The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A few days before.

Emilia woke up yet again more than an hour before she needed to. She stared up at the ceiling of her small one-bedroom apartment, the gray morning light peeking in through the Venetian blinds. It didn’t look like going back to sleep was happening any time soon. Nor did she particularly feel like picking up her phone and checking the news, considering how fucking horrible it would all inevitably be.

She supposed she could try and get herself off before work.

But it didn’t work out. Try as she might, her exhausted brain just couldn’t seem to come up with anything that clicked. Not a single fantasy or image that could do the job, despite the mountains of smut she’d read and seen over her twenty-six years of existence. (God, the fanfic alone would fill up entire rooms.) She stubbornly persisted, her fingers working beneath her panties—but she might as well have been trying to pump a dry well for all the headway she was making. She considered breaking out her vibrator, but she couldn’t remember if it was charged or not.

Finally, she just gave up. Grumbling, she swiped her glasses off the nightstand and stomped over to the bathroom. Oh, yeah. Today was just gonna be awesome. She could already tell.

She made it to work with time to spare, not that it mattered. One of the few good things about her job as a reference librarian for a major college is that if she looked busy and managed to project just the right aura of pissed-off-don’t-fuck-with-me-right-now-ness, it was possible for her to go entire hours with no one bothering her. Which was in everyone’s best interest, frankly, given her lack of sleep and the large headache she’d developed just about the same time she set foot on the Lockwood campus.

Of course, there’s always that handful of people who just won’t get the message. “Ahoy there,” an earthy male voice said, far too cheerfully for Emilia’s taste.

She looked up bleary-eyed from her computer screen at the balding, gray-haired white man standing on the other side of the desk. Dammit. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked dully.

“Could I just get these titles on order?” The man passed a slip of paper over to her. He had a thuggish kind of face, despite his pleasant smile, and spoke with some kind of rough British accent, landing somewhere between Cockney and Scottish. Ten to one says it’s fake and he’s really from Iowa or something, Emilia thought.

She glanced over the list and felt a spike of irritation. Every last item looked like it was in the common collection—meaning that he could’ve ordered them all easily over the website by himself, which would have taken him significantly less time compared to having her do it for him.

Is what it is, she told herself. C’mon. Deep breath. Just remember—life is misery and then you die. “Name?”

“Linton comma Edward.” She distinctly noticed his eyes flick up and down between her face and her chest. Blech. “I’m a visiting scholar.“

She typed it into the computer. No sign of an account for anyone by that name... but that wasn’t rare for visiting scholars. Usually thanks to the chairs not bothering to fill out the paperwork on time. “Department?” she asked.

“You know... I’m not really sure.” He tilted his head. “It’s that one interdisciplinary thing between Anthropology and Life Sciences. Focus on human sexuality?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, she thought in exasperation. Please don’t let that have been him making a pass at me. “I’ll put down Anthropology,” she mumbled. “You’ll have to present a photo ID when they arrive.“

“Sounds like a plan.” The man’s smartwatch made a soft chime. He glanced at it and picked his bag off the floor. “Sorry, got a meeting across campus in five. Could you just get those in for me? Ta, love.” He winked at her—actually fucking winked—and set off.

Ugh. She shook her head in mild disgust. She’d worked here for too long. Just what the hell was it about college campuses, anyway? Forget the students. Even the professors couldn’t seem to keep it in their pants. Well, anyway... the sooner she got his request entered, the sooner she could happily forget she’d ever met the man. With a world-weary sigh, Emilia reluctantly set about doing her job.

She wound up getting stuck with staying late, of course. Which was okay—it’s not like exhaustion was a thing, right? Still, at least the reference desk didn’t get much traffic during the evening hours. Apart from some light reshelving, she was mostly free to just hang around at the desk, keeping an eye out for students lighting things on fire or fucking in the stacks or whatever. The second thing happened so often, she didn’t even bother reporting it anymore unless she found them on top of something important or expensive.

All in all, nothing out of the ordinary for her... until she happened to look up at her screen at one point. There was a console window she didn’t remember opening sitting off to the side. The text inside it read:

evening.witch:

Pssst. Oi.

evening.witch:

Anyone still there?

She clicked on the window and tried typing. Sure enough, the text she wrote appeared in the command prompt next to her own login name. Some sort of chat program? She’d never seen it used anywhere in the library before...

“What is this?” she typed. “Who are you?”

evening.witch:

Why, I’m a hacker, dear

evening.witch:

Currently inside of your system

evening.witch:

Not to mention most of the others in the building.

Oh, great. So now this shit was a thing. “Why?” she asked. Followed shortly by: “Are you a student here?”

evening.witch:

Oh, no, dear. I’m a bit too old for that.

evening.witch:

As for the why...

evening.witch:

Well, why does anyone go to a library?

evening.witch:

Knowledge, of course.

evening.witch:

An exchange of information.

evening.witch:

And in that vein of things...

evening.witch:

I have a proposition for you.

Whatever, Emilia thought. Smart money was still on them being a student trying to play a prank or something. “What kind of proposition?”

evening.witch:

I find myself in need of some scans

evening.witch:

from a few of the rare books in your collection.

evening.witch:

More specifically, inside the Miskatonic Archives.

Emilia narrowed her eyes. She knew this. There’d been another college in town years ago, which had closed after going bankrupt or burning down or something. Lockwood had wound up with a bunch of their stuff, including a roomful of rare books down in Special Collections, all of which were apparently worth enough to keep under heavy lock and key.

But if all she needed were scans, though... “I can do that,” she typed. “But I’m going to need a name, address, and credit card number.”

evening.witch:

And therein lies the rub.

evening.witch:

I want to keep this off the books, dear.

evening.witch:

Attaching my name to a request like this...

evening.witch:

let’s just say it might attract more attention

evening.witch:

than I’d rather bother with right now.

Okay... “We don’t really do that,” Emilia replied.

evening.witch:

But you could, couldn’t you?

evening.witch:

As in, you personally.

evening.witch:

You could make the scans for me on your own.

evening.witch:

There’s no rule saying you couldn’t, is there?

That was true, at least. But all the same... “And why would I do that?” she typed. “You’re not trying to bribe me, are you?”

evening.witch:

Ha. Wouldn’t dream of it, dearie.

evening.witch:

You’re not the type.

evening.witch:

It’s just like I said—

evening.witch:

I’m offering an exchange of information.

evening.witch:

You give me something I want,

evening.witch:

I’ll give you something you want.

“I don’t want anything.”

evening.witch:

That’s not what your browser history tells me.

evening.witch:

‘Slaves of the Galactic Pleasure Brigade.’

evening.witch:

‘Male Sempai in Bondage.’

evening.witch:

‘Hogwarts Sex Dungeon: A Midsummer Night’s Orgy’

evening.witch:

You naughty thing, you. ;)

Fuck! How did they—she was almost positive she’d used Incognito Mode on those sites! Emilia felt herself redden. She growled and shook her head. “Whatever,” she typed. “Is this the part where you try to set me up with your grandson or something?”

evening.witch:

(^O^)

evening.witch:

I like you, dear. You’re funny.

evening.witch:

But no.

evening.witch:

You’re not the type for that either, are you?

evening.witch:

But what if I could offer you

evening.witch:

something better than what you have?

evening.witch:

A level beyond simple pornography.

“Like what, exactly?” she wrote.

evening.witch:

Brace yourself, dearie.

evening.witch:

Here’s where it gets interesting.

evening.witch:

The name’s not just for show, you know.

evening.witch:

You see... I hack everything

evening.witch:

Networks, minds, reality...

evening.witch:

It’s all the same to me in the end.

evening.witch:

I’ve been at it for quite a long time.

evening.witch:

And as it just so happens...

evening.witch:

I believe I might know something

evening.witch:

that would suit you perfectly.

evening.witch:

It’s called a rite of riding.

evening.witch:

It separates your spirit from your body

evening.witch:

And puts you inside another’s for a while.

evening.witch:

You can’t control or influence them, mind you.

evening.witch:

(That costs extra.)

evening.witch:

But you can see through their eyes

evening.witch:

Hear their thoughts...

evening.witch:

Feel what they feel...

evening.witch:

No matter what they happen to be doing

evening.witch:

at the time. ;‑]

She found the box of supplies exactly where the witch told her they’d be—in a plain cardboard box in the library mailroom, marked only by her network username. Emilia quietly took it back to her desk when no one was watching, then back home at the end of the day.

evening.witch:

I’ll send you the ritual instructions.

evening.witch:

I’ll even overnight the supplies you’ll need.

evening.witch:

And since I wouldn’t expect you to believe me

evening.witch:

otherwise...

evening.witch:

I’ll even let you try it out once

evening.witch:

just to see if it works.

evening.witch:

Free of charge, no commitment necessary.

The box didn’t contain much. Some jars of paint. A few brushes. A box of natural beeswax candles. A few paper sigils printed out on A4 paper she was supposed to tape to the walls around her—“just as a precaution,” the witch had said.

Well, Emilia thought, I’ve done stupider things. My exes, for one.

evening.witch:

Once your spirit leaves your body

evening.witch:

the spell will automatically find

evening.witch:

a person for you to possess—

evening.witch:

someone about to do the deed.

evening.witch:

Another woman, of course...

evening.witch:

unless, that is, you’re curious about

evening.witch:

what the other side gets out of it.

evening.witch:

(I’ll save you the trouble, dear—

evening.witch:

it’s really nothing to write home about,

evening.witch:

trust me, don’t bother.)

The next night, she stripped down and stood in front of her bathroom mirror, the witch’s instructions on her phone. After a moment’s study, she started to paint the strange designs and runes onto herself, trying to match the diagrams as best as she could.

evening.witch:

Just keep in mind

evening.witch:

This version of the spell’s a onesie.

evening.witch:

It won’t work if you try it twice—

evening.witch:

If you’re lucky, that is.

evening.witch:

You make a deal with me,

evening.witch:

I’ll give you the proper version.

evening.witch:

Oh, and make sure to leave yourself

evening.witch:

enough time when you use it.

evening.witch:

Even after you’ve finished your business,

evening.witch:

it can take a few extra hours for your spirit

evening.witch:

to get back to your body.

Once the sigils were taped up, she filled the bathtub with warm water. She lit one of the candles. She took one last moment to look at herself in the mirror—her skin covered in strange symbols and interweaving lines of blue and red paint—and feel ridiculous, then flipped off the lights.

evening.witch:

You understand, don’t you?

evening.witch:

This is the experience the pornographers

evening.witch:

only wish they could deliver.

evening.witch:

All the pleasure, none of the mess,

evening.witch:

none of the hassle.

evening.witch:

Fits you like a glove, doesn’t it?

evening.witch:

...

evening.witch:

In any case...

evening.witch:

That’s it, dear.

evening.witch:

Go have some fun. ;)

Emilia slid into the bath and lay back, keeping her head and her hands above the water. Felt nice, at least. She picked up the one page of the instructions she’d printed off. ”Thyia Apaturia, miivin alvokas,” she read out loud. “Aouskultas mi mi malfermas miancor alvi.”

It continued on like that for a few paragraphs, all gibberish as far as she could tell. The hardest part was at the very end. She had to put down the page and stare directly into the candle while repeating the last three sentences from memory. Frankly, that was a lot more work than she really wanted to put into this. But fuck it, she’d come this far.

“Timulasu mi,” she said to the candle. “Volupta konkretigon enmi. Vergessenheit mi konsoligas.”

The candle flickered. Repeat three times, the instructions had said.

“Timulasu mi. Volupta konkretigon enmi. Vergessenheit, mi konsoligas.”

Was it just her, or did the room seem to be growing darker?

“Timu lasu mi. Volupta, konkretigan enmi. Vergessen...”