The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The President of the United States looked over the reports on his desk. He scowled. Something didn’t add up.

A rash of reports of a strange new disease, one which left its victims mindless zombies, had followed the spectacular meteorite shower of two weeks ago. He’d ordered the CDC to investigate, and dispatched teams from the FBI and Homeland Security in case whatever was happening turned out to be some form of terrorist assault. Soon afterward, he’d learned that governments around the world had received similar reports, and started similar investigations. None, so far, had found anything wrong anywhere.

What troubled him was the tone of the investigators’ reports. They all said that everything was fine, that there was no epidemic. They all said it in nearly identical language. The reassuring documents on his desk had a canned aspect, as if they’d been written specifically to allay fears without providing any actual information. Their suggestions that the disease warnings had been psychological warfare by terrorists didn’t ring true; actual terrorists would have been likely to have planted at least imitation germ weapons, not just rumors. And they were too widespread, especially when the international angle was figured in.

No, something was wrong somewhere. . . .

Carverville, Pennsylvania, had been a thriving town fourteen days ago. Now it was something out of a horror movie.

Mayor Judy Sommersby walked down Main Street, oblivious to the abandoned cars with smashed windshields and crumpled fenders which lined its sides. Even the overturned and still burning hulk of a schoolbus failed to attract her attention

“Do you remember what you’re to say?” the man at her side asked her.

“Sh-sh-sure,” Mayor Sommersby answered. “I’m s’posed to tell the towns—the—ev’rybody that ev’rything’ll be all right. That we’ll be taken care of. That we don’t need no outsiders messin’ in our business. Just do . . . what you’re told.” No one listening to her stumbling speech would have guessed that the Mayor had a master’s degree in business administration. Her dark-haired companion had drained all that away, leaving a simple-minded puppet. Mayor Sommersby hadn’t complained; she’d been too busy shrieking in ecstasy to notice the looting of her mind. Her inhuman seducer had known exactly how to punch her buttons.

Some of the townspeople had tried to fight back, once they’d realized what was happening. Some had died, killed by their own friends and neighbors whom the aliens had taken over. Others had been captured and their minds consumed—either completely, in the parasitic sex the aliens needed to prepare themselves for their own kind of reproduction, or partially, leaving them compliant slaves. More were locked up in the local armory, awaiting consumption. A very few had managed to escape into the countryside on foot, bypassing the roadblocks which now isolated Carverville; none, so far, had reached other towns.

And a growing number were changing into things never seen before on Earth. Once sufficiently primed by repeated sexual conquests and mental drainings of human prey, each alien would take one more victim—and transform him or her into a creature like itself. Then both the original alien and the new recruit would move on in search of more victims.

The thing which now controlled Carverville’s mayor was one of the recruits. It had been hotel clerk Gladys Connor before its mutation. Once it had awakened in its new form, the first human it had found had been the high school nurse, Alice Dixon—so it had assumed a male form. That hadn’t bothered it; it had no memory of its human existence, and no concern with human sexuality except as it related to feeding itself. It had caught the mayor the night after its consumption of Nurse Dixon, but had decided she was more useful, for now, as a figurehead than as food.

The town hall’s spacious auditorium was well packed for Mayor Sommersby’s speech. Attendance, after all, was compulsory, and disobedience—well, the townsfolk had seen what came of that. Some of the armed, foolishly smiling, dead-eyed guards who ringed the audience had once been resisters themselves.

The mayor said her piece, finishing, “Trust our new friends. They have only our best in . . . int—they don’t wanna hurt us. They just want us to help them, and do like they say.” She believed it.

Not everyone else did. The hall erupted. A beefy garage mechanic burst out, “Yeah? They don’t wanna hurt us? Just listen to yourself, Mayor; they’ve got you halfway to one of those beds in the veggie garden already! How long before it happens to the rest of us?”

“Now, Bill,” the mayor responded. “That doesn’t help.” She gestured, and two of the guards moved in to take hold of the rebellious Bill. “I’m sure you’ll see things . . . diff’rent once one of our new friends has a talk with you.” The guards moved off, towing their captive between them.

“What about the government?” someone in the back asked. “They’ll stop this!” Other voices shouted agreement.

The aliens’ leader female stepped forward. “Your government has already been here,” she reminded the audience. “We kept them from noticing anything, and sent some of our own people back with them. Soon, your leaders will belong to us, as other towns like yours already do.”

A sigh of dismay swept through the assembly. The townspeople didn’t want to believe it, but they suspected it was true. The unfortunate Bill’s reference to the “veggie garden” had reminded them of their new masters’ power to destroy human minds, and the guards ringing them were proof the creatures, whatever they were, could take control of those minds as well. The leader female’s reference to other towns under the alien yoke was a further blow.

Bill Caulfield was determined to fight whatever these . . . things did to him. He might not be the smartest guy around, but nobody’d ever called him weak. He had only a vague idea, though, of exactly how the invaders did what they did.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. His outburst had caught the attention of an alien in female form who was nearly ready to reproduce. Rather than toss him into the armory, his guards were directed to bring him directly to her.

She was occupying a room at the hotel. Because she was expected to be tending to a new one soon, she had been given the entire room to allow the transformation to proceed undisturbed.

She watched from concealment as Bill was brought into her apartment. Reaching out, she read the image she needed from his mind. Then she stepped out into view.

Bill’s jaw dropped. “M-Marilyn?” he stammered. The woman he saw was a perfect double for the legendary screen goddess, his personal fantasy woman since he’d seen her in old movies on TV when he was a kid.

“Yes, Bill dar-ling,” she cooed in the movie star’s famous breathy voice, read from his brain along with her appearance. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m all yours.” She smiled blindingly. “Take me, Bill dar-ling.”

Bill stumbled toward her. Vaguely, he thought he should be worried about something, but the thought slipped away. He took his goddess in his arms. . . .

Later, as Bill writhed in climax, eyes closed, the female’s form shifted and a sharp, stinger-like organ entered his body. He went rigid, then relaxed, an idiot’s smile on his face.

The other shifted form again, becoming “Marilyn” once more. There was no need to return to her previous woman-form; this one would do. Then, although Bill easily outweighed her by fifty pounds, she picked him up and deposited him on the bed. Soon, her kind’s number would have increased by one.

She frowned. At least there was that. This native’s mind had been less than satisfying, dull and information-poor. She was still hungry.

Fortunately, there were many more natives. When the ones here were used up, there were the people of other towns and cities nearby, and then those of others beyond. She licked her lips greedily.

Elsewhere, the leader female was organizing things according to the long-range plan she had begun to draw up. Humans with small children were to be spared, she told the others of her kind; otherwise, this species’ offspring would not survive to maturity to become consumable themselves. Older children could be cared for by smaller numbers of mind-controlled natives until their time came; their parents would join the food supply or the mind-slaves, according to need. As for the others, as many as possible should be converted. The time had come to spread beyond this settlement until they could link up with the other nuclei of their breed scattered across this land. Once they had done that, they would be strong enough to suppress any remaining resistance by the natives and link with their counterparts on the planet’s other continents.

At the national headquarters of the Centers for Disease Control, Director Joshua Gable was as uneasy with his investigators’ reports as the President had been. There was a peculiar quality to their wording, almost as if they had been dictated rather than freely composed.

Frowning, he picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. “Rhoda,” he addressed his secretary, “contact the members of the team we sent to Carverville. I want a meeting with them, ASAP.”

“Yes, sir,” the voice on the other end responded. Briefly, before he hung up, the CDC Director thought he heard a giggle, something most unlike his coolly professional assistant. No, he decided, he must have been mistaken.

The meeting he’d requested occurred shortly after lunch. He recognized several of the staff members in attendance, but not all; the CDC, after all, was a substantial bureaucracy, and he hadn’t personally named the Carverville investigators. In particular, the startling redhead who seemed to dominate the others was new to him. He wondered how he could have missed seeing her before.

She took the initiative. “What did you need to speak with us about, sir? Is there some question about our report?”

Director Gable looked into her eyes, trying to stare her down. It didn’t work. Instead, he found himself growing unaccountably flustered.

“Er, yes,” he managed after a short struggle. “There is. Um, that is . . .” He paused, trying to think how to put his misgivings into words.

The words didn’t seem to want to come. He found himself staring at the redhead, speechless, fantasizing what she’d look like naked.

She smiled, and turned to the others. “I think the Director and I need to speak privately,” she said. One of the others, a muscular young man whom Gable also hadn’t recognized, nodded, and the investigators filed out silently, leaving only the woman and Dr. Gable.

She approached him and studied him carefully. This body was very close to the ideal image she found buried in his brain; it took very little effort to transform into a perfect match. She knew she’d done the job when Gable, still unable to think of anything to say, emitted a soft moan.

She took him in her arms, and his own arms came up to hold her. She pressed herself against him, fastening her lips over his. They sank to the floor.

Presently, sated, she rose and dressed herself calmly, shifting her looks back to those she’d had when she’d entered the conference room. Then she dressed the Director as well. He didn’t resist; he had fallen asleep after climaxing, and even when he woke, he would be incapable of any but the most primitive, instinctive actions.

There was a phone on the wall by the door through which everyone had entered; she picked up the handset and dialed the emergency number she had taken from Gable’s mind.

Injecting a note of panic into her voice, she cried, “Help! Something’s happened to the Director!” When voice on the other end asked for more details, she whimpered, “I don’t know! We were talking, and he just collapsed!”

The emergency staffer she had been connected to urged her to remain calm and assured her that help was on the way. He advised her to remain where she was, in case the medical team being dispatched needed to ask more questions. In a quavering voice, she agreed.

Of course, as soon as she hung up, she calmly left. She passed unnoticed by the desk of Director Gable’s assistant, who was now chattering foolishly on the phone while her free hand opened and closed buttons on her blouse, intermittently flashing cleavage. One of the senior alien female’s companions had eliminated any possible interference from her and had a healthy snack in the process.

The following day, the President received a call from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Theodore Rossmaier.

“Sir,” the Chairman said, “we have some things we think you should take a look at.” He paused, then continued, “It’s about Carverville, sir.”

The President arrived at the JCS Command Center forty-five minutes later. He was ushered into a darkened room full of oversized computer screens, and his top military advisers showed him what surveillance satellites revealed of the Carverville area. When they were done, he was shaken.

“How could this happen?” he asked. “And why didn’t our investigators report any of this?”

The JCS chief signaled, and a new set of images appeared on separate screens. Some were still photos; others, looping video clips. All were terrifying.

General Rossmaier indicated one of the still pictures. It showed one of the aliens in the creatures’ native form. In the areas fully under their sway, they sometimes didn’t bother maintaining human form. Under maximum magnification and computer enhancement, its hideous appearance was revealed in shocking detail. “We think these—things arrived during the meteor shower—what we all thought was a meteor shower—two weeks ago.” He turned to one of the video clips. It showed one of the aliens changing shape, then seizing a human in its erotic embrace. When it was done, it got up, but the human didn’t.

Someone retched in the background. General Rossmaier coughed delicately and said, “It looks as if these creatures masquerade as humans and trap their victims with sex. Apparently, whatever they do to them, it leaves the victim mindless—thus the initial reports, which CDC believed described a disease outbreak. They literally fuck ‘em stupid.” He forced a momentary smile. “We don’t know whether recovery is possible, or, if so, how much.”

He added, “They seem to be able to exert some sort of control over people, too.” He nodded at a clip showing an open-air gathering at which scruffy-looking armed men flanked the crowd while a gorgeous woman addressed them through a PA system. “We’re pretty sure those guards are real humans; in human form, the alien fakes are all perfect specimens.”

“Jesus,” the President breathed, or perhaps prayed.

“There are more of them now than there were at first,” the general went on. “When they’ve—fed enough, they apparently inject their victims with some kind of genetic material which transforms them from human to,” he pointed to the picture of the transformed human, “that. It doesn’t take long.”

He pointed to another set of images, running on a single screen in time-lapse fashion. They showed a kind of pen holding unconscious humans, with aliens among them. As the President watched, some of the human bodies changed; then, at a certain point, they would disappear, to be replaced by fresh ones.

The most powerful man on Earth swallowed fearfully. “All this is going on in Carverville?”

“No, sir,” General Rossmaier said. “Or at least, not just in Carverville. These images were from, ah, landing sites all over the country.” His lips tightened. “We’ve been in contact with some of our opposite numbers in other countries. The same things are happening there, too.”

A phone rang, and the JCS chief picked it up. He listened for a few moments, then hung up. His face was ashen.

“That was the CDC in Atlanta,” he announced. “It’s just been confirmed: the aliens got their director. CDC headquarters is on lockdown; they’re trying to find the alien infiltrator,” he swallowed, “or infiltrators, before more staffers are hit.”

Someone spoke up: “What if they’ve already gotten out into the city?”

The President took a cell phone from his suit pocket and punched a speed-dial number connecting him to the office of the Director of Homeland Security. When the call was answered, he said, “Jack? I need you to order a Code Red for Atlanta. That situation we discussed two weeks ago has taken a very bad turn. I’m at JCS right now; we’re sending the details over the Black Shield network now.” That ought to get things moving, he thought. Black Shield had been set up to be used only in the event of a direct threat to national survival, and only when other supposedly secure networks might have been compromised. The DHS Director would get the point.

Unfortunately, something had already gotten the Homeland Security chief.

The teams Homeland Security had sent out to investigate what it believed might be a possible terrorist biological attack had come back to report they’d found nothing. They hadn’t come back alone. Each team had had at least one alien attached to it, controlling the human agents.

The aliens were growing in subtlety. They had learned that partially-drained humans, their minds still somewhat intact but utterly receptive to suggestion, were useful tools. The government teams had been taken over in just that way, their individual members ambushed, seduced and enthralled before they realized what was happening. A few had been drained completely, and were useless—but the invaders had discovered a new use for their shape-shifting, and in those cases, the being which had totally drained its target assumed its victim’s form and took his or her place.

They had lost no time in taking control at DHS headquarters in Washington.

DHS Director Jack Crosley had been looking over his field operatives’ reports when his door opened. Startled, he looked up.

For an instant, he thought he saw a trim blonde. Then, as his eyes focused on the figure in front of him, it seemed to shift, and a beautiful stranger with jet-black hair piled in a beehive hairdo stood there. Tall, elegant, she was everything he’d ever dreamed of but never quite found in a woman—certainly not in his wife, who even when young had been cut from plainer cloth.

“Who—are you?” he croaked

“Surely that doesn’t matter,” she husked at him. Calmly, as if she owned the office, she hung the wool jacket she’d been wearing on the coat tree in the corner. Then she turned back toward the stunned bureaucrat. Stretching on tiptoe, she stretched sinuously, arching her back and tilting her face to one side; her arms came up and she laced her fingers behind her head. Under heavy-lidded eyes, she smiled.

Crosley moaned softly. The woman came out of her pose and approached him, resting her palms on his desk and letting her ample bosom sway in front of him. Back and forth, back and forth, back . . . and forth . . .

Crosley was half hypnotized already when she reached forward and undid his tie, tossing it aside. A fleeting thought came to him that what was happening was wrong somehow, but then the woman cupped his face in her hands, looked into his eyes and said, “Forget your worries, Jack. Relax, and let what’s about to happen, happen.”

He obeyed. Soon the two of them were naked and the woman was straddling him on his desk, surprisingly strong arms pinning him down as his body bucked and heaved into hers. At last he climaxed, the world dissolving for him into brilliant fireworks, and then slumped back onto the desktop.

The woman climbed off and dressed, then helped the DHS chief back into his own garments. She’d managed to restrain herself from sucking his mind empty, but he was no longer his own master. She owned him now.

Director Crosley was just putting on his shoes when the President’s phone call came. No longer the man he’d been an hour earlier, he got through the call only with the help of his new mistress. At last it was over.

As Crosley put his phone’s handset back in its cradle, soft hands ruffled his thick shock of iron-gray hair. “Very good, Jack,” a rich contralto voice said. “You did just as I asked.”

“Thank you,” the top internal security official of the world’s most powerful nation whispered. He was so happy he’d pleased the owner of that wonderful voice.

The woman standing behind him rotated his chair until he was facing her, then sat in his lap, gazing into his eyes. “You can wait a while before issuing that order, can’t you, Jack?” She had reached over to push the desk phone’s speakerphone button when she’d realized who was calling her latest conquest. The President hadn’t suspected that one of the enemy was right there listening as he spoke to his cabinet officer.

“Yes, of course,” Director Crosley murmured, luxuriating in the feel of slender fingers running through his hair. “I can . . . wait a while.” He reached up and pulled the sexy brunette down to him. Their lips met.

Gently, the woman detached herself. “Later, Jack,” she promised him. Not much later, she promised herself; she could feel the need building within her. One more full feeding and she would be ready to transform another human. Perhaps, if she found someone else to feed on, she would bring the Director himself into the hive. Smiling again, she left the Director’s office, on the hunt.

It was several more hours before the Code Red order went out. By then, it was much too late. . . .

The invaders swept through DHS headquarters easily, ambushing humans there individually and in twos and threes until the complex was firmly under control. They knew exactly what to do; their communal link allowed any information taken by any one of them to be accessed by any other, and also let them coordinate their actions. Once, they would not have been smart enough to organize their strike so efficiently; now, it was second nature to them, just as it was to their counterparts in Atlanta.

By sundown, they were ready. Teams began to depart, aimed at key targets throughout the nation’s capital. Homeland Security headquarters remained under the control of a core of the aliens, who supervised the humans. The men and women who’d been totally drained were penned in basement detention facilities originally intended to hold violent demonstrators in case of mass unrest—facilities the general public didn’t know existed. The merely mind-controlled were used to keep the headquarters complex running, and to help the aliens in caring for those who had been injected with the extraterrestrials’ DNA while they slumbered and changed. A large auditorium had been converted for use as a gestation cell, its seats torn out and the unconscious developing larvae set carefully on the floor.

The last red rays of the setting sun were coming through the DHS Director’s office windows when the woman-creature to whom he belonged returned for him.

“You’re back,” he observed.

The other laughed. “Yes, Jack honey, I’m back.” She was amused to see that he’d never finished putting on his shoes after being interrupted by the President’s call; hours after she’d left him alone, he was still wearing only the right one. The left lay under his desk, apparently forgotten.

She had made her decision. She launched herself at her victim, dragging him onto the carpeted office floor. Very shortly, they were nude again and she was riding him, controlling his body, guiding it toward explosive release as she fed on what was left of his mind.

When he finally came, squealing, she responded. Her human form fell away, revealing her, its, true shape, and a dagger-sharp probe stabbed into him. Then she put her human guise back in place and casually picked him up, carrying him easily toward the gestation cell. As she walked toward her destination, she carefully assimilated the new information she’d seized from him, evaluating it coolly in search of anything useful.

The aliens fanned out from their bases in Atlanta and Washington overnight, striking at key targets in both cities. The government’s secrecy about the menace the country faced worked to their advantage; they were able to infiltrate many of their objectives without anyone realizing anything. It was easy enough to pretend to be making a delivery or answering a service call—and once inside, it didn’t take long for them to seduce and consume their way to control. Before morning, both cities’ electrical and telephone utilities were in alien hands, as were their newspapers and broadcast facilities. Strike teams were positioned to hit government offices when they opened in the morning.

Meanwhile, other nests of the invaders continued to spread. At dawn on the sixteenth day since the pod-vessel had reached Earth, the first of Carverville’s conquerors entered Philadelphia and New York City. Others were flowing into large metropolitan areas near their own landing sites. When the residents of those areas woke up and turned on their morning news programs, they learned nothing of the Atlanta Code Red; as far as they were concerned, it was just another day.

Unreported, unsuspected by the general public, the second intelligent species to inhabit the planet Earth continued to consolidate its power. Soon, if it were not stopped, it would be the only intelligent species on Earth.