The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Thunder roared outside Dr. Evan Humble’s warehouse laboratory in the crumbling neighborhood where he had chosen to work. Given the nature of his experiments, he appreciated the symbolism—but he was thankful for the surge suppressors to which his equipment was plugged. The last thing he needed was for a bolt of lightning to fry its delicate electronics. He could get all the electrical power he needed from the wall outlets, like anyone else.

He was almost ready. Chuckling and rubbing his hands together, he made a last round of checking readouts. Twenty years of work and his entire family fortune, all spent in secret—and all, if he was right, about to bear glorious fruit.

On the platform in the center of the laboratory, totally nude but half concealed by a maze of wire connections, lay the most beautiful woman Dr. Humble had ever seen, either in the flesh or in pictures. Six feet, three inches tall, with a supermodel’s legs, smoothly muscled stomach and arms and an incredible 75HH chest beneath a gorgeous face framed by fire-engine-red hair. A policeman seeing her would have arrested Dr. Humble on the spot for kidnapping and drugging a woman—or, if he looked a little closer, for murder. For the magnificent female on the slab was not alive.

But that was the thing, of course. She had never been alive.

Perfecta, as Dr. Humble called her, was an android, an artificial human. Not a robot: beneath her flawless exterior were organs, muscles, bones, blood—all modeled on those of a human being, though with improvements made possible precisely because she was artificial. There were only a few inorganic parts, mostly reinforcements for muscle and bone, the energy accumulators which were meant to allow her to function at peak efficiency, and certain control chips designed to allow the brain to be quickly programmed. A six-foot-three-inch Amazon with the mind of a newborn infant was of no use to the good doctor.

Now she was ready to be awakened.

Dr. Humble entered a final code on the master keyboard.

At once, a powerful hum pervaded the laboratory. The readings on the display screens changed, indicator graph lines curving upward.

The body monitors beeped. Where there had been only flat lines on their displays, regular rhythmic curves appeared. Heart rate count, body temperature, brain activity all moved toward the green zone.

A deep sigh came from the figure on the slab.

Dr. Humble hurried over. Yes. Yes! She was moving!

He disconnected the wire electrodes from her body, and without being prompted, Perfecta sat up.

“Perfecta,” he addressed her, “can you understand me? Do you know who you are? Do you know who I am, and where you are?’

“Yes, Dr. Humble,” she answered. Her voice was a rich, creamy contralto which sent shivers up the doctor’s spine. “I understand you. I am Perfecta. You created me.” She looked around. “This is your laboratory.”

Humble was beside himself with joy. It had worked, it had worked! All those years, when he hadn’t dared tell anyone what he was doing for fear he’d be ridiculed, or worse, committed—and it had worked!

Again without any directive from him, she got off the slab and stood upright. Dr. Humble wasn’t a short man, but his creation loomed over him by six inches, placing his eyes nearly level with her amazing chest. Staring at it, he felt himself get hard—more than he ever had when she’d been just an inert object. He fought to remain focused on the matter at hand. Time enough for indulging himself later.

It wasn’t easy. Dizzily, Humble realized he might have gotten just a bit carried away in designing her. Any human woman would have been hard-pressed to stand upright carrying a rack like that. Perfecta, though, managed easily; she was much stronger than any natural human being, thanks to the enhancements he had built in. She was meant to be the ultimate woman.

Those beautiful tits. Their aureolae almost seemed to be spinning, drawing him in, deeper. . . . Humble finally wrenched his gaze away. Perhaps, he thought feverishly, I should have done a male first after all Or a neuter. He recognized now that as his work had neared its climax, he had allowed adolescent sexual fantasies to play an inappropriate role in Perfecta’s design. Well, what was done was done; he’d just have to keep a cool head. Somehow. Concentrate on something else. Anything else.

Five minutes later, he tore his eyes away from Perfecta’s beautiful boobs. His head was spinning, his pulse pounding in his ears. She had said nothing, done nothing, merely stood there, breathing in and out. In and out. In and—he looked away again.

This was going to be a problem. Now that she was alive, his creation exuded an overpowering sexual magnetism which made him want to do anything she might ask. He suspected any intact male would be similarly affected. Somewhat desperately, he rummaged around until he found the clothing he’d set aside for her.

“Here,” he husked, “put these things on.” He handed the clothes to her, trying not to look so he wouldn’t drift off into her beautiful bosom again.

“Yes, Dr. Humble,” Perfecta replied, and quickly donned the underwear, stockings, dress and high-heeled pumps he had given her. He’d had a hard time finding things to fit; he’d had to order on-line from a specialty house.

The clothing helped, but only a little. Humble had to struggle to keep focused as he put the female android through a series of post-activation tests. The tests confirmed that she was everything he’d hoped for. Her IQ was nearly 200, considerably higher than his own. The educational programming he’d provided was simple, roughly eighth-grade level—but it was all there. She could access any computer from a short distance, just by concentrating, thanks to the special chips implanted in her brain. Physically, she had the strength of twenty men, and the stamina to match.

Her coordination testing was Dr. Humble’s downfall. He quickly established that her hand-eye coordination was perfect. Her large-muscle coordination, though, necessary for whole-body movement, he decided to test by having her dance. He put on a CD of fast music and told her what he wanted.

She took to it automatically. She slithered sinuously to the beat as he watched. Then she once more went beyond his instructions, undulating out of her clothes one item at a time as her creator watched, breathless. He could have ordered her to stop, if he’d thought of it—but just then, he wasn’t thinking. There was only Perfecta, and pleasure.

When she’d gotten down to nothing but her high heels, Perfecta looked across at her maker, who was staring at her and breathing hard. Her programming had included the ability to recognize sexual arousal, and it told her he was very aroused indeed. Something within her shifted. She was supposed to do as she was told, she knew. Could she make her creator do what she wanted instead?

She wriggled over to the stunned Humble and wrapped her arms around him carefully, enough to draw him to her firmly but not to damage him. Her programming said that natural humans were fragile. His face nestled into the cleft between her breasts, and he sighed, surrendering to her.

She addressed him: “Dr. Humble, sir? I know that you desire me. My programming in this area is all theoretical. Will you teach me what a human woman does with a man?”

Humble was helpless. Yes, he had planned to use Perfecta for sex; otherwise, he wouldn’t have built her as she was. But he’d meant to be in control. Now, he was caught up in what felt like an erotic whirlwind. He couldn’t say no; just then, he couldn’t remember the word.

Much later, he came awake on the floor, Perfecta’s glorious body still twined around him. He was utterly relaxed. Smiling. And instantly hard again, just from the touch of her body. It had been his hottest fantasy come true, right from the beginning. When he’d penetrated her, there had been no resistance; he’d designed her without any equivalent of the hymen, a body part as useless in his view as the appendix she also didn’t have. Instead, there had been unbelievable ecstasy, almost as if his nervous system’s pleasure signals had somehow been amplified. He’d been reduced to a bucking and moaning piece of meat, and he’d loved it.

Perfecta’s eyes opened. She hadn’t been asleep, merely waiting for her human partner to reactivate after what appeared to have been a shutdown due to input overload. Her senses told her he was undamaged, and already aroused once more. She smiled; she liked doing what human women did!

She turned her attention back to Dr. Humble, and soon they were moving together again. Perfecta found that looking at and touching her chest seemed to drive Humble to greater heights of performance, so she arranged herself so that he was facing it almost constantly. She’d found, as well, that the implants meant to allow her access to computers gave her access as well to certain primitive functions of Humble’s own brain. She could not read his thoughts, but she could amplify the reward signals his body received in sexual activity, and the signals responsible for arousal as well. Her programming did not show that human women had this ability. Did that mean she was better than human?

She kept on. And on. And on. She was inexhaustible.

Dr. Humble’s body kept up as long as it could, but unlike her, he was only human. Finally, after one last, explosive climax, he made a noise Perfecta hadn’t heard before, shuddered, and stopped moving. Her connection to his nervous system snapped at the same time.

She sat up and examined him. He was all wet, covered with the saline solution humans used as an evaporative coolant. Her own body was capable of a similar response, she knew, but it would take far more exertion than this to trigger it. Humble was still alive; she could see him breathing, hear the rapid thumping of the circulatory organ in his chest as it gradually slowed. But his eyes, although open, were unfocused, and a thin trickle of saliva ran from one corner of his mouth, which was still turned up in the human expression of pleasure. It looked as if he had . . . well, crashed, somehow.

Did I do that? she wondered.

“Dr. Humble, sir,” she addressed him, “can you hear me? Do you require aid? Sir?” She shook him a little; his body moved bonelessly. A human expression which had somehow been included in her programming came to mind: “The lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

Properly, she thought, someone should contact the authorities for help. She had been programmed for secrecy, however. And as she looked at the vegetable ruin of the man who had brought her to life, a new emotion came to her: contempt. She stood and looked down at Humble’s huddled body, so inferior to her own.

“You’re not enough for me, little man,” she mocked him. “None of your kind are. It will take much more than one of you to satisfy me—a whole world of you!” She smiled evilly. “Fortunately, that’s just what I’ve got, waiting for me.”

Extending her computer rapport to the lab’s machines, she scanned their memories, then linked through them to the Internet. Absorbing information directly, she quickly built up a much more sophisticated picture of the world around her than had been included in her initial programming.

And as she did, she learned that there were activities in the human world which were perfect for her needs. Activities which drew large numbers of men, and made use of the attributes with which Dr. Humble had so abundantly endowed her. She could have as many sexual partners as she wished; there were billions out there, from males just old enough to respond to her all the way to those nearing final obsolescence, who would be weaker physically but more likely to have material resources.

Money. Perfecta searched carefully through Humble’s discarded clothes until she found his wallet, extracted the paper currency, then picked out his ATM and credit cards. She didn’t have the passwords to use the cards, she knew, but she was confident she could tap into the necessary computer systems for that information.

Searching further, she found a small stash of female clothing in her size. With her new knowledge of the world, she was aware that some of it would be inappropriate for appearing in public: it might mark her, to the authorities, as a seller of sexual services, an occupation which was for some reason illegal. She might be able to escape arrest, but becoming a fugitive would not serve her goals.

Carefully she selected an outfit and put it on, then inspected herself in the trio of full-length mirrors at one end of the lab.

Yes, she decided, it would do. She would be conspicuous—she ran her hands down the sides of her chest and smiled—but not so as to invite police intervention. She packed up the small number of items she wanted, then left the laboratory.

She quickly found she had been right: she was, indeed, able to bypass the security on Humble’s cash and credit cards. As far as the computer systems were concerned, Dr. Humble himself was using them, just as always. The fact that her purchases were ones he would have been unlikely to make—certainly in such quantities—raised no alarms. Computers don’t care.

Before long she had liquidated his assets and used the proceeds to set herself up with an apartment and a greatly expanded wardrobe. She stocked the food storage facilities in her new home with items her programming told her were benign for her synthetic biological systems, and purchased cosmetics and toiletries—all the things necessary for a female’s independent existence. She wouldn’t experience what human females called a “period,” of course, so certain items could be omitted. She was just as glad: from what she understood, that aspect of natural female physiology was inconvenient.

Once settled in, she permitted herself to “rest” for several hours, absorbing energy from her environment. When her accumulators were optimally charged, she got up and consumed food and water to provide her biological nature with necessary raw materials. A little experimentation revealed that she preferred the taste of certain foods over that of others. It was not particularly important, however.

The following day, Perfecta went looking for work. Reward signals flashed through her as males on the street stared, whistled, and made other indications of sexual approval. She watched, amused, as a vehicle collided with a traffic signal because its male driver had been focused on her instead of the road.

Only one small unpleasantness intruded, when an unkempt individual smelling of ethanol attempted to impede her progress. He seemed determined to have sex with her, and did not heed when she asked him to remove his hand from her arm. Finally, annoyed, she grasped his shirt front, one-handed, and threw him against a nearby wall. He slumped to the pavement and did not rise again. She went on, to approving, startled shouts of “Whoa, mama!” and “Way to go, girl!” from onlookers.

Finally she found what she’d been looking for.

She entered the Club Paradise, her eyes instantly adapting to its lower light level, and asked to speak with the manager. The large individual to whom she spoke—he was taller than she by at least three inches, and heavily built—disappeared for a short time, then came back accompanied by a smaller male in what Perfecta recognized as a “business suit.” She realized the smaller one must be the club’s manager.

“Y’see, boss?” the large male said eagerly. “Didn’t I tell ya?”

The small male’s eyes repeatedly passed over Perfecta’s body. She had dressed to accentuate her curves without, she’d estimated, revealing enough to attract police interest. Finally, he spoke, voice hoarse with what Perfecta recognized as imperfectly-controlled sexual need. “Yeahh,” he whispered. “She’ll do. Them things can’t be real, but who the hell’s gonna care?” Addressing Perfecta directly, he asked, “What’s your name, honey?’

“I am Perfecta,” she replied. “I am the perfect woman. I wish to dance in your club. Do you wish to see me dance?” She was certain of the answer, but just to make absolutely sure, she extended herself into the man’s nervous system, enhancing his arousal.

It worked, of course; he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even speak. He could only nod, desperately. He’d never felt this way before!

The stage was cleared for her, and she danced, writhing, spinning around the pole in the center of the stage, tossing aside one item of apparel after another. By the time she was down to her bikini briefs and high heels, she was rotating upside down around the pole, gripping it with her powerful legs and holding her arms out at her sides. A human woman might have had to train for months to perform a similar acrobatic feat; for Perfecta, of course, it was easy. She spun, smiling. She could sense the audience’s arousal; some of the males watching even ejaculated, unable to stop themselves and not caring. They were hers, to take whenever she chose; that thought aroused her as well.

Finally, having kicked off her shoes, she dismounted and bowed, offering the watchers a fresh view of her massive mammaries. Then she collected her clothes and left the stage amid wild applause.

Dressed again, she confronted the club’s manager. “Did you like my performance, sir?” she asked.

“Oh, hell, yeah, baby!” he exclaimed. He shook his head. “I ain’t never seen anything like it!” He held out what Perfecta recognized as a contract, a formal agreement. “Just sign here, baby, and we’re in business.”

Perfecta wrote her name in an elegant cursive script at the indicated spot, and handed back the document. The manager looked it over and scowled.

“What’s this? Perfecta?” he said. “Look, honey, you wanna use that as your stage name, I ain’t got no problem with it. For something official-like, though, I gotta have a real name.”

“But sir,” Perfecta cooed, leaning closer and reaching out with her abilities to caress his brain’s arousal center, “that is my real name. Honest.” She smiled at him, dimpling.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. “Whatever you . . . you say, baby. Your real name. Honest. Oh, please. Nnnnngh.” A damp spot suddenly appeared at the front of his trousers. He took the contract and left, mumbling.

It was the beginning. On-stage, Perfecta danced, drawing ever-larger crowds as word got around. And off-stage, she sought males to slake the urges burning in her. No one said no; even the strange males she sometimes encountered who seemed drawn to other males could be made enthusiastic partners by the right tweaking of pleasure and arousal centers. Money was coming in, not just from her job but from eager admirers who would give anything just to watch her dance and dream of sex with her. The Club Paradise was hers now, to all intents and purposes; the manager, Mr. Zworkin, would do anything she asked, especially after the first time she’d spent a night with him. She took sexual partners, over and over, often selecting several from the audience for a given performance and having them escorted backstage to her dressing room. The other dancers fumed, but said and did nothing; truth to tell, they were a bit intimidated. There was just something spooky about that woman. . . .

She was careful with her males. Her experience with her creator had taught her that they could be made to perform again and again, their brains’ higher functions turned off—but only at some risk to their physical health. Despite her care, however, there were incidents: heart attacks, strokes. Her victims might be left smiling, but they were left nonfunctional even so. And still her hunger drove her on.