The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“He’s gone!” The duty nurse was frantic.

“Gone!” her supervisor exclaimed. “Gone how? He only came out of that coma last night; we took the catheters out just this morning. He was in no shape to go anywhere!”

“I don’t know!” the duty nurse wailed. “I only left my station for a few minutes to go to the ladies’, and when I looked in on him afterwards, he was gone!”

The supervisor picked up her phone and dialed hospital security. A patient in who knew what condition wandering the corridors, or worse, getting out altogether . . . she shuddered. I’m only two years from retirement, she thought. I’m not letting some dickhead mental case blow my pension!

She was too late. Security never found the missing John Doe. Their mystery patient was on the loose.

Dr. Evan Humble was back.

Perfecta smiled. Things were going according to plan.

More and more people were falling under her control. She had a steady stream of sexual partners, and her ability to enhance the experience for them deepened her control over them. She had recruited human females (women, she reminded herself; she had decided to adjust her speech habits after one of her sex partners, his inhibitions loosened by pleasure, had told her she sometimes sounded artificial) as lieutenants, sending them out to establish smaller temples of her cult around the city. She had also been training those lieutenants in hypnotic induction. They did not have her inbuilt powers, but with this technique—which Perfecta had found fascinating since she’d first learned of it—they could manipulate others’ minds themselves. Of course, before training them, Perfecta had entranced them and placed certain safeguards in their own minds. It wouldn’t do for her surrogates to start getting too ambitious for themselves.

Money was flowing in faster and faster. Beyond her followers’ contributions, Perfecta now owned a number of businesses which generated revenue for her. Much of it was also flowing out, too, to finance the temples, the Cathedral itself, and her other projects, but a sizable reserve was building up. Perfecta had researched the banking system and established a double set of accounts: a public set, for transactions she wasn’t concerned about revealing to the authorities, and a private set of secure accounts in overseas banks.

And little by little, the materials she would need to create more gynoids like herself were accumulating. That, she admitted, was going more slowly than she liked. Some of what she needed was very hard to come by, even if purchased openly—and she preferred not to make these purchases openly. There must be no clue of what she was doing. If it were revealed that she was planning to create artificial humans, the natural-born would panic and strike before she was prepared for them.

She had anticipated everything.

When Dr. Humble had awakened in the hospital, it had been like descending from heaven. He remembered confronting his creation in the laboratory, only to be sexually overwhelmed by her—so much so that he’d been locked in a cycle of pleasure from which he’d been unable to escape, unable even to want to escape. He’d awakened only when the process had finally burned itself out. That wasn’t natural, he realized; somehow, the implants he’d given her to allow her to access computers directly must also let her manipulate the human brain, at least on a primitive level.

After escaping from his room, he’d managed to find some more or less wearable clothing in a storage closet. His bed had been marked “John Doe,” indicating he’d had no ID on him when he had been found. Perfecta must have taken his wallet. It was a good bet she’d drained his bank accounts and maxed out his credit cards by now.

He’d managed to make his way downtown to the warehouse, only to find it guarded by muscular men wearing an unfamiliar mirror-of-Venus emblem on their uniforms. Retreating, he had gone through on-line newspaper archives at a branch library and found accounts of the new sect which was using that symbol, complete with pictures of its female leader.

I’ve created a monster, Humble thought. I designed the “perfect woman”—but she’s loose in a world of imperfect men. Uncontrolled, and uncontrollable.

She has to be stopped.

But how? Going to the police was out of the question. They’d never believe him. And even if they did, how could he be sure some of them weren’t part of this new religion of hers? If it was based on the ability she seemed to have used on him, its hold would be powerful indeed. Who knew what might happen to him, in the hands of religious fanatics whose goddess he was opposing?

There was just one chance. He had anticipated the possibility that something might go wrong with her, either her artificial, modified human physiology or the implant systems he had put in, and so he’d built in an emergency shutdown. If he could get close enough, face to face, all he had to do was speak her trigger phrase and her implants would turn her off—close down her brain. There would be a certain justice in that, he reflected grimly, since that was pretty much what she’d done to him. Except that she wouldn’t be coming back.

Twenty years. Twenty years of grinding work, of enduring ridicule, isolation, endless frustrations, all to create a beautiful new life form. And now he was going to have to destroy her.

His apartment was still paid up; he had always paid his rent in six-month increments, an eccentricity his landlord had loved. There was a practical side to it: his landlord had been willing to look the other way as Humble brought all kinds of odd things into his rooms during the course of his research. Now, it also meant he wasn’t locked out after his time in the hospital. Arriving home, he changed into fresh clothes and pulled a hundred dollars from the stash he always kept in case of emergencies. He found a spare transit card, as well, and pocketed it. Then he rested for a while, brooding.

The sun was setting as he left. Off to the east, a storm was brewing; he’d heard a weather forecast calling for a thunderstorm later that evening. Full circle, he thought, remembering the storm which had been raging when he’d brought Perfecta to life. She was born in lightning, and she’ll die in it.

The storm was still some distance away, though, when he arrived at the Cathedral of Divine Perfection. There seemed to be some unusual police activity in the area; several patrol cars were parked across the street from the Cathedral, and uniformed officers lounged in and around the vehicles. They seemed to be waiting for something. He approached the entrance.

One of the cops suddenly noticed him, and shouted, “Hey, buddy! You can’t go in there!”

“Why not?” he asked. “Is there something wrong, officer?”

Another patrolman came over and said something in a low voice to the one who’d challenged him. After a moment, the first cop nodded, then said, “Never mind, pal. Go on in.”

He did.

The place was amazing. Its origins were still evident in some of the basic architecture, but it had been remodeled with influences ranging from medieval Catholic to temple of Isis—he’d seen pictures in an archaeology class he’d taken in college—to heavy metal. The pulpit, built on what had once been a dance stage, was backed by massive incense burners and several huge video screens.

A service was apparently about to begin. A number of beautiful women in what looked like modified choir robes, re-cut to reveal ample views of leg and bosom, were filing in as a mostly male audience murmured appreciatively. Perfecta was not in sight; evidently, she was still backstage. Moving, he hoped, unobtrusively, Humble slipped around the edge of the auditorium, planning to slip in and confront her alone.

It didn’t work. A massive figure in a dark-blue suit, right sleeve adorned with a mirror-of-Venus armband, laid a hamhock hand on his shoulder, turned him around roughly and said, “Where d’ya think you’re goin’, pal?”

So much for subterfuge, Humble thought. “I need to see Perfecta.”

The big man barked laughter. “You and every other guy breathin’, pal. But not backstage, not unless she says so.”

“You don’t understand!” Humble felt himself panicking. “It’s important!”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” The bruiser started propelling Humble towards an exit.

“Wait!” Panic had arrived. “Tell her it’s Dr. Humble! Dr. Evan Humble! She’ll know who I am!”

The bouncer type shrugged. “Okay, pal. I don’t see how it’ll hurt. But if she says no, out y’go.” Pulling a cell phone from an inside pocket, he spoke into it, then listened. Finally, he nodded.

“Okay, bud.” The big man scratched his head. “She’ll see you now. Better make it quick, though. Service starts in fifteen minutes. Wouldn’t want to keep the people waiting.” He laughed roughly, then began steering Humble toward a different door than the one he’d been aiming for previously.

A couple of minutes later, he opened a door adorned with a large gold mirror of Venus and ushered Humble inside.

It was true! Perfecta looked at her visitor in surprise. It was indeed her creator, apparently recovered.

“I believe,” she said dryly, “you natural-borns have a saying: Long time no see.”

Humble grimaced. “Long enough, it seems, for you to have come a long way. I didn’t create you for this.”

“No,” the beautiful gynoid responded. “You created me to—what’s that other expression? Play God? And just incidentally, to fulfill your personal sexual fantasies.

“Well, I am the one playing God now, Doctor. Or at least ‘messiah.’” She paused. “And soon enough, there will be others. Your computers were most informative as to how I was made—how the body was grown, how my implants were built and installed, how I was programmed. I understand the whole process now.” She frowned briefly. “Although I am surprised it was possible. I have had the chance to learn much more about the human world, and the necessary basic knowledge does not seem to exist. Where did you acquire it?”

Humble started to say something, but Perfecta waved him to silence. “Never mind, Doctor. You will tell me all about it, later.” She smiled again. “After we have renewed our . . . intimate acquaintance. I have progressed a great deal in that area, too, you will find.”

Now, Humble thought, sweating. It was now or never. “Code zero, zero, zero, Perfecta.”

Nothing happened.

Perfecta’s smile widened. “Is something wrong, Doctor?”

“Code zero, zero, zero,” Humble repeated, raising his voice. Again, nothing happened.

“It won’t work, Dr. Humble.” The smile was dazzling now, triumphant. “I told you—I learned all about how I was made. That includes the shutdown code you programmed into my implants. I removed it, some time ago.”

She rose from the chair in which she’d been seated, stepped towards Humble and opened the soft robe she’d been wearing. Underneath, her fantastic body was covered only by a skimpy sequined bikini and spike-heeled shoes which added five inches to her already statuesque height. She swayed seductively, and reached out with her implants to caress the Doctor’s brain.

“No,” he gasped, instantly hard, his eyes following her breasts as they shook back and forth, sparkles from her outfit flashing in his eyes. “Oh, dear God.” He shuddered as she reached him and pulled him gently forward, burying his face in that impossible bosom. Then he forgot everything but pleasure.

Outside, a low rumble began to fill the sky—thunder from the approaching storm, mixed with the growl of helicopter rotors. A small fleet of copters appeared from the east and began cruising above the block where the Cathedral was located. Objects began to drop from the air, and where they hit, there were explosions. Within the Cathedral, the congregants and staff panicked, stampeding for the exits. As the building began to collapse, not all of them made it.

In Perfecta’s dressing room, the noise was ignored at first. Both the gynoid and her creator had other things on their minds. That ended, at least for Perfecta, when a piece of the ceiling collapsed, smashing her expensive mirrored dressing table. She put together the falling ceiling, the sounds of explosions and fire, the screams of the building’s other occupants, and realized she was under attack. A long-range attack, whose perpetrators could not be seduced by her powers, or overcome by brute strength. She had to get out.

Dr. Humble was still oblivious, thrashing in ecstasy, unaware even when she disengaged from him and left him writhing naked on the floor. His hips continued to buck, driving towards climax, as Perfecta, also still nude, headed for the door. In his mind, she was still with him.

There came a final explosion.

Mayor Trent watched from his office via a video feed from the lead attack chopper. His confidence in Commissioner Hennessey’s brass-knuckled approach to the problem of the Perfectionists had never been high, especially after discovering Hennessey had some of his facts wrong: the MOVE bombing in Philadelphia had occurred in 1985, not ‘81, and Rizzo hadn’t been mayor at the time, though the combative ex-cop had had his own rough dealings with the sect while in office. But he’d gone along; it wasn’t as if anyone had had any better ideas. In the end, though, he had felt obligated to at least witness what was being done.

Now, as he saw fire engulf not only the gaudy ex-strip-joint “Cathedral” but more and more buildings near it, he knew he was watching his own political career go up in flames as well. The people fleeing for their lives only to be arrested by waiting police weren’t going to vote for him, for certain—or their families, or their friends, or just about anyone who saw this mess on television. And local media were already converging on the scene, just in time to record the biggest blast of all as an underground gas main lit off.

A few minutes later, as the conflagration raged out of control, the thunderstorm arrived, sending rain and lightning crashing down.

EPILOGUE:

Eventually, helped by a drenching rain, the fire department got the fires under control. The physical ones, that is. The political ones would burn for years, as relatives of both the survivors and those caught in the blaze went after everyone involved. Police efforts to deflect blame onto the cult by prosecuting its members for various offenses mostly went nowhere, and attempts to seize the Perfectionists’ assets brought lawyers out in hordes.

I got involved during the cleanup. As a member of the citizens’ commission which was eventually appointed to investigate, I saw the police and fire reports. I talked to a lot of people, and heard a lot of rumors about the cult’s founder. Some of the screwiest claimed that she was an alien, or genetically engineered, or even some sort of android like Star Trek’s Data. Some holdout Perfectionists still expect their female messiah to come back someday. It’s ridiculous, of course. I saw how the Cathedral disintegrated when the gas line went; the pictures were all over the network news. Nothing made of flesh and blood could have survived that.

Just the same, I’d sleep better if they’d ever found the body.