The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a half-hour before Gwen’s arrival. I had to hurry. I put my laptop on my kitchen counter and spent a few minutes checking all of the traps I’d spent the last few days installing in her body.

Gwen’s body—like mine, like yours—is a fully functional chemical factory churning out hormones every moment of every day. Those hormones control and direct a range of mental, emotional, and physical effects, all of which help to produce our sense of self and our responses to the world around us. Serotonin promotes a feeling of wellness, a belief that everything’s okay, and that our reality is going just fine. Progesterone influences a woman’s openness to sexual activity. So does estrogen, and so does testosterone. Glutamate makes the mind open to new experiences and primes the neurons to accept the unexpected. The list goes on and on.

Thanks to my nanotech, I was the new foreman of Gwen’s endocrine system. In response to my face, my voice, and my words—oh, especially my words!—every chemical pumped out by the glands in Gwen’s body would warp toward some wonderful new imperatives. My imperatives.

The best part—the most interesting part, for me—is that Gwen wouldn’t know this. She’d think it was natural, that she was just responding to and following her curiosities and drives. Unusual curiosities and surprising drives, sure—but as far as she was concerned, she’d be acting entirely of her own volition. And that was the trap. I’d wrap Gwen up in webs spun wholly of the hormones produced by her own body.

Of course, tying up Gwen in chemical ropes had far less predictable outcomes than just setting off libido-bombs on dirt roads. The games I played with my wife were as simple as flicking an on/off switch between a rational and fully human wife and an addled and sex-crazed slut. This situation with Gwen would be a lot more complicated. I didn’t know how my little experiments on her would play out.

Again, more interesting, but also a little scary. Lots could go wrong. I’m clever in some things, but nobody can predict everything.

Satisfied that the chemical pumps were primed, I shut my laptop. At my side, a curious Gunther blinked at me.

I smiled. “I don’t suppose you want to help me clean? You’ve got company, soon.”

Gunther yawned and went to his food bowl. I sighed and got to tidying.

Twenty-four minutes later, my doorbell rang. Good timing; I’d just finished cleaning. Gunther, spooked by the vacuum, had skedaddled to the bedroom closet. It would be just me and Gwen getting to know each other. At least at first.

Doorknob in hand, I breathed deeply. Here goes. “Gwen? Hi.”

Lord. If Gwen the athlete was impressive, Gwen the professional was stunning. She wore a black blazer over a white silk blouse, a simple knee-length black skirt, and black pumps. Dark-rimmed glasses, silver ear-studs, a tight ponytail, and full, burgundy lips completed the image of severe and elegant professionalism. Only the strain of her magnificent bosom against her blouse suggested something more primal beneath her polished exterior. That, and the slight scuffing still visible on her cheek. But the proud woman on my stoop was nothing like the washed-out, red-eyed, bathrobe-clutching lump I’d met three days earlier.

Still, she was tense—her shoulders up and her jaw tight. “Mr. ______.”

“Please—it’s David.”

No, reader, that’s not my real name. But I hate typing ______ all the time, so David I will be.

“David. Right. May I come in?”

“Sure, please. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

The kindness in my voice relaxed her. “Uh. Thank you. Like I said. You’d caught me with the flu.”

In she walked. Her hair smelled of . . . mango? Something lightly fruity. In the living room, she appraised my home in a way that seemed more than casual. She was still a little antsy.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I said. “Some water?”

Now she smiled. “I’m just here to collect my dog, Mis—. . . David. Where is he?”

“Well, he’s not here—”

“But you said you have him.”

“I did. . . I mean, I do. But not here. He’s with a friend of mine. A farmer. Trust me, Arthur’s happier there than here. He’s so big, you know.”

“Oh . . . So I came out here for nothing?”

“Well, not nothing.” I picked up Arthur’s collar from a table. “You still need this.”

Her eyes twitched. “Yes. Right. Thank you.” She reached to take the collar, but I kept it.

“Gwen, I need to ask—I mean, I found Arthur all alone, in a forest. And he was injured. Someone had hit him in the head with something, like a bat.”

It surprised me how frankly she admitted it. “That was me. I did it. I kicked him in the head and left him there.”

I feigned the expression and tone I’d practiced for a couple of days, now: shock. “What? Why?”

“He attacked me,” she said. “We were out running together. And then he attacked me, from behind. I have no idea why, but he nearly killed me. So I kicked him as hard as I could.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “I am so sorry. That must have been horrible. He seems so friendly—“

“I don’t understand it either. But he’s dangerous, really dangerous.” She paused, then confided, “Look, David. I’m sorry, I’ll be straight with you. It wasn’t flu. I was recovering from the attack. I mean, you probably saw my face, yeah? I wasn’t doing well at all. And then you showed up with the collar, I just kind of . . . well, freaked out.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s understandable. . . . Why d’you think he attacked you?”

“I really don’t know. He’d always been so . . . good. I didn’t do anything to invite it.”

That was a lie. Gwen had done more than “invite” it—she’d torn off her clothes, splayed her sex, and nearly begged Arthur to come right on in. Do you remember that moment when she surfaced from her lust, just briefly? That bit of human consciousness that bobbed up just as Arthur entered her? That was her chance to stop it, right there. Sure, it was a slight chance, a fading chance, but it was real—and she didn’t take it. Even if her body had betrayed her, it was still her body. It was her responsibility, what happened between her and Arthur, and she knew it.

I lightly jangled the collar. Gwen touched her forehead. “Hey, David . . can I sit? I’m not feeling well. Just talking about this—”

“Sure, please—anywhere’s fine. And can I get you that water, now?”

“Sure—yeah. That’d be really nice. Thanks.”

I set the collar down, just within Gwen’s reach. In the kitchen, I opened my laptop. The data were pleasing. A half-hour ago, Gwen’s cortisol and adrenal levels had been through the roof. Then she’d arrived, and we began talking, and those stress indicators dropped fast. At the same time, all of the hormones correlated to well-being, openness, learning, and so on, were rising fast. Most encouraging of all was the clear increase in oxytocin, a chemical that promotes bonding between humans and . . . other creatures. Some doctors call it the “trust hormone.” Her body was responding as I’d hoped to my face, my voice, and my presence. It was going very well.

Humming, I poured the water, plunked in the ice, and returned to Gwen. She was relaxing in the chair, her fingers running reflectively over the collar. She was thinking about Arthur.

“Gwen,” I said, offering the glass. “Are you okay?”

She started and took the glass. “Sorry. I was remembering the . . . attack.”

I sat opposite her. “He just seems so friendly.”

“I know,” she said, swirling an index finger in the ice water. “He’s a good boy. I mean, he was a good boy. Before it happened.”

“I wonder if something set him off,” I ventured. “Like, if there was some kind of trigger.”

“I don’t know. We were just running. I’d run that path with him for months. Nothing was different.”

“There must have been something new,” I offered. “Some new stimulus. Or scent.”

Gwen frowned. “I . . . I don’t . . . no, I don’t think so. . . .”

I let her words hang, then said: “You don’t sound certain.”

Her fingertips returned to Arthur’s collar. Distantly, she said, “I. . . God, it’s so embarrassing. So terrible.”

“You mean the attack? I don’t see why that would be embarrassing.”

She flushed. “It wasn’t an attack. I mean, not like that. Arthur didn’t bite me or scratch me or anything.”

“Then what? What happened?”

The conflict on her face said she didn’t want to tell me. Who in their right mind would? Fortunately, I had a way to change that mind.

I cleared my throat and said: “Gwen. It’s okay. You can trust me.”

She inhaled deeply and her expression got a tad glazed. If I’d been closer to her, I’d probably have seen her pupils dilate. The words “you can trust me” released a torrent of soothing hormones—just like I’d planned.

She stared at the ice in the glass, considering. Then she said: “He . . . he had sex with me.”

I played so incredibly dumb I was worried she’d catch me at it. “Somebody raped you? My God—did you call the cops? Did you see what he looked like?”

“No,” she said, calmly. She picked up the collar and regarded it. “It wasn’t a man. It was Arthur. My dog, he had sex with me. No, he fucked me. On the path. In the forest.”

In one way, Gwen felt horrible. How could she not be, confessing bestiality? But in another way, Gwen felt fantastic. Now that she had entrusted that truth to me, she felt better, so much better. Telling me the truth made her feel at peace with herself, with the world, and especially with me.

I played shocked. “What . . . how. . . .”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why he attacked me and raped me—”

Now she winced. The poor girl, her mood was in freefall, her body blasting her with the hormones behind stress and fear and sadness. Lies were bad, frightened her, crushed her—I’d made sure of that, too.

“Gwen,” I said. “It’s okay. You can trust me.”

Whoosh went the happy hormones. What a rollercoaster, poor girl, all of this up and down. “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t a rape—Arthur didn’t attack me. He didn’t.”

“Okay, I’m not following—”

“I did it. I let him do it. Oh, God, I made him do it—” She set her glass and then glasses on the table and buried her head in her hands, sobbing. She wasn’t crying just from misery, I wagered, but also from the absolute relief of telling me the truth. Admitting that she’d let her dog have his way with her might not have been good for her soul, but it felt fantastic otherwise.

She raised her head, her eyes were red and wet. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what happened to me, except I do, I totally know. For Chrissakes, for fuck’s sake, it had to be my work, the work has changed me and I didn’t know it, my work, all that shit is in my fucking face all the time, but I never thought it’d do this to me—.”

“Hold on, wait, wait . . . Your work? What work?”

She wiped off her face, snuffled hard, drew a billfold from her blazer, and let it fall open to display an identification card. “At the FBI. Criminal investigations. Sex crimes, mostly.”

“. . . Sex crimes.”

“Yeah. I go after the real deviants. You know—the absolute worst, the really bad ones, the goddamned pervert pornographers.”

I shook my head. No, I didn’t know what she was talking about. I didn’t know any goddamned pervert pornographers.

“Come, on David, it’s the fucking twenty-first century. You have to know—what’re you, shut up in a barn or something? I’m talking about all the guys who film bizarre shit and release it online. Or the girls who do that shit. You know, the freaks like me”—and here she sobbed—”the freaky chicks who screw their goddamned dogs outside on dirt paths.”

Gwen held out Arthur’s collar to me with a stiff arm. She sobbed, then smiled, then sobbed again. Miserable and ecstatic, she was feeling everything at once.

“You seem like a nice guy, David. Sane. A helluva lot righter in the head than me. You wanna make a citizen’s arrest? Maybe take me to the fucking psych ward? Or the goddamned dog pound and get me fixed? I’m right fucking here.”