The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Barbie finished her makeup and smiled into the mirror. It was perfect. Between the blue contacts, pink wig, and careful contouring she’d just done, she was unrecognizable. She adjusted her bra slightly and thought, Besides, nobody’s going to be looking much at my face. She popped on the cute little crop-top she’d laid out for the purpose and started taking selfies. Once she finally got a couple she was satisfied with, she uploaded them to her Insta with a silly, emoji-ridden message.

Then the alarm rang. Time was up; bimbo hour was over. Time for Dr. Barbara Bohringer-Brambeau to get back to work. She cleaned off the makeup, swapped her contacts out for glasses, removed the wig and coiled her dark hair in a bun. For a moment she was tempted to keep the bra and top and just pop something on over them, but she knew from experience that if she did that, she would be distracted all day by it. She put on a plainer, more utilitarian bra and hid her breasts behind a loose sweatshirt.

Then she sat at her desk, woke her laptop, and resumed puzzling over the waste heat problem with her design. Miniaturizing it was a must for medical applications, but the electronics were complex and so they got hot, dangerously so for something intended as a brain implant. The goal wasn’t to damage the patient’s brain, after all; just quiet certain portions of it as needed.

After a fruitless hour of trying to find ways to optimize the system further, Barbara leaned back to stretch and rub her eyes. She’d been at this for years; the underlying theory had been her Master’s thesis, the proof of concept her doctoral thesis. It could be done, she was certain: an electromagnetic resonance pattern in the brain could dampen anxiety, reduce stress, and even calm aggression. With some side effects and risks, of course, but still less overall strain on the body than chemical anxiolytics and mood stabilizers.

If she could solve this goddamn heat problem. It had been dogging her ever since her PhD candidate days, to the point she’d started having nightmares about non-toxic coolants and minimal-resistance connectors, patients’ brains frying and funding committee investigations. In her brief snatches of spare time she’d daydreamed about what life could be like if she didn’t feel the responsibility to pursue this research, if she didn’t have the ability, if she were free to think about fun and frivolous things because she couldn’t think about anything else...

And daydreams had turned into fantasies, and fantasies into a kink, and now she had a (very, very secret) online persona as Barbie Bimbo, and allowed herself one hour a day (two on weekends) to play the part of the sexy, silly, simple girl who just wanted to have fun and make people happy. She would sext and cyber, post selfies and talk about makeup and clothes. She’d bought quite a lot, straining her budget a bit, but on the other hand she’d started actually using that gym membership she’d been paying for ever since New Year’s. Technically she supposed it was cheating, thinking of herself as Barbie as she worked her abs and arms and especially her butt, but the morning workouts helped Barbara be more clearheaded during the day and sleep better at night, so it was worth stretching the rules about only spending an hour a day as Barbie.

And it really had helped her sleep. She rarely had nightmares anymore; instead she dreamed about posing and primping, fucking and sucking—about actually living that “dumb, fun, and full of cum” lifestyle that she played at to blow off steam.

Okay, back to work, Babs. She checked her email, and her eyes widened. A message from Chuck, subject line a single word in all caps: SUCCESS.

No way, she thought. He can’t be serious. She opened the email.

Barb,

I did it. I cracked the targeting problem. It works! I’m writing it up now to submit to JNE but I wanted you to know in case you wanted to talk about applying it to your problem.

Chuck

She immediately called him. “You son of a bitch,” she said as soon as he picked up. “If this is a prank...”

“No prank,” he replied. “I can focus the field on a specific brain region.”

“How? You can’t map a brain from a distance, you at least need to put the patient in a scanner!“

“I cheated.” She could hear his smug grin in his voice and wanted to punch him. “I figured out how to detect and target hormone concentrations.”

Her jaw dropped. Chuck had been in grad school with her, and gone on to do a postdoc in CCU’s bioengineering program just like her. They’d been friendly-ish rivals the entire time, but she’d had no idea he was even close to doing that. Like her, he had an idea that was theoretically sound but impractical—in Barbara’s opinion until now, impossible—to implement: inducing neural pulses via induction, using ambient EM fields to manipulate the brain’s electrochemistry. Being able to do that would neatly solve her heat problem by moving the electronics outside the patient’s brain, and he’d suggested they should collaborate, but she’d refused. She’d just never believed he could pull it off—how would you be able to target the right parts of the brain or monitor the effects?

But if he could detect individual hormones... that would work. Amp up the field emitters, focus and direct them, and autotarget concentrations of cortisol and norepinephrine... and she could accurately target anyone within a few feet, with nothing more than their approximate direction. It would wipe out the heat issue in a moment—she could just air-cool the thing and still carry it in one hand! She needed this. But the Journal of Neurological Engineering would take months to review his submission, and that was after however long it took him to write it up. She couldn’t sit around waiting that long with no progress! She needed it now, and that meant she had to persuade him to give it. “What will it take to get you to tell me the details?“

“Co-author credit,” he responded immediately.

Fuck. He was ready for this. He wanted part of the credit for her invention, her work. He hadn’t been part of the team, hadn’t spent any of the long days and, often, nights trying to bring this tech to life, but he wanted credit? No way. “What about—“

“Or you can read about it in JNE in six months like everyone else,” he interrupted.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. “OK,” she said finally. “Now send me over the designs.“

It took three weeks to integrate Chuck’s scanning and induction equipment and construct a prototype, two drawing up new designs and then one for her team to put something together. Three weeks of stress and long hours, skipping meals, skipping sleep, even skipping the gym several times. But never, ever failing to make daily time for Bimbo Hour. Sometimes it seemed like the only thing keeping her sane.

And then, all of a sudden, it was done. It was about 2 a.m., and Barbara had sent the rest of the team home while she puzzled over a glitch in the focusing module. She hadn’t really expected to fix it tonight, but once she’d found the error it was simple enough to handle herself.

She knew she should wait for morning, for the team, before she did a test run on one of their lab rats. But dammit, this was her baby! And she was tired of waiting. She brought a cage over to the chamber where they’d set up the emitter, pressed a button, and—ooh.

A calm settled over her like nothing she’d ever known. It was blissful, relaxed, and so very easy. Like her mind was filling up with fluffy pink clouds of cotton candy, making it hard to think but even harder to care that it was hard to think. Eventually, she realized the machine must be affecting her. It took her even longer to remember that she’d removed a piece of shielding to access the focusing module. The scanners weren’t just looking forward; they were picking up the entire left half of the room, and targeting her stressed out brain instead of the rat!

She giggled. Such a silly mistake. Such a silly girl. She shook her head. Those were Barbie thoughts, but this was the lab. Barbie didn’t belong in the lab. Why not? It feels niiiiiice being Barbie here. And that was true, and hard to argue with. She didn’t particularly feel like arguing anyway; she felt like relaxing and letting whatever happened, happen.

Silly, sleepy girls are sexy, Barbie thought. It was a mantra she’d filled her head with when she briefly tried hypnosis files, Barbara remembered, early on when slipping into the bimbo mindspace still took effort. Silly, sleepy girls are sexy. And she was getting turned on. Vaguely she remembered that playing with herself here might be dangerous, but it just didn’t seem to matter. Getting caught might be fun, Barbie thought.

By her third orgasm, she could feel her head starting to clear a little. Panic gripped her as her eyes fell on the clock showing 3:40—but no. The readouts showed that the emitter had shut down automatically after ten minutes, based on their calculations that twenty minutes of exposure might risk minor long-term harm. It had just taken another hour for her brain to get close enough to normal functioning to remember that masturbating where she worked was a bad idea. She still felt those pink fuzzy clouds of happy dizzy confusion, that sleepy calm, but that was to be expected. The whole point was to expose a patient for a few minutes to calm their anxiety for days, and she’d had a full ten.

She yawned. Bed, thought Barbara. Then sleep. Celebrate tomorrow.

The tip of one sticky finger had found itself into her mouth somehow, and as she sucked it, Barbie thought Course I already partied some tonight. And then she giggled.

The next morning, she woke bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed to a ringing phone. It was the lab. More importantly, it was nine o’clock. That was bad, and Barbara knew exactly how she’d normally handle it: answer the phone in a surge of panic, put it on speaker and talk them through whatever they needed while she hastily threw on something simple and sensible and then rocketed out the door at high speed.

I should wear something cute if we’re gonna party, Barbie thought. And that did make sense. It was a special occasion, and special clothes made special days more fun... and while she was thinking about that, the phone went to voicemail. Barbara stared at it a moment, but then she shrugged. If it’s important they’ll call back, Barbie thought. Then she rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom to start primping.

It was ten-thirty by the time she stood, fully dressed and accessorized and made up, and examined herself in the mirror. Barbara had resisted the urge to wear the pink wing or the contacts, but she still looked much younger and cuter than the rest of the lab was used to. Her makeup was thick but perfectly applied, her lips red and pouty, her outfit flirty and fun. C’mon, the pink hair is so cute! Barbie thought. Don’t be Barbara Boringer.

I can’t be Barbie Bimbo at work! Barbara thought. And that was that. She popped on some shoes—pumps instead of her usual flats, because it felt good to be a little more Barbie than Barbara today, and why not?—and walked out of her apartment building into a bright, sunny late morning. She noticed a couple of heads turning as she walked to the parking deck, and Barbie giggled. Barbara Boringer doesn’t turn heads.

Barbara drove to the lab, ignoring the giggly, flighty voice in her head telling her to blow the day off and go clothes shopping and, later, club-hopping. She pulled up to the lab around eleven, passed through security, and then took the elevator up to her team’s workspace.

“Barbara!” A beaming tech rushed over to her, then paused. “Wow, you look... wow,” she said. Then she shook her head, “I don’t know what you did last night, but it’s working. We put that bit of shielding back in and tested it on the entire experimental group of rats. They’re all calmer and less aggressive than control. We did it! You did it!” She grabbed Barbara’s arm and pulled her over to the middle of the room, where a plastic object shaped a little like a gun lay. “We put the prototype in a case so we could move it around without knocking anything loose, it made it easier to test on all the rats that way.“

Barbie giggled. “It looks like a hairdryer!”

The tech blushed. “That’s, um... because it is. Candice’s died yesterday and she thought the case might be useful, so she brought it in. Turned out to be a perfect fit, and it saves spending the money to buy one. Every penny on this budget, right? Oh, sorry about the color though. We can take care of that later if it’s a problem.”

Barbie shook her head. “Pink is fine. I like pink.”

“Candice thinks it’s a good color for something meant to be soothing and calming and unaggressive.”

“Sure,” said Barbie, picking it up.

“Anyway, feel free to examine, they need some help cleaning up in the other room.” The tech left.

We should probably check what the I/O psych literature says on color choices, Barbara thought. Pink might work. And that was a Barbara Boringer thought—she shook her head. That was a real me thought. Barbara Bohringer-Brambeau, not Barbara Boringer and definitely not Barbie Bimbo. It wasn’t that she was any less intelligent under the effects of the beam, or during Bimbo Hour for that matter. It was just that she was differently focused, less concerned about working things out, more occupied with appearances and sensations. But now she could feel those worries and concerns and plans emerging as clouds of pink cotton candy receded. The stress creeping back in as that wonderful, peaceful, happy feeling slowly faded. She’d be destressed for days, maybe a couple weeks, as it was—but still, compared with last night, she could already tell the difference. Already recognize the returning tightness in her scalp, her jaw, her shoulders and neck.

You know how to fix that, Barbie thought. Barbara shook her head. Repeat exposure while the effects still lingered increased the risk of permanent damage. The limit would be less than twenty minutes this time—and the effects would be increased. I could be even sillier and sexier, Barbie thought. Really let loose for once. No more Barbara Boringer, just fun free Barbie Bimbo. She bit her lip, hesitating, tempted but knowing it was a terrible idea. Isn’t today a party day? Barbie thought. We did it, now we can relax and be happy!

And Barbara had to admit, that sounded like a good idea. She held the gun backwards, pointed at her own head, and pressed the button. Ooooooh, that feels so good, Barbie thought, and that was the only thought she had for a while.

Eventually she put it down, wandered into the other room, and told the rest of the team to take the day off. Then she went looking for a hair salon.

Candice stared at her boss. “That’s, uh... wow. That’s a look,” she said.

Barbie grinned and patted the long, wavy, bright pink hair piled on top of her head. “It took hours yesterday,” she said proudly. And I could just sit there and let them do it and feel fuzzy and happy the whole time. Barbara Boringer couldn’t do that.

“Yeah,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. How do you tell your boss that her outfit is barely street-legal, let alone lab appropriate? Candice decided there really wasn’t any safe way. She tried to keep from turning to watch as Barbara walked past her into the lab, but she couldn’t help it—she’d been crushing on her boss for the better part of a year, and having her walk in looking like that, confirming and in some cases exceeding every fantasy Candice had entertained about what she might look like under the loose, informal clothes everyone wore in the lab... well, Candice was only human. She was just glad nobody’d caught her looking yet—she knew she would die of embarrassment the moment they did.

Barbie wouldn’t have minded. Three guys and one girl had made a pass at her on her way in, and she’d giggled and given them her number every time. It made them happy. She liked making people happy; it felt good, and why not do whatever felt good? Oh, every now and then that annoying Barbara Boringer voice in her head came up with a reason, but she was already quieter today than yesterday. And that was why she was back here now, to take another brain-bath in the energy from what she was now thinking of as the Bimbo Gun. Oh, Barbara Boringer insisted on coming here because it was her job, but Barbie knew the real reason.

It wasn’t long before she was alone with it. She’d managed to get up and into the lab early today, without Barbara Boringer arguing with her at every step, and Candice was the only other person here at this hour. Once again, she could pick it up, point it at herself, and let it wash over her. I can’t keep doing this. Before long it might start having permanent effects, thought Barbara.

And then I could feel like this all the time, Barbie replied, and Barbara didn’t have an answer. Or if she did, it was swallowed in the same lovely pink cotton-candy fog as everything else.

“Um, Barbara? What are you doing?”

Barbie turned, still using the Bimbo Gun on herself. “Oh, hi Candice,” she giggled.

“Are you using the anxiolytic device on yourself?” Candice’s face was a mask of shock and outrage.

“Yeah,” Barbie admitted, and giggled again. She looks so unhappy, she thought. I wanna make her happy. So Barbie pointed the Bimbo Gun at Candice and pulled the trigger.

For a moment, Candice’s face was an O of surprise. But then it relaxed, and a slow smile spread across her delicate, elfin features. “Oh,” she said. “Oh wow. But... but you... we shouldn’t...”

“Shh,” said Barbie. “Doesn’t it feel good? Just relax. It’s so, so good to relax and not think to much.” She giggled. “You can do anything you want, anything that makes you happy.”

Candice sighed blissfully. Why not? It was hard to think of a reason and even harder to care about finding one.

“I want you to be happy, Candi,” said Barbie. “How can I make you happy?”

All the worries, all the inhibitions, all the concerns that would have stopped Candice from saying what she said next were hidden behind sweet clouds of fuzzy pinkness. All that was left were the reasons she wanted it. “Kiss me,” she said.

So Barbie did. She liked making people happy, after all, and kissing felt good. She played the gun over both of them while they kissed, when she remembered. And there was nothing in it to prevent repeated short firings, so over the next half-hour they both got much, much more than ten minutes of exposure. When the first of the other team members walked in, they found Candi and Barbie naked and sticky, tangled up in each other and giggling, the emitter nestled between them in its hairdryer case.

And they looked unhappy about it, so Barbie used the gun on them, too.

A security guard found the rest of Barbie’s team later that afternoon, blissed out after an all-day orgy. Eventually most of them got mostly back to normal, and were able to explain enough for authorities to piece together what had happen. By that time, an upscale makeup store downtown had been robbed by what one witness memorably described as “two giggling sluts with a hairdryer” who left the employees in much the same state. It didn’t take much to connect the crimes, but by that time Barbie and Candi had used the gun on each other much too much for there ever to be any hope of a cure for them. Besides, somebody would have to catch them first, and they proved surprisingly good at evading that.

So ended the career of Dr. Barbara Bohringer-Brambeau. But the criminal career of Doctor Bimbo had just begun.