The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chain Reaction

mf mc? md? nc?

Note: This story is a hypnofetish fantasy. It contains adult language and situations, and examples of fictional characters doing illegal, immoral and/or impossible things to other fictional characters as a prelude to sexual activity. If you 1) are under the age of consent in your community, 2) are disturbed by such concepts, 3) attempt to do most of these things in real life or 4) want graphic ‘on-stage’ sex in your pornography, then please stop reading now.

Permission is granted to re-post this story unaltered to any on-line forum, as long as no fee whatsoever is charged to view it, and this disclaimer and the above e-mail address are not removed. It would also be nice if you told me you were posting it.

Copyright © me, 1999

* * *

I’ll admit, before these things happened to me in real life, I used to read fictional stories about similar events on the Internet. Hell, I still do sometimes on a warm Sunday night like this one, when I sit alone hunched over my computer. These stories all seem to begin with grabbers of lines like ‘It all started that day out in the desert with the strange lights’, or ‘He found the book while cleaning out the attic.’

When I finally recently decided to sit down and write this, I tried to come up with something similar, but in the end gave up. Mine begins with:

It just happened.

And when it did, it happened in the local supermarket.

It was a Friday afternoon, and I and all the other worker-drones from the neighborhood had stopped there on our way home from our weekly toils. (In my case...Where? Doing what? Doesn’t matter now. It was an office. I sat in a crummy little cubicle behind a crummy little desk and moved pieces of papers and packets of electrons around all day.) I was pushing my cart up the one of the frozen food aisles, half-listening to the whiny squeak of the front left wheel and trying to decide what I wanted in the way of TV dinners for the coming week. Then I rose up from my thoughts and there she was. I squealed the cart to a stop and the rest of the world ground to a halt as well.

She was standing further up the aisle, intently scanning the contents of one of the tall freezers, the handles of one of the market’s ugly square plastic hand-baskets clenched in one set of fingers and a lumpy package of frozen peas in the other. A thirtyish woman, she had on a chic little business outfit, a jacket and skirt that were nicely set off by both the purse slung over one shoulder and her matching bob of light brown hair.

I had never seen her before in my life.

I still don’t know what it was. Love, maybe, but I had been in love before that moment and it didn’t feel the same. (It, the old love, hadn’t worked out in the end; I was single and very much unattached when this happened.) But love is different every time, or so they sometimes say, and was there anything else that it could have been? I mean, she was very pretty, but she certainly wasn’t the most drop-dead gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. Nevertheless, as I stood there, the world still frozen around me, it was like I was watching some movie and the director had ordered one of those long camera zooms, one that closed in on a character’s face until it fills the entire shot. At the precise moment the zoom stopped, she paused in a very distinct sort of way, straightened up, and slowly swiveled her enormous head in my direction. Time started up again around us. We looked at each other.

There was a long moment filled with the store’s syrupy Musak and then the basket and the peas slid out of her well-shaped hands. Both hit the floor, and something inside the basket shattered and began glopping its reddish contents out across the carefully sterilized vinyl.

She started walking towards me on clicking heels, a stiff-legged walk that gradually edged itself towards a run. Her expression was one of almost one of panic. Not concern about what was happening to her, I think, but a growing fear that I might turn out to not be real, might slip away into nothingness before she could cross that endless distance and reach me.

Not that I had any intention of disappearing. I stepped around my cart and she was there, in my arms, pressing her slender body tightly against mine, wrapping her own arms around me, kissing me frantically, her nimble tongue sliding eagerly into my mouth. She was a tiny little thing and she had to go up on her toes to make full contact.

The kiss seemed to go on forever. Finally, I broke away if only to come up for air. I looked down at her and she stared back, her hazel eyes shining, her breath coming in hiccupy little gasps.

Something obviously occurred to her and she dropped to her knees, started fumbling with the zipper of my jeans, fighting to get at the rising bulge underneath. I realized what she was planning and somehow found my voice:


She instantly broke off and looked up again. Her wide-eyed expression sent a sharp bolt of pain through me; she brought to mind the image of a kicked puppy.

“Not here.”

Her smile was back with the same flickering speed and I helped her to her feet. Sparing a glance around, I noticed that there were two or three other people in the aisle. None of them paid us the slightest attention, but I didn’t particularly feel like sticking around to give them the chance.

We abandoned the cart and basket to their fate and left the supermarket, breezing out through one of the empty check-out lanes. I caught a glimpse of a bored cashier giving us a mildly quizzical stare, the only one who even seemed to see us. Then we were gone, out into the parking lot, out into the afternoon’s gloom and gray drizzle. We paused there on the yellow-striped concrete and kissed again, me lifting her all the way off of the ground this time. I turned us slowly in a circle.

Then we went to my car and drove back to my apartment, abandoning her car as we had the baskets.

She tried again to kneel before me during the creaking elevator ride up to my floor, to service me, and again I stopped her.

I finally gave her the chance in the front hall of my place, and it was definitely worth the wait. She’d gotten very good at it somewhere, and I came in her mouth, down her throat, almost immediately. She swallowed every drop.

Then we worked our way into the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing behind us.

I discovered as I entered her that she was a virgin.

And as she came, she screamed my name, which I had yet to tell her.

* * *

We lay in bed together. It was dark outside, and bits of rain still splatted desultorily against the window. I looked at her naked curves, a series of white arcs in the glow of the headlights passing by on the street below, bringing to mind a collection of moons orbiting some distant but friendly planet.

“What’s your name?” Obviously, this was me asking.

“I...” She paused, and cocked her head quizzically. Then she smiled simply and openly, a smile with no shadows lurking anywhere in it. “I don’t remember.” She rolled up next to me and started kissing me again, just as hot and eager as the first time. After a long moment, I tore myself away and spoke:

“You don’t remember? How could you forget your own name?”

“The first thing I remember is seeing you in the supermarket.” She paused again, looking inward, obviously thinking deeply now. Her petite fingers absently twined their way through my chest hair. “No. I take that back. I was... there was... a woman before that.” Her voice was grave. She turned her gaze back to me. “But she died when I saw you. No... not died. She just came out of her cocoon, and became me.”

“No. Listen. This is very important. You have to remember. Remember... that woman’s name.”

“You aren’t going to send me away, are you?” Her eyes were very wide now.

“No. Of course not. Never. But I want to know your name.”

She lay there and stared helplessly into space.

I had an inspiration.

“I order you to remember your name.”

“Camilla.” She blinked as the words spilled out of her mouth, my words and tone obviously punching a button somewhere down in her brain. “My name was Camilla McCormick.”

I sighed.

“Your name is Camilla McCormick. Do you understand?”

“Of course. My name is Camilla McCormick”

“Where do you work, Camilla?” Seeing her expression I held up a hand and cut off her reply. “Where do you go to make money for me?”

“I make money for you at Wheatley and Associates. They import specialty foods, mostly from Europe. I work in the payroll department.” She continued, still grave and calm. “Would you like me to steal some of the company’s money for you?”

“No, Camilla. That won’t be necessary.”

For a moment I just held her in my arms, feeling her warmth. What I had felt when I entered her seemed to render my next question academic, but I asked it anyway.

“You aren’t married, are you?”

“Oh, no.”

“What about a boyfriend?”

“No. She... I was saving myself for you.”

“You... you’ve never even had a boyfriend?”

“Oh, some. But I never let any of them have sex with me. Real sex. I knew I belonged to you. I was waiting for you.” A pause. “Waiting in my cocoon. Even then.”

I considered asking her how she differentiated between real sex and the fake kind, but then decided it wasn’t important.

I’m most definitely sure, however, what we did next fit into the former category.

She moved in with me of course, easily abandoning her previous home and existence except for her job. Life settled into a delightful daily routine: a wake-up blow job for me at seven on the dot, a long hot shower together, Camilla using her own soapy body to clean mine, then work for both of us, then more ‘real sex’ until we tumbled exhausted into bed. (Or at least tumbled to rest...) On weekends, we’d go somewhere enjoyable in between having sex. Until...

* * *

It was a few weeks after Camilla and I had come together, and we were at the city art gallery downtown. As a treat, I had let Camilla decide where to go on our outing that day. I still had to pry out information about her past, her likes and dislikes, a piece at a time, but she finally remembered and/or admitted that before falling into my orbit she had enjoyed going to see the paintings. So we went.

It was a wet and miserable weekend, but a still-surprising number of people had come; the place was fairly crowded. We slowly wound our way through the mob, stopping at various paintings that were Camilla’s particular favorites. While not an out-and-out expert, she turned out to be quite knowledgeable about the subject and I enjoyed hearing her comments. She certainly knew more about such things than I did.

The moment it happened this time, we were studying a large seascape (‘Battery Point #42’ by a man named Ingerhold; we have a print of it now, hanging in the dining room...) Camilla was snuggled nicely against my side, her hand doing equally nice things up between my shoulder-blades, when I glanced across the room and saw... her. The second one. There was another camera zoom in my mind as the crowd froze in place, its collective babble cutting off. She was standing in front of another seascape, this one a painting of a lighthouse high on a cliff, all blues and greens and greys. Her back was to us, her arms tightly crossed around her waist, her carefully-aligned fingertips visible to me. She was blonde, two or three inches shorter than my own six feet and rather more voluptuous than Camilla. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew that it didn’t matter. I looked down at my first conquest as the world came back to life.

“Camilla? Do you see that woman over there?” I didn’t bother to point. There was no need.

“Yes, Andrew.” She glanced in exactly the right direction.

“She belongs to me as well. Go over there and fetch her to me, would you?”

Yes, sir!” She smiled, her expression radiant, and she deftly slipped out of my one-armed embrace. She almost skipped across the room, rather childlike in her tight-fitting jeans and T-shirt and jacket, the crowd seeming almost to magically part before her. I watched as she came up to the blonde woman and placed a gentle hand on the arm of her target’s fuzzy purple sweater. The woman turned without surprise and looked down. Seeing Camilla, she tipped her head to one side and smiled, showing an impressive mouthful of white teeth. She then turned her gaze to me. Somehow, even through the thick sweater and her own pair of jeans, I could see her wide nipples pop to attention, her sex ignite and dampen. Together, they came back across the room. The newcomer had lovely deep blue eyes and delicate features which were a nice contrast to Camilla’s snub-nosed cuteness. She and I kissed for a long moment, Camilla watching happily from one side. Finally I freed my lips and took a step back. I spoke gently but firmly.

“I order you to remember your name for me.”

“My name is Elizabeth Benetine, sir.” She smiled again, a Julia Roberts smile, one with too many teeth that were too big, but was still somehow perfect.

I took her in my arms again and we kissed more thoroughly, turning in a slow circle, completing the link between us. Welding shut the bands that held her soul.

Then the three of us went out into the wind and rain and drove back to our apartment. Actually Camilla drove, while Elizabeth and I were busy in the back seat. At the apartment, we had real sex all afternoon. Three-way sex was a new experience for all of us, and we learned and experimented with the various combinations and possibilities as we went. We fell asleep still tangled together, waking to Sunday sunshine. In an added bonus, Elizabeth proved that morning and thereafter to be an excellent cook, better than Camilla and I put together. Elizabeth moved in with us as well, and we stopped living on TV dinners and Chinese take-out.

* * *

Number three was Celeste, a friend of Elizabeth’s and a co-worker at the same engineering firm. She became suspicious about Elizabeth’s sudden change in lifestyle and followed Elizabeth to my apartment one drizzly Monday evening. Elizabeth and I were, unsurprisingly I suppose, having sex at the time, but Camilla answered the door when Celeste started banging on it, and she then brought the intruder into my presence.

Celeste has the most wonderful hair it has ever been my fortune to see or touch, a vibrant river black and thick, long and lustrous. As soon as I saw it, as soon as she saw me and realized the truth about our relationship, I had her do a long slow striptease beside the bed, finally unpinning those gorgeous tresses and positioning herself beside me, over me, on the bed. The strands dangled over and around me like silken moss dripping from the limbs of some black-hearted Ent, and I could just run my fingers through it. Celeste held perfectly still, her dark eyes wide, her body subliminally qivering with the overlapping orgasms while I stroked her hair. Camilla joined Elizabeth in working on keeping my penis hard and happy, their tongues moving in practiced tandem, around and around, up and down...

It’s a good thing that Celeste joined us when she did, since she later admitted to me that she had been considering having a large chunk of her hair cut off. Now that she had two sisters to help her keep it in order, it wasn’t as much trouble for her and she could let it grow even longer for me. It’s down almost past her ass now.

* * *

And so it went. A month after Celeste, there was Gabrielle Dubois, my dark-skinned, black-hearted little night-creature: she slithered into my cab as it pulled up to the curb, a puff of toxic smoke which casually cut off the waiting Celeste on the sidewalk. Unlike my first three girls, when our eyes met, there was resistance. She recoiled from me, almost screaming, scrabbling for the handle of the door which had swung shut behind her:


“No what?” I smiled and raised my eyebrows. Otherwise, I stayed as still as the frozen traffic.


The traffic came back, honking at itself and churning the slush.

Celeste joined us, sliding into the open front seat and giving the cabdriver my address. We pulled out into the street, the cab’s wipers squeaking tiredly at the sticky white flakes.

Gabrielle’s compact, muscular body slid across the seat to me, methodically preparing itself for sex, even as her steely knife-edged mind still tried to draw away and slash at me.


I made her wide mouth shut up by kissing it. Even as her talons clawed at my back, her lips and tongue began helplessly to respond. And more than respond. About that kiss and all the ones that have come after it, all I can say is, all I want to say, it’s a good thing that it’s Gabrielle who is the underling in our relationship. She’d have eaten me alive otherwise, perhaps literally. Part of her still hates me to this day, a venomous, powerless hatred as black and thick and deep as Celeste’s hair. Somehow, it adds a extra dash of spice to our love making, which is loud and physical and violent, filled with vitupertive and highly imaginative curses. I immensely enjoy her hatred and I’m almost positive that she does as well, which is probably why she has been allowed to keep it.

* * *

And then there was the cold winter night where I attended the annual local performance of the Nutcracker over on the Eastside. I sort of had to; Gabrielle was one of the dancers. My Christmas present for the year was tall flame-haired Jessica, who was waiting for me right outside the performance hall after the show, standing under a large elegant umbrella and watching the snow drift down with a rather lost, waif-like expression on display behind her glasses. We looked at each other, and for an eternal moment the snow hung unmoving in the air, silt stirred up from the bottom of the sea.

I didn’t kiss her, at least not then. We just twirled together for another long eternity, discarding her umbrella and getting snow in our hair and on our shoulders and down the back of our necks. Finally Gabrielle came stalking out and we all went back to Jessica’s penthouse. Once there, Jessica and I danced another slow waltz without rising from the carpeted floor, a performance conducted under the green and red lights of a tree which was as tall and as stately as its owner. Gabrielle got to play maid and serving wench for the night, much to her undisguised displeasure. It was just a shame that she had to leave her costume behind at the hall; it would have made it all even more perfect... (We have a copy of that costume now. Gabrielle wears it a lot.)

I mentioned the penthouse. Jessica was (and is) very well off, thanks to her late father’s investments (HTI and Yankovich and Western Techtronics and the list goes on...) and she had been generally quite frugal, carefully saving and re-investing most of her money so it would be finally available for my and her sisters’ use, after I claimed her.

We moved in with her; she (I, if you prefer) actually owns the entire building so there was plenty of room for everybody and no more possibility of nosy landlords or neighbors. (Although, as I have hinted before, our activities generally seem to be invisible to the world around us. I’ve never been seriously tempted to push it, but I sometimes wonder what would happen if we all went and had an orgy on the steps of City Hall. Would the other pedestrians even break stride as they walked past?)

More importantly, none of us ever have to work again. I quit my job at once, but my girls’ reactions were more varied. Celeste still works for Eastbay Engineering. Gabrielle still dances in front of audiences, because that’s the only time she’s truly happy, apart of course from when she is at the absolute height of enraged sarcastic orgasm, my cock spurting inside her. Elizabeth has become a full-time master chef. Camilla has taken up painting, and is getting quite good at it, if I say so myself. Ingerhold’s work is about the only one we now have that she didn’t do.

* * *

I currently have six girls. Two months ago I answered a knock on the front door of our country home during a violent thunderstorm, and there was Teresa on the wide stone stoop, barefoot and wearing only a flimsy pink teddy which had begun to plaster itself to her generous curves. The moment of the freeze caught her in the middle of a lightning-flash, giving her clear pale skin an almost transparent quality, in contrast to her dark brown helmet of hair. When time resumed she collapsed into my arms, sobbing a mixture of hysteria and relief. She’s proven to be the only one of the six who is able to resist me or any of my commands, even for a moment. (Although as I have already noted, a part of Gabrielle wants nothing more than to rip out my heart with her freshly-sharpened talons and stomp on it with her sharply spiked heels...) We have no idea who she was or if ‘Teresa’ was even her real name; she had no ID on her when she arrived, no jewelry, no identifying marks or scars. Her only possession, the teddy, was expensive and exquisitely made, with no manufacturer’s label. Someone must have given her a lift to our door since she wasn’t actually that wet, but she’s never been able to remember her last name or any details of her past, even when I directly order her to. I suppose I could hire someone to find out who she was easily enough, but something tells me it’s a matter best left alone. In the end, the other girls all got together and voted to give her the last name of ‘Trilby,’ and if you have lots of money, constructing a new and totally legal identity for someone is frighteningly easy...

She hates wearing any more clothes than essentailly what she arrived in, and she spends most of her time flitting contentedly around whatever house or apartment or villa we currently inhabit, keeping things clean and in order. We’ve also discovered she’s quite the musical virtuoso, particularly on the piano, which makes Gabrielle about as happy as she ever gets; she prefers having live music to practice to. On Saturday nights I have Gabrielle dance for me in front of some of Camilla’s paintings, while Teresa plays the piano and Celeste kneels naked before me, her head tilted back so that her glorious hair is fanned out across my lap, sliding across my exposed cock. Elizabeth works on dinner in the kitchen, and thus all of my senses are engaged. I am a happy man.

* * *

And so things currently stand. Are there more women out there, waiting for me? I don’t know. Why was I given the six that I currently have? I don’t know. I certainly didn’t do anything to earn them that I am aware of. There don’t seem to be any other men like me around, although maybe they are as invisble to me as I am to the rest of the world.

And perhaps... At this very moment, I sit alone in my office on a Sunday night. (Sunday... like much of the world, it is my day of rest. Depending on schedule and circumstance, I take at least one of my girls to my bed every other night of the week.) Spring is coming. I have the windows open onto the garden and the warm air comes in, carrying with it the sounds of frogs and the scent of renewal.

I sit alone and type these words into my computer’s word-processing program, cutting and pasting and dragging and rearranging.

And perhaps... maybe by putting all this down, finally clicking on that ‘save’ button at the top of the screen, I will be breaking the spell that binds the seven of us together. Perhaps this was never something that was meant to be pinned down, defined. Perhaps tomorrow morning my six girls will all wake up and be free of my influence, whatever that influence is. Which is one reason why I try to be a kindly... master?, and let my... slaves? generally do what they want, even when they (all except Gabrielle of course...) beg me to order them around, to tell them what to do, to treat them like dirt. If they are freed someday, maybe the others will keep Gabrielle from killing me, or at least hold her off long enough for me to make good my escape...

But on further reflection, I’m not terribly worried. Scanning back through the disjointed ramblings I have just spewed forth, I see that I haven’t become to come close to capturing the feeling of it all. The spell still runs free, the chain is unbroken, the demon uncaged by the feeble attempted pentagrams of my words. You, the reader, out there, whoever you are, can’t grasp the essence of the circle that the seven of us have been forged into. Particularly those six moments when the connections were first made, when the world both came to a stop and came to life. I can’t describe it, not really, because I don’t know it. I don’t want to know it.

All I do know is, I now look forward to rainy days with great anticipation...