The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was three o’clock on a cloudy July morning and about an hour before dawn. The street was quiet as the town’s two nightclubs had closed at two and the last of the drunks had crawled off to where ever it is that drunks go to recover. I was sitting in the front passenger seat of my old van carefully watching the police car that we were following along the main street. It was about fifty yards in front of us and travelling slowly as the driver checked each shop doorway in turn. Suddenly the car drifted to a stop and I signalled Rebecca, who was driving, to do the same.

The door of the police car opened and a dark shape stepped out and walked over to one of the shop doorways where it shone a torch onto a couple of humps on the ground. I motioned that Rebecca should move us closer.

The dark shape spent another minute or so in the door way before the light clicked off and it returned to its car which resumed its slow progress along the street.

Overhead, a CCTV camera stared unmoving in the direction from which we had come. We were out that night simply because there was no operator on duty—the council had cut back on the hours that the system was manned in an attempt to save money in line with the panicky ‘Austerity Programme’ that had been foisted upon them by the government in the wake of the banking collapse of 2008. No operator meant that no one would be there to zoom any of the cameras in on our activities or even try to read the van’s number plate. Besides Jasmine had painted fancy logos into sheets of vinyl and we’d stuck them on the sides of the van: she’s a graphical artist, remember? If the van was implicated in tonight’s events, the police would have fun chasing-down the non-existent owners; the number plates were fakes too and belonged to a van hire company—just in case!

The police car rolled to a stop and the officer climbed out once more to check more bundles in another shop doorway. After a minute or so I watched as the torch beam suddenly swung to the left and began to probe into other shadows. That was our signal. Then, without looking in our direction, PC Prita Desai climbed back into her car and drove off slowly along the street but did not stop again.

After the police car had vanished round a corner I indicated that Rebecca should pull in right next to that particular doorway. I stepped out of the van and looked around: there was no one to be seen in the street so I tapped three times on the side of the van and ambled over to the doorway that Prita had last visited. By the time I reached it, Emily and Jasmine had joined me, they were also wearing black velvet cat-suits and matching ski masks. In front of us lay two fat sleeping bags stretched out on layers of corrugated cardboard and both surrounded by rucksacks and the other paraphernalia of street-living. The doorway stank of stale alcohol and sour urine.

I motioned to the left hand sleeping bag, which was the one that Prita had signalled as the target: she’d swung her torch to the left, remember? The three of us lifted it easily, carried it to the side door of the van and thrust it in, climbing in after it. Apart from a surprised grunt, the contents of the bag had remained quiet however this state of affairs began to change as soon as Rebecca pulled away, the van’s lurching and rattling over the speed bumps were more than enough to wake the item inside.

I distinctly heard a muffled: “Waaa?” just before a surprised-looking face surrounded by a nimbus of tangled mousey-brown hair poked out and demanded in a slurred Scottish accent: “Who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doin’?”

Acting as quickly as was possible, we ran a couple of webbing suitcase straps around the sleeping bag and buckled them fairly tightly: she would be a lot easier to deal with in the sleeping bag than out of it!

Suddenly the woman screamed and I gave her a back-hander across the face then showed her a taser. “You know what this is?”

Wide eyed she nodded vigorously. “Keep that fucking thing away from me!”

“I will as long as you don’t scream or shout!” I answered her quietly and calmly before asking. “What’s your name?”

She frowned and then put on a tight lipped and defiant face. It didn’t matter because I didn’t need to know. She spent the next fifteen minutes glaring at us in silence before asking. “What are you going to do with me?”

I pulled off my ski mask and following my cue, the others did the same. “We’re going to take you off the street and give you a better life.”

“You’re damned funny looking nuns!” She spat. But never-the-less she seemed to relax as soon as she realised that we were all women.

“Yeh, that’s us!” I said as Emily chuckled. “We’re the Sisters of Rectitude!” I added.

She frowned. “What’s that? Something to do with arseholes, is it?”

I smiled. “No; it means that we are morally upright and righteous.” It also meant that we were straight but of course I skipped that bit.

“Fiona!” She suddenly said.

“What?” I said for it was my time to be surprised.

“You asked my name... It’s ‘Fiona’... ‘Fiona Kerr.’” Perhaps she was thinking that there would be less chance of us hurting her if we saw her as a person.

“Hallo, Fiona, I’m Siobhan.” I said with just the hint of an Irish accent slipping into my voice.

To my surprise she looked and sounded genuinely frightened as she asked. “You—you’re not IRA, are you?”

I tried to hide my surprise. “No way! Besides, like you said: we’re nuns!” The last IRA terror campaign had ended with the Good Friday agreement when I was at school: but that didn’t stop the taunts and bullying that I got as a Paddy. These taunts had caused Angie to explode as she came running to my defence. Fiona’s frightened enquiry had brought it all back.

By now I judged we had almost reached home so I carefully poured some chloroform onto a pad and held it over her nose and mouth, removing it after she had stopped struggling. I would much rather have injected her with something but I didn’t know how so I mentally added a Nurse to our shopping list.

Later, much later, after we had unloaded her from the van and manoeuvred her down into the basement I searched through her scruffy clothing and shabby sleeping bag. Besides a small amount of cash and a mobile phone I found a small credit card sized rectangle of white plastic with her photo on it, or rather a photo of a clean, well-groomed version of Fiona. I read “MOD-90” and her name plus an eight digit number. No wonder she was worried about us being IRA! Fiona Kerr was Army; probably an absentee or deserter. Well she didn’t need to run anymore because Mistress Anjika would protect her from whatever she had been running from.

The next day the Military ID Card together with the mobile phone, the sleeping bag and Fiona’s shabby and dirty clothes all went into our new incinerator. They were the past while today was the first day of her new life.

Next morning, before going to work, I checked up on her down in the basement where she was housed in one of the two new little rooms that the contractors had built for us. I didn’t go in to check on her as there was no need too because her room had hidden cameras. I just sat at the control desk and watched the monitor: no need to disturb her while she was adjusting to being alone.

The room was a white eight-foot cube with padded walls and floor, even the door and serving hatch cover were padded, while the nozzle that delivered drinking water was soft plastic so that there was no way that she could do herself any mischief. She’d been given a bowl of something for breakfast, I don’t know what it was, but she had eaten it with her fingers and was now sitting in a corner in a quiet and relaxed manner: no doubt due to the sedatives and diazepam that were in her food. I zoomed in and took a good look at her. She was naked, obviously, and was a little on the thin side: life on the street does that to a person. Despite the malnutrition, she wasn’t in too bad a shape and had a nice rack. I watched her chin drop as she dozed off.

There was a doctor coming in to examine her later in the week, the one recommended by Wendy and we would eventually learn that she was in pretty good health, despite casual drug abuse although she did need some dental work and treatment for head, body and crab louse infestations. All-in-all, things could have been a lot worse. She was strapped onto the couch the following weekend and prepared for the better life that I had promised her.

It was about this that I really began to look at the software that drove the Conversion Suite and Maintenance Room: I’m basically a network tech and not a programmer or a code-monkey. I can analyse machine code but its intricacies and subtleties are beyond me. As you know, I was suspicious of Mistress Wendy, particularly of her motivations. Much to my internal distress I still couldn’t pass my suspicions on to my own Mistress which made me even more anxious. Although the anxieties seemed to evaporate every time I tried to talk to Anjika about them. It was so frustrating, I would work out exactly what I wanted to say and then approach Mistress... the rest you already know.

I didn’t have to fiddle with the programme for long before I found a whole raft of menus for various conversions besides those basic ones that we had so far used. They weren’t exactly hidden but there just hadn’t been any way to access them from the front-page that we had been presented with. I frowned but as I searched for the code that was preventing us from accessing them, a whole new front-page revealed itself and this included all of the extra headings and drop-down menus needed to access the host of new procedures. I informed Anjika and together we read through them with interest.

There were very simple routines for use on the friends and loved ones of slaves and pets that would reassure them that all was okay and that they had no cause for concern. These were potentially very useful as there were versions to use on nosy friends, worried parents, concerned siblings and other relatives. The routines for brainwashing females contained an option that would force them to get in touch with us after a pre-selected time and present themselves for conversion: if Mistress fancied them, that is. There was even a set for convincing husbands that included a range of options such as: ‘Everything is fine and you agreed to the total separation’ or ‘your wife has left you for another man because you are very boring’ or, closer to the truth, ‘she has realised that she is a lesbian and there is nothing that you can do about it’.

The one for use on an underage sister, or daughter even, was very promising for as well as convincing her that there was absolutely nothing to worry about regarding her relative’s disappearance there was an optional routine which if implanted would sit in her subconscious until she came of age and then compel her to make contact on the day after her eighteenth birthday!

There were fine-tuning routines for use on girls including ones to create preferences in varying degrees of intensity for the different types of sexual activity. For some reason Mistress was very taken with some of the ‘anal sex’ and ‘face-sitting’ variants.

Another set of menus dealt with exactly what compulsive behaviour patterns that a girl could be programmed to adopt: everything from turning her into a pet, such as a ponygirl, a cat or a puppy; to converting her into one of a large variety of willing and submissive BDSM slaves.

There was also a whole raft of fetishes ranging from a mild fixation such as on blondes or breasts or even arses; through the all-time favourites of ‘rubber-dolly’ and ‘leather-girl’ in all of their variations and finally finishing off with some really extreme ones such as becoming a hu-cow with the need to be milked regularly. There was even a facility for writing routines for tailor-made fetishes.

Another set of menus covered the many versions of ‘Bimbofication’: all of them based on the suppression of thought and intelligence to some degree or other and the implantation of trigger-phrases to turn it off and then back on again. If anyone ever required a silly, giggly, air-headed snowflake then we could supply them with one. Although why they would was totally beyond me!

There were also a number of routines that allowed for programming in remote locations...

Great! We can make house-calls! I thought absently. But what it really meant was that the internet could be used to connect a portable unit to our network by using a data link and fractal encryption: useful when ‘visiting’ relatives.

The next thing that Mistress spotted was a more comprehensive routine for upgrading a ‘Slave’ into a ‘Slave-Controller’ and as it was a Friday evening, I soon found myself flat on my back on one of the ‘relaxation couches where I remained until Saturday afternoon. Before I drifted under I recalled the final brainwashing routine that I had seen: it was a puzzling one that allowed for the transformation of a woman into a Mistress...

Now why, I wondered, is that there?

I drifted off into the wide open spaces of my mind, enjoying the wonderful sights of the spinning and slowly changing spiral patterns that pulsed with an infinite variety of colours.

The music and sounds and voices reassured me that all was well and that I should forget my doubts if I wanted to serve my Mistress and help Her by managing Her other slaves.

I felt wonderful when I had finished the latest induction: it was just like the time that I emerged from my first mind-fuck session and things didn’t seem any different this time around either. That’s the thing about brainwashing: the mind adjusts to it and fills in any gaps in the narrative and you believe that you have always felt this way. You are left with complete peace of mind as well as an innate feeling of pure happiness. What I wasn’t happy about was Mistress Wendy: or rather, her motives. I distinctly remember her saying that the software was ‘experimental’. If this was beta software then there were some very lucky programmers out there somewhere. This software ran without a hitch: no hangs, no crashes, no nonsense out-puts: nothing! It all ran smoothly and if it was experimental, it was so far beyond ‘good’ that ‘luck’ was the only explanation.

Suddenly it came to me in a flash. There was no need to worry: Mistress Wendy could be trusted! It was the person that had supplied Her with the software that was to blame. They must have told Her that it was new and experimental, and not being a computer geek, She had not noticed that it was way too good. Oh, silly me for even suspecting my Mistress’s wonderful friend.

The weeks drifted past and I oversaw the treatment of a couple of very pretty twin girls whose mother wanted to be enslaved. It had needed to be done in such a way that an outsider would not notice any changes in the young ladies’ behaviour. The woman’s marriage had broken down ten years beforehand and her former husband had spoiled ‘his’ daughters rotten, turning them into little bitch-princesses who had made their mother’s life a misery... She had custody during the week and he’d got them for the weekends and half of the school holidays. By the time that they turned eighteen ‘mummy’ had had enough and was about to sever all ties with her offspring when her psychologist ‘suggested’ a solution. The psychologist was none other than Mistress Wendy and the solution lay in our basement.

At the end of their fortnight’s visit the girls were a pair of happy and submissive lesbians content to spend their lives as their mother’s willing pets and pliant sex-toys. Mistress Anjika was £15,000 better off and so the story had a happy ending for all concerned.

Around the end of September, Mistress decided that She wanted to spice up Her sex life and so instructed that a few changes were made to Fiona and Rebecca.

Fiona, the girl who had been living rough, had become quite an attractive young lady now that she had put on a few pounds and received the mandatory DD breast augmentation. Mistress hadn’t sent her out to work so she spent her days at home looking after Anjika and carrying out the bulk of the domestic duties. She was also the first one to try one of the fine-tuning routines that I had found on the system. She emerged from the basement totally fixated on anal sex and was given a large butt-plug to wear under the crotch piece of her clothing.

Rebecca’s re-purposing was a little different and required a visit to the dentist for the extraction of four molars. This procedure was followed by several sessions in the basement and a visit by a representative of the company that manufactures our clothing as well as supplying us with a wide range of ‘intimate’ toys and devices.

Rebecca, you will remember, is employed at Red Fox Packaging, where several of us work, and is Personal Assistant to the Managing Director: a high-powered job carried out by an intelligent and very capable woman. What Mistress had in mind for her, however, was plainly at odds with this.

We had just returned from work, showered and changed into our black skin-tight slave-clothes shedding our real-world personalities as we did so. During my reinforcement session in the Maintenance Room I received the instruction to report to Mistress in the living room which I did shortly afterwards. Rebecca accompanied me having received an identical summons.

Once in the sitting room Anjika kissed me passionately, Her normal form of greeting. “Things are about to change!” She stated cryptically. “Fiona was first, now it’s Rebecca’s turn. Did you know that Wendy renames her slaves and that some Mistress’s actually give their’s numbers? I could never do that.”

She then instructed me to be seated before turning her attention to Rebecca, whose mouth had healed completely after her mysterious dental treatment. By some (not so) strange coincidence the dentist was also a mistress.

Mistress ran a hand gently down the slave’s body from cheek to thigh. “You really are beautiful, you know?”

Rebecca quivered noticeably and gushed. “Thank you, Mistress!”

Anjika placed a hand on the girl’s cheek and gently caressed it. “Your face and hair are so beautiful that I want to get closer to them.”

Again she quivered with pleasure but this time sighed happily and smiled.

Anjika then indicated a trio of black, shiny objects that were on the coffee table next to my chair. “And these will help me do just that.”

Rebecca looked puzzled especially when her Mistress reached down and selected a phallic-looking device and held it out to her. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a dildo, Mistress.” The blonde answered brightly.

“That’s right and it’s for you!”

The slave took it reverently from Her but her smile turned to confusion when she noticed the two hefty lugs that stuck out from the blunt end. “How do I use it, Mistress?”

Anjika chuckled. “You don’t!” She took it from Rebecca and instructed her to, “Open wide.”

More than a little confused, the slave-woman did precisely that and Anjika popped the blunt end into her mouth. When she bit down on it the lugs fitted neatly into the gaps left by the missing molars and so locked the dildo firmly in position. Next She picked up and fitted the second object which proved to be a face mask that had a hole through it and several straps and buckles. It fitted over the dildo and the straps formed a bridle both under her jaw and over her head securing it so that it covered the whole of her mouth and jaw.

Smiling Mistress stepped back and examined Her handiwork. “You are really beautiful now.”

She then retrieved the final object from the coffee table: it was a wide support belt with a finger and thumb-less mitten attached to either side. With my help, Rebecca’s hands were trapped in the mittens and the belt was buckled around her waist causing her elbows to stick out more than a little.

“Oh, how wonderful you look!” Anjika said, Her smile turning predatory. “Now lie on the carpet so that I can really appreciate your beautiful face”

Once Her slave was lying on the carpet, her shoulders propped up slightly by her elbows; I lubed up the dildo, while Mistress dropped her panties before sinking down onto it. She then bounced athletically to the first of a series of orgasms. Afterwards She left me to free the girl who seemed pleased that she had been able to serve her Mistress so effectively.

The ghost of a thought bubbled up out of the depths of my mind as that annoying Siobhan-fragment surfaced. Something is changing Angie. I shuddered, but the tiny remnant of the old me soon sank back into the depths taking my doubts with her. She was swamped by the newer version of me, the one possessed with unswerving love for the most wonderful Mistress in the world.