The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

5.

The orgasm hit Wendy so hard she shrieked, except what came out was a despairing whine as she spasmed once and almost fell, sinking to her knees as her head lolled, her eyes suddenly fixed on Tanya’s. The submission was what she suddenly knew she’d always wanted. She was being given a chance, more than she deserved, to be free of all the worry and sorrow that she’d been suffering just now. Part of her knew this must be more programming.

Not much of her cared.

Tanya stepped over, and Wendy shivered with gratitude at being allowed to have nothing to do but wait quietly and watch each supple shift in the woman’s muscles as Tanya languidly stalked her. I’m a bird with a snake, Wendy thought, and thrilled to the idea of being the hypnotized prey of this smooth sinuous cobra.

Tanya touched her head, and she stood up. Tanya nodded, and Wendy wanted to rip her clothes off and be nude for her, but she undressed slowly and carefully. She sensed this was to avoid losing anything that might be a clue later.

Clues were important. As her mind drifted, she half-remembered being somewhere in the dojo one day, wearing nothing but a collar latex gloves, blissfully cleaning off railings and doorknobs while another naked collared woman in gloves with henna-copper hair and a lusciously-curved ass preceded her, half-bent, looking for tiny objects. They were both chanting “Lynda was never here. There is no Lynda,” over and over in a soft singsong.

Now, as she stripped and folded her clothes, enjoying the chill on her bare skin, Wendy did not wonder who “Lynda” might have been, since there was no Lynda. It all passed from her mind in the presence of her controller. She stood at attention in front of Tanya, who looked her over and nodded again, smiling at the pleasure her approval triggered in Wendy. Tanya pointed to the stairs, and Wendy turned toward them as robotically as the women had after they danced.

Going down, Wendy started to come back to herself. The fear she still had about Bonnie and the anger she’d found inside were catching fire inside her as she drew nearer to the woman. She struggled to free herself from the drowsy spell of submissiveness Tanya exerted, but the more aware she forced herself to be, the more discouraged she grew. Tanya was only the assistant, so what chance did Wendy have against—the Mistress? Then it came to her that Tanya had dropped her to her knees in worship with a single word. Bonnie would have posthypnotic doorways into her brain that could . . . she stopped thinking about it before she started crying. She’d just try her best.

Ahead, in the shadow around the lamplit mat with its eight mesmerized worshippers, she saw a reddish gleam on polished leather, where Bonnie waited for her in the dark.

Suddenly she felt so lonely. She’d try, and maybe she’d do something to be proud of, and then she’d lose, and there’d be no one to see it or mourn it but a pair of psychopaths and eight brainwashed robots. She thought of her dream that probably wasn’t a dream, when she’d knelt passively with the other slaves while Kaitlin lay hurting. Alone like poor Kaitlin in front of mindless, heartless—

She caught herself thinking sloppily about the loyal old flannel nightshirt.

Fuck. I’m twenty-four. I don’t need a security blanket. She grasped at something that a 24-year old could cling to. She told herself that somehow, she’d gotten free. Her mind wouldn’t accept the conditioning that had overwhelmed the others. She wasn’t as easy to train into obedience. If she could figure out what it was, what perverse streak of—

Bonnie stepped into the light. Wendy saw her toned body, her dancer’s/killer’s legs, her arrogant stance like a marauding cavalry raider, her face, her eyes, her completely pitiless stare.

Wendy remembered exactly why she wanted to be a slave.

The only thing that kept her on her feet was the knowledge that Bonnie had not yet told her to crawl.

6.

wendy was standing straight but there was a roaring in her ears as if she were fainting or about to plunge into anesthesia. It faded, burned away just by the approach of Mistress. wendy felt an almost painful twinge of devotion.

Mistress inspected her as she stood, exulting in the goosebumps she felt in the cool air of the dojo. wendy passed into an agony of hope that Mistress would touch her, test her muscles and run Her hands across wendy’s skin, and almost fell over when she thought she felt Mistress’ warm breath lightly touch the nape of her neck.

“What do you do?” Mistress’ voice filled her mind like nightfall.

“i obey,” wendy said softly, wanting to shout it, wanting to cry for the sheer joy of it.

“What do you know?”

“i know only Your truth.”

Mistress said some more, and wendy grew very drowsy. Mistress asked questions, and wendy could her herself answer in a soft, compliant voice, but she couldn’t hear what she was saying. Thoughts occurred to her—something about her knee, about the nightshirt—but she couldn’t hold on to them and didn’t want to.

“Slave test,” Mistress said, and wendy blinked, more awake now and eager to prove herself worth owning. “you will now remember the Seventh Task of Obedience.”

wendy blinked again. “Yes, Mistress.” The memory returned, now that it had the Mistress’ permission to exist.

“Good. Go to your basket. Fetch what I told you to put there.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

wendy stepped away into the shadows, knowing her route from other trances, passing the pool of red light and the eight kneeling slaves without a thought. Past a curtain she came into a dim room with a line of battered, chest-high stalls of metal mesh, the elite class’ locker room. Each locker stood latchless, with a small basket on the top, each with something inside. Above each one was an enlarged photograph of a young woman facing the camera, barebreasted and collared, her face slack and expressionless, her eyes glazed and staring mindlessly out.

wendy stopped in front of the zombie who looked like her, turned to face the stall, and looked into the basket. her heart quailed and her hand shook, but her mind did not know what to do with that as she reached in and took out the picture of her family still in its frame. her mind could not fit the sudden deep pain she felt with the truth that obeying Mistress brought only pleasure, so she ignored the pain and focused on the obedience.

Also ignoring the warmth that touched her crotch whenever she looked up to see her hypnotized self in the photo, she turned to complete the task Mistress had given her. Vaguely, she remembered a call from Bonnie—who was Bonnie?—one rainy weekend, a soothing call at a stressful time, one she couldn’t recall a word from but didn’t mind, where she’d opened her heart to her good new friend, told her about the things that really mattered to her . . .

wendy remembered how odd Bonnie had sounded, almost as if she’d been having such conversations all day. she remembered kneeling for orders with the other girls at the next session, and Mistress giving them the Seventh Task, commanding each one to bring a specific thing, and they reeled with how Mistress could look into each girl’s soul and know what to demand.

Then she was back out on the darkened practice floor, and her eyes found Mistress’ lean silhouette, and she stopped remembering.

What she had to do began to occur to her, and she walked toward Mistress, remembering her very recent thoughts. she’d realized what Mistress was doing to them all, but instead of rejoicing for Mistress, or rushing to pledge her total submission to Her, wendy had wanted to free herself, to deny Mistress Her property, even to set the other slaves loose.

wendy’s anguish made her moan, although it came out as a whimper the way it had on the catwalk with Lady Tanya. But even then she knew Mistress cared for her and had left her a way to atone. She almost ran to Mistress, and fell to her knees, holding the picture and bowing to touch the floor an inch from Mistress’ boot.

wendy’s knee didn’t hurt at all.

Lady Tanya’s boot, under her throat, gently brought wendy back up to sit on her heels, and she simpered at the other woman, relieved to have a witness to her surrender. The other girls in Mistress’ class didn’t count. They still knelt in brainwashed oblivion, the mantra bouncing around inside their skulls and leaving no room for awareness of another slave.

wendy looked up at Mistress, wallowing in the soft feeling, and raised the picture to Her. Mistress took it without looking at it and tossed it to Lady Tanya, who laughed. “It seems a little minor to be so important to the stupid sow,” came Her voice over wendy’s head to Mistress. “Just a picture—” The rest was lost in the rattle of a picture frame against the inside of a trash can.

wendy struggled for a moment, since understanding Lady Tanya’s words was so difficult. she relaxed, remembering she was only programmed to understand and obey commands, not anything complicated. her mind went blank as she began to forget what Lady Tanya had said . . . if She . . . or someone . . . had just spoken?

“First,” said Mistress, “what’s minor to us is about what we need and understand.” wendy inhaled slightly, enjoying Her voice without having to comprehend Her idea. “What’s minor, or major, to them is what I fucking tell them it is.

“Second, and more important. The bitch fetched it just now because I told her to, here, and after you got her primed. What mattered was that she took it in the first place, from her own bedroom, without any of this, or us commanding her. Brought it here like a good little girl, and then forgot it just as she was told. On just her conditioning, and the command to bring something she couldn’t bear to part with—and part with it.”

“You broke her?”

Mistress sighed. “You’re all technique, Tanya. If you don’t start getting the theory, too, you’ll get nowhere. I don’t break them. I melt them. This just now was just a bit falling off because—” she stroked wendy’s hair “—the piece of her underneath is liquid now. Already.”

Then Mistress looked down into wendy’s eyes and spoke. wendy went to sleep.

she woke at parade rest in a room like a racquetball court, its walls solid expanses of photocells. her body glowed as she felt the familiar tightness and exposure of a practice harness with white lights across her limbs and body. she closed her eyes as she realized she was moist in both holes, her pussy and ass each clenched over a dildo held in by the straps, just as the headphones and electrodes were held in the headpiece. she felt Lady Tanya securing the straps and feeling her up, closing her eyes at the woman’s insolent fingers in the hollow below her taut buttcheeks, sliding between the leather and her groin, flicking her nipple.

For a while, then, wendy stood blissfully still, her mind empty, unaware that Lady Tanya had left her there.

A low-pitched beeping began and she snapped rigid, eyes wide, and dropped into a fighting stance. The beeping changed rhythm, and the posthypnotic suggestion that triggered became the hallucination of a man approaching from the shadows. She began to fight the apparition, and the beeping guided everything.

As she moved and the lights swept the photocells, the computer tracked their movement and adjusted the beeping that controlled her. It adjusted the subliminal voice packets that suggested what wendy thought the assailant was doing and also implanted more general commands in her mind, as well as the vibrators in her pussy and ass that pleasure-conditioned her to achieve and repeat correct moves in response.

The data went to displays as well as to the control routine, but in the room where they flickered and glowed, Tanya mostly ignored them. They’d tell her nothing she didn’t know already about slave wendy. The strong girl, Casey, was kneeling between Tanya’s thighs, kissing their inner skin without stopping. Tanya would look after a while, when it was time to cap off, but for now, looking down at slave casey and wondering how long she could wait before commanding the slut to lean forward and really start, Tanya completed a thought wendy had had up on the catwalk. She looked at casey’s long back and firm thighs, and thought, Ponygirl.

If only.

As if in a dream, wendy kept connecting, kept blocking, kept hitting, and never questioned why the ghostly assailant kept attacking. Finally, he pulled back, and she paused, waiting. Part of her knew he was going to speak. She was already getting ready to do what she had to do.

“Time to lose, bitch,” he said.

wendy felt the reflex tightening her muscles and the ecstatic rush as she flowed into the move she’d been taught, the response whenever a man told her that. she was doing it perfectly, and as the computers tracked it with the lights, she couldn’t hear the vibrators’ whine over the beeptone in her ears, and felt the reward as pure obedience itself.

7.

Wendy took another look at herself in the bedroom mirror. The outfit looked so right, and so completely wrong. The burgundy miniskirt showed off her well-toned thighs, and in fact would show off her well-toned butt if she leaned forward too far. Snug black-suede boots hugged her calves to just below the knee, the heels barely low enough to run in if she had to. A black leather vest hung open over a tight white long-sleeved turtleneck that left her trim belly bare.

She couldn’t remember buying any of these things, let alone wanting put them together as an outfit. This was not her look at all. She shook her head. Sexy though, she thought, seeing her thighs warmly pale against the blood-colored skirt, seeming to whisper a promise of loosening as they curved softly under the tight hem no matter how she stood.

She’d turned on the lights a while ago, and now the sun was down.

Time to go out, she thought, and the strange feeling that she had no idea where she was going surfaced briefly, then disappeared. That had been happening a lot, and she was glad. Lately, she’d been feeling less and less stressed, and her usually fretful mind was calm. It was like having a natural tranquilizer, and that idea actually made her feel good. No real decisions to make, and whenever she really had to think about something, she waited until she could call.

Until she could hear Bonnie’s voice reassuring her, telling her what to do.

She remembered a few days ago, when she’d really created some kind of problem at the dojo. Bonnie had fixed it, and when she’d assured Wendy it was taken care of Wendy had been able to stop thinking about it. She’d felt much better, too, after shredding that skanky old nightshirt with a butcher knife and then burning it in the fireplace. It had felt odd, a weird rush almost like saying something unforgivable to a dear friend who’d just pissed her off, but at the same time the rush had been a serious turn-on, like getting beaten in sparring and then spanked in front of class by the winner.

Wendy stopped thinking and got going. On the road she cruised, heading more or less north toward the smaller county airport and industrial park. She detoured through one of the red-light districts, looking at the whores on the sidewalks, feeling odd when one of them locked eyes with her. Warning her off? Hoping she’d stop?

Recruiting? The idea made her squirm in her seat, but she felt it wasn’t what she was out here for.

Wendy blinked, suddenly terrified at the perverse little trance she’d fallen into, speeding up as much to flee the vision of stopping and taking her place on the pavement to turn tricks as to get away from the odd stares of the prostitutes.

It preoccupied her long enough that she didn’t know when the pickup had started tailgating her. She just saw it suddenly in the mirror, and realized it had been there, a few lengths back, for a while. She couldn’t tell herself it was just going the same way she was, because she wasn’t going anywhere. It was following her. For a second everything was at a distance, and she fought the panic—even feeling her heart pound and her throat go dry was better than that terrifying disconnection.

No. I’m strong. I can fight! Bonnie and Tanya taught me, and I know what to do.

If I have to. She tried to see into the truck’s cab, but its windows were tinted, its front and bumper featureless. Could she outrun it? She worried about whether her own car would take the strain. Just drive somewhere public? But it would drive past . . . and wait . . .

They were in a warehouse district now, and she saw a dark stretch where the streetlights seemed either broken or too far apart. Just what she needed.

The rage surprised her. Just what I fucking needed! she almost screamed aloud, and gripped the wheel as she pulled over to the empty sidewalk and slammed on the brakes. The damned city itself was useless to protect her, and some idiot in a pickup who liked following women around from his safely faceless machomobile was making her paranoid. She saw him pull up behind her and sensed his hesitation. Throwing her door open, she smiled fiercely. Just let him try.

She stepped out, seeing her thighs startlingly pale in his headlights, and stood to glare into them. Absently shutting the door behind her she stalked forward, keeping her eyes above the lights, staring down the blind windshield. As she came closer she saw the driver’s window was down, and she walked up to it, opening her mouth to start screaming at him.

A voice came calmly out; not the driver. “Ooh. Hot!” She felt a weird twinge, and hesitated.

She was too dazzled to see inside now, but she heard the second voice. “So, how’s tricks?” The passenger laughed. “How much for both of us? One at each end?”

Wendy was speechless. He was serious. They thought she was a prostitute.

“Each end?” The passenger was still laughing. “Do we get a discount if we switch?’

The rage took her again. The adrenaline was like hydraulic fluid driving her to slam her hands on the door. “What the fuck did you think you were doing, you stupid—?” As she raised her arms the door shot open and caught her in the ribs, and knocked her backward, and she staggered to keep her balance. When she’d straightened up they were closing on her.

She took a breath and settled into a stance, working her foot back and moving away from them. She tried to clear her mind, but it was full of noise: moving, deciding to shift into or out of the light, joy at coming to grips, regret at even stopping, amazement she’d stopped here, and a sharp knowledge that so far these men, playing with a leggy victim in a miniskirt, were probably enjoying this.

She tried a kick and caught the nearer one on the arm, but not hard enough. He swore and jumped back. But Wendy was confident now, and ready to attack. She realized she’d let them back her toward her car, spotlighting herself while they stayed as shadows. OK—she wouldn’t have to risk a face distracting her with fear or sympathy. She chose the one, and tensed to strike as one of them spoke.

“Time to lose, bitch,” he said.

The world spun for Wendy. Gracefully, like a dive where she turned slowly on the way down. Gracefully she spread her arms and crumpled nervelessly to the asphalt. She didn’t try to hold in the moan as the orgasm took her.

Her head was suddenly quiet. She heard them laughing above her, and adrenaline hit her again—caustic fear, this time. Something was terribly wrong, and she was in deeper shit than she’d ever thought possible. Too frightened to scream, she wasted a second praying this was a nightmare, and then rolled away, willing her limbs to move, lunge, run.

They let her, and she didn’t care as she raced for her car and grabbed for the door handle. It didn’t move. She stared inside, at safety, and yanked at it harder, but the headlights blotted all shadows to deepest black—had she locked it? Where was the key?

They were next to her now, moving casually. Wendy looked at them, and stopped fighting with the door. It was worse to do that while they watched and smiled. She turned to face them and tried to stand straighter without backing herself against the car, but it brought her bare thigh against the cool metal and made her acutely aware again of how she was dressed.

One of them extended something in his hand. She expected to hear a blade snap out, actually looked forward to it—Tanya had taught them things to do about knives, though the memory was vague all of a sudden. She put the fainting spell or whatever it was out of her mind, and the orgasm . . . she couldn’t think about that because—

It sparked. The thing in his hand flared faintly blue and crackled evilly. It was a stungun.

“OK. If you’re a good little whore and behave, everything’s fine. If not . . .” The sound of a bugzapper again. They’d zap her like an unruly cow if she misbehaved. Wendy thought of herself spasming in pain, and then lying helplessly as they fucked her, hit her, cut her. The next thing she thought of was fighting, but now she knew she just couldn’t. She had somehow become the helpless miniskirted bimbo she’d dressed as, and now it was just going to happen.

“How about it?” She waited tensely for the crackle, and it didn’t come, and when they laughed again she twitched. “When we drive off and you’re lying in front of the truck,” his voice came so reasonably, “do you want to be able to move, or not?”

Wendy nodded, slowly, like a child being corrected. “Please,” she said. “Just . . .” but she’d sworn she’d never “don’t . . .” she saw Bonnie smiling down at her “hurt me . . .”

She walked to the back of her car when they pointed. She bent over and raised her skirt. She cringed when they saw she had no panties. When they started talking about how wet she was, her sobs echoed tinnily from the hollow of the bumper. She got wetter.

8.

Wendy sat in the apartment. Her mind was largely blank, and she tried to keep it that way. She knew there were thoughts she could have but she knew there was nowhere to run from them, so she just avoided them. She thought of herself as a floppy disk. Files were deleted but still there, recoverable, if you knew where the memory addresses were. She had to avoid the addresses. She’d just found one, though: floppies reminded her of work reminded her of people reminded her of looking in the eye people, women, who didn’t know how to punch or block and who’d never driven out to a deserted street dressed like a whore and been fucked by strangers.

Address unknown.

She looked down. A few scratches, and they were from her collapse. She hadn’t been hit. She hadn’t given them cause to hit, hadn’t tried again to hit them, not even when she’d felt the stungun brush her crotch and she’d wondered if they were really—

Address unknown.

Shower was a bad idea, losing evidence, but there was no point going to the police. No faces she could describe, no license plate, the truck itself was a blank now. What if the semen didn’t match anything on file? And how could she tell them how it had happened? How she’d submitted? How she’d had an orgasm just

Address unknown.

Call Bonnie.

She reached for the phone. It wasn’t a good idea, really. It just felt inevitable. Of all the people Wendy used to know, past all those addresses unknown, the only one who seemed real now was Bonnie. And she needed someone—no matter who Bonnie was.

“Yes, Wendy?”

She breathed out, not speaking. Telepathy, Caller ID. Didn’t matter.

“I—”

“Yes? How are you, Wendy? Are you all right?”

“I was—”

This time Bonnie did not fill the silence. Wendy drifted.

“I was raped.”

Bonnie made a sound—a gasp, a sigh, a pant of excitement.

Wendy drifted further. “What the fuck did you do to me, Bonnie?” She spoke softly, not really able to gather enough of herself from the scattered addresses to shout. “Why?”

For a while, Wendy heard nothing. She wondered, for a bit, whether it was all just something since the rape, some sick back-fantasy she’d concocted because she couldn’t face the fact that she’d bent over and knelt and begged

Address—

Fuck! Her cheeks were warm. Even now she wondered how she could start to apologize. When Bonnie started to help her, she wanted to deserve it, not be hanging on to some paranoid delusion that she’d been brainwashed into letting someone rape her.

“I think,” Bonnie said, “you’d rather know what you can do about it.”

Wendy slowly nodded. There wasn’t anything else in her to do.

“You have to kill them.”

Shutting her eyes, Wendy said, “I can’t.” The whine made her sick.

“There’s a gun in your gymbag, Wendy.”

She looked, then reached, and pulled the strangely weighted thing out, keeping the muzzle pointed away. She realized she was pointing it at Bonnie’s candle, and suddenly there was that weird rush of being able to choose and she rose off of the bed.

“Maybe,” she whispered into the phone, “I really need to—”

“Obey.”

wendy was drooling onto the rug by her bed, weeping with the pleasure that had flooded over her, after all the pain before. she raised her head and stared intently at the candle through the blur of tears, and said aloud, “Thank You, Mistress!”

she saw the phone and the gun lying on the rug where she’d dropped them when Mistress had activated her obedience. she picked up the phone.

“. . . Mistress?”

“you’ve been more trouble than you’re worth, slut.” Mistress did not even sound angry, which made it worse. slave wendy flinched at each word. “Put that cock in your mouth, pull the hammer back, and suck it dry.”

9.

At her locker in the gym her company provided, where she went on nights when there was no self-defense with Bonnie, Lucy saw an article in a discarded paper that caught her eye. Lucy blinked as she read the article, trying to capture the elusive thought that there was something familiar about the poor girl who’d shot herself. Then she blinked again, as she realized without any doubt whatsoever that she had never heard of this Wendy before in her life, and that she had no desire to think about her further.

Lucy smiled happily, looking forward to this evening without knowing why. She’d showered, but found it more pleasurable to put on the flimsy little running shorts and oversize T instead of the shapeless sweats she normally wore home after a workout. She decided to leave the sweats in her bag and just carry it, with her work suit. It felt right to put on makeup, too, and she was relieved that she’d felt compelled to work late tonight and take her gym time with another group of people. There were no coworkers to look at her strangely as she put on a face so whorish that she’d normally not even consider it for clubhopping on a Friday night, to ask her what she thought she was doing going anywhere like that.

Gathering everything up and leaving, she noticed the desk person looking at her, but it was a guy, and he just leered in a friendly way. As she stepped out into the night, she felt mildly irritated at having parked so far out on the fringe of the lot, but shrugged it off. A little twinge of fear, and of something worse, peeked into Lucy’s mind but found it turned away from any such thoughts.

She looked out at the shadows, enjoying having the lot to herself. Lucy smiled. She knew how to defend herself. As she balanced on her heels, she murmured quietly once, “I know how to kick.”