The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Convention

Roll Out the Express

The sign on the easel shows the next scheduled demonstration. “Indianapolis Express? Ain’t that Anton’s former assistant? The one that’s got him looking like a thundercloud?”

Before Tony can confirm or deny, the PA blasts out, “Attention! Attention! Jo Mackey and her recruiting machine will be taking the stage in five minutes. If you are interested in seeing the demonstration, please take your seats; if not, please clear the area so others can see clearly.” Tony and Sawyer, and their companions, take a group of seats near the back, but on the aisle, so that they can have a clear view if necessary without being too conspicuous. Other controllers join them, mostly the leaders of the largest groups, all curious to see what this young upstart has in store.

Anton, a few rows in front of Tony and Sawyer, says, loudly enough to be heard, “This should be quite fun. After all, I taught her everything she knows, and no one is greater than I. I doubt even her induction will be worth our time, and she couldn’t dream of doing half of what I can do with telekinesis.”

Sawyer scoffs, leaning over to Tony and muttering, “Sure, that’s why he brought a pitcher. TK, my ass. Ain’t they ever heard of the change-up in Russia?” He chuckles at Tony’s puzzled look.

But everyone goes quiet, their attention now on the stage as Jo’s two thralls walk forward, flanking her. She swaggers forward like a used-car salesman, grabs the microphone, and says, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Jo Mackey, new head women’s basketball coach at Indianapolis University, and these are my two recruits, 7 and 35. Wave to the nice people!” 7 and 35 flash plastic smiles and wave in unison. The experts in the audience chuckle.

“Vocal persuasion nil. Possibly even less than nil,” Tony observes, and Sawyer stifles a guffaw.

“Now, I know what you’re all thinking. Why would a Northern State assistant take over a rival program within the conference? Well, it’s good to be great, sure, but to be better than great... ah, that’s legendary, and who can resist that lure?”

“Hell’s bells, she’s as much Anton’s thrall as the day he got her out of high school. What, did he get bored killing the minds of one school of athletes?” Sawyer mocks in a stage whisper. Anton turns and levels a glare at him, but Sawyer is unimpressed.

“I’ve got my best assistant back at home as a watchdog over the rest of my veterans- just like these young ladies over here—” she smiles like she has a secret- “You can call them by their numbers, by the way, that’s what they answer to best. I’m not so much into the name on the back of the jersey thing as my old friends at Northern State. Anyway, Mick, being a well-trained boy like most Northern State alumni, brought a gift for me when he left Ohio. For our feature presentation, I’m going to have to ask you to turn off all cell phones, pagers, and mind zappers, and give my transfer JJ Reed a warm welcome back to the Indianapolis Express, where, as some of you may know, she originally committed before someone changed her mind for her. Aren’t I lucky the NCAA’s right around the corner?” She giggles, playing the part of an oversexed Northern State jock to the hilt.

“You certainly have a talent for making them useless, Anton,” Tony says with a scowl.

JJ Reed, surprisingly elegant for her twenty years, takes the stage, running nervous fingers through her short, curly hair. Her brown eyes, a few shades darker than her smooth skin, look over the crowd, and her pretty face reflects confusion as to why her coach took her to Chicago for a press conference, especially one with such strangely dressed reporters. But she gives her speech explaining why she returned to Indianapolis anyway, oblivious to what’s going on behind her, while 7 and 35 lay out her new uniform and place a pair of black, spike-heeled knee-high boots in a white bin on the floor.

“Thanks, JJ. I’m sure your time here will be far more productive than your first visit here, or your little side trips to New Jersey and Cincinnati. I assumed you wanted #4 again, so while your jersey’s being made, I arranged for this to be minted. Everyone else on the team has one,” Jo says, dangling a shining gold #4 pendant in front of JJ, who soon is helplessly unable to look away. The audience members roll their eyes, and a few let out their frustrated groans.

“It’s very pretty, ain’t it?” Sawyer mocks in a falsetto. “Blah blah blah sleep, blah blah blah strip, blah blah blah screw my brains out. I’m goin’ for food, Tony, call me when the little hussy does something original.” He gets up and leaves with many of the other harem boys and most of the amateurs, way too familiar with this simplistic induction either through their own use of it or through everyone else’s overuse of it.

But Jo continues as if she and JJ are the only two people in the world, her voice quiet, steady, and strangely compelling despite the trite induction. “It’s all you want, right? To be 4? It’s all you want to be, 4, nothing holding you back like at those other schools. No boring textbooks, no stressful commitments, no pressure, just 4, just one out of twelve, no more, no less, no bothering yourself to try to be something you’re not, just part of the team, part of a perfect team that trusts its coach to make them something better than they could ever be alone. Do you want to be part of this, JJ?”

“Yes,” JJ whispers, her eyes glazing over and her body starting to relax.

Jo smiles. “Do you trust your coach? Trust me completely to do what’s best for you?” She puts her arm around JJ’s waist.

“Yes,” JJ says without hesitation, and she slumps even further, so that Jo’s arm is the only thing keeping her upright.

Tony frowns from his seat in the back. “Not terrible technique- a bit kackish, to be sure, but not a bad first effort for an escaped thrall- yet it would take far too long for her to bring someone down to the level of her other thralls this way. She must have something else up her sleeve. Get to the safety booth and bring backup.” Syndrome strides quickly away, and Tony pages Sawyer back from the food stand. He knows there has to be more to this than meets the eye, and while Jo continues deepening JJ’s trance, he scrutinizes the stage and 7 and 35 to try and figure out what it is.

“Now, JJ, who do you want to be?” Jo asks, almost seductively.

“Number 4,” JJ replies. Her eyes are even wider than before, fixed on the #4 pendant hanging from Jo’s hand.

“Then I’ll help you become 4. When I place the number around your neck, you’ll be completely relaxed and ready to learn what it means to be part of the Indianapolis Express. Anything you might feel is perfectly natural. You have nothing to fear. Just relax and let JJ drift away, just relax and let yourself become 4 as I place the number around your neck.” Jo fastens the pendant, adjusts JJ’s posture slightly, and takes a step back. JJ remains in place, still as a statue, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and even. 7 and 35 walk forward in unison, 7 holding another minidress, 35 carrying a black bag. 7 activates a five-minute game clock with an inactive thirty-second shot clock attached, while 35 opens the bag, revealing various supporters, tubes, and other nondescript ropes and cables.

“Well, now! Who knew a pretty little thing like that was so kinked?” Sawyer drawls, returning with a hot dog in one hand and Syndrome holding the other. “Anton, you dirty ol’ dog! I didn’t know you got ‘em into bondage!” He makes a suggestive gesture with the hot dog, which causes Anton to turn a cold glare on him before resuming close surveillance of Jo’s setup.

The game clock comes to life, ticking down to 4:59 as Jo continues her work. “There, JJ, good job. Your future lies at your feet. Shed your past, shed JJ Reed, all her problems, all her fears, all her insecurities, just leave them all behind, because those aren’t 4’s problems, not her fears, not her worries, so you don’t have to think about them anymore.” As Jo speaks, JJ slowly removes her sweatshirt and track pants to reveal a toned and captivating athletic body that makes the audience ooh and ahh in delight, even though she’s still wearing a plain white bra and panties. The appreciative noises increase when she bends over to remove her sneakers and socks.

“Just let go of JJ, 4, let JJ drift away, leave behind everything she was. You’re 4 now. You’ve earned this. No more restrictions, none of the problems JJ had. Let it all go.” Jo runs her hands over JJ’s breasts, encouraging JJ to remove her bra and panties. JJ does so, moving with the deliberate, dreamlike grace of a sleepwalker. As the forgotten underwear falls to the floor, the crowd cheers and whistles, both for the show and to test the depth of the subject’s trance.

Tony’s the first one to notice the low buzzing. At first, he shrugs it off as a standard subliminal hum to ensure that JJ doesn’t awaken before Jo is done with her, but a second look at Jo’s toolbag, and the thick black cord snaking out of the white bin, sends his thoughts down a darker path. He yanks his laptop out of his bag and sets it on Syndrome’s lap, then whispers a quiet command to her so that she will watch the scene, turning her head to drive the order home. Once he’s sure the scene will be recorded, he gets up and pulls Sawyer into a shadowy alcove with another figure, a woman shorter than either of the men and bristling with anger in every line of her angular body. “This is going to be a nightmare,” Tony tells them. “Be ready for a long battle.” The woman nods and melts further back into the shadows, while Tony and Sawyer retake their seats for the next phase of Jo’s presentation.

“Sorry for the boring bit. I hope I didn’t put any of you to sleep- I really don’t need any more assistants right now. A good dose of straight hypnosis is key to prepping the subject for the recruiting machine, and I thought you’d appreciate the striptease. From deepening to completion takes five minutes, with the clock now at three. Anything over five minutes, and the intensity of what I do awakens the subject, or worse- but I’ll get to that later. It’s a low margin for error, but I haven’t missed yet,” Jo says, dropping her dress to reveal a black and gold bodysuit, then emptying her toolbag in a hurry. “4, put your feet into the box so that you can start becoming who you know you were always meant to be,” she orders, pressing a button on the side of the bin as her recruit obediently stepped in.

“Yes, Coooo-ooch!” the recruit drones, her voice rising sharply in pain, but her trance holds and her body freezes in mid-scream as the thirty-second shot clock starts to tick down.

“There’s nothing for you to feel, 4, nothing for you to fear!” Jo snaps out, her voice losing its soothing tone. She jabs a long rod into each of 4’s ankles, connected to a pair of leggings that clip to the outside of the ankle and attach to the top of the boot. She speaks into her clip-on mic as she does so, as casually as if she were chatting with friends. “These lovely boots have a needle inside them that shoots 150 volts of current up through the feet and throughout the body to disrupt and rewire the central nervous system. Without a good strong dose of hypnotic anesthetic, 4 here would jump up and hit the ceiling. As it is, more than thirty seconds connected to the source and you’d have French fries.”

She moves with brisk efficiency, sliding the pantyhose-like leggings up 4’s legs, then strapping a pair of kneepads to the outside of the leggings and thrusting an athletic supporter-like device between 4’s legs. “The little extras here introduce a series of titanium shafts into the body. They spread themselves inside, reinforcing tendons, replacing currents, and stabilizing bones and muscle. While 4 here will still be flesh enough for food and water, the interior cable system will regulate bodily functions and prevent little inconveniences like periods and pregnancy.” She rises in one smooth motion, sheathing 4 in a sheer net as she does so. A closer look reveals wires and cables entering 4’s body through the ass, wrists, and back. Jo puts her hand out and 7 hands her a black bra that, when strapped on 4’s unmoving body, pierces 4 through the nipples.

“I recognize this equipment now- a more advanced version of Robobirdie’s kit. But Robobirdie uses chemicals to do the interior wiring so that she can use less power. Jo Mac will never succeed,” Anton says coldly. Sawyer and Tony look at each other, their thoughts nearly identical: if it won’t work, how in the hell did she get the other two?

“Everything loosely in place with ten seconds to go- all that’s left is to check connections,” Jo announces. She seizes 4 from behind, massaging in the wires and sheathing until 4’s skin is the same smooth dark chocolate it was when she came up as JJ Reed. Then Jo brushes off the charred remnants of 4’s hair, which was fried by the current, and holds up a short, silky black wig. “Basic programming and thought patterns are on here, fed directly into the brain,” she explains, jamming the wig onto 4’s head. She looks over her work quickly, nods in satisfaction, then tosses the black and gold minidress over 4’s body and pulls tightly on the belt, causing the last few pieces of visible equipment to sink into 4’s skin, and pulls 4 off the power source with four seconds to spare.

“Ta-da! A little more practice, and I’ll be able to do this in the professional game,” she says with a bow. The audience reaction ranges from gasps and scattered applause to horrified looks and a few people, including Sawyer, running off to the bathroom to be ill.

“I trust you are pleased, Anton Vladimirov. Your protégé has all the killer instinct you could ever want and more. You should have realized this would be the next logical step for one of yours to take,” Tony says, his voice cold as ice as he sinks back into the shadows to discuss the situation with one of his allies.

Jo waits for the hubbub to die down, then clears her throat and says, “Folks, cybernetic Indianapolis Express unit 4 is now complete. Her movements, thoughts, and speech are all controlled remotely and through hand signals. Her human brain is in a sort of stasis-everything is fed through the wires in the hairpiece, which is now as much a part of her as her natural- and way too curly- hair was. She’s still human enough to cut, pass blood and urine tests, improvise, and ad-lib if necessary. Her intelligence is still there, completely loyal to the program, just dormant unless the program requires it. All tendons and joints are reinforced with titanium fiber, so no torn ACLs for my team. Contact lens eyepieces produce 20-5 vision. The net you saw me working in is a nylon fiber that makes her skin irresistible to the human touch, but can’t be told apart from ordinary skin- and it’s reinforced with plastic to avoid any accidental scratches or cuts. But rest assured, the important parts of her are still flesh and blood, and she enjoys a good romp in bed as much as the next servant in here- well, as long as she’s told to. Now, all I have to do is boot her up. Where’s that on switch- ah, here it is!” She puts her hand up 4’s skirt, jerks it forward, and takes it back out again.

It takes about a minute for 4 to start up. The audience watches in fascination as her breathing falls into a normal pattern and she twitches each limb in turn as the connections test themselves. Jo puts 4’s earrings on and checks the clock. When it says thirty seconds, she asks, “Have a good nap, 4?”

“Yeah, Coach! Thanks for bringing me back here! I can’t wait to beat Northern State and win the Big Ten for Indianapolis!” 4 says before lining up with 7 and 35. The three of them sit down at a long table just to the side of the stage and sign autographs for anyone who is interested; their names are nondescript scribbles above clear, large numbers. Jo glares at Anton as he heads for his booth.

“I think I need some air,” Sawyer mumbles, still looking green around the gills as the day ends and they head out with new missions to ponder.