The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

This came to me one evening and I simply wrote it. It is a take on the idea of “good slavery”, “controlled to be a fitness nut”, and the way these stories do not need to be about evil mind controllers or bad things happening to the protagonists. Sometimes it is fun to read how mind control can help someone, even if the methods are not the best there are.

I hope you like it, and I hope to hear your thoughts on the story. Remember: feedback makes me grow as a writer.

A Helmet of Bells

by Mr. Scade

Sound, screeching, metallic sound woke him from a sleep that he wished had been his own making. Pushing himself off the metallic bed was difficult; the goddess of pain herself stabbed daggers at his screaming muscles, where lactic acid overpopulated them like flies in a badly kept dumping ground. If the result from copious physical exertion had been his choice he would’ve rejoiced at the feeling. Amazing how sensations can go from enjoyable pride, to a spiteful knot of disgust if the situation was not in our control.

After panting and crying at the simple motion of sitting upright, the man waited to open his eyes. He dreaded the moment—the simple action of opening his eyes would make real thoughts and fears he wished he didn’t have to think about. But he had to think about what he would be doing once he opened his eyes, and he had to think about this forced training. After a while he managed to open his eyes.

Darkness.

Once more he was wearing the helmet, he need to let his calloused hands travel over the metallic thing to know what it was; the cursed helmet, with its knobs and smoothness and cables. He could no more remove it than he could will his limbs to detach themselves from his body.

He knew very well he had only a couple of seconds before...

A bell tolled in the distance, like bells on a chapel far away.

His body jerked this way and that and his bare feet touched the cold ground. He winced, everything hurting at moving. He cursed himself for being so weak, but it had been weeks—or months—since the helmet had started to appear on his head, and he knew better than to resist whatever the helmet put in his head. Not that he knew what the helmet told him. No. Every other day he would wake with the helmet on, the bulky apparatus would just appear attached to his head one morning, and he would have no memory of trying it on or of someone putting it on him. How could he not notice when someone put a big, heavy metallic thing on his bald head? How far down the rabbit hole was he to not notice that?

Again the bell tolled and his body reacted. Every step was a painful, unknown road that would take him to his next pleasurable duty. He didn’t even call them tortures any longer. Just like breathing and dividing cells, the activities he was forced to perform just happened—he had no control over them. To retain his sanity he had had to accept them as just another part of his life. The decision was the smartest thing he had taken since he had woken up in this hell.

Other days, at least those he could remember, he would wake without the helmet on, but rather with some sort of training outfit. Someone would’ve left a note with instructions and he knew to follow them unless he wanted to face a punishment he still didn’t understand but was extremely effective. He had learned to obey the notes and the Voice and everything else. When he was feeling too desperate to comply, he would think about how different his body was from the ball of wavering grease he used to be. That thought would give him some tiny amount of strenght.

His feet carried him without hurry through hallways he might’ve recognized had he been able to hear or see. And might was the word for not even in his most lucid and seeing state could he notice any difference on the many hallways and rooms he was forced to inhabit safe the apparatus that would be there. Could it be that there was but two rooms and one hallway and they were changed constantly as to mess his thoughts?

The toll of a bell and he could think no more.

He just let his body carry him, and forgot how to think. He had to forget to think, like the helmet commanded, or else...

After a ride of almost paralyzing pain, his body stopped. There was a sweet scent in the air that he breathed in, more out of habit than the tolling in his mind. Time ago he found the stench of sweat and steel to be off-putting if a little disgusting, but after all the training—he made a sound like a sob when he caught himself calling it training, just like the Voice wanted—he was starting to like it. Really like it. Another toll of the bell and he could feel his sex grow in anticipation.

He disgusted himself, but just momentarily, before the bells made him forget the very concept of disgust. He was here to train, not to think. He wasn’t allowed to think.

He stood at attention, not because a bell had tolled, but because he had learned to do it. Every day when he woke with the helmet on, he would first stand at attention, erect, and wait for the Voice. He had to wait for the Voice and obey the Voice or he would feel the... the... He bit his tongue—it was better to feel the pain of his muscles than to think about that.

“At ease, puppet.” The Voice intoned. He heard it with his ears. He knew he must have been using his ears to hear it; that is how it usually was. But he had learned to notice the subtle difference between a foreign voice in his head and what can be heard with cochlear organs.

His body relaxed, but it was a pain to move, so he winced.

“Oh, seems your training has you in pain, puppet. That is good. It means your training is working.” The Voice echoed inside of him, making his knees weak and his manhood quiver in what he would’ve once called arousal but now described as sickening torture. “And we know you want your training to succeed, don’t we? Training will help you obey, will make you better. Wasn’t that what you wanted when you joined, puppet? To be perfect?” The Voice said the last word with an almost sexual purr that made his sex nod for him.

The thing that made him feel like a massive hole had opened under his feet was that he would’ve nodded if he could. He didn’t know what being perfect was, but if his training was any indication of it, he wanted to be perfect. He obeyed and he trained to be perfect. He knew he could no more escape than remember his name, so he should just give in and try his best to be perfect.

“Good puppet.” The Voice intoned and he couldn’t help but to sigh in delight. “Now, it is time to start your training.”

The Voice grew quiet, its words bouncing off imaginary walls, like echoes just before the distant bells began. He heard them, thought several things, and then he could think no more.

His feet moved and his body followed. He sat on something cold and unforgiving, and then he felt his own hands being strapped to a soulless machine. There was a bell ringing in his mind and he thought of bondage. He had once liked bondage, or so he believed. Sometimes, when he was allowed to think, he thought that perhaps all his thoughts were not his own but the Voice’s. Perhaps they were put there. Another toll—the idea of bondage seeped in, and then the restrictiveness of the straps along the length of his arm felt sickeningly delightful. He was so aroused now.

“Now, it is time to train.” The Voice said and he needn’t a bell to know what he was to do.

He clenched his fists and pulled something heavy, very heavy. His arms were burning, screaming, but he couldn’t stop to pay them attention. He had to train; he had to obey. He pulled once more, and then lifted his legs, which lifted something very heavy. The burning and screaming spread from his legs into his torso, and his sex danced in delight.

And he repeated the exercises, over and over and over. With every effort, with every strain, his body would react the way untrained, unobedient puppets would react to the touch of a lover. But he was an obedient puppet and his body reacted with arousal and more.

It was when his sex felt stimulation by just existing that he was ordered to stop. He would’ve counted how much he had done, if he didn’t think it irrelevant. If he counted he could not concentrate on obeying. He had to obey to know when to stop and when to continue his training.

Sweating, burning all over, his body moved towards another position. He felt a colder kiss on his buttocks and his back. He was sitting. His hands wrapped around something long and metallic overhead, and his feet touched something like pedals.

“Now, puppet. You know this one. This is where you excel. You will do well. Obey.” The Voice said. He complied.

Slowly at first his feet started to move, to pedal. He could feel nothing anymore—his muscles were lulled by pain. He couldn’t hear anything, his helmet kept all but the sound forced into his mind out; or that was how it usually was. But today, for the first time in forever, he could hear something. There was a humming sound, a delicious sound. He felt his lips curl into a smile, felt his crotch sing in halcyon tunes. The humming sound was coming from somewhere down his body: something had attached itself to his sex, he could barely feel it but it was there, in the back of his mind. And it felt so good. Almost as good as obeying. And obeying was ever so delicious.

Bells, and his arms started to pull something heavy down, one and two, one and two. He heard a toll and his breathing increased alongside the humming. The humming sound was getting louder, and the delightful feeling emanating from his crotch increased. He didn’t need to be told to have his body match the rhythm of the humming. His training was such.

Hours if not days later he heard a toll and he stopped. Panting, sweating, tired, aching, his body rose from the machine and just stood there, motionless, for a very long time.

A screeching noise brought him out of an exhausted sleep and he felt the warm floor under his feet and a pain on the small of his back. He had been standing for hours. His sex was no longer erect.

“Wonderful!” The Voice praised and he could’ve heard his voice squeal had he been able to hear anything. “You have completed your training, puppet. It is time to go home.”

Home? What was home? Wasn’t home his bed, his training? He knew his training was home, he was commanded to think like that. Why, then, was the Voice talking about another home?

But before his thoughts could get so complex he couldn’t think about training his helmet began to hum and toll a the same time. Confused and a bit scared he lifted my hands to the helmet and removed it. This had never happened. It was alien—wrong. It was so wrong, but he couldn’t stop myself. He was obeying a command, and he had to obey. He lived to obey.

A cool buffeting of cold air slapped his face, and something he had missed for a while stung his eyes. Light. It was called light. It took him a while, but his eyes adjusted and he could see again. He was in a white room, stark white room, alone, nothing around him but walls.

Then there was movement right ahead and a mirror appeared as if out of thin air. It startled him, but not as much as the image it reflected. Before everything had started, before the darkness had taken him over and the training started he had been an overweight man. Horribly overweight. But now... Who was that in the mirror?

He could’ve been looking at an Olympic athlete, a demigod, and the Roman ideal of male beauty. He still couldn’t remember his name.

“Your training is now complete, puppet. You will be collected shortly.” The Voice spoke. He was startled, even scared, at finally hearing it with his ears. It was the voice of a woman, and somewhat familiar.

But before he could think—thinking interrupted his obedience—the mirror in front of him opened like a door and a woman stood at the other side. She was beautiful, with a body like an Olympian. She was naked and glistening with sweat. Just like he was.

His wife stood before him, extending a caring arm to touch his chest. She looked up at him in a leaner face he had ever seen. “I am glad it worked.” The woman said.

He closed his eyes at a sudden realization. It was a painful realization, more painful than anything he had ever experienced. A memory, suppressed by force, came back. And he knew he should’ve been angry at her meddling, at her use of this... training to mould him into to her image of perfection. But he didn’t care. He was trained.

He obeyed.

“You?” He heard his voice, and it sounded different too. Perhaps it was the isolation or the time without hearing it, but it sounded foreign.

The woman nodded to an unspoken question he didn’t had been asked until after she answered it. He knew what had happened.

“When?”

“A year ago.”

They stood, watching each other’s bodies. Trying to remember how they had once been.

“Puppets, you may embrace each other.” The Voice spoke. He saw in her eyes the same feelings he understood. Surprise, then realization, then something akin to arousal, and then obedience. She obeyed too. She had been trained. Just like he had.

They embraced.