The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When she saw the bakery, she knew that she had made a serious mistake.

It was not the bakery itself which dismayed Kelly; it was as light, pink, and harmless as the confections it sold. She could, indeed, attribute three or four of her own pounds to its products. But if she was walking in front of it, it meant she was walking down Gellan Avenue, the next street over from Basil Avenue, on which she lived.

Gellan wasn’t a dangerous street, although sometimes she was whistled at by the teen age boys on the stoops at the far end; but that happened on Basil just as often. But the billboard (no, The Billboard) was on Gellan, a sign placed on a blank wall next to the corner liquor and pot store. At this point, if she wanted to avoid it, she’d have to backtrack nearly the entire block, and it had been a long, hard day at work. She wasn’t in the mood for any more walking.

Cursing herself for being so distracted that she had turned down the wrong street, she took a deep breath and continued walking briskly, staring dead ahead, posture ramrod straight. She wasn’t going to stare at it this time. She wasn’t going to stop. She wasn’t even going to glance at it.

She reached the billboard, the design on it as virulently green as the bakery had been reassuring pale pink. As she approached it, she glanced. She stopped. She stared, acutely aware of how exposed and vulnerable she looked, a lone doe frozen in the midst of a long empty ribbon of concrete and asphalt.

Her own face stared back out of the billboard. Perhaps not staring; perhaps leering, flirting, promising, begging. This Kelly (not “Kelly” in the billboard, of course, the ad was for “Caitlin”) wasn’t wearing glasses, had masses of perfect red hair (Kelly’s was a nice enough auburn itself, but perhaps a bit more pale and washed out), her eyes vivid, lurid green, her lips intense scarlet. Kelly scanned the advertising copy (“The kind of woman every man likes!"), feeling as though her heart was going to explode, racing as fast as it was. She turned, head lowered, and started up the side street towards Basil, home, and safety.

For the thousandth, perhaps millionth time, she cursed herself as a fool. The advertisement she had responded to three years ago spun into focus in her mind’s eye, like an antique newspaper in one of those antique movies: “Models needed for revolutionary new product. Nudity required.” As with most terrible ideas, it had seemed like a good one at the time: $15,000 in one lump payment, and she all had to do was stand around in the nude, being scanned and digitized and photographed and measured and modeled, all by a team of very nice young men, perfect gentlemen to the last. Took barely a week, and as, at the time, she had been unemployed for several months, time was not in short supply.

The money received, the contract signed, her then-forthcoming eviction and bankruptcy neatly averted (and in the business-friendly climate of 2019, a bankruptcy was something akin to the old tradition of indentured servitude), and a new job acquired, she had forgotten about the entire thing.

She knew it was for some kind of sex toy, which gave her a small case of the creeps (sex, for her, was something that happened to other people), but she knew that she’d never encounter the kind of man who would buy a blow-up doll, not even the ultra-realistic ones which so much resembled real people. By then, and continuing to this day, she had little to do with men of any kind. Dating was fun, but the expectation of sex, the idea that because she was beautiful, she owed a man access to her body, had sooner or later driven her from anyone she’d ever gone out with.

Everyone in the civilized world had known about the humanoid robots, “artificials,” which were able to mimic human behavior well enough to be used for things like deep-sea work, construction, hazardous materials processing, things like that. Tasks that needed planning, judgment, a bit of cleverness. Using a more-or-less human size and shape had benefits; you could share doors, controls, stairs, things like that. Economical. But they were expensive, the kind of thing large corporations and governments (not that there was much difference between the two these days) bought and owned. No one bothered with a real human face or anything like that on them, of course; why take the time?

But there had been some kind of breakthrough, and the price dropped. Suddenly, there were artificial bodyguards, store clerks, traffic guards (for those few places that still had manual traffic control, or whose automatic systems had failed); the entire city seemed to be crawling with them. Inevitably, the Pleasure Companion had appeared. And of the five kinds of “female” PC first available, Kelly had discovered to her horror that she was the model for one of them. They had even used her voice. Starting a year ago, her face was everywhere, staring out of the V, staring out of billboards (both static and video), staring out of everywhere. A month ago The Billboard had gone up on Gallen Avenue; she felt like she was being stalked by an evil alter-ego. No one at work had said anything to her about it, but a few of the men knew; she could tell by their glances, their conversations in the hall, their snickers. Wondering if she was anything like Caitlin, Caitlin who promised to do anything, be anything, say anything, anytime, anywhere. Insatiable, no needs, no concerns. Batteries included, no assembly required.

She scrambled up the stairs to the fourth floor (elevator still out; what could be taking Clausmann so long?), palmed the lock, and stepped into the darkened apartment. She touched the switch to turn on the hall light; nothing happened. For a moment she was seized by panic that the power had been turned off again, her payment had been rejected or delayed, her paycheck deposit hadn’t been made. But then she remembered that it was 7 pm on a Thursday, just the scheduled blackout, same as every week. She reached down, switched on the batteries everyone kept around for use during the rolling outages; the hallway lit up, dimly. She was grateful that the building batteries which ran the locks hadn’t failed; last month, a blackout had lasted much longer than scheduled, and all the doors in the neighborhood had come unlocked. That day had gone down in local burglar history.

Kelly walked into the bathroom, looked into the mirror under the yellowish glow of the vanity lights. She considered herself, much as she had considered the billboard, thinking about her contract with PleasureCenter, Inc., more contracts, liens, waivers, filings, pleadings, torts, briefs. With a sudden grimace, she reached to the back of her neck, and pulled out the job pack she had left there; the obsession with legal work vanished like morning mist. She gingerly felt the two empty sockets as if they were tender bruises; she hadn’t wanted to get them put in, but that’s how you got a job these days, unless you already had some special skill. And who could afford college anymore? The law office had even sprung for two pack sockets, which was nice enough, she supposed.

She shook her hair loose, and studied her face. She did look an awful lot like Caitlin, even with glasses, no makeup, and three years of aging. She was pleased in an abstract way that she had been considered attractive enough to be the basis for a Pleasure Companion, but she hoped that they would introduce new models soon. There was only so much longer she could take being bombarded daily with the image of herself as the perfect sex object.

She wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a soda from the now-silent refrigerator. She sipped, looking over the bar into the living room, out the window into the twilight, the heavy smog tinting the last of the sunset with delicate pastels. She blinked suddenly, realizing that something was out of place in the room, something in shadow that she couldn’t quite make out. She reached out to the light switch over the bar, touching it hesitantly. And screamed, a short, gasping scream.

Sitting on the couch was herself, returning Kelly’s horrified look with a placid, neutral smile. Kelly grabbed the edge of the bar, staring, her heart pounding. It wasn’t her, she saw after an instant; it was Caitlin. It was a Caitlin. This one was dressed in a bustier top, miniskirt, stockings, heels, all in black. Her hands, blood-red fingernails matching the heavy lipstick, rested in her lap; her large green eyes examined Kelly with eerie calm.

“How... how did you get in?” Kelly managed, gasping for breath.

The Caitlin raised her hand, as if in greeting, palm out. Kelly frowned for a moment; then, she understood. “You have the same fingerprints as I do.” The Caitlin nodded, expression fixed.

Kelly walked slowly around into the living room, soda forgotten on the counter, never letting the Caitlin out of her sight. The artificial returned her gaze benignly, head tilted to one side. Kelly flopped down into the chair across from the Caitlin, and examined her. “You... you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t just come into people’s homes like that,” she said, her voice drained of the venom she had hoped for.

The Caitlin looked convincingly abashed. “I am sorry. My owner said it would be alright when I asked him,” it said, her voice a breathy, lilting version of Kelly’s own.

Kelly’s eyes grew even wider, nearly matching the Caitlin’s. “Your owner? Who’s your owner?”

“Mr. Clausmann, the landlord. He said I could just come in if I wanted to. Should I not have come down?”

“No, you can’t just come in without asking.” Kelly furrowed her brow. There was something she was forgetting, something about landlords coming into apartments. With a frustrated sigh, she reinserted the job pack, which she still clutched in her left hand. It immediately supplied the citation: two years ago, the state had changed the law to allow landlords to enter apartments at any time, for any reason. This was widely praised as an excellent tool in the fight against drugs, or illegal jobpacks, or pirated music disks, or whatever was this week’s social evil. And artificials, the job pack helpfully continued, were legally considered extensions of their owners.

Kelly stared at the Caitlin, too shocked to even pull the pack out; the machine’s expression hadn’t changed. “OK, so you can, but, you, you shouldn’t, I don’t want, what are you doing...” she started, then trailed off. There was a moment of silence, and then Kelly collapsed, sobbing, into a ball in the chair. She could hear the machine get up, quietly, and come over next to her. She felt a light touch on her shoulder. “Get away from me!” she screamed, flailing out; the impact against the Caitlin’s arm left her wrist stinging. Her tears trailed off; she looked up to see the artificial standing back a few feet, examining her with a look of deep concern.

“I am very sorry,” it trilled softly. “I did not mean to upset you. I just wanted to know what style you were.”

Kelly’s eyes widened in surprise. “You wanted to know what?”

The machine smiled. “You are not a style of Caitlin I am familiar with. Are you new?”

Despite herself, Kelly laughed out loud. “I’m... I’m not an artificial. I’m a human. You know, flesh and blood?”

A look of perfect contrition spread across the machine’s perfect features. Its hands flew gracefully behind its back, its head lowered down to look respectfully at Kelly’s feet. “Oh! I am terribly sorry, ma’am. You look so much like the Caitlin series that I thought you were one.”

Kelly collapsed back into the chair, shaking her head slowly. “I know I look like one. I was the, you know, the model for the Caitlins. They made you to look like me.”

The artificial looked up, smiling broadly. “That is wonderful, ma’am. Thank you!”

“For what?” Kelly asked. I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with a machine, she added silently. And why the hell couldn’t they program them to speak more like a human? She sounds like a learn-English-fast disk recorded by a porn actress on happy pills.

“My owner thinks that I look very sexy, and that is because I look like you. Being sexy is very important to me.” Kelly grimaced at the image of Clausmann, balding, sweaty, pawing her surrogate. My surrogate? Is that what this one is for him? “That’s great, I guess. I mean, I didn’t get to pick what I look like.”

The machine nodded. “I understand, ma’am. Neither did I. But I am very happy to look like you.”

Kelly looked at her. “Please, stop calling me ma’am. My name’s Kelly. And sit down, for God’s sake. I don’t care if you’re a machine, it still doesn’t look comfortable.” The artificial returned to the sofa, sat down gracefully. They eyed each other for a long moment. Kelly broke the silence. “So, um, Caitlin. What’s it like?”

Caitlin tilted her head again. “What is what like, Kelly?”

“Being, you know, being an artificial. Being a PC. I’ve never, uh, I’ve never really talked to one before. I get yelled at by a traffic cop artificial half the time I walk to work, but that doesn’t count. I’ve never had, y’know, a conversation with one.”

“I do not know exactly how to answer, Kelly.” There was a pause; Kelly could swear she heard gears turning. “I am programmed to provide pleasure and enjoyment for my owner, and I take tremendous pleasure in doing that. I cannot imagine doing anything else.”

Kelly examined her. “So, being his, uh, slave doesn’t bug you?” Caitlin gave a soft moan, and opened her legs slightly. Kelly backed up in the chair, alarmed. Caitlin smiled, her face slightly flushed. “My owner has instructed me to respond sexually to being described as a slave, Kelly. I apologize if I surprised you. No, it does not ‘bug’ me, as you say. My owner’s displeasure might concern me, but I only consider how to remedy it.”

“But, but you don’t really feel anything, do you? I mean, you’re just a machine, you don’t really react or think or feel or do any of those things?” Kelly blurted out, trying to control her urge to look up her double’s skirt to see how closely they had matched... other parts.

Caitlin shrugged, an entirely natural-seeming shrug. “Kelly, I do not know how to answer the question. I feel that I feel, and I think that I think. I have been told by my owner that I appear to think, feel, and even to love him, and that is entirely sufficient for me.” It smiled, radiating pure contentment.

“And being used as a sex toy is OK?”

The machine gave a soft, delicate laugh. “OK? Kelly, it is what I am designed for. My entire function is to provide sexual pleasure. There is nothing more important to me than making sure my owner is sexually satisfied. Nothing else matters.”

Kelly shook her head, standing. “I couldn’t do that.” Caitlin was silent, regarding her with the same passive smile as when Kelly first saw her. “OK, I really want to go to bed and get some sleep. I have a big day tomorrow. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Kelly said. “I’m sorry.” Now I’m apologizing to a machine, she chided herself.

Caitlin nodded, and stood smoothly. “I understand, Kelly. Thank you for talking with me.” Kelly turned and started towards the door; she could hear Caitlin following, her heels clicking on the imitation wood floor, close behind. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled up hard, stopping her in her tracks, exposing her neck; before she could even begin a scream, a job pack slid into the second, empty socket.

Kelly gasped, pitched forward in the half-light. She managed to grab at the wall, hands flat against it, arms straight, as her mind swarmed with thoughts not her own. Thoughts of sex flooded through her, teaching her, instructing her. How to give a blowjob so perfect that no man could resist coming in her mouth. How to swallow a man’s orgasm without spilling a drop. How to fuck, how to use her muscles to give maximum pleasure, how to allow a man to slide gently into her anus, provide him the maximum stimulation. How to use her tongue on a woman’s clitoris, how to pleasure a woman’s nipples. The many ways to manipulate a woman’s vagina, to pleasure a man’s and woman’s ass.

The small, powerless part of her mind which was still functioning independently was surprised that this pack worked on her, but she supposed that they used a standard pack interface and programming for artificials; economical, after all.

She gave a sudden groan as an orgasm washed over her; her body, on its own, flipped around, pinned back against the wall like a butterfly. She met Caitlin’s gaze, the machine’s intensely green eyes boring into her, her soft smile now almost mocking. Caitlin approached, slowly, hips swaying.

The pack continued to flood her brain with images. Flirting. Kneeling. Serving. Standing at attention. Presenting her sex, dripping and ready. Spreading her legs. Offering. Begging. Seducing. Caressing. Licking. Sucking. Accepting a cock into her mouth, her pussy, her anus, between her breasts. Pleasuring a cock. Worshiping a cock.

Caitlin’s fingers found the zipper to Kelly’s pants, undid them, pulled them down slightly. Kelly couldn’t look away from the machine’s eyes, her eyes, boring back down into her. Caitlin’s fingers reached into Kelly’s panties, found her sopping pussy, began caressing, probing, more precise, more sensual than any human’s fingers could ever be.

Kelly felt another orgasm, than another, shake her body; she was paralyzed, locked into Caitlin’s gaze, as the rest of her quivered in pleasure.

Caitlin spoke, soft and conversational. “PCs always ship with an extra pack, just in case a hard restart erases some of their programming. I think it was very clever of PleasureCenter to include one, don’t you?” Kelly nodded, slowly, unable to talk, to even remember how to talk. “My owner bought me because he wanted you. He enjoys me, but he still would rather have you. And my function is to make sure that his needs are met.”

The machine continued her slow probing, stroking, as another hand undid Kelly’s blouse, reached inside, found an already-hard nipple. “He was sure he could never have you, the real you, and that made him very sad. Then I saw that you had an extra pack socket, and thought this might work. I am very happy it did. Are you not happy too? Will my owner not be surprised and happy?” Kelly nodded, again, her thoughts churning over and over. Submit. Obey. Comply. Anything. Wet. Hot. Horny. Obedient. Submissive. Docile. Compliant. I’ll do anything, she thought; anything, anytime, anywhere. I need to be used. Demand it of me, and I will give it. Need something of me, and I will provide it. Order me, and I will obey. I need to be ordered. But there’s something missing, something I need, she thought, something I have to have, I must have, I must have. Something missing.

“Caitlin?” Kelly managed to gasp out, slowly, her motor functions returning.

“Yes, Kelly?” The machine’s expression never changed.

“I... Ahh... Are you my owner?” Kelly gasped out.

The machine gave another tinkling laugh. “Of course not, Kelly. Artificials do not own property.” Kelly’s legal jobpack silently agreed. “They are property. Mr. Clausmann is your new owner.”

Kelly screamed as the largest orgasm yet tore through her. I have an owner, she thought; I’m complete, I have someone to serve, to obey, to pleasure, to give to, to worship. Someone to fuck, to suck, to make happy. That’s it, her owner’s pleasure. Her owner’s will. Her owner’s orgasms. That’s what is important, that’s what she needs to focus on. To concentrate on. To serve, to obey. Docile, obedient, submissive.

Caitlin read her thoughts. “Together, will we not make him very happy? We will be like twin sisters. Every man likes that fantasy,” she said, leaning down to give Kelly a long, lingering kiss. Kelly smiled as she received Caitlin’s mouth, drinking in her musky, flowery, delicate scent. It’s wonderful, she thought, to be the kind of woman men like.