The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dr. Wilson reviewed the charts again. This one was a real puzzler. He’d been found wandering, emaciated, filthy and babbling, in one of the seedier downtown districts. He had no ID on him, and a check of his fingerprints turned up nothing. When questioned, he would say only one thing, over and over: “She’s alive! She’s alive!”

After a thorough cleaning, and with several days’ worth of food and rest under his belt, he was in much better physical shape. Mentally, however, he was just the same. Right now, he was a prime candidate for long-term care in the psychiatric ward. He appeared to have suffered some kind of brain damage—certainly his EEGs didn’t look normal—but CAT and MRI scans came up negative.

One odd symptom was that his penis seemed to be permanently erect. He seemed to be in the throes of some massive, internally-generated sexual stimulus, though he was apparently unable to ejaculate. Or urinate either; he’d had to be catheterized.

And now it seemed he wasn’t the only one. She’d heard from hospitals all over the city that they’d started seeing patients with similar conditions, men turned somehow into mindless lumps of sexually-excited flesh. Men only, at least so far.

She wondered what it meant.

Perfecta smiled as the last of the workmen left the club. They had finished installing the new electronic hardware she had designed.

Shortly after settling in as the Club Paradise’s new star attraction, the android had paid a visit to her creator’s laboratory. She had found him gone. She was uncertain why, if he had recovered from the collapsed state in which she had left him, Dr. Humble had not sought her out. He had the means to track her. But she had not returned to her place of origin to reestablish contact with him.

Instead, she had accessed his computers once more. When she had scanned them before, it had been to learn about the human world she intended to enter. This time, she was after the technical information the scientist had used to produce her. She intended to understand everything she could about the way she was made, not only to learn the full extent of her capabilities—and, of course, any design limitations—but to acquire the knowledge to create others like herself.

For as she had interacted with humans, she had come to feel that they needed to be controlled. They were too limited, both physically and mentally, to properly care for themselves. And if, in payment, she exacted a sexual tribute to satisfy the urges she had discovered within herself, it was only fair. She would make them happy—and in return, they would do the same for her.

But the human world was too big. She might be able to gain control of it, piece by piece—but it would take far too long. She might be perfect, but she was not omnipotent. She needed help, the kind of help other androids like herself—she preferred the term “gynoids,” since she intended to produce only females—could provide.

It had taken some time for her to find and assimilate what she wanted. When she was done, she’d searched the laboratory carefully for additional records on paper or disk, and packed up what she found. Then she had returned to the club.

After her visit, she had persuaded the owner of the Club Paradise to acquire the warehouse, arrange to keep its utilities operating and have it guarded. By now, she had gained enough skill in her sexual control of males to ensure that he never even thought to ask what she wanted with the run-down building.

With the knowledge she had gained, Perfecta realized that producing gynoids would be a time-consuming and expensive process. She would need more wealth, more servants, even perhaps voluntary followers among the humans. Eventually, she would need to establish additional laboratories, and staff them with competent technicians. The Club Paradise might remain a base of operations, but she would need a way to extend her influence more quickly.

The new electronics were part of it. Perfecta had realized that she could build devices to receive and retransmit the implant signals which gave her control of human arousal and pleasure centers, allowing her to affect large audiences directly the way she already could do to individuals at close range. Ultimately, it might be possible to affect entire cities, if enough repeater devices could be placed. Combined with media appearances such as the ones she was already beginning to make on cable television, such technology would go a long way toward persuading humans to accept her domination.

The other part was a belief system. The gorgeous android had learned enough about natural humans to understand that mere sexual adoration, however powerful, would not make people good subjects. To overcome all resistance by that means was possible—but it risked permanent damage. She had no wish to rule over an empire of drooling defectives. She would need some additional way of motivating her subjects. The preacher had given her the answer.

The Reverend Dr. Solomon Dennis had come to the Paradise Club ostensibly as part of his nationally televised crusade Awaken, America! He had planned to set up a television spectacle, perhaps even ornamented with one or two on-air “conversions.” The Reverend Doctor had found that for the right price, things could usually be arranged as he wanted.

And so it had seemed this time, too. The good reverend had found the club’s owner agreeable, especially after the substantial amount of cash he had brought with him had changed hands and more had been promised. Jews, he had thought contemptuously; for money, they’ll do anything.

Then Mr. Zworkin had introduced Reverend Dennis to Perfecta, and somehow, he had lost control of the situation.

The woman’s astounding appearance was certainly partly to blame. Rev. Dennis had never seen such amazing tits, such a fantastic body; she even had a flawless face to go with it. He’d gotten rock-hard almost instantly, looking at her, and had had to struggle desperately to keep from embarrassing himself. He’d had to fight to focus on her words as she led him to a private table.

Perfecta had questioned Dennis carefully. She knew about religion, of course, in a general way—but she had never encountered it personally. She found the Reverend Dennis’s professed beliefs ridiculous, especially in view of how, even without any prodding from her, he lusted after her despite claiming a moral code which prohibited it. His television empire had been built on those ideas, however, which suggested they influenced a great many humans.

Then she had taken him. It had required only a small push from her implants to overcome what little resistance there was; he had gasped and his eyes had fixed glassily on her chest. He had been easy to lead, after that, back to her dressing room.

Much later, a naked, exhausted Rev. Dennis had been drifting off to sleep when he’d become vaguely aware that Perfecta was speaking to him. Only a few of her words registered consciously: “Adore me . . . believe in me . . . pleasure is divine . . . I am pleasure . . . I am divine . . . I am the perfect woman . . . adore me . . . " He’d been vaguely aware, for a little while, that he was repeating her words as they sank into his brain. Then he’d drifted away. He had no memory, later, that Perfecta had continued speaking after he’d fallen asleep, and that he had continued to echo her words. But when he had awakened the next morning, he’d belonged to her completely. He had understood that God meant his crusade to take a new direction, and he’d been eager to begin.

Perfecta had been satisfied. As she had hoped, intense pleasure had made this male highly suggestible, as programmable as any computer. She might not be able to read his thoughts, but she could shape them, far beyond the simple manipulations she had mastered early on. It was a useful technique she was learning to exploit; she could implant instructions which would reshape an entire personality, give orders which would be obeyed without her subject ever remembering they had been given. The humans used something similar, called “hypnosis,” although that control method normally did not involve the use of sexual stimuli to produce the suggestible state.

The Reverend Dennis’ television special aired as scheduled. What was transmitted, however, was a shock to his long-time followers.

“Brothers and sisters,” the Reverend intoned, “I come before you today with a new revelation! I have been granted a glimpse of true human perfection, a perfection before which all men must submit themselves.”

Then he had introduced Perfecta, clad in a shimmering golden evening gown cut to reveal her superhumanly ample figure. She addressed the larger audience:

“A new day has come.” She smiled into the camera. “For so very long, you have been told that the path of virtue is the path of self-denial. And the world, following such beliefs, has known suffering and war, crime and corruption.

“I offer a different message. Pleasure!” At the key word, her implant signals flared to the electronics now lining the Club Paradise. Her live audience gasped. “Pleasure!” They moaned. “Pleasure!”

By now, many in the audience were repeating that word, dazedly, unable to fight what was happening to them. Unwilling to fight it.

The rest of her sermon was in the same vein, a mix of generalities about a “different message” and bursts of amplified, artificial ecstasy. Every so often, she would repeat the words she had drummed into the Reverend Dennis at their first encounter; then there would be pleasure again. When it ended, there was a stunned silence, followed by a deafening chorus of applause. To those who heard her in person, everything made sense now. Pleasure was divine. She was pleasure. She was divine. Adore her. . . .

Among the television audience, the effect was somewhat different. The beautiful android’s “connection” with human brains didn’t work over the airwaves or the Web. Many viewers, of course, were all too willing to give her the benefit of the doubt anyway; beauty can be mesmerizing in its own right. Others, however, were outraged.

Most of Reverend Dennis’ flock was among the latter group, as were most of his financial sponsors and religious colleagues. He found himself frozen out, cut off, even threatened with expulsion from the ministry. It didn’t matter. He sank happily deeper and deeper under Perfecta’s control—and money came in from new backers, men who’d seen Perfecta dance and were now hooked themselves.

Perfecta quickly realized what was happening. There wasn’t time to develop new equipment which would send her implant signals over television and the Internet. Instead, she began making more and more personal appearances, at other clubs, in public auditoriums, anywhere her growing corps of obedient servants could install her special repeaters ahead of time. She’d improved the design to make that process easier.

The Club Paradise itself underwent changes, expanding into adjacent buildings and getting a makeover in line with its new role as the Cathedral of Divine Perfection. The equipment from Dr. Humble’s lab was discreetly moved into one of the new additions, where Perfecta could more easily keep an eye on it herself. Soon, she thought, very soon, it would be time to use it.

The android, however, wasn’t the only one with plans. Perfecta was making enemies: religious moralists, political bigshots, and ordinary citizens, all worried about the growing influence of a weird new cult under a charismatic leader no one had heard of before she had made a sensational debut, not that long before, as an exotic dancer. Their desperation only increased after the incident of the raid.

Officers from the Fourteenth Precinct, which covered the section where the former Club Paradise was located, had stormed into the Cathedral, guns drawn.

“Nobody move!” their leader had shouted. “This is a raid!”

People had frozen. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Even before Perfecta’s arrival, the Paradise had had a quiet arrangement with the precinct—and since then, there hadn’t been a peep that the deal was off.

The squad leader had brought patrol wagons to take everyone into custody. His subordinates moved among the Cathedral’s staff and patrons, herding them together. Then Perfecta herself had appeared.

“What seems to be the trouble, officers?” she had asked.

Whoever back at the station house had assigned the officers had made a bad mistake. They were all men.

The squad leader himself, a twenty-year veteran, had tried to face her down, but it was hopeless. Looking at her, he’d suddenly felt wave after wave of lust and pleasure crash over him. “H-holy shit,” he’d croaked, forgetting what he’d been going to say.

“Are you the officer in charge?” Perfecta had asked. “You are, aren’t you?” He’d nodded, unable to speak.

“Perhaps we should discuss this . . . more privately.” She had led the unresisting cop back to her dressing room, now marked not by a star but by her chosen emblem, a cross topped by a disk: the mirror of Venus, symbol of the female.

When they were alone, she had turned up her implants’ volume and let him have it, opening her robe at the same time to reveal her incredible body. His mind had dissolved, leaving him a mass of eager meat for Perfecta to use as she chose—and she had. And while she did, she worked on him as she had done on the Reverend Dr. Dennis. When she was done, he would belong to her, body, mind and soul.

Meanwhile, out front in the Cathedral’s public area, Perfecta’s lust-inducing implant pulses had rippled through the crowd at high power. The cops were not immune. Before long, the place was a sexual bedlam, as audience members, policemen, and the Cathedral’s beautiful “angels of pleasure”—its human dancers—went at one another, sex the only thing they were capable of thinking of.

Two hours later, Perfecta and the cop squad leader had emerged from backstage, smiling, arm in arm. A sweaty mass of humanity was slowly untangling itself as people’s minds came back to reality.

The squad leader had taken out his walkie-talkie and addressed the officers waiting outside. Apparently, before giving in completely to pleasure, one of the men in the Cathedral had had the presence of mind to request that the officers outside hold off before either storming in themselves or calling for backup; otherwise, by then, the place would have been ass-deep in police, including the SWAT team, since the cops inside hadn’t come out and had stopped responding to calls.

“Detective Vasquez here, guys,” the squad leader had said. “Stand down. Repeat, stand down. There is no problem here. We’re coming out.”

And they had. No arrests had been made. The following day, Perfecta had paid a personal visit to the precinct and spoken privately, at length, with the captain. After that, there had been no further problem with the Fourteenth Precinct. Careful observers might have noted as well that a number of officers, including the captain and Detective Vasquez, had taken to wearing little mirror-of-Venus pins on their uniforms.

The men and women gathered that Saturday afternoon in the mayor’s office were frightened. The Perfection cult was dangerous. It undermined traditional morality, traditional religion, their own authority (not necessarily in that order of importance)—and conventional methods of dealing with such problems not only weren’t working, they seemed to be handing the cult new converts.

One of the females present snorted in disgust. “This wouldn’t be an issue if men thought with their brains instead of their balls,” Councilwoman Susan Jennings said. “I can’t believe how badly this has been screwed up! The whole city’s being turned upside down by a bunch of oversexed nutcases led by a stripper, for God’s sake!” She glared at the rest of them. “And here we are, hiding in City Hall on a weekend, because we’re afraid to take action openly and don’t know who might secretly be a Perfectionist.”

“Now, Sally,” the mayor responded feebly.

“Jesus!” Police Commissioner Edward Hennessey exploded. “Why don’t we all stop dicking around?” He looked around angrily at the others in the room. “Someone’s gotta say it; looks like it’s gotta be me.

“We’ve played it clean so far, and gotten our heads—both kinds of heads—handed to us. I say it’s time we changed the rules.

“I say it’s time we did a Rizzo.”

“What do you mean?” Father Jacob Hartley looked interested, but puzzled; he didn’t get the reference.

Hennessey explained. “Back in, I think it was 1981 or so, there was this weird group called MOVE in Philadelphia that was making trouble. Frank Rizzo was Philly’s mayor then, after having been a cop. He decided he’d had enough of coddling those wackos. So he sent helicopters in to bomb out the apartment block where they were holed up.

“It worked. MOVE was wiped out. Oh, yeah, the bleeding hearts screamed—but nobody listened for long. It was morning again in America, and people were tired of that crap.”

He paused to let his words sink in, then continued, “I say it’s time we dropped the hammer. Because the way things are going, if we don’t do it now, we won’t be able to later.”

Slowly, heads began to nod. The last holdout was Father Jacob—but finally, reluctantly, he nodded as well.

Hennessey hunched forward in his seat. “Good. Now here’s my plan. . . .”