The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A CLOCKWORK PINK

mind control, male dominant, non-consensual, incest, fetish

DISCLAIMER:

This story is purely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, reanimated, or viral, is pure coincidence.

You must be this tall to ride this ride. If you have not orbited the sun at least eighteen times, your ride ends here.

Don’t try these techniques at home. Washing of brains is immoral, illegal, and the techniques described here won’t work.

I wrote this story for the Erotic Mind Control Archive. Obtain author’s permission before reproducing the story. Excerpts of four lines or less do not require the author’s permission, as long as she is appropriately credited.

Chapter One: “You are a piece of meat.”

Jenny started and jerked against the cool hard plastic of her restraints. Bubbling foam and animal howl spilled over her lips. She hadn’t registered the words yet, but she knew that she feared that voice.

She hadn’t known before, when she first came here. She had cursed and lectured and protested into the darkness at the voice, spitting out hard words about police and parents and lawyers, something about rights, something else about dignity. Each protest, however eloquent, had produced an identical result.

Gossamer electrodes attached to her biceps, wrists, calves, thighs, nipples, and clit taught her a savage and precise electric lesson every time she formed a forbidden word.

Jenny’s meat was learning.

Jenny’s meat knew that the voice would speak to her sometimes—maybe every day, maybe every hour, maybe every week. Jenny’s meat knew that the voice would tell her terrible things, degrading things, things that her mind could never accept. She could never talk back to the voice, unless she wanted her muscles to twitch and tense, her jaw to clench, and her bladder to automatically empty into one of the many tubes stuck up inside her.

The voice spoke to her and told her about things. The voice told her what to do, what to think about. Jenny’s meat could only respond one way. Slobber slipped over slack lips, down her chin, to drip drip drip onto her tits. A small corner of dwindled brain counted splish splash drips as lips moved.

A soft, docile voice chimed, “I am a piece of meat.”

Jenny’s meat feared the voice, the punishments associated with disobedience, the risk of shock and the sharp reek of sweat and piss that came after the shocks. Her mind, however, had come to crave it. Her flesh needed the nutrients dripping needle-fed through the hole in her arm, the forced stretching and moving of the restraint chair that kept muscle and gristle from complete atrophy. Her brain muscle, though, was still wasting away in the silence and dark. She needed something to think about.

She had tried to think her own thoughts. When she first woke up, naked, woozy from the drugs, slathered in sweat, she resolved to resist whatever tortures she was subjected to. She could keep her mind organized and occupied, maintain clear gemoetric patterns of thought. Her unseen captors could torture and debase her body, but she would, she thought, always have her will, a small hard core of self that nothing could touch.

Lifetimes later, she realized that she had been right: nothing could touch her will and mind. Nothing had fingers of silent black deep inside her mind, working it like soft clay as she whimpered.

She had tried desperately to keep track of the time, counting off seconds and minutes with eyeblinks and twitches.

At 319, she realized that she was torturing herself, more thoroughly than any whipcrack or wirebuzz ever could. Each empty second drove home the absolute reality of her confinement, the impossibility of escape or rescue, and the sheer oppressive weight of blank time. Still, she persisted. After all, it wasn’t as if she was trying to pleasure herself. She was developing her will.

At 981, she began to second-guess her counting. Hadn’t she alredy counted 981? Was she counting backward or forward? Maybe she was repeating numbers. They all seemed the same to her. It felt like that game she had played as a little girl, repeating words over and over and over, until their meaning dissolved in the shuffling of syllable and noise, mumbling banana banana bananas for Anna Anna’s bananas fo fanna and Jenny’s bananas nuts fruity barmy head full of soft rotting fruit like bananas and apples and onions peeling back layer after layer can’t think can’t even count count must count ten fingers two legs one two three holes one mind. No mind. Yes mind. My name is Jenny, and I am not crazy, and I can count. I just need to gather myself and not panic and keep on counting up from where I left at nine or eight hundred—eight or nine, was it eight or nine? Eight boys, eight boys I’ve fucked, eight cocks I’ve let slide and spurt inside me, and I’m not even 23, I’m bad and dirty, nasty, filthy slut, 12 if you count my mouth, I drink like cum like water and this is all my fault. I didn’t have to talk to that man at the bar. I didn’t have to let him buy me drinks. I didn’t have to let him walk me home when I started to feel weak and dizzy. I acted like the dirty whore that I am, and now I’m strapped to some dentist’s chair in the dark, getting what I deserve.

Eight. Twelve, seven, twenty-two, and twenty, eight and I ate it, I swallowed it all down, I ate in like a banana and I’m bananas, Jenny’s bananas fo fanna, eight and twenty bunches of fanna fanna bo banana for me. Eight hundred.

I was on eight hundred. I need to focus.

At 1958, Jenny began to giggle uncontrollably.

At 2012, she started to cry. The electrodes strapped to her flesh reacted to her sobs with a sharp, brief current. Jenny held back her tears and giggled instead, numbers shuffled into nonsense and madness.

Jenny’s meat was learning.

Jenny abandoned counting, abandoned time altogether. She might have been in here for a week, a month, or a year. Time didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. She wasn’t allowed to think about time. It made her cry, and she wasn’t allowed to cry. Her attention drifted to stories instead. The projector inside ran blurred film and slide shows of her life before, her childhood in the suburbs, strict Catholic high school, scholarship to a prestigious university, a coveted internship in D.C. She thought about her friends. She thought about her best friend Cara, who was so strong. Thinking about Cara made her feel better, held out some nebulous promise of rescue. Cara was so competent and smart. She knew that Cara would find her, somehow. She sang her favorite songs in her head. She tried to recreate her favorite movies.

She remembered her first boyfriend, her first furtive kiss. She thought about the first time she had nervously taken a boy into her mouth in a cramped backseat, waiting with fear and excitement for that salty flood her friends and magazines had told her about. She thought about Patrick, her first real boyfriend, who had taken her virginity one drunken night in her dorm room.

You’re thinking about your cunt meat again, aren’t you?

Repeated applications of sizzle and twitch had conditioned in the correct response. Silence was unacceptable. Sarcasm was unacceptable. Only soft dreamy obedience made the pain stop.

Yes, I’m thinking about my cunt again.

You must be a filthy cumrag. You think about nothing but your cunt and pleasing boys all day long.

The voice whispered on, a trickling stream of obscene noise in the dark. The stream flowed into her mind, carving channels, sweeping her thoughts away. The voice always knew when she was thinking about fucking. Maybe the wires crisscrossing her body registered reactions as well as distributing punishment. Maybe she really did think about slip and slosh all the time, just like the voice said.

Jenny tried to stop thinking about sex. When she thought about other things, the voice was silent. It was only when she started to think dirty things, trampy nasty things, that the avuncular voice started up all hiss and slither again, coiling around her memories and squeezing them away.

Keeping your mind off a forbidden topic, though, is an impossible task. When you finish reading this sentence, close your eyes and try not to think about brown monkeys. Better yet, when you finish this sentence, close your eyes for a minute or two, and try very very hard not to think about a restrained, retrained young girl’s body in a lightproof chamber, thinking about her meat and slobbering her mind away as that voice drones on.

Chapter Two: “You are a suck machine.”

Cara opened her hole wide and extended her cactus tongue in raw craving. Cara needed water, and if Cara wanted to be fed and watered like a good girl, she was going to have to suck for it.

Cara loved to suck, to take the veiny plunger all the way down her throat and slurp and swirl her tongue round and round again. Her existence consisted of a simple binary. A full mouth and busy tongue meant warmth, warm liquid trickling down her throat, soft soothing reassurance and direction from the voice above and beyond and inside her. An empty mouth meant thirst, hunger, cold, dry lips, and silence or harsh lectures from the voice that dictated her thoughts now.

She dimly recollected a time when she hated this. She had tried to scream when her mouth had first been raped. She had spat and tried to bite down. Her teeth had clacked together on air as the training cock withdrew. Cara had expected punishment.

She was simply deprived.

The luminescent hands of a clock marked the intervals between her feedings. The feedings had come slowly at first, giving her hours to contemplate her misdeeds if she complained or stopped slurping for a moment. Any slip was punished with the same sentence: deprivation.

The feedings were more regular now. Every fifteen minutes, as the second hand approached the minute mark, the feeding apparatus would thrust toward the desperately empty hole in her head. It still wasn’t enough.

Cara starved. She starved for liquid, for companionship, for that velvet wonderful voice that made everything all right again. Empty glazed glassy eyes stared at the second hand crawling past the halfway mark. She needed her head filled with warm fluid, with the drip drop drip surge that overflowed past her vacant smile, spilling into stomach and brain, until her mind was just a big pink pool where she could dive down deep and forget every pain and discomfort, forget memory and name.

The second hand crept past the three quarter mark. Cara tried futilely to reach her tongue further forward. She wanted to burst through the metal collar tight around her neck, push through the plates that held her head in place. She needed to forget her name again. She hated Cara. It was easy to hate that tight-lipped 22-year-old bitch who had pored over LSAT study guides and secretly snickered at the men she cultivated for “networking” and “connections.” That bitch had criticized Jenny and Amy for their weakness and dependence. With a body like hers, slimmed by religious dieting and carefully toned at the gym, a bit of tease would always suffice to jerk men around like puppies on a short leash. She had always told her friends to consider men as dogs: ring a bell, draw beestung lips into a pout, flash a glimpse of slender thighs, and watch them drool. They were, she always said, just like Pavlov’s Dog.

Cara panted like a bitch in heat as the final seconds ticked away. The head restraints slipped off. The collar loosened. God penetrated her full lips again. Cara began to worship.

Bobbing bliss shot through her like an electric shock. Her jaw slackened and the rest of her meat followed suit, sagging in her chair as every scrap of her attention focussed on the movement of lips and tongue.

It was concentrated mindless ecstasy. It was tongue snaking round as she coaxed out that lovely dose of warm relief, bobbing along with the metronome tick as that angel’s voice directed her to nod yes, yes to cock past slippery dripping lips, simple metronome time as Cara goes tick tock, suck cock, slobbery bobbing. It was slipping deeper into that warm pink place where goodgirl doesn’t need to think and can’t think, never think, never think again about anything but jiggling giggling wriggling, all flounce and bounce and silly frill and head bobbing up and down and up again, anything to stay filled and complete, anything at all, anything to forget, to go back down under deeper, down deep in her throat, down deep inside herself, down deep into her brain until it pounded and ground her brain into soft pink pudding.

The voice spoke to her. The voice guided her thoughts into those few simple well-worn circuits, reminded her to breathe through her nose, to flick underneath the head, to curl her tongue around and lap at the balls, rewarding her with an extra bit of fluid and joy for each maneuver executed with mechanical precision. Head bobs back up again, emptying out all thought, taking in fluid, and it was so good, so good to be all smacking lips and robot tongue again.

It was chocolate and candy and ice cream, the first taste of sweets after a lifelong starvation diet. Images flickered behind closed eyes: Cara kneeling, Cara bound in tight pink latex, staring up with wide frozen headlight eyes, blank bimbo eyes, begging for more, begging to spend an hour, then a lifetime on her knees. It would never be enough. Each taste deepened the craving, which could only be relieved with another taste, another tongue swirl, another trip down that spiral until Cara disappeared and only warm wet hunger remained.

A single tear trickled down suck machine’s cheek, mingling with the wet beneath her chin, rolling al the way down to the wet between her thighs. The cock withdrew. Cara sobbed and waited.

Chapter Three: “You are a giggling slut.”

Amy knew that she was a giggling slut; the voice only served to confirm what her actions had already proved again and again and again.

She had faced a choice, a simple choice, and she had chosen to be a slut. Jenny and Cara and even her big sister Sarah had always chided her for being weak and clingy. Cara called her dependent. She was always too willing to offer her lithe gymnast’s body to men who paid attention to her. Here, in the darkness, presented with simple choice, she had proven them all so right.

The voice had delivered a multiple choice exam: sit still and wait, or arch her back upward and thrust her hips until her clit scrape against the buzzing trigger. She had been tested, and she had received a big “F” for “fucktoy.” True—I am a giggling slut.

Amy didn’t remember how long she had waited, but she knew it wasn’t very long at all. She had probably succumbed instantly. Sarah or Jenny or Cara would have just waited. They never would have gasped in shameful delight, as those buzzing mechanical fingers circled her throbbing clit, probed and pushed their way deep inside her sopping cunt.

God. She even thought like a slut, thought in words like “sopping cunt” and “throbbing clit,” words straight out of those cheap over-the-top stories she used to skim through on the Web. Back in college, Cara had used her browser and stumbled across those stories. Amy thought she had erased her link history; apparently, she had been wrong.

Amy could hear Cara’s mocking laughter now as she pressed upward yet again. She thrust blindly, helplessly, like one of those lab monkeys automatically pressing the cocaine lever again and again and again. That couldn’t be Cara’s voice, giggling away at her. It must be a hallucination, another dirty dream. She couldn’t tell. Everything and nothing seemed real to her at this point. Maybe she was dreaming, but if she was dreaming, she wasn’t trying very hard to wake up.

After five or ten or twenty rides, ten or twenty or a hundred different orgasm against those humming machine fingers, the voice had started talking to her again. It told her different things, instructed her, explained what she was and what she always had been and what she was going to be now. That rapacious salacious machine droned over and under and into her mind, and she knew that it was right. She conceded every time she tensed her spread legs and instinctively pushed her dirty animal crotch into the air. It was a very small step, from admitting her wantonness with her meat, to admitting it with her voice.

Everything it said was right, everything it said was worth repeating. After all, if she didn’t repeat along, her junkie cunt couldn’t get the fix it needed. She knew know that it was always right, and she tried to learn the circling loops, commit them to what remained of her memory. The machine had taught her to talk, to say and think the right things, the proper things for a girl like her. The only way to push that lever again was to repeat those magic words, that open sesame to pleasure.

Arching her hips, she let out that long constant marilyn mumbling, “Slavery makes me cunt wet, my wet cunt makes me a slaveiswhatIamaslaveslutwhoregigglingslutemptyholemeatmoutholecuntholemindhole...”

The words spilled out in a torrent of noise. The words were almost meaningless to Amy, but they were the only scrap of meaning left to her. Her brains were in her cunt now, pulsing and dripping. It isn’t good to think. It hurts to think. It’s just so much easier to drift off into those soft fluffy clouds, and giggle mindlessly as thoughts float away one by one. Wave goodbye to those those thoughts before they go

pop

The machine can see if you’re thinking. Those pads attached to your head tell us if you’re thinking or not—and good slaves think only what they’re permitted to think.

Good slaves don’t think much at all. Nice flat brainwaves now, if you want us to give you what you need. You do need it, don’t you? Yes, of course you do.

That’s “yes Master” to you.

Yes Master.

Yes Owner.

Yes Daddy.

Don’t just think it, cumrag. Say it the way you’ve been taught to say it. Let’s hear a proper giggle now.

That’s perfect, meat. You make Carmen Electra sound like a rocket scientist. Do you remember what a rocket scientist is? Do you remember what a rocket is? Don’t worry your pretty empty head about it. You should be proud. You can feel proud about being such a good animal. You don’t have to feel any shame or pain or anything but pure instinct. Just let your mind spiral down into giggles and cotton candy, and you never have to wake up again.

Amy’s clit sang, her cunt spasmed, and her eyes rolled back as she slipped over the edge again. It felt good, so good, too good, to good to ever start thinking or stop dreaming or do anything other than obey. Her orgasms were too intense for her mind too hold; it was like a snapshot of the sun. Her mind was overexposed now, nothing but a few patterns bside a blank. The voices echoed inside her head, coming out of her open mouth as she whispered mindless bimbo and bobbing zombie and filthy whore and latex maid and giggling slut.

She knew that she recognized the voices with some shred of memory. She couldn’t quite recall their names.

Jenny and Cara couldn’t quite recall their names either, as the three voices slipped into a rising chorus, bubbly voices repeating in a single bimbo chant.

Amy flopped back down in her training chair. Her whole body sagged, and she smiled as ehr bladder emptied. Her lips flapped on, mouthing barbie mantras with Jenny and Cara, completely disconnected from her fogged mind. After eleven full repetitions of the cycle, she giggled and pushed her crotch toward the trigger again.