The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jack pulled out the relevant cue card. “Remember, ladies and gentlemen, these are the final audience options, so please choose wisely! The theme is dear to your heart, Emma, the Reimann Hypothesis itself!”

If he was expecting applause, Jack was disappointed.

“Audience! Your options are as follows: A, intractable problem; B, illustration and proof; C, constrained and bound; and D, ah, whip me ‘til I squeal. Must admit I’m not sure about that last one…!”

The vote was fast and decisive. Fetish. Illustration and proof? What could it mean? I doubted many of the audience knew themselves.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, thanks to you, young Emma here is about to become the illustrated woman. Emma, you may need to slip out of your—ah—outfit to get the full effect.”

“Yes, sir, Jack,” I couldn’t help purring. I wiggled out of the skirt-belt and slipped out of the latex crop top. I stood there naked, the studio air cool on my body. It was far too late for embarrassment about such things.

I felt the Collar of Fate come to life around my neck, and my skin tingled all over. The crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed. “Take a look at yourself, Emma! A work of art!”

I turned to the big screen at the back of the stage, and was stunned. It was very tasteful, actually, I thought. Sweeping patterns of coloured equations wound their way up my left leg, around and up my body, and ended in a sunburst of mathematical symbols almost covering one of my gravity-defying breasts. The detailing was extraordinary. A track of tiny blue stars adorned one of my cheekbones.

In careful script across the top of my chest the non-trivial zeros of the Riemann zeta function all have real part 1/2

Jack was pressing at his earpiece, frowning at first, but then suddenly smiling in delight. “Seems very appropriate! But that’s not all, Emma. Let’s see the reverse view.” The camera angle switched, and then I was looking at my own back. More swirls and numbers and symbols—and many of the familiar statements the generalized Riemann hypothesis implies that one can test if a number is prime in polynomial time, with the implications of the proof being self-evident and of course computationally, P-time is considered ‘good’, NP-time ‘bad’, and it is generally hypothesised that an NP-problem is always a ‘bad’ problem, by definition affording a solution only in NP-time

But there was clear space too, and there—what was that at the small of my back?

Incredulous, I made out the words:

GOOD TIME GIRL.

And then, more numbers: my cellphone.

“Yes indeedy! Amidst all that math, the so-called ‘good’ polynomial and ‘bad’ non-polynomial times, the only times that really count are good times! And as for numbers, why not your very own contact number, right there for all to see. The Collar of Fate has determined that this should be an extra special bonus for the illustrated woman. But it gets better…”

There were more letters, what I thought at first were Greek, but then I realised they were upside down between my shoulder blades. I mentally inverted the view and saw that this time the words said:

HERE’S THE PROOF

But why upside down…? My lips tingled, pouting, hungry, and then the realisation hit me, and I am sure I actually blushed.

Jack held up a cellphone—mine—and handed it to me. “All yours, Emma!” he said. “Let’s test it out. Who in the audience would like to try out the instant-access illustrated woman?” I saw my number, printed on flesh, displayed a foot high on the big screen at the back of the stage. There was a flurry in the audience as people reached for their smartphones.

The phone in my hand began to ring. I absolutely was not going to answer it, but of course I did; the compulsion was irresistible. “Hello?” I purred.

There was a guy in the audience somewhere on the other end of the line, but I couldn’t see who it was. The lights were too bright. He was suggesting I start touching myself, right there on stage. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to do that, I thought.

“Emma just loves to play,” I purred, horrified at what I was saying—that damn vocabulary again—and felt my hand, unbidden, reaching for my crotch, where it began to stroke with a life of its own. “Mmm, so good,” I purred.

Jack was beside himself with glee. “We are loving this. Just loving it! Just wait ‘til you get out into the world, Emma! That number’s going to be everywhere… Chrissi, do you want a go?”

Chrissi smiled her stupid smile and walked over to me. “Sure, Jack. Emma, would you like me to feel you up?”

“No, you dumb slut,” is what I didn’t say, as she reached for me. Oh god, she might be just a stupid bimbo, but knew what she was doing, and I just couldn’t resist; I pushed against Chrissi’s hand. With her other hand she took the dildo from mine and then, and then, without warning, she was actually sliding it into me—deep—right there on the stage, right there in front of the audience, right there in front of millions of people watching live on TV, and I was powerless to resist.

The thing was instantly mapped: I felt the contours of my internal muscles squeeze and adjust and ripple around it, a fully embedded object, an absolutely perfect fit. And then she leaned in and kissed me, soft lips tingling on mine, and I felt myself coming to climax, right there on stage.

And suddenly, through the fog of arousal, there it was: if the equation held good, then not only was Reimann proven, but any code in the world could be broken with ease...

“Did Chrissi do good?” she whispered, and I thought yes, the asymptotic distribution of the prime numbers among the positive integers implies—but all I could say was oh yes, Chrissi, so good; and then I just came, helplessly, like some stupid bimbo.

Jack was grinning at the display. “What a transformation, ladies and gentlemen! What a public display of affection we’ve witnessed here! Whatever the end result of this game, we’ve got one hell of a bimbo on our hands already…”

Fuck you, Jack, I thought. I’m no bimbo. It was hard to believe, with my body now mapped tight around the damn shaft. I reached down and tugged on it, feeling resistance and then a thrill of new arousal; my body didn’t want to let it go. It felt like part of me. I left the embedded object where it was, for now and just tried to ignore it. I didn’t want to give the audience more entertainment that was absolutely necessary.

A tremor of anticipation and fear. The last rounds were coming up fast. Only one Bimbo Box left, and I could still get that billion dollars. And the Reimann Hypothesis was falling at my feet.