The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Hello,” said a female voice over my cell phone. A throaty and resonant alto. “I’m calling for ________.”

“You’ve got him.”

“Mister ______, my name is Gwen D______. You, uh, came to my house a few days ago. About a dog?”

“Right! Arthur. Hey, I hope you’re feeling better—you looked pretty rocky—.”

“I’m fine, thank you. Look—I’m wondering if we could meet, to talk. Arthur is my dog.”

“He is? But you said—”

“I know what I said, Mister ______. But I was ill. I wasn’t thinking well. Arthur is my dog.”

Gwen’s tone was clipped and authoritative. She sounded proud, strong, and intelligent—so unlike the wan, drained thing that had met me at her door just three days earlier. This was the Gwen I’d imagined during those months I’d stalked her. A little intimidating, even.

“Well . . . okay, sure. I mean, definitely. If Arthur’s your dog, then yes.”

“Thank you. When can we meet?”

“Um,” I said. “Well, I work from home. And I’m here right now. Honestly, any time is good.”

“Where are you?”

I gave her my address.

“All right—hold on.” I heard a muted conversation with a male, and then she said, “Okay. I’ll take a long lunch. I’m coming from downtown, but I’ll be there in about 30 minutes.”

“That’s fine by me,” I said. “I’m hoping this doesn’t screw up your day, though—”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Gwen, sharply. Then she softened. “But thank you. That’s very considerate. I’ll see you in a half-hour.” And then she hung up.

I sipped a soda and mulled over what I could glean from the conversation. I had so few clues about who Gwen really was. Her home told me she lived among and amid money. Her attention to her body’s fitness told me she was disciplined. This phone call told me she was professional, no-nonsense, and to-the-point. She came off as tense on the phone—a little rude, even—but that was understandable, given that she was making contact with the man who had found her dog, a dog who had . . . well, you know. She worked downtown, among men. And, after a brief conversation, she had the freedom to take a long lunch from her job. So she was a professional, someone with some authority, not just some secretary or receptionist or nurse or other peon.

It all added up to a picture of someone who mattered, and who knew she mattered. A confident someone who was now driving to my home, where I did all of my work.

Uneasily, I traced a finger around my soda can, wondering what I had gotten myself into. The whole point of this exercise wasn’t to produce a new personality in Gwen. I’d done that with my wife, and the results had been great. But that was both easy and dangerous. The human brain, it’s robust enough to contain more than one persona—for example, a sex-addled bimbo who gets off on nude housecleaning and a regular diet of dog semen. And the nanites make it simple enough to switch personas on and off at will. But it was also dangerous. What if my wife found out? What if she found the videos online? It was unlikely—my wife, she didn’t much care for pornography, let alone the type she was the unwitting star in—but the world is full of unlikely outcomes. Stranger than fiction.

I loved my wife, and I respected her, and I liked her. And I liked taking care of her—bringing in money. But I was realistic. I doubted she would approve of my freelance work, and I doubted I could convince her it was all okay, that her not remembering any of what she did effectively meant that she didn’t do it.

We’re all made up of memories, right? If you don’t remember it, then it didn’t happen to you.

But back to Gwen. Like I said, I wasn’t interested in installing a new persona in her head. That was easy, but it was also crude, and it carried the same risks of what I’d done to my wife. My plan was to change Gwen’s real personality—to shape it while leaving the basic “her” unchanged. And that was much more complicated. It would require conditioning: using her body to rewire all of her existing mind-body connections while she was still herself.

In other words, I was trying to figure out physiological brainwashing. Gwen had to believe that she—or at least her body—was acting out of choice, because it wanted to. So, when she went into heat, it was because that’s just what she did, now. When she fucked a dog on an isolated dirt path in broad daylight, it was what she wanted. And when she had a world-rocking orgasm because of the jingle of a dog collar, well, that was normal, too. A new normal, a terrifying normal, but normal anyway.

If she did all that repeatedly, not only would she keep doing it—she’d come to accept it. And then, after accepting it, come to like it, embrace it. It’s the prevailing wisdom of the age, right? Be yourself, and be proud of yourself. And if that self goes into heat at the jingle of a dog collar, well, then—who is anyone to say that’s wrong?

That’s the change I was after. To keep Gwen as Gwen, but just with a few subtle, useful, and moneymaking changes.

I’ll confess, though, that at this point I hadn’t quite figured out the money making part. It was one thing to surreptitiously videotape and sell Gwen’s performances. But I wanted a willing participant. Someone who would mate in front of a camera or even a live audience. Not a partner with me, exactly—this was my business, after all. More like an employee, one who was happy, or at least willing to take the initiative.

But Gwen on the phone didn’t sound like some “employee.” She sounded like a confident person used to being in charge. And that’s why I was wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. By snaring her, I might have caught a lioness.

If Gwen proved too much for me to handle, I could always cut bait and look for more suitable subjects. There were any number of weak-willed women out there to snare: strippers or waitresses or communication-studies majors. But I’d put a lot of energy into selecting Gwen. And she was an impressive subject: healthy and gorgeous. I doubted some flabby, yellow-toothed C student from the local community college would provide as much visual satisfaction (and income) as my Gwen could.

All right. Enough rumination. Gwen was on the way, and I had a notion. I looked around my home and grew self-conscious at the plates in the sink and the grit on the floor. For a visitor, a messy house is both uncomfortable and disrespectful, and I wanted Gwen to feel both respected and comfortable during our first prolonged interaction. That’d make what I had in mind for her a little easier.

Gunther came up to me and shoved his head under my hand. I smiled at him. Good boy, I thought. You’re in for a new treat today. Let’s get cleaning.