The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“All seems in order.” The man known simply as Dr. Britch said dryly.

He did his best to give Hope a warm smile, but his bedside manner was barely a step up from the woman she knew as Monica. At least Monica was another woman, though in some ways that only made Hope hate her even more. What woman could so easily betray other women in support of this archaic temple of misogyny?

However, Dr. Britch had all of the cold manner of Monica, combined with being quite possibly the oldest person Hope had ever encountered. He could have been eighty, he could have been ninety, but all that really mattered was that he wasn’t young. His wrinkles simply dove into further wrinkles. When he smiled at her, it was clear he wore dentures, and he leered at Hope from behind thick, round glasses.

“Let me out of these restraints and I’ll show you what order looks like,” Hope spat.

Dr. Britch simply shook his head and smiled one of his creepy, straight-out-of-a-horror-movie smiles.

“When you’re ready dear, when you’re ready.” He patted her head, his voice dripping with condescension.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Trixie sprung into action. It was almost easy to forget she was there, for she stood as still and silent as a literal doll when she wasn’t doing anything specific.

Trixie’s manicured nails made short work of the restraints, leaving Hope ‘free’ once more. Of course, freedom was a room that was likely no more than seven feet by eight feet. There was just enough room for a small bed, a toilet, a table, and a built-in vanity. Hope would have described it like a prison cell, but it was much cleaner, the bed was soft, and even though the room was as sterile as the rest of the facility, it didn’t give the sort of cramped-quarters feel that one typically pictured with a prison.

A small voice inside her told Hope to attack Trixie the moment she was released, but a much louder voice shut it up. That was precisely what she had done when she was first released, and she’d held the poor doll-like woman hostage. However, it became immediately apparent that the facility had run into this sort of situation plenty of times before. Within minutes, Hope’s room was swarmed by Trixies, or women almost exactly like the cookie-cutter doll she knew, and Hope knew that even if she killed her gaelor, they would be able to replace her as easily as they replaced the toilet paper in her room.

Instead, whenever she was with Trixie, Hope would study the other woman. There was no point in asking questions, Trixie wouldn’t—or couldn’t—answer them, but it didn’t stop the questions from forming in Hope’s thoughts, and her thoughts were increasingly becoming the only thing that was her own in this place.

Hope wondered what Trixie had been like before this place, before Brooks Inc. She wondered if Trixie had suffered a similar betrayal to her own, a lazy, entitled husband that wanted to upgrade his wife for a younger model—only, in Trixie’s case, the husband literally took a younger model.

Of course, that question made Hope wonder how old Trixie was, but that was tremendously difficult to tell. Hope had been through her own cosmetic procedures to keep herself looking more youthful as she got older, especially while she was still working, but Trixie could truly have been anywhere from twenty-something to her early forties, it was so difficult to tell.

There were slight hints of worry lines and other subtle markings that led Hope to suspect that the doll-like woman was older than she appeared. However, between her expertly done cosmetic work, makeup, outfit, mannerisms, and manner-of-speaking, it was truly impossible to say.

At the very least, Hope knew she wasn’t going to become another Trixie. Whether or not she should have felt grateful that Bob wanted to keep her, just, you know, after removing most of what was her, was up in the air. She was angry enough at what he’d done that any grattitude would have been drowned beneath the swarm of hate and distrust that had erupted in her since that fateful text message, and her subsequent capture.

No, she wouldn’t be a Trixie, but her reality only seemed marginally better, and only because the alternative of being a Trixie was a starkly worse fate. When Hope had watched the screen informing her of what was coming, the same bone-chilling terror she’d felt when she first woke up at Brooks Inc. had returned to her.

12 Hours Earlier...

Hope woke up again, but she was no longer in the larger room she’d been in before. Further, she was simply lying comfortably on a bed, there were no restraints of any sort. As she looked around the strikingly white, sterile room, she realized she was in a cell. She was free to move as she wished, but not beyond the locked door which was the only exit for her room.

She must have dozed off while Trixie had been talking to her, Hope didn’t recall being knocked out in some other fashion. It had honestly been easy to tune out that bimbo. Everything that Trixie was offended Hope’s sensibilities. From the overly-gaudy Stepford 50s styling to the high-pitched voice with an almost sort of breathless ability to drone through conversation ranging from gossip, how to use some brand-new appliance, or catch-up her girlfriends at the salon about what was going on in her life.

Honestly, if Trixie had been standing in the room right now, Hope would have been tempted to strangle the ditz before she could even open her pretty, perfect mouth. She found herself making the wringing motion with her hands almost automatically.

While she was dwelling on the insanity of her situation, a screen flickered on in the wall in front of her. The sudden shift from blank white to a sizeable rectangle of a darker gray with colorful text was enough to grab her attention.

It was clearly some sort of television, but unlike anything Hope had ever encountered before. When she got up to see if the walls of her room were made of glass, the tick sound that her fingers made suggested some sort of rigid plastic, but certainly not something like glass. There were also no seams or anything else to suggest the wall ending and a screen beginning.

Worse still, given that the title on the screen read, “Welcome to Your New Life”, Hope’s cursory inspection had been followed by a prompt retreat to her bed to stare at the still boring ceiling. But it only remained that way for a few moments.

As though there were sensors tracking the movement of her face, the screen suddenly shifted to the ceiling up above her. Startled, Hope sat up and gazed at the far wall instead. But, just as before, only a moment passed before the screen now flickered there. Then it disappeared, only to be replaced a moment later by a new screen with the familiar face of Trixie.

“Hi! Welcome to your new life!” Trixie said.

Except it wasn’t quite Trixie. As Hope leaned in, she noticed a certain uncanniness that suggested to her that the woman on the screen was an animated render. And, in spite of the vast amount of similarities between the character and the Trixie she’d met earlier, there was subtle incongruencies which suggested that the real Trixie was almost certainly a cookie cut out from the animated girl’s template.

The character continued on, obliviously unaware that it was not actually Trixie, “the welcome speech can be a lot to take in.” She smiled a perfect, bright smile, then her expression shifted to one of companionable sympathy, as though she too had gone through similar experiences, like DMV lines or doctor’s offices.

“However, it is important to Brooks Inc. that our assets fully understand their value and purpose. So we have created interactive tutorials to go along with your other learning and ensure that you know what’s coming next.”

The camera focused in on the animated Trixie’s face zoomed out, revealing that the character was dressed and made up to the exact same specifications as the real thing. Or, Hope realized, more accurately it was the other way around.

Hope fell backward onto her bed and the screen flitted to the ceiling again.

“You feel unwanted. Devalued.” Trixie said, the smile never fading. The effect made this Trixie seem almost cold and domineering, it made her condescending.

Yet, even still, this Trixie was oddly perceptive. Of course it wasn’t the real Trixie, Hope had to remind herself of that. It was a puppet, or perhaps it might have been an AI. Either way, the machinations behind it were far more intelligent and devious than the dolls that helped them do their business.

“We at Brooks Inc. merely want to restore your value.” Trixie continued. Hope glared at the screen and turned her head.

Predictably, the screen reformed on the opposite wall, right where she could see it uninterrupted.

“Please know that we are sorry for your stress in this time.” Trixie said on the screen.

The apology was enough to break through Hope’s shell of cynicism. It wasn’t the tone of sincerity in the Trixie’s voice. It was the gall of trying to apologize for something so heinous. But the shock was enough to keep her watching. However, the quickness of the observation suggested that the Trixie she was watching was indeed an AI.

“Good,” Trixie said, “now that you’re listening...” (most certainly an AI) “...there was a time that you were happier. A time when there was less weight on your shoulders.”

That much was true, Hope had to admit. When she was raising the children, when Bob was the sole breadwinner. She couldn’t deny that the offer had a certain appeal. But she was a different woman now, she found different purposes for herself. Hope bolted upright, narrowing her eyes at the Trixie that now appeared on the wall opposite the foot of her bed.

“Stop!” Hope shouted, “stop with your inane nonsense!”

Trixie paused for a moment, and, for a moment, Hope thought that she’d won through. Perhaps they would listen.

Then Trixie continued, “it’s easy to get lost in search of purpose.”

Could they read minds? Hope hadn’t said anything about purpose. If the company could read her thoughts, then she likely had no hope whatsoever of resisting them. The idea was so insidious that she felt as though she were sinking into the bed. She fell back, her arms spread out.

Trixie appeared above her, “when we get lost, we need help finding our way back.”

“It’s not enough to serve only ourselves. You had way, a path, to take care of your family. But you lost that way, all we are doing is to help you with another.”

The bed felt so much softer than it had before, Hope felt like she was being swallowed. And the whole time, Trixie just stared down at her, smiling. It felt so sinister, yet Hope felt so entirely helpless that she couldn’t find it in her to keep fighting.

The room appeared to be fogging up. For a moment, Hope wondered if she was crying. However, when she got up and rubbed her eyes she found they weren’t wet. The room remained foggy. Hope rubbed her eyes again but there was no change, except that Trixie had been replaced on the wall opposite the foot of her bed.

“Just a little something to help you relax,” Trixie said. “There is a lot to cover about your renewed purpose, but stress gets in the way of programming.”

Programming? Hope had no idea what that meant, were they programming actual human beings? If that was the case, then whatever they had access to was far beyond anything she understood. Yet, the sense of helplessness was so profound that she couldn’t push her thoughts beyond it.

“Relax.” Trixie said, but Hope wouldn’t repeat it.

“Relax, remember the happiness you once had. You can have it again, you just need to learn to serve again. Like you once did, but without reservations.”

Present

‘Live to serve.’

Hope’s thoughts were inundated with memories of the home she’d once shared with Bob when she was raising the children. No matter how hard she tried she wasn’t able to shake them off. It was the fog, the video ‘tutorials’, they were drilling in an echo of who she once had been.

Without realizing it, she began to smile. Hope only noticed because the screen had turned on once more and, as though there were a camera situated right at the foot of her bed, showed her the smile. Hope recoiled from it as though it was a ghost, some sort of terrifying apparition, something that wasn’t her. It certainly wasn’t her, because it continued to smile even when the smile was long passed from her face.

“It’s time for another treatment.” the Hope on the screen said. Fake-Hope, she reminded herself, the thing on the screen wasn’t her. “Just take your time to relax and listen.”

“A woman’s place is where her heart is. For years your heart followed a path you can no longer tread.”

Hope shut her eyes, it was the only way for her to stop seeing the screen. There was no point covering her ears, however, they couldn’t truly deafen her to the sound of the voice—at best it was reduced to what was an even more sinister whisper.

“You’ve lost your heart.” Fake-Hope continued. It was far more disconcerting to hear those words in her own voice, and Hope’s eyes cracked open to see if the false version of her was still on the screen. “When your heart is lost, you lose your path.”

She had walked a path once. No, twice. Hope had found meaning raising her children, and she had found meaning in her career. It was true that without either that she had felt adrift, listless, and life had seemed to lose its meaning.

“Your husband needs you.”

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Fake-Hope was right on that as well. Bob had relied on her since the day they had been married. He was a selfish asshole, but he was still someone she felt responsible for. Someone she loved.

“Your husband loves you.”

Did he? Hope could still feel the weight of doubt, even though her body was slowly relaxing against her will. If he loved her, he wouldn’t have done this to her.

—I’m sorry, Love.—

The text he had sent... it was one thing to call her his love, but his betrayal made her feel otherwise. He had said that he hoped they would be happy after, but did he really care about her happiness or was it mere lipservice to ease his own conscience about what he had signed her up for.

“You want meaning. Purpose.” Fake-Hope continued, in spite of her inner struggles.

Hope couldn’t argue with that one, but there were other ways to find meaning. She’d found it once, after losing her children as they grew up and found their own purpose in the world. But then that was taken away from her as well.

“Love is a path that cannot be lost if you devote yourself to it. Service is a way of living that doesn’t end.”

“You lost your heart, but you love your husband. You want purpose, but you lost your path. You were happy once. Remember.”

There were happy memories, sure... but that was the past. Hope stared at the uncanny reflection of her face on the screen. It continued to smile, but it wasn’t the same as a Trixie smile. It was her smile. Her happiness. The room began to blur again, but the wetness on her cheek told her that it wasn’t the fog of gas obscuring her vision.

Hope wasn’t happy, but she didn’t feel sad either. So why was she crying? Why did the memory of her own smile move her to tears? She didn’t know why, she couldn’t find the answer. Hope’s tears gradually gave way to sobs and she buried her face in her hands.

“Obedience creates happiness.” Fake-Hope continued even as she cried.

“True happiness is found in simplicity.”

“Relax. Let go of the cares that have weighed you down.”

“You love your husband. Your husband loves you.”

“You want to be happy. Your husband wants you to be happy. He wants to be happy.”

On and on Hope’s false persona continued, just as Trixie had. However, the voice was indistinguishable from her own. She could hear herself protesting, but then she also heard herself repeating that obedience creates happiness. She heard her own voice tell her to obey and be happy. It was like a snake was there whispering in her ear, but the snake had her own voice.

“Obey and be happy.”

Hope shook her head, “...no...”

“You are empty.” Fake-Hope said.

“Empty... ?” Hope asked.

“Empty. Not sad. Not happy. No purpoose. No path. No heart.” Fake-Hope answered.

“I’m not... empty...”

“You feel empty.” Fake-Hope responded. “That feeling is what makes you empty.”

Hope shook her head, she couldn’t be empty. Could she?