the hall, closing the door behind them. Cynthia tried the knob—it had been left unlocked, but she didn’t dare risk being found in the hall. She pressed herself into the shadows and waited for them to return; from the glaze in their eyes, they were still focused on the task of getting Alma through that door, and neither of them noticed Cynthia dart through the door before they locked it.

The marble-lined hall almost took Cynthia’s breath away—and the paintings and the Arctic Bear statues that lined the way did the rest of the job. Lord have mercy, this leads into the football stadium, doesn’t it? No choice. Gotta do it and hope Claudia has a chance to kick my ass. Step by step, she followed Alma’s shadow into a lecture hall that was in the midst of giving Alma a standing ovation. She took the opportunity to sneak into the back row and blend in with the rest of the group. There seemed to be about a hundred of them, and the math turned Cynthia’s stomach.

“Alma Ross, welcome to Hall 45. I’m Dean Gregory, and this is the leadership class of 2015. We heard your singing—we had no idea you were a siren when you enrolled,” the dean said. Cynthia recognized him as the head soccer coach, a tall, imposing man whose presence had Alma’s knees shaking as she tried to look up at him.

“I... I like to sing... I guess—I know—I’m good. People like—” she stammered.

Dean Gregory silenced her with a wave of his hand. “Your voice infects minds and can make them yours. You know that, even if you were taught to deny it. You repressed your talent and your true nature so far that you nearly threw up when another girl fainted at the sound of your voice. Church girl—” he said this with a warm smile—“we’ll need to teach you some proper music for a voice like yours.”

The response from the class terrified Cynthia out of her wits. “Controlling in the name of faith brings us shame. It allows for hatred to brew war and for madness to overcome any good the faith may have had,” they droned out.

Well, crap. They’re the worst slaves in this operation, ain’t they? Keep ’em good and enthralled so they don’t do anything. But some of them seem to like it. She thought about it a little more and realized that joining up with an outfit like Great Lakes was the best way most of them could think of to avoid the brutal “kill or be killed” nature of the control community. But Alma had been a fluke. Alma had come to them not because of her power but despite it. Someone else had brought her voice to their attention, but she had to be added to keep the house of cards from falling in on itself. They couldn’t have a controller playing with their toys and using their colors without having her under their thumb. Probably not the first time, either. Well, better make sure you put these notes deep in your head. Once they’re done with Alma, you’re lunch. If you’re lucky, all those posters on the wall driving home the values of hard work and normality will stick and you’ll have half a brain left over.

“Alma, you have the power to break wills and dominate them. You feel it in your voice. You’ve known it since you were very young and whenever you asked for something in a sing-song you got it. I’ll bet you had siblings who figured it out before you did and used you for it. And then you got told over and over again that it wasn’t your place to take things. That you were supposed to be a meek, ladylike Christian wife, and if anyone’s will was getting broken in your relationship it was yours,” Dean Gregory said. “You’ll tell me if I’m wrong, of course.”

But Alma nodded and said nothing.

“Have you fantasized about the possibilities?” the dean continued.

“I’ve... um... touched myself a lot thinking about it,” Alma admitted, her light brown skin turning ruddy with embarrassment as her classmates laughed.

“But you knew those possibilities were dangerous, and that they weren’t something you were supposed to want, right? So you kept quiet. No more. There’s somewhere in between crushing your own will and completely destroying someone else’s. You’ve found it. It’s here. It’s loyalty. It’s taking those who wouldn’t survive the way they are and making them into something. It’s being responsible for creating the lives of others, making sure no one strays, and that no act brings us any shame,” the dean said.

Alma licked her lips, the subtext hitting her hard and shattering years of repression, turning her into a bloodthirsty controller almost instantly. “No act brings us shame,” she said, and her voice had changed slightly, picking up a little more power.

“I’m here to teach you what that means. You’ll work as an assistant in the bookstore with some of your classmates, and to better take advantage of our voice you’ll be switching to a music major. Here is your new schedule and the books that will make you the controller I know you are and can be. Show us now what you can really do. Sing something from the heart, something you’ve always wanted to throw your voice into, something you know and love,” Dean Gregory instructed, turning Alma to the audience.

Alma hesitated, then—to everyone’s surprise—she belted out an aria in fluid Italian. It shook Cynthia to the core. She tried to get up and run, but her legs carried her to the front instead.

“I thought one of our inspectors would find this class. Well, studying ethics can’t be a bad thing. After all, that’s the plan,” the dean said to his class. He reached into the desk, took out one of the student bookbags, and wrote Cynthia on it. Cynthia accepted it numbly, not sure what to think, and followed Alma to a pair of empty seats. Dean Gregory looked at her, making sure that she was in place and didn’t have the will to leave any time soon, then went on with the class.

The lecture was basic enough: watch ages, don’t dive straight into the first hottie you see, don’t leave a trail of babies behind you, don’t start an STD epidemic, demonstrate common courtesy to those that you’re fucking. Most of the advice would have worked just as well in a traditional high school sex ed lecture. But Cynthia, her mind as open as the controllers’ minds around her, absorbed the subtext as well, and she recognized it as the witches’ code: control for the group, not for yourself, and do nothing for personal gain. She relaxed more and more under the combined influence of the controllers around her, and through the recognition of their ethics. She felt the disconnect between her conscious thoughts and the heavy weight of control in her head growing stronger and stronger as the lecture wound to a close.

“You know you need to sing a real student to sleep to prove yourself,” one of the other students challenged Alma as she pulled Cynthia out of the chair by one leaden arm. Cynthia was too out of it to do more than let herself be led like a rag doll.

“I know. This is just someone we need to teach the way to, right?” Alma said, a little bit of hesitation in her voice—but the fear was overshadowed by the power she now reveled in.

“Something like that,” another voice said, but Cynthia couldn’t tell where it came from. Her attention was completely on Alma as she was led across campus to the bookstore, where both their bags were loaded with books, then to the library so that they could learn Isaac Michaelsson’s principles of control together.