The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“No one should spend their vacation in the rainforest, that’s for sure,” thought Stacey, as she walked through the humid, misty umbrella of trees. For nearly three weeks, she had been following her hired guides in search of Kalabuzdi, a legendary witch-man in the area who was said to have a potion that would “protect the lungs,” loosely translated. More accurately it was “save the spirit-breath.” Asking what this meant, she had been told that several people had been cured of cystic fibrosis, lung cancer, and emphysema by this inhalant. Promising, indeed.

Stacey was a field agent for Sanderson Pharmaceuticals. Usually these legends had some true-to-life basis, and it was her job to separate myth from fact, and get agreements to harvest or produce the refined drugs, should they prove useful. It was actually miserable work, but the financial rewards were enough that she would be able to retire at the age of thirty-two. She was twenty-eight now.

Her current assignment was looking fruitless, however, and her patience, after months of preparatory work and several weeks of wandering, was running a bit thin. Finally, the small party decided to camp for the night, and Stacey settled into her tent, logging the day’s events in her journal. It had been a particularly grueling day, and as she finished her entries and observations, she fell asleep in her folding canvas chair.

Suddenly, Stacey snapped awake. How long had she been sleeping? She walked outside and stood straight. Looking up at the canopy of trees in the bright moonlight, she thought how it looked like a great hall in the moonlight. The branches began to undulate, creating patterns of raised triangles and rectangles, moving in and out, like the breathing in her chest, but infinitely more intricate and complex.

It occurred to her that she was either dreaming or under the influence of some hallucinogenic agent, but the thought was thin and flat, and turned sideways and slipped away. Her body seemed suddenly stiff and she turned, seeking the safety of her tent, but it was gone, along with the rest of her hired associates. Had she been walking? It didn’t seem so, but the surroundings seemed foreign and surreal. She shivered as she felt a cool wind rushing past her face.

Her thoughts turned again, and the memory of her purpose in being here was modulated to a pitch too high to understand. It was a hair on her head, inconsequential, as hard to find as one particular hair would be; it was nothing, it was less than nothing; she didn’t even know it existed.

The undulation of the trees was becoming more pronounced, moving in subtle undercurrents into everything around her, and she fought to remain still. Her body, however, was beginning to sway and move in concert with it, and her thoughts were becoming rhythmic and disjointed... trying to think cohesively but only managing phrases that made no sense to her even as she thought them.

She spun and saw a large mirror where she thought her tent... no, where the mirror had been. Yes. The mirror. Her eyes dilated and wide as saucers, so wide that her eyelids hurt, she stiffly walked to the shimmering glass.

She saw her self in the mirror, fascinated as it began to warp and bend, joining the orgy of movement around her. She saw her fingers begin to open and close, and looked down to see her hands. She saw them flexing over and over... she held them up, and saw her skin rippling, falling into the primal decadence dancing around her. She felt her jaw working now, and her legs... her body in some kind of dance, some kind of thrall of deep bestiality, but even that simple recognition was beyond her racing mind.

She was vaguely aware that it felt... erotic but the thought passed as she was consumed by the dance of her body, pleasure beginning to pulse through her like repeating blasts of heat from a white hot cauldron, searing her brain, ripping open her thoughtless mind, the undulations guiding her, seducing her, transforming her... the heat of her loins irresistible, spreading through her like beautiful poison, calling outward through her passion-inflamed screams of lust...

Kalabuzdi looked down at the writhing form of the female pinkskin. Although she had no strict western concept for it, the witch-woman knew that stealth was a good and proper thing to use against the invasion of the ignorance of the world outside the forest. She had made her own legend into a fearsome male, and had kept the truth of Breath-of-Spirit hidden in the subtle misdirection of great fortune. This one would soon be surely a wonderful Breath-Maker...

As she watched her family-tribe carry the strange pink-skinned woman away to her new and soon to be permanent home, Kalabuzdi smiled for the first time in many ages.

Risa Latham watched the films that had been returned to her by the covert CIA operatives in Africa for what was likely close to the thousandth time. She watched as the camera entered the thatch hut deep in the rainforest, and panned around the inside walls, guided by an unseen cameraman.

There were ten women standing with their backs to the outside walls, their faces painted colors that were starkly bright in the dark space. She estimated that the floor was about sixteen feet square, with a floor of compressed dirt and grass mats. Through the camera’s microphone, she could hear the sounds of deep, intense breathing. Even from a room thousands of miles away, and months after the fact, she got an eerie sense of ritual that she couldn’t quite place.

There was something she could place, however. It was the face of the woman who now lay in a quasi-catatonic state in Risa’s isolation laboratory. It was the face of Stacey Newman, scientist and pharmacological researcher, who had been missing for nearly six years.

Risa’s attention returned to the film which, up to this point, looked like a standard field investigation video journal.

She watched as the agents, dressed in camouflaged fatigues, approached one of the women. She unconsciously leaned forward as she watched—this was where things got interesting.

The woman’s eyes opened, strangely pearlescent in the glow of the camera lights, almost like those of a cat or other creature of the night. She looked directly at the man and, almost as if she recognized him, her eyes widened as she breathed in deeply. As her chest reached its fullness, her lips, as if in slow motion, pursed into the tightened “o” of someone blowing out a candle.

As her breath blew into the face of the man, Risa watched as he staggered back, shaking his head as if he had been given a sharp blow. He fell to his knees, looking as if he were about to pass out, but instead, unzipped his pants and pulled out his erect penis, his hand stroking with as much intent as his vacant eyes no longer showed.

Then, all the women in the room breathed in, an exact reproduction of the scene so recently displayed, and breathed outward in a great sigh of unison.

Other agents appeared in the field of view, stripping out of their clothes, in every appearance no longer aware of their surroundings or mission, much less the fact that they were now being filmed. All of them had cocks as hard as Risa had ever imagined, and they surrounded the first agent, masturbating, and chanting something softly as they compulsively pumped their turgid poles.

Unexpectedly, the camera fell to the ground, showing nothing at all but relentlessly recording the sounds as the scene continued. In less than two minutes, the bare feet of the cameraman scurried past the vigilant lens, and the chant increased, the sounds of masturbation and voices mixing in the spell of the powerful aphrodisiac air.

Finally, and as always, Risa could make out the chant. “Kah-lah-buhz-dee... Kah-lah-buhz-dee... Kah-lah-buhz-dee...”

And, completing a ritual that had begun with her first viewing, Risa exploded into orgasm, whispering the mysterious name in unison with the agents in the field...

Risa stood in the isolation suit, watching Stacey as she slept. At least, sleep was all she could think to call it. It was more like a period of dormancy, a time when the blank, staring eyes closed, and Stacey’s metabolism slowed for recuperation.

When she was awake, she would eat when given food, drink when offered water, but it had to be fed to her by nurses. It couldn’t be called consciousness in any typical sense.

When roused, Stacey would breathe to them—long, wispy breaths full of something. Whatever it was, it didn’t make it through the suits, and it was airborne. Risa was fascinated.

Using human volunteers (having found that no animals were affected by Stacey’s breath), the scientists in Risa’s charge managed to find filters that would not allow the substance to pass. Whatever it was it was incredibly powerful, evidenced by the fact that it took two weeks of constantly circulating air to collect a usable sample.

Analysis of the compound revealed its origin, which was a witch’s brew of some exotic chemical compound mixed with Stacey’s own DNA, which was ejected through the lungs into the surrounding air, affecting anyone nearby. Eventually, the compound broke down, making long-term study difficult, if not impossible.

After interviewing several rainforest locals and the agents who survived the final raid where Stacey was found, a picture began to emerge. Apparently, a witch-woman named Kalabuzdi would cause a victim to ingest a substance that would create blissful, libido enhancing hallucinations, and at the same time alter the genetic structure of that person. The result was permanent psychosis and the “substance” which, according to all the tests Risa had run, was manufactured in the victim’s own body.

Technology was not up to the task of reversing the process. The victim was, in essence, a prisoner to her own genetic code. The biggest mystery though, was in the transference of “Kalabuzdi worship” and sexual abandon to those who inhaled the intoxicating breath of Stacey and those who shared her fate. It wasn’t logical or reasonable, but there it was, nonetheless.

Deep inside, Risa fought the temptation to remove her headgear. There was something about the way the subjects reacted that stirred a darkness deep within her. It was as if her primal self was calling to her, seducing her, begging her to share, to be set free. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she turned to the task at hand.

It was time for an experiment.

Risa pulled out the pictures of the assassinated Kalabuzdi and held them before Stacey’s wide, unblinking, pearlescent eyes. “Stacy,” intoned Risa, “Kalabuzdi is no more. Kalabuzdi is dead.

“There is no place left for those who worship Kalabuzdi. Only those who move forward can survive. This means you, I hope, Stacey.”

Risa had half-turned to walk away when she noticed a twitch at the corner of Risa’s eyes... and she turned back. “That’s it...” Risa whispered. “Fight it. Come back...”

Without warning, Stacey’s eyes filled with fear and dread. She began to jerk her head around, her eyes quickly moving from place to place in the room.

“You’re in a special hospital Stacey,” soothed Risa, her concern showing in her face.

“Who... arrrrre... you...” Stacey choked out through her long atrophied vocal cords.

“I’m Risa, your doctor,” replied Risa, by rote.

“Reeeeesssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh...” rasped Stacey.

Before she even had a chance to think, Risa reached up and unfastened the clamp that held her airtight helmet to her suit. Whether it was compassionate instinct or something altogether different, it was too late to turn back. The seal had been broken.

Risa finished removing her helmet and sniffed the air. “No unusual smell,” she noted.

Stacey began to make a gurgling noise and Risa’s doctor’s instincts took over. Grabbing Stacey by the shoulders, Risa looked into her eyes for signs of trouble.

She never even saw the blast of air from Stacey’s pursed lips coming.

Risa lifted herself from Stacey, her pussy still tingling from the ministrations of her beloved’s tongue. She didn’t need to think... she knew what had happened. She shivered as delicious waves of pleasure undulated through her in complex patterns, crashing her lusts together in new and insane ways.

Ways that she now embraced without hesitation.

As she left the confines of the isolation laboratory, she looked at the coffee cup sitting on the table outside. The name “Denise” was hand painted on its white surface. Risa seemed confused for a moment, and then she visibly relaxed. She placed a finger on her tongue and wiped her newly tenacious spittle around the rim.

Smiling, she turned and beckoned lovely Stacey, and they walked out of the outer lab together. Neither spoke, nor did they even acknowledge each other, their newly born relationship of Mistress and slave evidenced only by the fact that they were walking in the same direction.

Risa thought of her new purpose, of her first slave... the first of many yet to come. She thought of Denise, the cute young nurse who would be having her first cup of coffee of the day in less than seven hours.

“What a wonderful Breath-Maker she will be.” She smiled for the first time in ages.