The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Drink the water.”

“Fuck off!” She lunged violently forward, her forehead missing the glass by a bare inch as he deftly drew it away.

“Come, now, Miss Chandler. You know we’ll make you drink it, one way or another.” He offered the glass to her again, careful this time to keep it out of her limited reach.

She was centre-stage, pinned by the beams of four spotlights. The rest of the vast basement was shrouded in darkness, plunging the three figures around her into deep shadow.

“No!” she screamed at him, “Let me go!” She was horrified to hear her voice beginning to crack, to find panicked tears welling up in her eyes. Her arms strained and twisted at the ropes binding them to those of the chair.

“Last chance.” He brought the cup towards her again. This time she pulled away from him, her lips pressed tightly shut. The glass held maybe half a pint of clear, colourless liquid, looking for all the world just like water. She watched it as she would a snake.

His calm eyes glanced up at the bulk of flesh behind her, and he nodded once. Her skin crawled as a brawny arm rasped around her neck until her chin rested in its elbow.

“No!” She screamed, twisting frantically at the ropes securing her hands and feet, with no effect but to bruise herself. The arm’s grip on her was gentle but inescapable, a hot, hairy clamp that tightened and lifted her, pulling her head backwards inexorably. She was presented with an upside-down view of the face of her new assailant smiling grimly back at her, his head and face covered in two days of stubble and a sheen of sweat, nostrils like two hair-lined railway tunnels. She sobbed fearfully through her own dilated nostrils, and unbidden, pointlessly, her mind registered that he had eaten garlic today. Then his free hand came up, pinching her nose and clamping over her lips, a finger hooking beneath her chin to hold her jaw shut.

Her ribcage strained, desperately trying to pump air into her sealed off lungs. She threw her weight back and forth, from side to side, but her head might as well have been held in a vice. Her assailant quietly stepped forward to cradle her head more firmly between his arms and chest. Her ears rang. Her view of his calm, patient expression receded down a black, black tunnel.

She was suffocating! They had given up on the drink and decided to just kill her! With horror, she felt her life begin to ebb away.

Finally, the terrible pressure lifted away, though she still felt fingers squeezing her nostrils together. Her mouth fell open to take in a frantic breath of oxygen—and her jaws and lips were strained wide open by a broad obstruction, its surface clattering against her teeth. She panicked again, but found she lacked the energy even to struggle, and yet… she was breathing! Her lungs were filling with fresh, sweet air, despite the strange, hard thing that filled her mouth. Her mind slowly cleared and the dark walls receded.

The thing was a funnel, clearly designed for this very job, opening her mouth wide and sealing around her lips.

Her attacker’s eyes lifted, looking back towards his confederate, and he nodded. Seeing this shift as a break in his concentration, she threw her weight against him afresh. Her frantic attack was met with complete indifference; her head moved not a millimetre.

The glass appeared in her field of view again. It slowly tipped, its contents pouring into the container protruding from her face, and her muffled sobs became strangled as her mouth and throat filled with cold liquid. Once again she held her breath, screwing her eyes shut and suppressing a wracking, choking sob that sent twin tears running back into her hairline. From her mouth, not a single drop escaped.

“Drink it, Carol. You really have no choice.” The voice was a whisper, right in her ear. His familiarity in using her first name set her writhing with revulsion. Her chest heaved involuntarily against her own held breath, and her throat worked, taking a swallow of the liquid. There was no taste at all: it was just like water. “Good,” he said, encouragingly. “Just a couple more and it’ll be gone.” Her eyes flew open as she struggled, and there he was, his face hanging in space off to her left, just barely smiling back at her. A stifled, mewling cry bubbled forth.

Again her body let her down. She felt fluid leaking past her throat, and an uncontrollable urge to cough. Suddenly the air exploded out of her, momentarily blowing the water out of her mouth, but not out of the funnel. The tasteless, oh-so-innocent fluid instantly flowed back to choke her anew. Her reflexes took over then, and she found herself gulping down the liquid until she could finally take a deep, shuddering breath.

And the funnel was gone from her mouth, the arms lifted away from her head. She fell forward in her bonds, still coughing, and sobbing uncontrollably.

“Why? What have you given me?”

“It’s called…”—he turned to the woman who stood behind him, back in the shadows—“…cattleyin, was it, Mira?”

“Si, but I think I’m going to call it ‘Cattle Eyes’.” The woman he had called Mira was cloaked in the shadows in the periphery of the great hall of a room, a raven-haired vision in a black lace party dress, slim and slightly built, sultry, perhaps a little older than Carol’s own twenty-five years. “It’s an extract from the root of a rare South American orchid.” Her voice was just a little bored, and very familiar.

Carol stared at Mira in horror. She knew her! This was the woman who had approached her in the club, who had joined her in her game of people-watching—man-watching, mostly. It must have been Mira who had spiked her drink, and she now calmly looked on as these two men attacked and violated her victim. Carol felt betrayed by her own kind.

“But as to what it does, Carol,” He loomed in her face, “that’s what we are here to find out. And we’ll know in a few minutes.”

“WHAT?” she screamed. “You don’t even know yourself?” She desperately tried to gag; to make herself throw up, but it was useless. “You fucking bastards! Why me? Why?”

“You were just unlucky,” he shrugged. “You were in the right place, and you had the right looks. It’s as simple as that. I’m sorry.” His tone had not the slightest hint of remorse.

“Fuck you!” she screamed, “Fuck you all!”

“Perhaps later.” He turned away from her, to where the Mira still lurked. “It’s not working.”

“It’s not instant, Simeon,” she said softly. Her accent, like the plant whose extract they had fed her, was from somewhere in South America. “We should give her another fifteen minutes. Let’s grab a coffee.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the muscle, walking out from behind Carol, and all three of them simply walked out, none of them even throwing a further glance in her direction.

”Hey! Come back!” she yelled at their departing backs. The heavy door slammed shut against her tearful protests and screams. “What have you given me, you bastards? What have you done to me?”

Her pleas subsided to sobs. Her tormentors were long gone.

For long minutes she simply hung her head and cried, feeling utterly crushed and hopeless. After a while, though, she found some deeper pool of resolve, and the strength to sit up again. Just what had they made her drink? It had tasted like nothing but water, but now she found that she could detect the slightest peppery aftertaste.

A couple of years ago, after days of mounting agony in her lower jaw, she had finally reached the stage where her pain outweighed her fear of the dentist. He had diagnosed it as an abscess, and in a whirlwind she found herself admitted to hospital and heading for an operating theatre. She vividly remembered the icy chill of the pre-med entering the vein in her arm, the way her pain and worries were swept away by a fizzing, bubbling wave of oblivion.

Now she expected another, similar wave to roar over her, and steeled herself against it, determined to stay awake, to resist at all costs.

She clenched her fists, waiting for a growing weakness or numbness spreading from her fingers. She concentrated on remembering her name, her address, her passwords, looking for signs of growing confusion.

Nothing. There was nothing but the continuing fear.

She strained forward against the tight belt that secured her torso to the chair, simultaneously lifting her fingers toward her face. It was no use. She could just barely touch her lips with her fingertips. There was no way she was going to put them down her throat to make herself throw up.

But her wrists weren’t tied that tightly. Maybe if she pulled back and forth hard enough…

She worked her right arm furiously, ignoring the bite of the abrasive fibre, until loosening it became her only thought. And it was actually starting to work! Before too long she had forced a loop of the rope over her hand. She kept working at it, furiously. She didn’t even notice when the door opened.

“She’s not under yet,” Simean said, standing to one side to give the smaller woman a clear view.

“Don’t you think so? Let’s wait and see.”

Still ignoring them, and indeed ignoring the blood and torn skin that her efforts were creating, Carol worked diligently at the rope. After a minute or two she gave a final, vicious pull, and freed her right arm. She held her bloody trophy aloft for a second, looking at it, then slowly dropped it back down to rest on the chair arm. Her head bowed, panting slightly, she sat and waited. She had never looked at them, had not once even looked away from her own right wrist.

“Would you say that’s normal behaviour?” Mira asked. “Talk to her, Simean.”

“It can’t hurt, I guess.” He leant down to meet the girl’s eyes. “Carol?”

“Yes?” At last, she looked at him. Her tear-streaked face no expression at all, but her eyes... He took a shocked step back. Two deep pools of black stared back at him, impaling him with the full force of her drug-induced monomania. Some side effect of the drug had dilated her pupils so entirely that he could barely even make out the remaining hint of blue there.

“Cattle Eyes,” whispered Mira into his ear. “Appropriate, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

Even under the extract’s full influence, Carol was fully alert, her strange, dark eyes darting between Mira’s face and his as they spoke. Waiting.

“Why don’t you untie your other wrist, Carol?” he murmured.

“OK.” She took the question as a command, her free hand and her attention moving to her other wrist.

“Fascinating!” Simean exclaimed, standing again and taking a step back. “It’s like she’s hypnotised.”

Mira rested a hand on his shoulder and her head on his arm. “She’s more than just hypnotised, Si. Why don’t you have a play?”

Carol was doing well. Her left hand was almost free now.

“How long will this last?” He watched Carol with mounting glee: his new toy!

“Maybe a day on this dose, but every twelve hours you can tell her to drink some more, and then she’s yours for as long as you want.”

The seated girl had finished. She now held the rope in her hands and stared blankly at it.

“Undo the belt, then untie your legs and stand up,” he said to her, then to Mira, “Is it dangerous?”

“No. Not at all, at least I’ve seen no nasty side effects. It’s just a plant extract, after all—a herb, if you like.”

“So’s digitalis.”

She looked at him in mock surprise at that, then smiled, “The drug itself is safe, Si. What it makes the victim do can be dangerous, though. Just look at her wrist.”

Carol had untied the belt, just as he had ordered, but she had stopped there, not continuing with his commands.

“I asked her to untie herself, too. Why didn’t she do it all?”

“I think,” Mira considered for a second. “I theorise that cattle-eyes turns off the forebrain. The victim doesn’t think past their next action, or remember any commands at all once they’re given.”

“Weird!” He placed an arm around Mira’s slim waist. She was trembling, fever-hot with excitement, her nipples poking stiffly out from her pert little breasts. Her soft hand found its way into his back pocket. “Carol, untie your feet.”

She did so.

“Now here’s the real surprise,” Mira said, glancing up at him for a moment, her expression alive with mischief. “Carol, whenever you address me, you must refer to me as “Mistress.” Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Carol stared into her face with all of her attention, hardly even blinking.

“When I tell you, or anybody else tells you to “Stand Tall”, I want you to stand up with your legs apart, your hands linked behind your head and your back arched, like this,” she demonstrated, Carol watching her closely, “with your eyes to the sky. You are to remain in that pose until told otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” She turned and grinned at Simeon. “Try it.”

He wore a puzzled frown. “Where are we going with this, Mira?”

“You’ll see. Go on, try it.”

“OK, then. Carol, Stand Tall.”

Carol stood and adopted the pose that Mira had demonstrated, eyes lifted to the ceiling. She was perhaps three or four inches taller than Mira, her form much more voluptuous than the Venezuelan’s athletic body. With her outsized breasts thrust out before her, tightly stretching the blood-spattered white of her blouse, her leg muscles tense in her short black skirt and party heels, she was a vision of sexiness.

“Fine. Very fine! But so what?” He left Mira’s side to walk behind the girl and leaned on the back of the now vacant chair, admiring her pert behind. Carol was just Mira’s type, her ideal victim. He suspected—although he would never dare voice it—that his psychopathic little girlfriend suffered an inferiority complex when confronted by these curvaceous blondes: a need to dominate and destroy them. From where he stood, he couldn’t see a problem.

“Don’t you see, Simean,” Mira cut into his thoughts, a little chillingly,” she memorised the commands and carried them out when you gave her the trigger words. And,” she raised her eyebrows theatrically, “get this: repeat the command a few times and she always will, even after the drug wears off.”

Simeon took a few moments to take in the implications of what she was saying. “Always?”

“Always.” She gave a lazy smile. “As far as I know. She’ll have no choice.”

“So… If I told her to ‘Stand Tall…?”

“She would do just this.”

“For how long, though?

“Until someone told her to stop, or forced her to stop, or until she lost consciousness.” She looked back at the captive girl and spoke slowly and carefully. “Carol, whenever you are told to “Stand at Ease,” you will stand as you are now, with your legs apart, but with your head and eyes straight forward, and you will clasp your hands behind your lower back. You will stay in that position until told otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Blood slowly dripped from the torn skin of her wrist, spotting the shoulder of her blouse with vivid red.

“Do you see what I’m doing, Si?” Mira grinned at him.

“You’re programming her, just as though she was a robot!”

“Exactly! Exciting, isn’t it?” She turned to look at Carol again. “Carol, when you are told to “Adopt Position One,” you will lie on your back in a ‘Spread-eagle’, with your arms apart over your head and your legs spread as wide as you can get. You are to stay in that pose until told otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

There was silence in the room. Simean paced around to their victim’s left side, and took hold of her arm, pulling it down. She resisted with all her strength, her face contorting with the effort as his greater strength defeated her. As soon as he released his grip, she calmly resumed her “Stand Tall” stance.

“I’ve never even imagined anything like this, Mira. It’s amazing! We can program her to be a complete, helpless slave, and in just a couple of days!”

“Even faster than that. I’ve written down the commands I’d like to teach her.” She fished in a pocket and pulled out a folded sheet. “Here, see for yourself.”

He read, a smile spreading across his face. “I’d say we are going to have some fun, lover. Shall we get started?”

Her grin was feral. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Good.” He kicked off his shoes and began to unbuckle his belt. “Carol, Take off your clothes. You too, Mira.”

Carol woke with a start, letting out a cry of fear. She was still seated; still dressed in the same clothes and heels she had gone out in last night; still-

No, wait! She was at home, sitting at her own dining table, blinking in the bright sunlight that streamed in through her Juliet balcony window. But the dream refused to fade… Hadn’t she been tied to this same chair?

No. She took in the mundane familiarity of her kitchen diner. It had been somewhere else, some cavernous concrete cell, and they had tortured her, forced her to drink something… Hadn’t they?

So how had she found her way back here? She remembered three cruel, sadistic faces, laughing at her helplessness: Simeon, Mira and The Muscle. It felt so real, but it didn’t make any sense!

No. It was nothing but a dream. She must have staggered home drunk from the club and fallen asleep on this chair, then had some vivid, frightening nightmare about being tied to it?

She stood, responding to pressure in her bladder, and clicked her way to the bathroom, rubbing her wrists. Yes, she could even remember the feel of the ropes around her hands and feet. She pulled up her sleeves and studied her skin. There was no bruising, but on her right wrist, there was a ring of healing scabs, weeks old. Odd…

Odd too that the clothes she wore—the same blouse and skirt she had worn to the club—were clean and crisply ironed, and scented with fabric softener, as if she had just put them on freshly washed.

She was rinsing her hands when the doorbell rang. She headed to the door, still towelling, and opened it on the security chain.

“Hello, Carol.”

It was him! Simeon!

For a moment she could only stand and stare. Then she slammed the door, hard—on his foot.

“No! You’re not real!” she staggered back, the towel falling forgotten to the floor. “I’ll call the…”

“Silence! Stand tall!” he commanded through the half-open door.

Her mouth clamped shut with a click of her teeth, her arms shot up to meet behind her head, and her eyes rose to the ceiling. Frozen there, in rising horror, as listened to the snap of the breaking security chain and, at the edge of her vision, watched as Simeon entered the room.

Over the rush of adrenaline-driven air through her own nostrils she heard the door click shut, and his whispered word in her ear.

“Strip!”

Her hands went unhesitatingly to the buttons of her blouse, but as they worked, she found that she was free to look around. There he was, standing to one side, maybe an arm’s length away. She fearfully returned his arrogant, fascinated gaze, unable to speak, unable to stop herself from throwing off the favourite shirt and throwing the ball of fabric into a corner, then bending her arms behind her back to unclasp her bra-strap. That, too, she discarded, and she blinked in surprise at the sight of her own breasts, where a heavy golden ring pierced each nipple. How the hell had they got there?

Careless of her confusion, her hands continued their work, undoing and pulling down her skirt, then quickly slipping off her shoes and pants. Finally, her body straightened and her hands went behind her back. She stood staring straight ahead, legs slightly apart.

Frozen once more, she found that Simeon became an invisible, looming presence, his footfalls on the hard kitchen floor her only clue as to his location. And yet she could feel his eyes on her, studying her like some sculpture in a gallery.

She could blink. She could hold her breath if she wanted, and she could blink, and that was all. The muscles of her legs and back held her perfectly still, tensing and relaxing as her body naturally swayed to the rhythms of heartbeat and breathing, but they would not give the slightest twitch at her conscious command. She found that she could cry, too.

It had all been real: Simeon, Mira and The Muscle, and her torture. The drink they had forced down her had done this to her, somehow.

“Stand Tall.”—her arms rose to the back of her head—“You May Whisper.”

“Help! Help me!” The words came out as the slightest murmur, surely completely inaudible from outside the room. It was useless. “Why?” she wept, “What have you done to me?”