The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dr. Nicholas Fatakis watched as the body of the Reverend Dr. Charles Kellogg Bryer, discreetly covered with an Emergency Medical Services blanket, was carried out of the administration center named after him. The blanket covered everything except the famed televangelist’s expensive shoes. The projecting shoes gave a darkly comic look to the corpse’s removal.

The police had been summoned by an anonymous phone call, and had brought an EMS unit with them. The emergency medics hadn’t had much to do, though: Bryer had been dead as a mackerel before they arrived. The most the EMS team could manage was to assist the police in making a preliminary determination of time and cause of death, pending an autopsy.

Dr. Fatakis knew the police were already leaning toward ruling Bryer’s death natural, if highly embarrassing. He’d learned that the preacher’s corpse showed signs of intense sexual activity just before death, suggesting that his heart had given out during the act. The same thing had apparently happened to Professor Joshua Carstairs of the history department a short while earlier.

Appearances were deceiving.

Nicholas Fatakis himself looked like a middle-aged academic, portly and graying, with a neat mustache and goatee. But he was more than that. Respected worldwide as an authority on occult lore, he had for several years worked very quietly as a paranormal investigator. Most of the time that meant chasing down what turned out to be hoaxes or delusions. Every once in a while, he had encountered something more.

This looked like one of those times. Fatakis was convinced that the supernatural was involved here. Everywhere he looked, there were hints of a dark influence, one growing stronger and more dangerous all the time. The deaths of Carstairs and Bryer might be only the first of many.

He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, punched a speed dial number and, when the call was answered, spoke: “Rita, bring the kit. We have a situation here.”

Dr. Susan Jones leaned back in the plush chair behind her desk and put her spike-heeled feet up on the desktop, crossing her ankles.

Things were going perfectly. That pious fraud Bryer was gone, and she’d already started looting his organization’s bank accounts with the account numbers and access codes he’d babbled to her while in trance. She didn’t have too long, she figured, before his people realized someone was dipping into the till and changed the codes—but she had already withdrawn a very comfortable sum. And she still had Dean Mather’s back-door access as well. From what he’d told her when she’d brought him under her power, at least some of Mather’s bank codes weren’t on the official list Bryer’s people had; they’d been added secretly to the code list for Bryer’s accounts by bank insiders Mather had paid off. For at least a short time, even after the official passwords were changed, she’d still be able to rip off Bryer’s Christian Victory Foundation and its subsidiaries.

And when she was done, she’d really go to work. Dean Caleb Mather was her helpless puppet, and as long as he lasted—that is to say, until she got bored and sent him to join the Reverend—making herself rich was just the start of the possibilities. Briefly, she entertained herself with a fantasy of using her powers to turn FCU into a steaming morass of sexual abandon, then reaching out to bring even more people under her sway. Why couldn’t she have a TV empire of her own to match the Reverend Bryer? For that matter, why couldn’t she just take his? Behind her glasses, Susan Jones’s eyes briefly blazed flame-red.

The next day, Susan felt particularly cheerful as she made her way to the Harmon History Building. Her promotion hadn’t relieved her of her teaching duties, but where someone else might have found that inconvenient, she found it stimulating. She got to spend hours exercising authority over handsome young studs, molding their minds. And since her transformation, she had not only authority but also total power over them; anyone she liked, she could make her eager slave, to use any way she chose.

Her two favorites, Jerry and Brad, were in the class she was heading for, Medieval History 204. Jerry’s earnest innocence had tempted her demon nature the way a plump antelope might attract a lioness, and Brad—well, Brad was the sort of handsome jock who would never have given the college-age Susan Jones a first look, let alone a second. After class, she planned to have a little . . . student-teacher conference . . . with the two of them.

When she arrived, most of the students were already in their seats—Brad and Jerry included, she noted with pleasure. They seemed restless, though. It took several minutes to get them focused on her lecture.

Once she got started, the lesson rolled on automatically. She led the class through the lecture, wincing only slightly as she delivered the slanted history mandated by FCU’s syllabus and written into its textbooks. In this course, there was a heavy emphasis on the Inquisition, presented as pious Protestants being persecuted by wicked Catholics; no mention was made of the intolerance of John Calvin’s Geneva, for instance. Every class had to follow the approved line, or else. Well, it wasn’t her problem anymore; her teaching, now, was just a convenient cover.

At last it was over. She headed toward the exit, intending to catch her boy-toys as they left. Instead, it was her turn to be caught, as a chubby middle-aged man stepped up to her and asked quietly, “Dr. Jones? May I have a word with you, please?”

She could have said no, of course. She could have made him forget he’d ever been here. She could, for that matter, have made him strip naked in front of her class. She didn’t do any of those things.

Perhaps it was the odd lapel pin he wore. Apparently made of solid gold, it looked like a miniature of some sort of face-mask: generally oval, with sculpted cheekbones and narrow, slightly slanted eye slits. There was something vaguely familiar about it. . . . She found herself agreeing to speak with him.

A few minutes later, they sat down in a nearby conference room. Dr. Jones turned to her visitor and asked, “What did you want to discuss?”

“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Dr. Nicholas Fatakis. I’m here as a, well, call it a special investigator, regarding the recent demise of the Reverend Dr. Charles Kellogg Bryer, and, before that, the death of Professor Joshua Carstairs. I have reason to believe those two deaths may not have been entirely natural.”

Susan felt a sudden chill. He couldn’t mean . . . Recovering, she said calmly, “The police are investigating the Reverend Bryer’s death, and they’ve already checked out Professor Carstairs’, um, situation. As far as I’m aware, they have no reason to believe there was any foul play in either case.”

An odd look flickered in Fatakis’ eyes. “That is my understanding as well,” he replied. “Nevertheless, there are certain, ah, odd aspects which have attracted my attention. Humor me.”

With that, he began asking questions about her relationship to both the dead men, and about what she knew of the circumstances surrounding their separate deaths. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly unusual about his questions. Nevertheless, Susan remained wary. She answered carefully, telling no actual falsehoods but volunteering as little information as possible.

Finally he was finished.

“Are you satisfied, Mr.—I’m sorry, Dr. Fatakis?” Susan asked, irritation in her voice. Her momentary “forgetting” of his professional title had been deliberate.

“Yes,” came the answer. “Yes, I believe so. I apologize if I’ve offended you, or inconvenienced you in any way.” Dr. Fatakis stood, and politely offered Susan a hand to help her up. She took it, repressing the urge to squeeze with the demonic strength she now possessed even in this human form, and rose to her own feet.

“Thank you for your time,” the doctor said. He bowed, a distinctly old-fashioned gesture, and left.

As he hurried away from the room in which he’d met Dr. Jones, Dr. Fatakis rubbed the hand he’d offered her repeatedly against his jacket. It was turning an angry red, and a burning sensation emanated from his palm and fingers. The special powder he’d worked into the skin had reacted furiously to Dr. Jones’s touch. The woman was positively crackling with dark magic!

He’d been lucky, he realized. He had interviewed Susan Jones in the first place because she’d been under—he winced—that is, had been a direct subordinate of the late Dr. Joshua Carstairs, the first to die. He hadn’t expected to come face to face with a demon.

And it was a demon. At most, he’d expected to find some half-competent dabbler in the occult behind the deaths, someone who’d unleashed something he or she couldn’t control. The powder he’d used was sensitive to supernatural influences, and would have exposed any such person—but the reaction he’d gotten was far beyond what any mere human magic user would have provoked. The only real question was whether the creature had simply replaced Dr. Jones, in which case she was probably dead, or she’d made a pact which had allowed it to possess her. In that case, the longer it occupied her, the less of her humanity would remain. It might already be too late for an exorcism.

The Doctor sighed. People never learned. There was always a price for anything one gained through magic.

But after his encounter with Jones, he knew he needed more preparation, more knowledge. If possible, he needed to find the creature’s weakness. And when he finally faced it again, he would need Rita at his side.

“A succubus?” Rita Hawkins sounded skeptical. “Are you sure?” The pert brunette had seen some strange things since signing on with Dr. Fatakis in her last year at grad school, but she still had trouble buying into the reality of actual demons.

“As certain as I can be,” the Doctor replied, gesturing with his injured hand. He’d swathed it in medicated bandages, but it still hurt.

“What do we do?”

“We banish it,” returned Fatakis. “If it’s merely inhabiting Dr. Jones’s body, that may return her to normal, if it’s not too late. If it is . . .” Briefly, the Doctor looked grim. “If we’re facing the demon in itself, at least it’ll be gone. And when it’s forcibly returned to its hellish home, the magical influences it’s established over people here will vanish with it.” He scowled. “Unfortunately, that won’t bring back the people it’s already killed.”

“But how do we banish a demon?” Rita asked.

“That’s why I had you bring the kit,” Fatakis said. “We have the necessary materials, and I’m familiar with the ritual.”

He hesitated. “There’s just one thing,” he cautioned at last. “We can’t perform the ceremony until we’ve learned the demon’s true name. Speaking that name backward at the appropriate points in the incantation, or forcing the demon to say it backward, will send the thing back where it came from—at least until the next idiot summons it to Earth.”

“How are we going to find out the demon’s name? I don’t suppose it’s going around telling people, if its name has that kind of power over it.” Rita was nothing if not practical.

Fatakis sighed. “I don’t know, but we need to try.” He looked searchingly at Rita. “There are other methods, but without the name, there’s a lot more risk involved. We’re better off using the standard ritual, if we can—unless we get really lucky and something better presents itself.”

“Okay, Doctor,” Rita said doubtfully. “Where do you suggest we start?”

“Research,” Dr. Fatakis said. “We need to reconstruct as much of the evidence as we can. There’s always the chance something will turn up.”

So the Doctor and his assistant began searching for evidence. They started with Susan’s students, Rita discreetly asking questions and Dr. Fatakis—gingerly—using the powder which had exposed Susan’s nature to evaluate those Rita identified as possibly under the demon’s power. They discovered Jerry and Brad’s enslavement, and realized the two boys themselves had no idea what had happened to them. If everything went as planned, there was no reason they ever should.

The Doctor had a look at the physical evidence the police and EMS had acquired. It was nearly useless. And time was running out. The university’s dean, Caleb Mather, was beginning to make irritated noises about the questions Dr. Fatakis and his assistant were asking around campus. And as Fatakis quickly discovered, the Dean had a personal reason for his attitude: he, too, was under the demon’s power. Unless they made a breakthrough soon, he was likely to simply order them off campus, and that would be that.

Meanwhile, Susan had found another plaything for her collection.

Matthew Lucas was a curly-haired blond hunk who was in History 107, Susan’s class on seventeenth-century English Puritanism, and had been doing poorly. He radiated sincerity, but his intellect, sadly, shone a lot less brightly; hers wasn’t the only course in which he was struggling. After he’d made a particularly dismal showing on a quiz, Susan had asked him to see her in her office.

He’d shown up right on time, fidgeting nervously and standing in her doorway. Susan had invited him in and closed the door behind him. Then she’d pounced.

“You know, Matthew,” she had observed, “not everyone is really meant for a competitive college. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you’d like, I can speak with your parents about withdrawing from FCU; perhaps we can find someplace else better suited to your particular needs.” She had just the place in mind. . . .

“No, no, ma’am,” Matthew had stammered. “My dad had his heart set on my graduating from here. He’s a big supporter of Reverend Bryer,"—he looked suddenly embarrassed—“I mean, he was, when the Reverend was, um, alive. He’d blow his top if I said I wanted to leave.”

Susan had smiled. “Now you just let me worry about your father,” she had soothed him. Then, more sharply, “Look at me when I’m talking to you, please, Matthew; it’s not polite not to.”

As she’d hoped, his eyes had swung automatically to meet hers. And with that, he’d been caught.

“That’s right,” she had said. “Look into my eyes. It’s not so hard, is it?”

“Not so hard,” Matthew had whispered. His blue eyes had assumed a vacant look.

“In fact,” Susan had continued, “it’s very restful. Look into my eyes, and listen to my voice, yes, that’s right, and relax, yes, that’s right. Forget your troubles, and look into my eyes, that’s right, and listen to my voice. You can trust me, trust my voice, isn’t that right?”

“Trust you,” Matthew had echoed, nodding slowly. “Trust your voice.”

“Yes, and when you hear my voice, you must believe anything it says, do anything it asks, isn’t that right? Because you trust my voice.”

Again, Matthew had agreed. His eyes had been very empty by then, locked on hers.

“Matthew,” she’d said then, “I want you to see me not as your professor, but as a beautiful, sexy woman.” And with that, she had changed into her sex-goddess form. “Do you see me as a beautiful, sexy woman?”

“Yes,” Matthew had sighed. “Oh, yes.” A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead, and a bulge had tented the crotch of his trousers.

Susan smiled, remembering. He’d been delicious. By the time she’d let him go, the two of them had given each other quite a workout. She had released him with instructions to remember only that she had urged him to work harder to bring up his grades and offered to tutor him personally if necessary. She looked forward to those “lessons.”

There was to be only one.

Two days after their first encounter, Susan summoned Matthew to her office. He had turned in an excellent paper which, all too obviously, he hadn’t written. Once, that would have angered her. Now, she saw it as an opportunity.

“Matthew,” she began, holding up his paper, “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Wh-what do you mean, Doctor Jones?” the nervous youth stammered.

“Come, come,” she scolded. “You didn’t write this, did you?”

“Of, of course I,” Matthew began. Then he looked into her eyes, and faltered. “Of course I . . .of course I . . . of course.” He ran down like a wind-up doll and fell silent, jaw hanging slightly open, eyes locked on hers. A small thread of saliva began to form at one corner of his mouth; he didn’t notice. Only her eyes existed.

Dr. Jones stepped forward and daintily dabbled the drool from her captive’s mouth with a tissue. “The truth now, Matthew. Where did you get this paper?”

“The truth now,” he repeated. “There’s a guy . . . who’ll write papers for people . . . for money. I knew I was gonna . . . get a bad grade on anything I wrote . . . so I went to him. Didn’t want to fail . . . disappoint my dad. I’m sorry.” And even through his trance, he did look ashamed.

Susan smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Matthew,” she reassured him. “We can keep this just between us.”

“Just between us.” Matthew looked relieved.

“In fact,” his professor went on, “when you leave this office, you will not remember that you bought this paper. You will believe you wrote it yourself. Did you tell anyone you bought it?”

“No,” Matthew said. “Guy I bought it from knows. Nobody else.”

“Good, Matthew,” Susan said. Under her spell, Matthew wriggled like a puppy at the praise. “You don’t have to tell anyone you wrote it, either, of course. Just let everyone assume you did. Do you understand, Matthew?”

“Yes,” the boy answered. “Understand.”

“Matthew, what’s the name of the person you bought the paper from? Tell me, please.” He told her. “And where can I find him?” He told her that, too.

Susan smiled evilly. Another prey to pursue, he thought, licking her lips. But later, later. Right now . . . Susan changed again, into the beautiful woman-form she’d shown Matthew the first time. Her smile widened as she heard him gasp.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she cooed. “I’m beautiful. You want me. You have to have me. Nothing else matters.”

Matthew moaned and reached for her. They sank to the floor together.

Much later, as Susan rode him toward a fourth climax, Matthew suddenly gasped and went rigid, then collapsed under her. Almost immediately, it was obvious he wasn’t breathing. Susan swore. What had gone wrong?

A moment later, a specter-Matthew stood over the boy’s dead body, just as she’d seen happen with Carstairs and Bryer. But this time, instead of plunging down out of sight with terror on its face, the apparition slowly rose, looking peaceful, until it disappeared through the ceiling.

“Ahem,” a voice said when it was gone.

Susan turned. Of course, it was her demon lord. He was frowning.

“What’s wrong, Dark Lord?” she asked. “What happened?”

“As before, you slew a mortal male you had enthralled with the power I gave you,” came the rumbling answer. “But this one, though flawed as all mortals are, was not corrupt enough for damnation. Even the sin you coerced him to confess, he repented. So when his body failed, he was taken up by . . . the Other, our Adversary.” He spat, “Forgiveness!”

Susan nodded. “I’m sorry, Dark Lord.” Her eyes flashed briefly. “Before he died, he gave me the name of another, one more likely to qualify for your taking.”

The senior fiend nodded back. “Take him, then, if you can. And be more careful from now on. Any mortal slain while still too pure for the Depths is lost to us forever. If they live, however, they may in time be ours.”

“I understand, Dark One.”

“See that you do, Lilibat,” the other said. “You have made a promising beginning. I would hate to see that promise broken.” And he vanished.

Susan managed to get the body out of her office and out of the building without being seen. When it was discovered the next day, the coroner ruled the cause of death as heart failure during sexual activity—just like Carstairs and Bryer. The autopsy revealed a previously undiagnosed heart defect which had evidently contributed to the boy’s death.

Dean Mather was frantic. The school was coming under increasing fire, not just from the media but from Bryer’s organization and the parents of his students. And as dean, he was right in the middle of it. If this went on, he was ruined.

It didn’t help, either, that this Dr. Fatakis was prowling around. He was asking all kinds of questions. If he got answers to the wrong ones, all hell might break loose. As if it hadn’t already. Best to push him off campus as soon as possible. But carefully—mustn’t let it look as if he had something to hide. . . .