The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

At Work

“Ms. Cho?”

Jane Cho looked up from her computer monitors. She was surprised, but she didn’t show it. Nobody ever came into her office without knocking first. If they’d knocked, she hadn’t heard it.

Rory was standing at the door. “I knocked, ma’am, but you didn’t answer.”

“Then you should have kept knocking,” she said. “Knock ’til Doomsday. Don’t come in without asking.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Rory looked at the carpet. “But your personal project is ready. We just got word. I know you wanted to know.”

Her personal project. Excellent. Jane tried to hide the satisfaction and anticipation she was fairly sure was rippling through her. But even if it showed, Rory didn’t witness it. He was still staring at the carpet.

“Thank you, Rory. You can go.” And he did.

Jane Cho sat back, took a breath, pondered. Go now? No. Too much to do, at least another hour of work. Stay disciplined. Focus. Get the work done. Then head down to the labs. Delayed gratification—that’s what it was all about, this job. Which was funny, because the product they sold? Anything but.

It turned out to be three hours of work, most of the scheduling variety: personnel, rooms, equipment. I am the master of time and space and things, she thought. She wasn’t wrong. A gift for planning, for rallying resources and getting things done. For making not just the trains but also the trainmasters—the doctors and the engineers and the technicians and the suppliers and the transporters and god knows who else—run on time. Without her efforts, the gears of this place would squeal, shriek, and judder to a crashing halt.

So she worked. Four more hours, lost in sleek spreadsheets and crisp, sometimes terse, e-mails . Only when flicking between tasks did the thought occur: It’s ready. They’re ready.

Around 10:30 the last spreadsheet cell was populated and the final e-mail sent. She’d done a little extra this evening, gotten a little ahead of the game. She was fairly certain she’d be tired tomorrow. Groggy and distracted, not at the top of her game. But that was fine.

She clamped down her office, set the alarm, locked it up. The guard outside neither ignored nor acknowledged her, and she did the same. Then the key card to get into the elevator; another key card to get to Basement Level C; then two more guards—these she had to interact with so she could get through the doors. And then Room 14, and her personal project.

She took one breath, held it, and brought her palm up to a dark, flat square about where a doorknob would be. A beep and a click, and the door opened.

“Ms. Cho,” said Doctor Mote, not looking up from the console. He was fiddling with something.

“Doctor. Why are you here? I’d scheduled Doctor Bellamy for this job.”

Doctor Mote looked up. “Assign Becca to the most important job here? Feh. This requires skill. I put her elsewhere.”

Another scheduling mess to fix, thought Jane. And more for you to get your fingers into. But what she said was, “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate you taking the interest.”

He smiled. He knew her thoughts, and she knew his, but they were professionals. “Anything for our little Mussolini,” he said. He gestured, first to the podium, then to the enormous cylinder of black glass it faced. “The floor is yours.”

She came to the podium as he walked to the door. “Don’t stay up too late,” he said. “If you haven’t got your health—“ He departed, letting the cliché fall. The door sealed with a click and a beep.

Jane considered the black, glossy, featureless console, the size of a pad of large drawing paper. She flashed on the life drawing classes she’d taken as an undergraduate. A rare moment of unfocused pleasure in an otherwise driven career of business management. Not much undirected pleasure since then. And this column of black glass—it contained quite the opposite of undirected pleasure.

She tapped the side of the console, and life glowed into it. Monitors and slider bars and controls of all sorts. She brought a finger to a simple slider—lighting—and pulled her finger down. The black glass cylinder was no longer black; it was perfectly transparent. At least from the outside looking in. On the inside, it was still a black as if 100 feet under the ground.

The setup was fairly simple. A man up on a circular stage. Sleeping a drugged sleep. Kneeling, his head and arms clamped in stocks, his legs trapped behind him. Naked, of course. It wasn’t uncomfortable, Jane knew. It was all padded and ergonomic in all the right places. Nothing would fall asleep, his back wouldn’t ache, his knees wouldn’t hurt. But he couldn’t move, and that was good. He couldn’t yank out the red and the slender blue drip tube pushing through the back of his skull and into his brain; couldn’t tear out the green and black wires snaking up his anus and clamped to his prostate; and couldn’t rip out the long, clear, flexible tube—flanked by still more wires—slithering into his testicles and fully integrating themselves into his reproductive apparatus. His balls. His cock. Hanging there, out in the open, small and limp.

Well, that won’t do. Jane tapped an icon. In the cylinder, the man took a sharp breath, and then he was awake.

“Hello?” he called. He clenched his hands and moved his feet and flexed his rear, trying to move. His cock and balls hung, small and cold and scared. He stared blankly around, a blind man. He couldn’t see a thing, but Jane could see him perfectly.

“Janey, is that you, baby? Is that you?”

Jane flinched. Janey. She pressed an icon and said, in her best, low, corporate voice, “You don’t get to call me that, any more. Not Janey, and not baby.”

“Listen, Janey, baby, I’m so sorry about—ggnnnnnHHHHH!” Jane had tapped the screen and given Cal a horrible headache.

“My name is Jane, and I am not your baby, any more, Cal.” And she made the headache stop.

“Jane, please, I’m sorry. I told you I was sorry, and I’ve promised. I’ll go to counseling. I’ll never talk to her again.”

“That’s not true,” Jane said. “You’re lying. You will talk to her again.”

“No, baby. I—GGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.” This time the tap had caused all the muscles in Cal’s colon to spasm. The pain rumbled through him, then eased. “I’m sorry Jane. Habit.”

“As I was saying,” said Jane. “You will speak with her again.” And she pressed another button.

A small portal opened on the floor about three feet in front of Cal’s cock. Then came a hydraulic hum and a shape rose out of it.

“Jane,” said Cal. “What’s that noise? Please, Jane, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Jane smiled. The hydraulic had stopped moving. On the floor, about six feet in front of the stockaded Cal, was a tall, deep bowl-like shape. Jane couldn’t see what was in it, but then she tapped her screen. With a gasp, the woman whose head was trapped inside the bowl awoke.

“Where am I?” she said. Struggling sounds. “Where am I? Why can’t I see?”

“Tess?” said Cal. “Tess, is that you?”

“Calvin? Calvin, what’s happening? I can’t see anything, and I can’t move.”

“Tess, baby, don’t worry. I’ll take care of this. I know what’s going on. Jane, stop this.”

Jane smiled. “See? I told you were lying to me. You’re talking to her again.”

“Jane, this isn’t right. You know this isn’t right, ba—Jane. This isn’t her fault.”

“She knew you were married, Cal. And she let you stick her dick inside her. This is very much her fault.”

“Cal, who is that?” Tess said. “Cal, is that your wife? Jane?”

Jane grimaced and tapped the screen. Tess made a strangling sound. “You don’t get to say my name,” said Jane. “You don’t get to talk at all, you pig.”

Tess’s mouth was free, and it kept moving, and it was clearly trying to form words, and her eyes were clearly trying to communicate, but all that came out were odd, grunty, squeaky animal sounds.

“Jane, no. Please, do what you want to me but let her—nnnnnnggghhhh!”

Jane had tapped the monitor again. This time, though, it wasn’t pain she’d given him. It was pleasure. She watched in satisfaction and sadness as his small, cold, frightened cock inflated and thudded up against his belly. Jane had just given Cal the most impressive erection his body was capable of mustering.

It was like a special effect, she mused. Time-lapse photography. No human cock was ever meant to grow that quickly, that angrily, to such crippling enormity.

Now when Cal spoke, his words were breathless and slurred with arousal. “Janey please baby no please listen I know what you’re doing—“

She let him babble on and beg. She forgave him the “Janey” and the “baby.” He was too frightened and aroused to be thinking clearly, his swaying, magnificent cock as thick as a can of beer and as long as a policeman’s flashlight. His feet and hands, clenching and unclenching, had grown white and cold.

Cal babbled. Tess, beneath him, was still making the noises of a caged and frightened animal. Then Jane tapped the screen again, and Tess’s noises became the grunts and groans of a horny caged animal. Jane had plunged Tess into heat.

Cal registered the change. “Jane please NO—“

Yet another tap. Now Cal was making the same, grunting, groaning noises as his lover below. He struggled in the stocks, and his cock pulled and swayed at his midsection.

Jane turned down the volume of sounds coming from the cylinder, then turned up the volume inside so they could hear her clearly. “What’s going to happen next is going to take a long time. I’m going to stay here the entire time. I’ll be right here, watching the whole thing.” And then, with a final tap, she started up the process.

Cal bellowed; his cock, already erect, hardened to oak; his testicles clenched; and one, two, three, four arcs of pearly white cum blew out of him and flew over to the bowl where Tess’s moaning head was trapped. The ropey jets landed with successive heavy smacks across Tess’s forehead, eyes, nose, and chin. Perfect shots, Jane observed, and she thanked the laws of simple physics.

Jane was pleased to see that Tess’s tongue was circling wildly, trying to gather up what spunk she could. This, despite the revulsion part of her certainly still felt. Jane marveled. The right chemicals, a little electricity, just in the right doses . . . .

Under normal circumstances Cal would be done. His cum would droop and cool and dry on Tess’s face—well, the cum she hadn’t gobbled down. But, of course, nothing about this was normal.

The program cycled again. A white, warm fluid pushed through the tube and into Cal’s reproductive apparatus. No—his balls, his cock. His fucking traitorous junk. And now it was pulsing with synthetic semen, an analogue of the real stuff. And it felt so good, his balls so full, and warm, and ready to go. Electricity prodded his brain’s pleasure centers. Chemicals dripped through the blue tube into his brain. Electricity caressed his prostate and caused all the right muscles in his groin to pulse and contract, pulse and contract, pulse and contract, and—whoops! There it went again. And with another bellowing scream, Cal orgasmed again, one, two, three, four arcs, just as powerful, and full, and heavy as before, sailing through the air like liquid fireworks, landing again in the bowl and splattering his lover’s already defiled face.

Tess’s tongue hung out, gathering as much of her lover’s synthetic semen as she could. It tasted even better than the real stuff. She stretched her face as far as it would go.

Slurping, licking sounds. Heavy breaths, and the grunts and moans and snuffling sounds of two human beings forcibly devolved to rutting, restrained animals.

They deserved it. They deserved all of what was coming next.

Another cycle. Another bellow. More semen. And the same sounds . . . but, now, different sounds. Fear laced through the grunting arousal and juddering release. Why again? Why more? What was happening?

Another orgasm. Splat. Splat. Splut. Slurp. And other. And another.

Tess realized what was happening before Cal did. She couldn’t help it, her head being trapped in the bowl as it was. But soon Cal could hear it as well. The sound his cum made when it hit home was changing. At first it was the sound of cum on flesh. But then, now, it became something else—the sound of cum falling into cum, and then cum falling into more cum. And still more cum. And instead of a tongue licking a face, it became lips slurping, drawing it in. The bowl was filling, filling with Cal’s cum, filling with the products of the orgasms that wouldn’t stop.

Shortly Cal’s bellows turned to screams. It didn’t feel at all good, anymore, what was happening to him. The brain still flooded with some sense of pleasure of release, but his body wasn’t enjoying a bit of it. And still he kept cumming, and cumming, and cumming. The machine wouldn’t let him stop. And Tess’ belly, it could only get so full. She could only drink so much of the synthetic spoo blowing out of her lover’s traitorous cock. Soon she’d get filled up to the top, and she’d start vomiting it out, and then the bowl? It wouldn’t just be the tasty, ropey, pearling stuff her lover was feeding her; it’d be a half-digested version of that, along with her own stomach acids. And, then, in time, still struggling and moaning and eventually screaming, she’d drown.

Jane settled in. Arcs of semen flew like clockwork from her husband’s cock and into the bowl like a magic trick in a nightmare. It was going to be a long night.