The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Anonymous Caller

A mysterious late-night phone caller puts Rob and Jenny under his control, and forces them into brutal carnality. When Jenny vanishes to be with her tormenter, Rob appeals to a beautiful but tough FBI agent to try and track down his mind-controlled girlfriend before she’s lost to him forever.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy intended for adult readers, and includes graphic depictions of sexual acts and situations.

Copyright © 2009 by Unicode Smith. Permission is granted to copy, distribute or display online provided this copyright notice remains attached.

* * *

Ring.

The phone rang at the very moment the water came to a boil, catching Jenny with her hands encircling a bundle of soft, uncooked linguini. She sighed and plunked the pasta into the pot. “Can you add some salt, sweetie, and stir it a little?”

Rob slid open Jenny’s utensil drawer and pulled out a wooden spoon. It was their fifth time cooking together—he was counting—and he knew where everything was. “Way ahead of you,” he said. “But just because the phone rings, doesn’t mean you have to answer it.”

She tilted her head coquettishly as she backed towards the phone, looking at him from behind a lock of straight blonde hair. She blew it away with a puff, and grinned. “It doesn’t? But what if it’s my other boyfriend?” she teased, batting her eyelashes.

“Hmmm. Good point. Tell him to come over and help me with the marinara.”

Ring.

“I’d better get it.” As she crossed the picture window the city lights spilled over the narrow skirt clinging to the curves of her body and sparkled off her dangling earrings. Jenny dressed for dinner, even when they were just eating in her apartment; even after four weeks of dating. Rob liked that.

He stirred the pot as Jenny answered the phone—“Hello?” She frowned and hung it up again without a second word.

“Wrong number?”

“Creepy caller,” she said. “Some guy wanting to know if I’m ‘cute’.’”

He stopped stirring. “Do you know him? Has he called before?”

“No. It sounded like a kid. Or maybe I was selected in a random survey of cuteness.” She smiled and returned to the stove, where she gave Rob a peck on the lips and snaked a slender arm around his waist. “But you’re cute for worrying.”

She pressed a soft hand over his on the spoon handle, and Rob breathed in her perfume and calculated his odds of getting lucky. So far, cooking together led to sex every single time. They stirred gently for a minute.

Ring.

“Alright, I’ll take this one,” he said. The last thing he needed was to get cock-blocked by some obscene phone caller. He stomped across the hardwood floor and scooped up the handset. “Can I help you?” he demanded, in his most menacing, manly baritone.

There was no answer. The only sound was a dim background noise, too deep and complex to be interference from a baby monitor or microwave. It was a distant roar in his ear, like a TV tuned to static, with faint layers of buzzes and whistles echoing and scattering across the connection.

It was strangely foreboding, this almost-silence, as though the call was routed under some Stygian sea, black and ageless, eons of forgotten rot bleeding into the line.

Time to hang up, and maybe unplug Jenny’s phone for the night. But as soon as he summoned the will to move, it was drawn into the receiver like a dribble of water down a deep and thirsty drain.

Jenny watched expectantly from near the stove, a world away, her face lit angelically by the kitchen halogens. Rob tried again to hang up and felt a stab of pain in his head.

Finally, a clipped voice crept from the acoustic mire and crawled into Rob’s ear, nestling intimately in his brain.

“Are you the boyfriend of the girl who just hung up on me?”

Rob’s vision clouded and his heartbeat joined the static in his ear. He felt his mouth move and his voice murmur a monotone back into the line: “Yes.” The syllable reverberated deep into the bottomless connection.

“Put her on the phone,” the voice commanded. “Then sit quietly and watch her.”

With that, the phone fell away from Rob’s ear. He breathed deeply in relief and reached hastily for the off switch on the handset—then stopped, and watched himself extend the instrument toward Jenny.

“It’s for you,” he heard himself say. What the hell am I doing?

She turned down the burner under the pasta and puzzled at him as she walked over. “O-kay,” she said skeptically, accepting the phone. Rob grinded his teeth together, stumbled to the sofa and plunked onto the floor. He leaned against the couch, legs splayed, watching his girlfriend like a kid watching a Saturday morning cartoon.

She removed her left earring and placed it in on an end table before pressing the phone against her ear. “Hello?” she said into the phone.

Rob watched as the strange call washed over Jenny’s face, relaxing it and smoothing her expression into a blankness that surpassed the repose of sleep.

She cocked her head into the phone on her ear, and her lips slackened as she listened.

He tried to will himself to stand, to speak, to shout, but could only watch Jenny as answered flatly into the handset...

“Yes,” she said. “I’m cute.”

Rob scraped his nails on the floor, and for an eternity of five minutes he listened to Jenny’s side of the strange conversation. She’d listen passively for a minute, then murmur back into the phone in a wane voice, most often offering a simple, “Yes”; occasionally, something more. “Twenty-three,” she said at one point. Later, “Five-seven. One hundred and twenty-six pounds.”

A pause, then, simply, “Blonde.”

With every answer, her gaze slowly drifted up into space, until she abruptly looked directly at Rob and made contact with her blue eyes. “Yes. He’s watching.”

A longer period of silence followed, then Jenny set the phone on the table, freeing both hands to move to her chest. She unbuttoned her blouse carefully, button-by-button, until it was draped open over her black, frilly bra and deep cleavage.

With a long zip and a familiar shimmy of her hips, her skirt fell to the floor. Within a minute, all her clothes were in a pile at her naked feet, her bra on top. She slid down her panties last, then straightened and took the phone again. “I’m naked,” she reported robotically.

Rob wondered, pointlessly, if anyone could see her through the open window: her firm ass; her pale, rounded breasts, their nipples erect in the cool apartment.

Jenny nodded in response to some further instruction, then Rob watched as her breathing grew deep and labored, and her free hand moved over her tits, caressing them, then down her flat stomach to her pussy.

Her head lolled on her shoulders languorously as she touched herself, her eyes rolling back into her head. She let out a low moan and bit her lip, picking up speed, while with the other hand she squeezed the phone harder and pressed it firm against her ear, her knuckles turning white.

From the kitchen came the hiss of water boiling over and evaporating on a burner. Jenny said something quietly into the phone that Rob couldn’t make out.

* * *

Five Days Earlier

Jessica Turner stared up at Tim from the magazine, a smile on her ripe mouth, her teeth gleaming and her flawless skin begging to be touched.

He obliged, running an index finger from her throat down to her stomach, substituting in his mind the feeling of yielding flesh for the roughness of paper. The photo was a publicity shot from her last movie, a superhero flick. She was clothed in a scanty comic book costume, and her normally dark, lustrous hair was dyed silver, but even so she was more appealing than any of the crass centerfolds stashed under his bed.

Tim unbuttoned his jeans and fumbled inside, when his bedroom door opened suddenly. He flipped over the movie magazine and rolled to his side away from the door, franticly buttoning up. “Jesus, Dad! Don’t you ever knock?”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in this house, Tim,” he father said from the hall, in a tone more perfunctory than pious. “If you want privacy, all you have to do is wait one more day.”

“Yeah, great.” He clasped his belt, then stood and faced his dad. A wiseass retort died on his tongue when he saw the worry in his father’s creased face. “What do you want?”

Charles Forrester’s tired eyes roamed Tim’s room, passing disapprovingly over the pinup girls on the wall, ending on the unfinished drawings on Tim’s sketch table. He sighed, then squared his shoulders. “Put on your coat and come downstairs. There’s something I need to show you before I leave.”

“Can it wait until later?”

“No,” his father answered gruffly, and closed the door.

Outside the farmhouse, a mist hung in the soft light of dusk. Tim’s dad was waiting by an old tractor, broken for years, resting a weathered hand on its rusting shell like a faith healer and staring off in the direction of the interstate. He turned when he heard Tim’s footsteps crunching in the dirt behind him.

He nodded. Tim shrugged and put his hands in his coat pocket.

“This way,” his father said, leading Tim away from the highway.

They walked wordlessly past the grain silo and some broken irrigation equipment, when Tim’s father broke the silence. “I know how it looks, me leaving you like this, with the farm, and no... family to look after you.”

Tim shrugged again. “I can look after myself.”

His father ignored him. “But this is the way it’s always been in our family. For generations. The son becomes a man, the father moves on. It’s like a harvest—you clear away the old crop to make room for the new.”

“You’ve told me. Dad, where are we going?” They were far from the house now.

“I’m letting you in on the family secret, son. There’s enough in the savings account to get you by for a while. But it’s the family secret that’s going to make sure you never want for anything.”

“What family secret?” Tim snorted. “There’s nothing back here but...”

He trailed off.

The gatehouse.

A depression era relic, the old gatehouse at the hinter of the property was the one spot on the farm that had been forbidden to Tim as a child. He’d hear a sound, sometimes, getting home from school, or in the middle of the night—a sputtering, mechanical engine roar—and he’d know his dad was in there, doing something. But by the time he’d get to the building, his father would always be outside, already locking up, or on his way back to the house with a cigarette in his hand.

Sometimes the smell of exhaust would linger in the air outside the building, the fumes wafting from a pipe high on the back wall. Tim had dragged a ladder over once, far across the property in the freezing night, to peer into that sooty hole with a flashlight. He was rewarded only with a mocking blackness.

Every summer, he’d assigned himself the secret project of penetrating the small building and its mysteries, but the windows were sealed with cinderblock and cement, the door dead-bolted and shackled. Even as the rest of the farm fell into decay, there was always a shiny, rust-free padlock on that shackle. And if the key was anywhere on the property, he never found it.

When he hit puberty, his attention shifted to the task—equally futile, it would develop—of penetrating the mysteries of the girls at school. But every once and a while, he’d hear the low roar in the distance, and wonder.

It was in front of them now, a steepled silhouette against the sunless gray sky.

“The gatehouse,” he said.

His father smiled, and in that smile revealed that he knew all about Tim’s childhood campaign, and always had. “The gatehouse,” he said. “That’s where we keep it. You ever been inside?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Well, you’re going in now.” A power line draped between the gatehouse and a rotting utility pole swung in the wind. His father stomped out his cigarette and fished a chain off his neck, two keys shining like pendants.

He unlocked the padlock with one, the deadbolt with the other, and pushed at the door with a grunt. It swung open heavy and slow. Inside was blackness.

His dad stepped into the shadow. “Inside first,” he said. “Then we close the door, then we turn on the light. One, two, three.”

Tim could hear his own heartbeat as he crossed the threshold. It was damp and dank inside. His dad reached behind him and closed the door with a thud, then twisted the deadbolt knob. They were in pitch darkness.

A second later a florescent light above them flickered to life with a hum, and Tim saw the machine.

* * *

Jenny was curled up on the floor sobbing quietly with release, her body covered in sweat and her hair over her face. Her orgasm had been louder and fiercer than Rob had ever heard from her or any other woman. The phone was still glued to her ear, and she stirred in response to her master’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” she breathed shakily. “I’m still here.”

A pause to listen, and she whimpered softly. “Please, don’t. Not again. It’s too much.” But she was already obeying, stretching out onto her back. She spread her legs wide, her free hand found her right breast, and she squeezed it, arching her back. “Fuck me,” she said into the phone—whether a curse or supplication, Rob couldn’t tell. Then her hand slid down over her navel and between her thighs again.

Rob watched as she repeated her performance for the caller, her fingers moving in tight circles, her lips trembling. “Oh, God,” she breathed. “Oh... oh...

Aiiggghhhhhh,” she cried out and thrashed her head wildly, then grew silent. He could hear her breathing from across the room.

How long could this continue? Would a neighbor hear and call the apartment manager?

“Yes,” she said. “I understand.” She gathered her legs beneath her and rose unsteadily, exhausted. Her hair was damp. She looked at Rob numbly, then padded over and crouched close to him. He could feel the heat from her body. Her perfume was mixed with the odor of arousal.

Abruptly, she moved the phone from her ear to his. Rob tried to jerk his head away, but was caught off guard; the buzz filled his head and he felt himself fall into the abyss of the phone line.

“I think she deserves to be fucked properly,” said the voice. “Do that for me.”

“Yes,” he replied, through gritted teeth.

Jenny grabbed a pillow from the sofa above him and positioned it on the floor, then turned her back to him and lowered herself to her hands and knees. She rested her head and raised her ass to him. Her pussy was wet.

Still holding the phone to his ear, Rob groped for his belt buckle with his free hand and pulled down his pants, then kneeled behind her. He found himself ready, unwillingly aroused by Jenny’s submission.

She gasped as he penetrated her. Rob grunted, and began thrusting. Jenny moaned softly.

“Was that her? I could barely hear her,” the voice mocked in his ear. “Fuck her harder. Hurt her.”

Rob obeyed, increasing the force of his thrusts. Jenny flinched and put a hand to her mouth and bit the joints of her fingers.

“How does she feel?” the voice asked.

“Good.”

“More detail.”

“She’s wet. Tight.”

Her moans grew louder.

“Pull her hair.”

He snared a fistful of blonde in his hand and pulled her head back; she yelped.

“Make sure you don’t come until she does.”

“Yes.” He moved faster and faster, and Jenny’s moans turned to cries. He closed his eyes, his brain shrinking from his actions: the voice on the phone was raping her, he realized, using Rob’s body as an instrument of her violation.

“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Ohhh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” She came even louder then, fierce animal cries that scared him. Rob huffed and groaned his release.

Jenny collapsed on the pillow, her back rising and falling with deep breaths and glimmering with sweat. Rob rolled back against the foot of the sofa again, the phone still on his ear.

“Give me the phone,” she panted.

He sat dumbly.

She half pushed herself up and reached a hand to him. “Give me back the phone!” she demanded. “He’s not done.”

“She’s right,” said the voice. “Sit quietly. And give her back the phone.”

* * *

The machine was a riot of interlocking gears and pulleys supporting two great turbines that were wound tight with shining copper coil. It filled nearly every inch of space in the gatehouse, rising to its rafters and sprawling from wall to ancient wall. In its depths Tim could see more coils and a sprinkling of glass vacuum tubes that reminded him of the old radio he found in the cellar three summers ago.

A cord ran from the machine to an unfinished wooden table, terminating in an old spin-dial telephone. A desk lamp with a dusty green glass cover sat next to the telephone, and a three-legged stool was positioned behind the table. On the wall a bookshelf overflowed with aging phone books, brittle white pages turned brown with time.

“What the fuck.”

His father nodded. “Yep.”

“What... is it?”

“Your great-grandfather built it before the war. I can’t tell you why, or how, or what makes it work. But it does.”

Tim touched a rotor caked with grease. “What does it do?”

“Well... That’s the part that’s going to be hard to understand,” he said. “When you get the machine running, it gets into people’s heads.”

Tim shook his head. What?

“It’s gasoline powered, and that big dial there sets the level—the higher it’s set, the faster the machine burns fuel. Turn it all the way to the right, and it’ll crack open a person’s mind like a walnut. They’ll do anything you say.”

He pointed. “You use that phone.”

Tim took a step back from the machine and bumped the wall. “That’s ridiculous. Why are you screwing with me like this? You wouldn’t be living on a farm in Indiana...”

“This is where the machine is, and so this is where our family is.”

Tim stared in silence.

“I got a few things to pass on, but I’ll give you the most important one first. You don’t do anything that gets attention. That’s a hard-learned lesson. You use this to get what you need. Use it to get a family started, if you want, then use it to take care of your family. But use it rarely. Responsibly.”

“Are you kidding me? If you’re telling the truth, how do you use this responsibly? It’s an irresponsible invention.”

His dad relaxed into a smile and turned off the light. “Then you never need to turn it on,” he said in the darkness. A deadbolt retracted and he pushed open the door, the sweet chilly evening air greeting Tim like a song.

* * *

Twenty minutes after the call ended, Rob was still stuck on the floor, staring at the pile of clothes Jenny abandoned by the phone, which was now safely holstered in its charger. He could hear her in the bedroom, opening and closing drawers. What was she doing? How long would he stay like this?

Then the phone rang again. Jenny walked back in, not sparing him a glance. She was fully clothed now, in jeans and a turtleneck, ratty sneakers on her feet and her hair tied back in a ponytail. He thought for a moment that things might be returning to normal, then noticed she was toting an overstuffed carry-on bag.

She dropped the luggage by the phone and answered it, her face blanking out again as she melted into the call. “Yes,” she told the caller. “I’m all ready.”

“Okay,” she added a moment later. She moved the phone to her side, picked up the overnight bag and slung it over her shoulder, then grabbed her keys and wallet from the end table and dropped them into her purse.

On her way to the door, she squatted in front of Rob and held out the phone. He jerked his head away.

“Rob, he says if you ever want to get off my floor, you’d better take this call.”

He took the phone, and Jenny left the apartment without saying goodbye.