The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

EPIC FAIL!

One would expect to see such a trite phrase on the front page of the Daily News or the Post, but not as the headline of the Old Gray Lady. Yet there it was, and by that token, I knew it was done and I could return to my proper existence. I gave the man at the counter his money and looked at the headline one more time. Epic Fail: Central Worldwide Bancorp Loses Ninety-Five Percent of Value on Risky Investments; Government Denies Bailout; Other Banks Crack Under Asset Pressure.

Satisfaction at a job well executed aroused me and caused my panties to dampen under the pressure. I reached into my pocket and clipped my CWB ID to my waist before walking to the nearest CWB branch. The riot gear on the police was overkill, but still worth a photo on my company-provided iPhone, more evidence of the extent of the damage I had helped do. There were benches across the street from the line, which stretched all the way down 42nd Street down to the porn shops on 8th Avenue. The NYPD were already looking to bend the line before human gridlock caused automotive gridlock. It was barely seven-thirty in the morning; CWB would not approach its doors, much less consider opening them, for another hour, but already the bank run was on.

To file my report, I pulled out my laptop, but it turned out that I would be delivering my report in another manner. Another woman sat down next to me, her black hair processed straight, her skin brown, her features and figure attractive. She was several years older than I was, and her patterned dress was as colorful as my skirtsuit was plain. Those who did not know our secret would not know that underneath the wildly different exteriors, we were exactly the same. But she pressed her ankle to mine to inform me of the sheer silk that glazed her legs, and though I had never seen her before in my life, I knew we were part of the same operation.

“Here to laugh? I gave six years of my life to that branch. You one of those home office vultures, here to see what your recklessness has done? Here is your proof,” she said in a Jamaican accent. But her hand on my knee told me the truth. I had a cover to keep.

“Giving homeless people homes is one thing. Giving homeless people mortgages is another,” I replied, moving her hand back to her own knee and sneaking in a swipe under her dress. Inside we were both smug with satisfaction, melting with pleasure, but we gave no outward sign.

My laptop dinged, and her phone buzzed, and we both checked our e-mail to confirm the end of the operation and our next destination. Our IDs went into the trash at the same time, and the black woman gave me a nod. I followed her to the bus station, ignoring the people who rushed around us, and into the restricted passageway. She lifted her skirt and removed a black key from her garter. I lifted my skirt and removed a black key from my garter. As we turned our keys together to admit ourselves to the secret room, we could finally say who we were.

“Isabelle 3/15/95,” she said, her eyes falling to my skirt.

“Tina 8/6/07,” I replied.

Isabelle 3/15/95 was senior to me, therefore she controlled me. She pointed at one of the many beds in the hidden room. I was already down to my pantyhose and bra when the order reached my brain. I rolled down my pantyhose, lay down on the bed, spread my legs, and submitted to my senior’s ministrations. My mind shut out everything that was irrelevant. I felt her tongue in my slit and heard the mantra that had guided my life for years.

“The invisible hand controls everything. Everything is controlled by the invisible hand. I am the invisible hand. Everything about me is controlled, and I must control everything in turn.”

The words repeated themselves in my empty mind, the only words that mattered, as Isabelle brought me deeper into the throes of orgasm. My body climaxed and my brain shut down. I was released. My hands undressed Isabelle 3/15/95 and my body followed the instructions she gave me to bring her under in her own way, but I saw nothing and thought less. I was controlled to follow instructions. I was the invisible hand. I was controlled to control.

When my duty to Isabelle 3/15/95 was done, she lay on the bed next to me, as mindless as I was. A screen lit up. We were given commands. We dressed in the black suits that were left for us, then left the room and boarded a bus that was waiting for us. The bus took us to a private plane. The plane took us to a bus. The bus took us to headquarters. We were undressed and brought into the main auditorium with hundreds of our brothers and sisters in arms who had been assigned to the destruction of CWB.

We didn’t know where we were. Headquarters was headquarters. Where it was in the world was irrelevant. The invisible hand controlled everything. Everyone was the same. To be able to control, one had to be controlled. Each of us had two identifiers: the first name we were born with, and our date of inclusion for rank and seniority. Those were all we were given; those were all that we needed. One owned no clothes, spoke no language, claimed no citizenship, had no last name. One was simply part of the invisible hand, as invisible as any other. Home was any country. Any language was the native tongue. Each of us would be equipped with the tools required to execute our task, and when we were done, we would receive our reward.

Barbra 9/10/64 appeared on the screens, as naked as the rest of us. Her last name would be familiar to an outsider, and I would recognize it from my memories if I still cared enough to access those memories for such trivia. She was simply Barbra 9/10/64, part of the invisible hand that guided the world to balance. She was on the board, successful and rich, and she ran that quarter of headquarters, a voice and a face on a screen in a room above the cold steel bunker that housed us.

“The economic correction is complete. CWB has ceased to be relevant. Five years is the minimum restoration time. I will call forth the twenty who have excelled out of this silo to continue the correction. The rest will be given a mate and continue as scouts and recruiters,” she boomed out to the entranced masses. “The first five are LaTonya 12/3/01, Meili 5/7/98, Nicole 4/2/04, Surawati 2/10/10, and Georgia 8/8/93.” The first five walked to the center, sat down, and let the lift take them to the board office. As the lift rose, so did the strictest control. Feeling returned to my arms and legs, and I blinked for the first time in likely hours.

“I see it, you know,” Isabelle 3/15/95 said to me. She had been behind me the entire time—hours, days, who knew? Time was not relevant, merely results. “You want to be on that lift, and not just to be devoured by a board member for their pleasure and yours.”

“Pleasure of the flesh affirms the control over me,” I said, in case she was testing me.

“Yes. But you want more. You want the experience. You want the feeling of green blood oozing down your hands as you slaughter another fat pig of economic ruin, and you would drink the tears of those left impoverished by our actions like the finest wine. Come. I like who you are. You would be unhappy as a housewife penned in by a white picket fence. You don’t even want the money, do you?”

“Personal wants are not within my control. My ambition is to serve the invisible hand.”

Isabelle 3/15/95 smiled. She had a beautiful smile. It was probably more beautiful when she set a correction in place. “And all I want is to feel a strong man of the hand inside me, to raise someone knowing of what we are and to go back to Jamaica and return the wealth I took from greed so I can share it to those who deserve it. We are allowed to want things, Tina 8/6/07, as long as we use those desires to fuel us. Sometimes we are too good at what we do, and we remain even when we do not want to, so we go again.”

With some of the most senior members, I wondered if mind-reading was a learned skill. I hoped it was, so that when I became a more senior member, I would be able to use it to better effect my corrections. “If I were from Jamaica, I would want to return there. If you were from Idaho, you would not want to return,” I explained with a smile as the banquet rose from behind the screens and we went for our meal while the board considered their next group of operatives.

“A joke!” she said, delighted. “Beautiful! Tell me, how did the hand seize you up?”

Her tone was firm, and I couldn’t say no to her. She was senior to me, therefore I was subservient to her. I grabbed my plate and sat down next to her and said, “This is what I know as my original past...”

Idaho is a place with more potatoes than people, especially for someone not near Boise. For those who knew farms and vast prairies with the blue sky wide open above them, little mattered more than those potatoes. I had a handsome boyfriend, loving parents, and enough intelligence to find my way to the strange blue world in Boise, instead of being fed to the Bengals or carried off by the Vandals. But those were the furthest reaches of my horizon. I had simple friends and a simple life, with the simple goal of forging my own version of that simple life, with a husband who had a well-paid job-maybe selling cars, or farm equipment—while I raised as many of the finest children as I could possibly handle.

Luke Moyer was more than happy to help with the last part, as were many other guys. Having pure golden hair and a figure that dispelled the myth of potatoes being fattening helped. Being the oldest sister in a large family also helped. In a town of two hundred that fed into a regional high school of two hundred, knowledge went as far as looks when it came to finding a boy. It also meant that change was easy to spot.

“Holy cow! What did they do to our school?” I exclaimed on the first day of senior year. The better question might have been “what didn’t they do?” The classrooms were all repainted, whiteboards replaced blackboards in every room, the history textbooks had been brought out of the Cold War (which meant we would finally have a school where the class wasn’t deathly afraid of going to Moscow), the cheerleaders were showing off their newer and tighter dresses, the football field was as colored as Boise’s (except for the fact that our team colors were brown and black, which made the turf look like dead grass), and the football players had nifty uniforms and helmets that fit and protected them.

“Orange County got squeezed—bad mortgages, stupid loans, all that other material crap they didn’t need. Some ran on home, and some of them still had some money, so they gave it to us! See, hard work does get rewarded! We also got a couple of new teachers, so Mrs. Allen can finally retire,” the principal explained with the smile of a lottery winner.

“Finally!” everyone cheered. I was first among them. Mrs. Allen was my aunt on my mother’s side, and she used that fact to her advantage whenever I had to deal with her.

After that shakeup, things settled back down into the usual high school grind—except for Mrs. Ward, the Mrs. in clear print, the Ward in an exaggerated scribble, always with the day’s date next to it. She was stacked for a woman of her age, with the looks of a starlet and fashion sense that made the cheerleaders either turn red with embarrassment or green with envy, depending on their modesty. I nudged my boyfriend and informed him, “Lukas Stephen Moyer, if you’re lucky, I’ll just dump you if I catch you staring at Mrs. Ward.”

“And if I’m unlucky?”

“I’ll tell her!” I said with a grin right before the bell rang.

From the first day, I knew Mrs. Ward was not just a normal teacher. She held the class’s attention with the skill of an actress, knew her history like a professor, and told side stories like a grandmother. But she also had a ton of quirks. The weirdest was that she matched our names to our birthdays. It was true the school board sorted by birthday on grading sheets, but she sorted everything by birthday. We got used to not being in alphabetical order. The next weird bit came in October.

“October 13th... it’s your birthday, right, Willa?” she asked with a more than measuring eye on Willa. Plenty of my classmates were farm kids, but Willa was the one who looked the part. She seemed chubby, but that came from lifting twice her weight in hay during the summer, not from sampling half the ranch’s livestock. She was a nice kid, even if her biggest dream was to own the farm. She only needed C’s to get through, and that was all she could get.

“Yes, Mrs. Ward,” she said quietly.

“Well, turning eighteen is a big deal. Talk to me after class. It’s a special day, after all,” Mrs. Ward said.

Everyone chuckled. Our teacher was clearly clueless as to the normal after school activity of those who had just turned eighteen and were already in a committed relationship, like Willa was with Zeke.

A couple of us waited outside after class, just to see what the big deal was. Willa came out holding a thick book. “She’s awful nice and all, but I don’t think I could get through a book on other nations,” she said, holding out Mrs. Ward’s birthday present—a copy of The Wealth of Nations.

“Huh. That’s weird. Well, think about it this way—it makes a great counterweight or doorstop,” I suggested with a smile before heading to calculus class.

It wasn’t just her own classes. Mrs. Ward was everywhere, at every sporting event, helping plan every social function, advising the student council, overseeing the student newspaper (though in a school the size of ours, it was more of a quarterly special). Most people were impressed by her dedication, but thought that something was just a little off about her. She wore the same black skirtsuits everywhere, with either bare legs or stockings no one could see, and always talked about things in terms of economics. Microeconomics, macroeconomics, it didn’t matter. When we got up to the World War II unit, she talked as much about the various depressions as she did the war, tying everything back to the crash in 1929 that started it all, and pointing out that the war fueled the economic recovery for the Allies, while it crippled the Axis.

“Goebbels couldn’t put forth Hitler without poverty allowing the people to become so desperate that they bought into his message,” she said emphatically, and we all looked at each other like she’d lost it.

But weird as it was, her approach worked. We learned more history than ever, and it was more interesting than ever.

“Need me to be your escort?” Luke asked.

“Sure. Uh, for what?”

“Well, you’re old enough to vote, smoke, gamble, and get Mrs. Ward’s big speech about water and diamonds,” he reminded me, which I admit was not the first thing I had in mind for my eighteenth birthday. “So do you want me to be there?”

“Huh?”

“Right, you don’t hang out with the jocks. Heard more than one rumor she’s a dyke who likes to stare—never touch, but absolutely stare. And you know how creeped out Harriet got when Mrs. Ward insisted on seeing her after school,” Luke growled, ready to turn into my guardian bear at the slightest word.

“The word is lesbian! And hello, Mrs. Ward? She’s married! Jesus, is that all you boys talk about? Who likes girls? I guess I have work to do tonight,” I shot back.

“Yeah, but these were the girl jocks.”

“You’re not helping your case, Lukas! Half the soccer team hangs out with the crazy megachurch! You know what kind of bizarre ideas they have about that!”

“Exactly! I know you think I’m just being a jealous boyfriend, but I heard a couple of stories that she likes to... ummm, measure you.”

“You mean like the boys do?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, but we’re not teachers! I’d be just as pissed if it was Mr. Vickers,” Luke replied.

“That’s a lie and you know it. You’d be more pissed ‘cause you’d be afraid I’d say yes!” I teased him, sticking my tongue out and waving it wildly. He’d convinced me that he was just passing along rumors and not having fun with homophobia, but if he thought I was going to let him off easy for saying that kind of crap, he was wrong. He had to be satisfied with a kiss on the cheek.

Sure enough, Mrs. Ward was waiting for me after class. I came up to her desk and said dryly, “Lemme guess, The Wealth of Nations?”

“Tina, I believe I’m becoming famous. I have high hopes of you reading and understanding it, unlike many of your classmates. I’m looking for a specific principle here. See if you get it. Remember, economics drive everything—be grateful that you don’t have to pay five hundred dollars for that bottle of water like you should have to,” she replied with a grin.

And that was the end of it. I’d heard enough from my classmates to know that I’d gotten off easy. I was pretty sure she was right about one thing, though. Economics drove everything. It made sense that everything revolved around the almighty dollar, and that a lack of money could make people in Third World countries too poor to care about their government. Government was controlled by money and the people who had it; media controlled the people who had the money; therefore media controlled the world. The logic was sound, and made me look more closely at the way I saw everything.

So I figured it was worth a try and cracked open the book. The theory sort of made sense, as near as I could tell through the eighteenth-century English, but it was kind of boring to slog through, and I didn’t dare go back to Mrs. Ward for help. What if Luke and the soccer girls were right and she was using the book as some kind of mating call? I put it back in my backpack and didn’t think any more about it that weekend.