The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was not until they had almost reached the restaurant that Patrick Dee activated his wife.

She was mid-sentence, going over her day, and had just finished talking about a meeting that worried her at the end of the week, when Dee spoke up without turning to her. “Samantha, adjustment code X103.”

His wife was of course voice-coded to him, so there was no need for additional information. Voice coding was incredible, but a subject could only be voice-coded to a single individual, and it was a difficult process to reverse—it required another complete adjustment process, which was expensive and demanding.

Samantha stiffened for half a second, long enough to skip a breath, and then conspicuously relaxed. The custom adjustment—as indicated by its X prefix, an adjustment that could only be activated via voice coding—activated as required. The simple act of seeing her body language shift was sufficient to get him hard.

Dee drove past the restaurant.

“Hey baby,” his wife said, her voice low, sultry, seductive.

“Hey Sam,” he said, using the nickname that she hated anyone using. “How are you feeling?”

“Horny.”

“You’re always horny, you little minx.” Of course. It was what he had selected, after all.

“We’re going to be there in half an hour,” he told her. “Till then, just blow me.”

“Of course, baby,” she added, all sweetness. As he took the entrance to the freeway, he felt her hands on his slacks expertly unfastening his belt and zipper and freeing his hardening cock.

It took only twenty minutes before they reached the destination Dee had in mind all along, a tiny town on the far outskirts of D.C., far from anyone that might possibly know them. Samantha had sucked on him the whole way, dutifully, if not lovingly, making sure to avoid making him come, keeping him warm, keeping him hard, her practiced tongue and lips doing a fantastic job of it.

Dee had told her to hike up her skirt and bare her thighs, and she had, and he ogled her whenever traffic allowed him to, which was often. He reminded himself to tell her to take off her hose before the evening progressed further.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he told her when he took the exit and drove down a small road to the bar with a questionably attired girl in garish neon lights on the side. The Dancing Cowgirl. He had heard of it, but never been.

He told Samantha to get rid of her pantyhose. “And ditch your panties and your bra, too.”

“Am I going to be naughty?” she asked him as she obeyed him.

“Better believe it,” he replied, and thought back to his reflections about Betty that afternoon and how her natural submissiveness bled into all of her adjustments. He wondered, not for the first time, what Samantha’s eagerness, which appeared in one form or another in all of her adjustments as well—even those adjustments when she was scared or reluctant, always a fan favorite—said about his wife intimate fantasy life, about her inner workings that she did not acknowledge in everyday life. Unfortunately, he had no way to ask her without starting an admittedly uncomfortable discussion.

When Samantha had done what he had asked—Dee liked to see her large breasts bounce under her shirt, a clear advertisement that she was braless and ready for action—he told her to get out of the car.

“You know the drill,” he said. “Go in, hang out at the bar. Be pretty. Come find me when I take off my cap.”

“Of course, baby.”

She was just about to step out of the car when he stopped her. “Undo those buttons. Let’s give the boys some tits to gawk at.”

She grinned as she undid the top three buttons of her shirt, exposing a generous expanse of creamy breast that Dee knew intimately. Part of him wanted to run his tongue down the smooth flesh, but he resisted. Delayed gratification was best.

“Is this good enough?” she asked, pulling on the sides of her shirt to emphasize her cleavage. Her breasts jiggled with the movement, and Dee marveled at it. Samantha, his Samantha, was far too self-conscious about her body to expose it in such a shameless way—she navigated in a realm where her body was more often than not a liability, where being beautiful an invitation to not be taken seriously. But with a few little words, she accepted a new side to her personality, one that was not afraid to show herself off. He wondered what her coworkers would think if they knew, if they saw her like this.

Dee stared at her chest with pronounced attention, then looked up at her. “Perfect. You look… easy.”

She grinned in response, and even reddened little.

She exited the car, and walked toward the entrance of the bar, her hips swaying as she did so, and Dee watched with amusement two men out for a smoke staring at her the whole way, running their eyes up and down her body, a smirk on their face.

Dee drove the car to the far side of the parking lot, and changed into a more casual dark sweater. He put a light jacket and a dark cap. He was ready.

He walked into the badly lit bar and was assaulted by the sounds of country music bands playing too loud, of men drinking and playing pool and watching what had to be reruns of NASCAR races on large screens. A few were eating, some with dates, and the women looked almost as rough as the men. It was exactly the sort of place he had hoped for.

He glanced at his wife at the bar, sitting on a tall stool with her legs crossed, exposing a delicious amount of flesh. Two men had already cornered her and were chatting her up, openly ogling her and trying to make her laugh.

Dee wondered, not for the first time, whether he would have ever fallen in love with his wife had she been so easily turned into a slut, back when he first met her. Part of his attraction to her was her unattainability—Samantha Walker had been serious, already well on her way toward an executive position after a stellar MBA from Harvard, and wooing her had been his major goal after first meeting her. In the long process, he had come to know the woman, of course, come to appreciate how smart and driven and even funny she was, and that had cemented his love for her.

But had she been so willing to sit in a crowded and dirty bar being hit on by rough men with tattoos on their biceps and drinking cheap beer, Dee was not sure he would have given her the time of day.

He spotted Edgar sitting in the far corner of the room, his eyes on a television screen showing girls competing in skimpy outfits on a mechanical bull. Edgar turned to look at him when he approached the table.

“You made it,” Edgar said.

“Don’t I always?”

Edgar shrugged. He was about the same age as Dee, with thick shoulders and always wore a flannel shirt as near as Dee could determine. He nursed a thick beard, and gave out a distinct lumberjack impression, something that Dee had always found both reassuring and disturbing.

“Are we still on?” Dee asked as he sat down. Reflexively, he looked around to see if there was anyone he knew.

“Of course. I got three. You’ll like them.”

Dee nodded, and slid an envelope across the table to Edgar, who pocketed it after glancing through it underneath the table. Two thousand dollars. Small bills.

“We’re all set then?” Dee asked.

“You bet.”

Dee took off his black cap and put it beside him on the table. The waitress appeared while he did so, and he ordered a large beer to avoid appearing even more out of place than he already felt.

The sound of his wife’s high heels on the wooden floor were almost drowned by the buzz in the bar. Dee saw Edgar react to his wife’s appearance the way he always did, with his eyes widening slightly, and had the man been a dog Dee was pretty sure Edgar would have started to salivate.

“Hey baby,” his wife said as she slid on the bench next to him. She leaned toward him. “Those boys at the bar really got me hot.” Her voice dropped low. “I’ve got love juices dripping down my thighs. Is it time to go home yet so that you can fuck me silly?”

“Sam,” Dee said, forcing himself to remain neutral. “You remember Edgar?”

Samantha looked up at Edgar and said “Of course.” Whether that was true or not Dee could not tell. How much memory remained from activation to activation was up for debate within Advanced Research, where unreliable data suggested it varied from individual to individual based on criteria that were difficult to isolate. Dee could not tell with Samantha, because the adjustment he had activated ensured that she had incentive to say what she thought Dee wanted to hear.

Edgar nodded. “Sam. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Well thank you.” Samantha blushed, and again Dee appreciated the act.

“Sam,” Dee said. “You’ll accompany Edgar and he’ll take you to your clients for tonight.”

If Samantha was disappointed that she was not coming home with him, she did not let it show. “Of course, baby.”

“You do a good job, you hear?”

“I will, baby,” she purred. “You know I’m your best little whore.”

“Well, if you don’t, you know you’ll be punished, so there’s that.” He could not resist adding that part, just to see that momentary panic in her eyes—Dee did not know what her imagination supplied as an example of the sort of punishment her pimp might have for her should her clients not be satisfied, but it always seemed to spur her on.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be the best they’ve ever had.”

“Edgar?” Dee told the man who was not missing a single word of the exchange.

“Right on.” He stood. “Sam, come with me.”

Samantha stood as well and after one last—lingering?—look at Dee, followed Edgar, her skirt riding high on her thighs, her legs a clear target for attention, at least for the men not entirely obsessed with the way her breasts bounced in her shirt with every step. She was classy and slutty at the same time, a mix that only an activated Samantha could pull off with such bravado.

Dee watched them go, head towards the table with three young men that looked rough, laughing hard and drinking, decked in tee shirts and jeans and a skin that suggested that they worked outside a lot in the summer time. Construction workers, Dee guessed. Edgar knew that Dee had a fondness for them.

He watched Edgar and his wife, knowing that he needed to leave, but always fascinated by that part of the evening, the first encounter. He saw Edgar introduce his wife, the men looking her up and down with appreciative glances. One of them said something and they all laughed, and his wife smiled and Dee felt himself getting hard again, and that hardness throbbed when he saw one of the men grab Samantha and pull her to his lap and kiss her. After a momentary hesitation that probably only Dee could see, she kissed him back, and Edgar looked on approvingly.

When Dee looked up, Edgar was glancing at him and nodding.

Dee nodded back, and left, leaving money on the table to pay for the beer he had not touched.

Patrick Dee made it to the small apartment before Edgar and the men he had found, which was not surprising since Edgar was supposed to delay until he saw Dee’s car parked in its usual spot.

He opened the door and entered. He had the key, since he was the one actually renting the place. Of course, Edgar was the one whose name was on the lease and who interacted with the landlords—Dee merely paid him cash. As a bonus, Edgar also used the apartment at his leisure. A place to crash was always useful for somebody’s in Edgar’s line of work. And from the look of the place, Edgar had been taking advantage. Dee did not care—this was not a place he wanted anything to do with except for nights like tonight’s.

He headed directly for the small room at one end of the apartment, and closed and locked the door behind him. Aside from a small laptop connected to a small box from which several wires led into the wall, the feature of the room was a large window giving into the next bedroom. Dee kept the light off, and sat in the comfortable chair, by far the most expensive piece of equipment in the room.

Dee waited. Everything was ready.

It was not too long before he heard the front door open, and men’s voices rise in the empty apartment. He straightened up in his chair, and looked at the laptop screen which tracked several cameras planted all around the apartment. He started the laptop recording. He liked to keep souvenirs of these nights, to play at his leisure when he needed an energy boost.

The men were in the living room, clearly asking for something to drink, and Edgar, who was with them, supplied them with beer from the fridge. Samantha was laughing, and was being passed around from man to man, kissed and fondled and groped. She was still dressed, something that somewhat surprised Dee.

He did not raise the volume on the microphones, preferring to imagine what the men were talking about—probably ribbing themselves about the hot piece of ass they had nabbed, perhaps offering various assessments of Samantha’s various body parts, her legs and her tits and her ass, deciding which one was her best feature.

He watched Edgar point them to the bedroom, and they headed that direction, pushing a giggling Samantha before them, tottering on her high heels, her skirt pulled up over her ass and revealing her utter lack of panties.

Dee straightened up to pay attention when Samantha and the three men entered the bedroom. He could see them and hear them through the window, which from the other side of the wall was a mirror. One of the men seemed clearly in charge, nonchalantly chewing on a piece of gum and acting cool. He was the one who spoke first.

“So what’s your story, babe?”

“What do you mean?” asked Samantha, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Our buddy out there tells us that you’re a big-shot exec looking for some fun. Is that right?”

“Maybe…”

“Don’t gimme that shit. Are you a big shot exec or what?”

“Yes. I am a C-level executive in—”

But the man just interrupted. “You hear that, boys? She’s a C-level executive mumbo-jumbo.” He turned back to her, and took a step towards her. “You’re a whore for the system, babe. But tonight, we paid good dough for you, so you’re our whore, ain’t that right?”

“Yes…”

“Say it.”

“I’m your whore.”

“Not bad. Better still if you got on your knees.”

Samantha did, kneeling at the man’s feet, and looking back up at him.

“Show us those tits.”

She opened her blouse, and her large breasts bounced free.

“Fuck look at those knockers!” said one of the men, the youngest one.

The other man said nothing, merely rubbed himself through his jeans.

“Yup,” said the first man. “Titty-fuck knockers. Ain’t that right? Big and fat and fun to slap around. Do you like that? Getting your big tits slapped?”

Samantha nodded, her breath short.

“Yeah, I bet you do. That’s how you get your rocks off, ain’t it, Miss C-Level Executive? Spreading your legs for a bunch of working men? Open your mouth.”

Samantha did, and the man spat in it. If she was shocked by it she did not let on, and merely swallowed and shivered slightly. Dee could tell she was aroused—he should know, since he had adjusted her to react exactly that way.

The man grinned, and grabbed her by the hair. “You might be a big shot out there, bitch, but here, tonight, you’re our play thing. We’re gonna do stuff to you that you’re never gonna forget.”

“Whatever you want,” Samantha said with a small voice, her hips twitching subtly but Dee could see it—he grinned. Choosing the custom adjustment that saw her as a hooker turned on by rough and humiliating treatment had turned out to be the right choice after all for his mood.

The man was fishing his cock out of his trousers. “Suck,” he said, pulling Samantha’s head to his crotch. “And make it good, bitch.”

Samantha practically engulfed his cock in one go, wrapping her red lips around the head and sliding it in until it caught at the entrance of her throat.

“Fuck yeah,” growled the man as he leaned back on his heels, his hand never leaving her hair. “That’s it, like that, just like that, nice and deep—fuck you’re a good cock sucker!”

Samantha might have mumbled a thank you but it was hard to tell because of the smacking sounds that came from her mouth. She was blowing him as if her life depended on it, and she gave it all of her concentration and undeniable skill.

The other two men looked on in envy as they removed their own trousers, and Dee was amused to see that kept their shirts and their socks. Their cocks were large and hard, red and hungry.

The youngest of the men hurried to crouch behind Samantha, still assiduously sucking with gusto, and reached between her legs.

“Lift that ass, bitch,” the man getting sucked said. “My friend wants to feel that dirty cunt of yours.”

Samantha did just that, never breaking her blow-job rhythm, and lifted her ass so that the young man could touch her.

And touch her he did. “Fuck man, she’s fucking dripping! Bitch loves it!” the young man said. He must have slipped a few fingers into Samantha’s pussy, for she moaned loudly before choking on the cock that had slipped down her throat.

“Holy shit!” said the man thrusting into her mouth. “Bitch opened up when you did what’cha did! How’s it feel to get a stiff one down your throat, you little slut?” he asked her, pressing his crotch against her face, clearing enjoying the struggle she put on to keep his cock as deep as it was.

“She’s fucking back against my hand,” the young man at her feet said with wonder in his voice.

“Yeah, she loves it all right,” said the man in her throat. “Bitch is a true slut.”

He pulled out of her mouth, and Samantha gasped to catch her breath, once in a while gasping because the young man between her legs was still finger fucking her.

“I wanna fuck her,” said the young man.

“You heard the boy,” said the first man. “Strip, bitch.”

Samantha stood and stripped off her clothes, baring the beautiful naked body that Dee knew so well. She really did look good, toned and thin and with large breasts.

The third man, who had not said a word until now but merely stood back stroking his cock, finally spoke up. “Make her jump in place.”

The first man grinned. He seemed to have been elected Master of Ceremony. “You heard the man, bitch. Jump and make those titties dance.”

And Samantha did, her large breasts bouncing about wildly, her face flushed with arousal and humiliation. And the men laughed.

Her arousal and humiliation did not relent when the men told her to get on the bed.

It did not relent when they told her to present her ass.

It did not relent when one man lined up behind her to fuck her pussy and one man lined up in front of her to fuck her mouth and the third man reached underneath her to manhandle her breasts.

It did not relent at any point during the evening. The adjustment saw to that.

Patrick Dee brought his wife home a little after one in the morning. She had been out of it for most of the trip, recovering from her ordeal. She had been fucked repeatedly by the three men, who had been both creative and full of stamina—they had taken her individually, two by two, and even three by three once, her three holes filled to the brim with thick hard cock. When they were done and felt they had gotten their money’s worth, they left and Edgar took his own pass at her, taking her ass from behind, which by then had been gaped wide and Edgar grinned “was warm and comfortable.” His old lady never gave him any ass, he always said.

Samantha was still activated, still in her whore persona, and had her skirt hiked up over her hips and diddling herself mindlessly, her legs spread. She smelled like she had bathed in cum, which in a sense she had. Dee could see her face shiny with it. Edgar had finished off there, the way he always did.

Dee was feeling great. He had not come—he rarely allowed himself to—and was riding the high of the evening. He had watched his wife being used and abused hard, and the endorphins coursing through his body allowed him to think clearly. The drive in silence in the middle of the night, the darkness surrounding him, disturbed only by the sounds of his wife’s fingers sliding in and out of her pussy, were perfect for his mood.

Once home, he told her to go and take a bath, get cleaned up and ready for bed, and she obeyed, because she had no choice. He told her that she would come out of her activated stated when she was in the bathtub. It was unnecessary—her adjustments ensured that if she was left alone without sexual goals for a period of time, she would naturally deactivate. But he liked to be make it clear. He told her to strip first, and she did, and he took in a look at her bruised body and felt a stirring in his crotch.Perhaps he would make love to his wife before the night was through.

He gathered up her used clothes and watched Samantha head up the stairs. He headed to his study. It was a typical study, nothing fancy, the kind that his wife never entered for she felt it was private. She also had her nook in the house, of course, where she did her work if she needed to. Dee considered it as private as his own abode.

Dee entered his study, and closed the door.

He walked to the bookshelf on the left wall, and reached for a book. Virgil’s The Aeneid. Still one of his favorites. It was not an actual book though. He pulled it out, and a hidden panel opened to the right of the bookshelf. It was overdone, he knew, and but he could not help it. It made him smile every time.

The panel revealed a keypad, and he entered the code. The whole bookshelf clicked opened outward, slowly. Dee entered the passage beyond, and let the bookshelf close behind him. Stairs led down to a part of the basement that he had built in secret. His wife did not know about it.

Thirteen steps led down to a second study, this one dedicated to his more secretive ADCorp work. It was too dangerous for him to leave ADCorp internal documents upstairs—Investigation and Enforcement Division would have his hide.

He was not particularly surprised when he saw the flickering light in the basement study.

Thien was standing in the corner, looking at the gas fireplace, his scarred face impassible in the glow of the blue flames. He was motionless, as if he were meditating. Dee had no idea how long he had been there, nor in fact did he have any idea how Thien had managed to get in. He stopped asking those sort of questions long ago.

“Thien,” Dee said by way of greeting. He walked to the desk in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace.

Thien turned to Dee, and Dee thought—as he always did—that Thien’s face lit from the side by the blue glow of the flames looked like a demonic rictus. The two long jagged scars from his lower eyelids to his jaw, the long scars that had destroyed much of his ability to control his facial muscles and froze his lower face into an unmovable mask, looked almost shiny in the light. Dee managed to control a shiver. Thien knew exactly what effect he had on people, and probably enjoyed it immensely. If he enjoyed anything at all. Dee was not sure.

Silence hung heavy. Dee was used to Thien’s silence—the man never talked, his speech an incoherent mumble, and actually the only sounds Dee ever remembered Thien making was when he hummed what Dee believed was a classical melody—but tonight, he was too enthused to endure it for long.

“So it was an interesting day,” he said.

Thien simply looked at him.

“Let’s drop this incessant chit chat. We have important business to take care of. I came to a decision. Tell Colonel Chang that I’m ready to meet.”

Thien nodded after a pause.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Dee asked, knowing his right-hand man well.

Thien said nothing.

“It doesn’t hurt to talk to them. And the situation back home is become untenable.” They’re all idiots, he added inside. Even in private it was not a good idea to voice those things. One could get used to it, and it might slip out at the wrong time.

“Let’s see what their specs are, and we’ll take it from there.”

Thien nodded again. Dee could see the doubt in his eyes.

“Yes, I know even just meeting with them commits us. But I’m confident we’ll be able to come up with a deal.”

Thien bowed his head, ready to leave.

Dee stopped him. “Something else. Daniel Malcolm.”

Thien did not change his expression, but Dee could see the question he was not asking.

“A new recruit at ADCorp. He started early summer.” He pushed a small USB thumb drive across the table.

Thien picked it up, and pulled out his cell phone. The cell spoke. “Do you want me to kill him?” Whenever Thien needed to communicate he did so with an app on his phone. Oddly enough, Thien had chosen an upper class British accent. Dee thought it was both appropriate and creepy.

“No, not yet. Find out all you can about him. History, any contact with anyone important, anyone relevant. I want to know where he fits in the big picture. I want to know why Davenham wanted him. And I want some leverage: what makes him tick, family, girlfriends, boyfriends, what does he love, who does he love? Anything you can find beyond what’s in that file.”

Thien nodded. He did not bother using his phone.

Dee looked down at his desk. The upcoming deal with the Chinese was dangerous, more so than the one with the Connelly brothers. The last thing he needed was a wildcard. And Malcolm was a wildcard.

When Dee looked up, Thien was gone.

ADCORP CONFIDENTIAL MEMO to Adonai Davenham.

SUBJECT: December executive oversight report

MEMO: Per standing instructions, observation of executive-level employees reported no anomalous behavior for December. Two point merit further attention: (1) Michael Halderan has increased the frequency of his visits to Janelle Laroche, high-class escort from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Psychological evaluations suggest a vulnerable state following the death of his wife from cancer nine months ago. Background check on Laroche revealed no suspicious connections, but we recommend heightened observation; (2) Patrick Dee subjected his wife to an adjustment-triggered multi-partner sexual encounter out of schedule (weekday rather than weekend). Preliminary analysis suggests the change is insignificant, probably related to stress following Q4 Executive Meeting. Discrepancy recorded but no change in observation status intended.