The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Blank Betty

by Pan

Chapter 2

What makes us human?

Say you’re making a doll. You decide that rather than giving it Barbie proportions, you’re going to give it the exact proportions of a humans, in every way. Size, shape, internal organs—everything. Now let’s say you’ve invented a 3D printer that rather than spitting out concrete or plastic, can somehow create human flesh.

The heart, the skin, the eyes—you print out your doll, and it’s functionally identical to a human in every way, except without life.

Is that a dead human?

No. I wouldn’t really call it a “doll” any more though either—it’s like a flesh golem, an imitation human.

But I definitely wouldn’t call it a human.

So what about this: You’re testing Artificial Intelligence. You decide to model it after yourself—the AI scans your brain, and bases its entire personality (likes, dislikes, habits, needs) on your memories, your impulses, everything that makes you you.

Is the AI human? It has human memories, human thoughts. It has human impulses and human desires…but again, I don’t think it’s human.

So what makes a human?

It’s not the body, it’s not the brain. It’s some kind of combination of the two.

My sister had been human. My sister had been alive. She was funny, she was opinionated, and she was incredibly smart.

But what was she now?

* * *

Chet continued to come over every day. He didn’t even bother saying hello, not any more. He would just come around, go straight into my sister’s room, and on the rare days when I didn’t jam headphones into my ears, I would hear the sounds of her pleasure through the wall.

On one level, it was sick. I despised him for it, and pitied him as well. Who gets off on a girl pretending to get off? Who is so desperate for affection that he needs to cum inside a shell of a human…if she was even human any more, of course.

But on another level…well, I didn’t want to explore my thoughts on that level.

Here’s the thing: my sister is hot. It had never been relevant before—she was my sister, and a lesbian to boot—but just like I can acknowledge another guy’s beauty without any sexual interest, it was impossible to deny that my sister was attractive.

Betty was slightly taller than me, which she’d once mentioned meant she did well in the lesbian scene. She’d always worn her hair in a short pixie-cut (although it hadn’t been cut since the accident) and she never particularly flaunted her body around the house (why would she?) but she also felt no particular need to hide it.

And so even before I’d walked in on Chet and Betty, I’d known the basics. She kept her legs shaved, her breasts were fairly large, and she wasn’t stick-thin but she also wasn’t chubby.

Now, of course, I knew more than I’d expected to ever learn—more than I ever wanted to know. Her nipples were pink, and tiny, with huge areolae that stretched over about a third of her tits. Her pussy was shaved (although whether that was Chet’s influence or not, I had no idea) and she had a huge ass, though not in an unattractive way.

And, apparently, she shut her eyes and trembled when she came.

I’m a straight guy. I’ve never had any interest in my sister, on any level, but watching her bouncing on Chet’s cock, watching her boobs bounce and her whole body quiver…

It had been hot. It had been the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

I hated that I was aroused by it, but I couldn’t deny the truth. I was living with the hottest girl I’d ever seen…

…and if I told her to, she’d fuck me. Without hesitation.

I’d never do it, of course. I told myself that every day. I’d never, ever do it. No matter what she was now, she’d once been my sister, and out of respect for my former sibling, I would never, ever fuck her.

Even though a word was all it would take…

* * *

It was ten days after I’d walked in on Chet and my sister when he surprised me by knocking on my door.

“What?” I said, one earphone out and scowling at him. “What do you want?”

“Come on,” he said, “don’t be like that. We used to be friends, remember?”

I just rolled my eyes in response.

“I’m here to talk about Betty,” he said, and something in his tone made me sit up.

“What is it?” I replied. “Do you think…she can be fixed?”

He gave me a smug little half-smile, and I fell back on my bed. Of course not. Nothing could repair what we’d done…I was going to have to live with my guilt for the rest of my life.

Another reason to make sure I didn’t do anything to increase that guilt.

“No,” he said, “it’s something else.”

I grunted in response. The quicker he left, the sooner I could go back to distracting myself from thinking about what Chet and my sister had been doing for the last hour. Thinking about her body, glistening with sweat, her face scrunched up with pleasure…

“What?” I said, trying desperately to dismiss the thoughts that refused to stop popping into my brain whenever I was reminded of my sister’s daily escapades.

“What do you know about addiction?”

I pulled out the other earphone, and sat up.

“…what have you done?”

* * *

Addiction, Chet explained, was a chemical process. They’d experimented with giving trace amounts of heroin and cocaine to braindead rats, and found that even though the brain wasn’t consciously aware of the increased dopamine, when the source of the pleasure was removed, the rats still went through a withdrawal process.

I could tell where he was going with this.

“Let me get this straight,” I said through gritted teeth, so angry I could barely speak. “First you brainwash my sister…”

“That was an accident!” he said, throwing his hands up defensively.

“…then you fuck her, and now you’re saying she’s…addicted? What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“I never meant for it to happen,” he said, though his tone was not at all apologetic. “I just wanted her to have a good time.

“It’s possible that I went a little overboard. Normally the chemical process of sex isn’t enough to trigger an addiction, but…”

He trailed off, but I knew exactly what he meant. His voice, softly repeating “cum”, my sister’s shuddering response—the image was burned into my brain, and I wouldn’t be forgetting it any time soon.

“So just wean her off it,” I said, hating the fact that I was implicitly encouraging him to have more sex with my sister. “Just have her…do it less. Within a few weeks she’ll be fine.”

“Can’t,” he said, and there was a look of mischief dancing behind his eyes. “My family’s going to Puerto Rico for two weeks. We’re leaving tomorrow, and I only just worked out what I’d done.”

“Well what the hell do you want me to do about it?”

“That’s up to you, bud. I just thought you’d want to know about it. I know your sister isn’t…herself…any more, but I figured you wouldn’t want her suffering.”

He flashed me a smug grin, and was gone before I could ask any more questions. What was she specifically addicted to? Orgasms? Because I was sure that was something she didn’t need my help with.

Or was it more than that? Was there something about sex itself, cumming around a cock…

No, what was I saying. I wasn’t an expert (I’d never so much as kissed a girl) but I understood basic biology, and I definitely understand masturbation. An orgasm was an orgasm, whether induced by your hand or another person.


* * *

After Chet left, I spent a few hours doing research online. He wasn’t lying—at least, not about the dopamine addiction. It was such a powerful chemical, and if you were exposed to it in high enough frequency, your brain quickly adapted on a biological level, suffering withdrawals once the constant stimulation was taken away.

As for my other questions, the internet was surprisingly fruitless. Studies of human sexuality—especially women’s sexuality—are rare, and peer-reviewed, reliable studies are non-existent. I found a lot of conjecture and hypotheses, but very little in the way of actual proof.

Finally, I slumped back in my chair in defeat. I had no idea what my sister was going through, or what she was likely to go through, but even though she wasn’t my sister any more—not really—I couldn’t just sit back and let her suffer.

I just didn’t have it in me.

Getting up and crossing the hall, I was unsurprised by the sight in front of me. When my parents are home, we’d programmed Betty to look busy. Reading a book, using her laptop, even stuff like folding laundry—anything unsuspicious, but not interesting enough to be worth interrupting.

But I had found it weird to have her “deceive” me with those activities, so if it was just the two of us at home, I’d always find her sitting on her bed, staring forward, remembering to blink every so often (that had been a terrifying lesson to learn—breathing she did naturally for some reason, but we’d had to tell her to manually blink after realizing her eye was starting to dry up).

“Hey Betty,” I said, realizing how pointless the words were as soon as they left my mouth. She turned to acknowledge me, as instructed, her mouth splitting into a smile.

“Hey fuckface,” she replied, and I rolled my eyes. Chet’s “sense of humor” in action. He must have told her to call me that when it was just the two of us.

“How are you?”

“Great!” she said brightly, and I sighed.

“Tell me specifically whether you are experiencing any pain right now.”

“I am not,” she said immediately, returning to the monotone that she used when answering direct, specific questions from Chet and myself.

I nodded to myself. The internet had been pretty clear—as soon as she began experiencing any kind of withdrawal symptoms, it would manifest as pain. If I kept checking in on her, I’d be able to tell as soon as it started, and respond immediately.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling like an idiot even as I did. She didn’t care if I said thanks—she’d respond the way we’d taught her to, but as far as she was concerned, I might as well not exist.

No, that wasn’t quite right either. As far as she was concerned, I didn’t exist. Nothing did. She had as much cognitive function as a table. A table doesn’t care if you’re in the room with it, if you die, if you cover it in coaster or if you break it in half. A table just keeps on existing, no matter what you do to it.

If Betty was in pain, she wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t react in the slightest, except to tell me that it existed (if I asked). But I still couldn’t stand by and let her suffer, not when there was something I could do.

* * *

The next morning, the whole family was eating breakfast together (meals had been strange to program in. Stuff like “eat until you have the sensation of fullness” had been easy enough, but the specifics of what needed to be combined with what—eggs with bacon, condiments with toast, milk with cereal—had taken a while as we ran through every combination) when I noticed something strange.

Betty was halfway through a piece of toast when I noticed a strange grimace appear on her face—just for a second. I waited until Mom and Dad weren’t looking, then whispered in her ear to follow me, and slipped into the next room.

“Betty,” I said, “tell me whether you are experiencing any pain right now.”

“I am,” she said flatly.


“There is a dull ache all throughout my body and head.”

That was exactly how the internet had described dopamine withdrawal. But something about the timeline didn’t make sense…Chet had been fucking my sister every night, but she couldn’t possibly experience withdrawal each morning. What on earth was happening?

“What did you and Chet do last night?”

“Hung out,” she said with a disarming smile, and I realized I’d reached another pre-programmed defense.

“No,” I said with a sigh, “I mean…what specific activities did you and Chet do in your room last night?”

“We talked,” she said simply, and when I asked for clarification, she explained that he’d basically done a medical cross-examination. I nodded; it made sense. Chet did say he’d only just worked out the problem, and so he mustn’t have had time to…delay the symptoms.

I sighed. I wasn’t going to enjoy it, but I knew what I had to do.

“Betty…” I said, and she looked at me expectantly. “Cum.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she moaned softly. I held a hand up to her mouth in panic, and she responded by parting her soft lips and taking my finger inside, her warm tongue encircling it.

It seemed Chet had programmed a number of responses into my sister, at her moment of orgasm.

“Cum,” I said again, hating how hard I was getting by the way she sucked on my finger, engulfing it in her mouth, her eyes looking at me desperately, clearly wanting more.

“Cum,” I repeated, pulling my finger out, causing her brow to furrow even as her whole body twitched with orgasm.

“Cum. Cum. Cum. Cum.”

We sat there for ten minutes, her actions getting more lascivious each time she came, until soon she was panting, staring at me in lust, her breasts heaving, her body shuddering, pushing me to the edge of my self-control…

Finally, I knew we couldn’t stay away any longer without drawing attention to ourselves, and I couldn’t trust myself to be alone with the horny creature who had once been my sister. I told her to go upstairs and change panties, and I slipped back into the dining room and resumed eating with my parents.