The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The presidential helicopter flew over the Virginia hills, fleeing Washington for a secret refuge.

For more than two generations now, occupants of the White House had participated in leadership evacuation exercises. Originally, the drills had been focused on responding to a Soviet nuclear attack. Since 9-11, a terrorist strike had been the threat. No one had anticipated a lightning infiltration by nonhuman predators who could assume the form of a man’s or woman’s dream sexual partner, seduce the victim and drain him or her of memory and intellect, leaving a dull-witted slave or a mindless zombie—and who could also turn humans into creatures like themselves. That was the stuff of bad made-for-video horror movies, not real life.

Until now.

Behind Chopper One, America’s capital was burning.

Just three weeks ago, what had been thought to be a spectacular meteor shower had been followed by odd reports of a new disease which left its victims mental basket cases. The President had ordered the CDC to investigate, and sent in teams from the FBI and Homeland Security to check out the possibility that bio-terrorism might be involved. His teams had reported back that everything was fine.

The reports had been lies. His people had been ambushed and taken over by the mind-controlling shape-shifters. When they returned to their home bases, some of the enemy had come back with them.

Things had gone to hell with frightening speed after that. Homeland Security and CDC headquarters had been taken over first; the FBI had followed. The aliens had burst out of their new nests and moved to take over key points in Atlanta, then in Washington itself. Reports began to come in that other cities were being infested as well. The aliens’ numbers were growing rapidly as more and more humans—former humans—joined them.

It wasn’t any better overseas. The intelligence he’d gotten indicated that foreign governments had been caught as flat-footed as America had been. Paris, Berlin, London, Moscow—all had already gone under. Peking had vanished in a mushroom cloud yesterday, either deliberately destroyed or accidentally targeted by some panicky commander. No one had heard anything from Tokyo since dawn.

He’d personally issued a Code Red terror alert for the whole United States after Peking’s destruction, and ordered the immediate lockdown of the nation’s nuclear weapons. Against this foe, the bomb was useless—especially when one couldn’t be sure where the loyalties of missile tenders might now lie.

That hadn’t saved the capital.

The President sighed. Perhaps if he’d told the nation the truth about what it was facing . . . but he hadn’t dared; most of his top advisers had warned him that he risked a nationwide panic. They pointed out that Orson Welles had terrified millions in 1938 with a fictional alien invasion; how much worse would it be, they’d asked, with a genuine warning coming from the White House? In hindsight, he wondered if any of those who’d made that argument had already been loyal to another authority than his.

He shuddered. He hoped not. They’d be joining him in the Redoubt. If any of them were already mind-controlled, the country’s last-ditch leadership stronghold would be wide open.

Police Chief Thomas Cargill sat in his office struggling to make sense of what was happening around him. Only days ago, he’d been the District of Columbia’s golden boy, the black kid from Wheeling, West Virginia who’d risen to command of the police force of the District of Columbia and cut Washington’s crime rate in half in three years.

Then it had all slipped away. Overnight, the city had exploded. Growing numbers of wide-eyed, mindless hulks were shambling through the streets, until corralled by one or another of the forces of order remaining—and those forces of order seemed to have undergone a sinister change. His own men were waging a civil war among themselves, fighting former comrades who were suddenly strangers. The only advantage they had was that those comrades seemed to have forgotten a lot of their training, as if they were halfway to joining the zombies in the streets.

He wasn’t in much better shape. He couldn’t seem to organize his thoughts, and he kept forgetting things. He looked down at the pad he’d been writing on; the note he’d started had trailed off into meaningless doodles.

Was this panic? He didn’t know, but he needed help. He picked up the phone and spoke to his secretary: “Marie, send in, uh, what’s-her-name, you know, the new assistant.”

There was no answer. Annoyed, he got up and exited his office, intending to snap at Marie for ignoring her phone. When he passed through the door, however, he saw why she’d done so: she was otherwise occupied.

His polished, professional executive assistant was nude except for her red high-heeled pumps and writhing on the floor beneath a muscular blond hunk who might have modeled for an SS recruiting poster. Her long nails clawed at his naked back and her hips thrust up at him rhythmically. Neither of them so much as looked up as Chief Cargill approached.

He drew a sharp breath, preparing to yell in outrage. Before he could vent his fury, however, there came a soft touch on his shoulder. Startled, he glanced over.

The new assistant, whose name he couldn’t seem to recall—and come to think of it, had she ever told him what it was?—was standing there. Five-eight, with chocolate-brown skin and thick, loosely-curled mahogany hair, she had a body to die for. When he’d first seen her, he’d fallen instantly in lust; she was the woman of his dreams. He’d used every excuse since then to talk to her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Did you want something?” Her hand traveled down, caressing his arm, and he forgot about Marie and her Nazi poster-boy stud.

“Y-yeah,” he gasped. “Want something.” With an effort, he went on, “Let’s go into my office and . . . and talk for a while.”

“Whatever you say, sugar,” the woman said. “You’re the boss.” Taking his hand, she led him back into his office and shut the door behind them. Soon, their clothes lay discarded around them as the woman of Cargill’s dreams rode atop his spasming body. When they were done, she asked him, “Did you like it, honey?”

“Duhhh,” came the response. “Like. More. Please.”

Still straddling him, the alien predator giggled.

The Code Red had hit New York hard. The city was sealed off, every bridge, tunnel, highway and ferry connecting Manhattan to the rest of the world shut down, along with the airports. The city’s newspapers couldn’t be delivered, nor could fresh supplies to print more; the TV and radio stations were running emergency programming; armed troops patrolled the streets with orders to shoot anyone who couldn’t show authorization to be outside.

That hadn’t stopped the invaders. Already in control of the Homeland Security Department’s national headquarters, they had made sure an adequate contingent of their kind got into the city. And once there, they had followed the pattern which was proving successful elsewhere. The “zombie plague” stories which had caused the government to investigate the landing sites back at the beginning were now promoted as official truth. Once they’d seen a few victims of the “plague,” most New Yorkers willingly submitted to “quarantine” measures—which, of course, did nothing to stop the “disease.” Rumors of weird alien creatures roaming among the populace were first ignored, then formally condemned as “irresponsible scare stories.” People who said they’d seen such things began to disappear.

On the twenty-fifth day after the landings, the President met with his staff in a conference room in the top-secret National Redoubt. As he faced them, he was grim.

“We’re losing,” he said. “All over the world, we’re losing. Everywhere these things go, they beat us. Whatever they were when they came to Earth, they’re smarter than we are now, and they have all the knowledge of all their victims.

“They don’t even have to kill anyone. They can suck a human mind dry altogether, or drain it selectively to produce those slaves of theirs—and whenever they want, they can turn people into more of them. I’m told there can’t have been more than a few thousand in all when they arrived; I’ve seen estimates that there may be millions now. At this rate, there’ll be more of them than there are of us in a couple more weeks.”

He faced his advisers. “Have I missed anything? Is there a ray of hope somewhere I haven’t seen?”

The Reverend Tobias E. Smith said tartly, “These monsters bait people with the lusts of the flesh. Surely they can be resisted.”

“Just say no, you mean?” That was Dr. Tom Keegan, one of the country’s most famous astronomers. Unlike the Reverend Smith, he was not a personal friend and confidant of the President’s—if anything, his political views put him more in line with the President’s opponent in the last election—but his expertise had been judged essential in the present emergency, so here he was. “That’s been such a success with drugs.”

The Rev. Smith spluttered, and Dr. Keegan went on, “Seriously, I don’t think it’ll work. The creatures seem to be able to make themselves look and sound exactly like a person’s dream sex partner. Beyond that, even before they drain a person’s mind, they seem to be able to manipulate emotions to suppress any remaining inhibitions. In other words, they stack the deck against resistance.”

Smith glowered, but said nothing. Keegan continued, “There are legends about this kind of thing. Vampires. Succubi and incubi—demons who seduce mortal men and women, and take their souls. Who knows? Perhaps this isn’t the first time Earth’s been invaded by these creatures.”

He paused, then observed, “They can’t be natural, you know. There’s no way evolution could have produced something like them.”

“Evolution!” snorted the Reverend. His hostility to Darwin’s ideas was well known.

The President chose to ignore the preacher’s outburst. “How did they arise, then?”

“I don’t know for sure,” said the astronomer, “but here’s one scenario. Say you were worried about having to deal with aliens, who might compete with you for power in the universe or even attack you. What you might do to head off the threat is send out a bunch of weapons designed to seek out and destroy emerging civilizations before they got strong enough to be dangerous. Biological weapons, in this case.”

Warming to his subject, Keegan elaborated. “Your weapons would look for signs of civilizations near their flight paths: radio signals, say. They’d come in, wipe out the potential competition, reproduce themselves and move on to new targets.”

He had the President’s attention. “But why this? Why sex, and why wipe out minds?”

The astronomer answered, “Why not? Sex is a great lure for almost any species. And wiping out the minds of your competition leaves their planets intact, in case you decide you want them for your own use later.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas how we can fight back?” The President’s tone was harsh.

“Not really,” the scientist said. “The best approach is to just lie low and avoid them. If they need intelligent prey in order to reproduce, eventually they’ll,” he swallowed, “run out—and then they’ll die off, and any human survivors can come out in safety and start rebuilding.”

The President nodded wearily. “A ‘Dr. Strangelove’ scenario. Hide in mine shafts, or whatever, until it’s safe to emerge.” His mouth tightened. “Well, we’ve had plans for something like that for years.” He walked to a computer terminal, logged on and tapped out a short sequence of commands. The machine beeped.

“There,” he said. “I’ve sent the code to activate Deep Cover, the contingency plan I mentioned. People on the appropriate lists will be conveyed to other secure facilities like this one—even I don’t know where they are. All these sites are equipped to function for years, if they have to, without outside contact. We’ll wait ‘em out.” He glanced at Dr. Keegan. “If you’re right, Doctor, and you’d better be, we’ll come through this.”

It might have worked, if only it hadn’t already been too late. . . .

That night, the fugitive President of the United States slept restlessly beside his wife. She and their son had evacuated with him, according to plan. Some of the other Redoubt refugees had brought their families along as well. This had been anticipated, and the hideout’s facilities were easily capable of accommodating all of them.

Sometime after two A.M., the President woke to find his wife looking down at him hungrily. Groggy with sleep, he thought she looked beautiful, as young and sexy as she’d been the day he’d met her. He reached up and pulled her down to him, and her lips covered his. They moved together eagerly. . . .

In the morning, the others found him in bed, a drooling imbecile. The First Lady, or what everyone had thought was the First Lady, was gone.

“We’ve been penetrated,” General Rossmaier said. His face was gray with shock. As the nation’s chief military officer, he had been an automatic candidate for the Redoubt. But now, faced with an enemy who couldn’t be fought with troops and guns, he was struggling not to panic.

“We underestimated them,” Dr. Keegan said. “Evidently, they’re able to impersonate real, living people as well as take on fantasy guises. They must have replaced the First Lady back in Washington, and bided their time.”

“The President’s son is missing, too,” a security guard reported. “Either they got him last night too, or—he was one of them already.”

“Jesus,” Rossmaier responded. “They’re everywhere!”

That was a slight exaggeration, but only a slight one. At that very moment, one of the General’s aides, a pretty dark-haired captain, was in one of the Redoubt’s storage vaults with the President’s missing son. Except, of course, that it wasn’t the President’s son at all.

“Ooh, Chip,” she burbled. She was sitting on a large wooden crate, her uniform jacket off, her crisp blouse open to the waist to expose a taut belly and firm, medium-sized breasts.

“Chip” regarded her coolly. The captain had been a highly trained communications specialist an hour earlier. Now, she could hardly put words together. And he wasn’t done yet.

“What is it you do again?” he asked teasingly.

“I’m a comm—commie—” She shook her head and giggled foolishly. “I help the gen-er-al . . . talk to people.”

The alien knew that, of course. He had already drained most of her technical knowledge, not to mention most of her general education, in the course of the hot foreplay they’d had. Now it was time to finish the job. Instinctively, he shifted into the sleekly muscled form of the fantasy male he had found in her thoughts.

“Why, Chippie, you look diff-er-ent,” the girl cooed. “Ooo, you’re so cute . . . .” It didn’t register that there was anything wrong about “Chip’s” transformation; she was too turned on by his new looks, and too stupid to remember about the alien shapeshifters.

She peeled eagerly out of her clothes and he took her atop the crate. Her body remembered what to do, even as her mind emptied out; she writhed and gabbled beneath him until the last memories of language were gone and she had orgasmed explosively. Then, satisfied at last, “Chip” detached himself from his victim, got up and dressed, leaving the girl dazed amidst her cast-off khakis. Her eyes roved aimlessly in their sockets now, and a dribble of saliva ran from one corner of her mouth. She made no move to wipe it away.

“Chip” left her there in the storeroom. He didn’t even bother to lock her in; even when her initial torpor wore off, she probably wouldn’t have the brains to open the door.

He snorted, a contemptuous reflex he’d taken from the real Chip when he’d come to the First Son in the form of a porn actress with whom Chip had been infatuated. These creatures were so easy.

The original Chip, of course, was back in Washington, penned with other mindless humans—including the woman he no longer recognized as his mother, who no longer knew him as her son. Eventually, some of them would be exploited as brute labor, like the native animals their species had used for thousands of years; the rest—well, overpopulation would no longer be a problem in the new world order the carnal conquerors were creating.

The Redoubt belonged to the aliens within three days. “Chip” and his “mother” hadn’t been the only impostors to reach it, and one by one, the genuine humans fell to the fakes. By then, the infiltrators’ leader didn’t need the security codes and commands she had stolen; she didn’t need the humans’ computer network to contact her counterparts at the other Deep Cover hideouts, which had been compromised just as this one had. The communal link was strong enough—a sure sign of the invaders’ march to triumph. There were enough of them now to network across the continent.

Dr. Keegan was the last to fall. He’d protected himself by retreating into the bowels of the Redoubt, but eventually, the installation’s formidable array of security systems located him and a team moved in under the leader’s personal command.

“Don’t bother resisting,” said the thing which still wore the face of the President’s wife. “You know you won’t be able to.”

The scientist sighed. “I suppose not.” Briefly defiant, he challenged the creature from the stars: “You’re doomed in the end, you know. You’re like a cancer, spreading uncontrollably until it kills its host. At the rate you’re going, you’ll run out of”—he choked—“food in months at the most, and then you’ll starve.”

The shapeshifter looked back at him calmly. “We’re more durable than you think, Tom,” she said. “More adaptable. We’ll manage.” She smiled, reached into his mind, and changed. “In any case, it won’t help you, Tom honey.”

Shortly, a creature which no longer saw any need to appear human rose, the limp form of Dr. Keegan in its arms.

Even knowing what she was, Keegan had been helpless to resist the tawny-skinned beauty with cascading black hair who had appeared before him. She had embraced him with now-practiced skill, using her mental powers and every charm of her human shell to bring him to ecstasy as she fed on his intellect. When she’d finished, she had been ready to breed again; she had shifted into her natural shape and used that body’s dagger-sharp injector to flood Keegan’s unresisting body with genetic material. Soon he would belong to the community.

Four weeks and one day after arriving on Earth, the invaders crossed a critical threshold: the communal links of the separate alien hives made contact with one another, merging into a single global collective. With that, their control of the planet was confirmed. It was only a matter of time, now, before the last pockets of native resistance dissolved in ecstatic, mindless surrender.

In New York, the leader of the aliens who had taken that city toasted their success with expensive champagne. Wearing the image of a tall brunette whose hair was piled in a heavy bun, dressed in an elegant charcoal-gray women’s business suit and high heels, she looked like the head of a cosmetics company.

As she looked around the top-floor executive suite in a downtown Manhattan office building, most of the faces which looked back at her, most of the hands which raised their own glasses, were female. That had been inevitable; among this world’s natives, males held most positions of power, so targeting their leaders meant mostly assuming female forms. The few male faces present were those of aliens who had targeted the city’s disproportionately female social-services apparatus.

The party was a testament to the influence their stolen memories had had on the invaders. Inevitably, their thinking was colored by humanity. They had not lost touch with their true natures, however; between their continuing hunger and the link, they could not.

“Success!” the leader female exclaimed.

“Success!” the others chorused.

“Soon,” the leader observed, “we will have total control. Plans have been made to permanently domesticate the natives, to provide ourselves with a steady source of the mental nourishment we require to reproduce. For purely physical sustenance, these bodies can consume the same food the natives do; they will produce that for us as well.”

Her second in command nodded. “And the time is coming for the final phase, as well.” Images flashed through the link, of new pod-vessels rising from the planet’s surface, bearing chosen portions of their population outward to new worlds. They would not be setting forth entirely blindly. Even though Earth’s scientists knew of no other inhabited planets, the knowledge gained from astronomers like Dr. Keegan would help them select promising target stars.

The new rulers of New York City drank their wine with satisfaction.

What was left of organized resistance collapsed swiftly after that. Mind-controlled humans swept the planet under the direction of their beloved owners, bringing the new régime to those parts of the globe which had not already succumbed. The task was made easier by the shapeshifters’ tried and true tactics of infiltration and seduction. Opposition steadily crumbled. Six months after Peter Davis’s encounter with a babe in the woods, the last major holdouts went under.

Free humans remained. Here and there, small refuges in isolated areas escaped the conquerors’ notice. Certain primitive tribes which had no significant contact with the outside world were ignored. A few individuals and families hung on, hiding in forests or deserts. But the world at large belonged to its newest tenants.

Two years to the day after the shapeshifters’ arrival, the first of the new pod-vessels was launched. More would follow—many more. The ships were marvels of engineering, far beyond anything humans had ever built; to the aliens, however, their construction was a matter of instinct. Grown from living material, they blasted into space on huge organic rockets fueled by hydrogen and oxygen drawn from ordinary water, then unfurled the vast solar sails they used for long-range propulsion. Aboard were sleeping crews of the shapeshifters in their natural forms. When they awoke—if they ever did—they would remember nothing of Earth; their memories and intelligence would have faded away during their long journey. And they would be very hungry.

EPILOGUE:

The conquerors of Earth had fully intended to remain in control forever. All over the planet, they had organized a system of domestication to keep their minds and bodies fed by the humans they now owned. And it would have worked, if only they could have kept their appetites in check.

But they couldn’t.

Dr. Keegan’s last prediction had been right. The aliens’ hungers overruled the brilliant minds they had built for themselves. Collective creatures though they were, they began to scheme against one another for control of more humans. Rational though they had become, they ran through their human food supply gluttonously. The rampant breeding made possible by this furious feeding only made matters worse, unleashing even more rapacious predators. To preserve a dwindling stock of usable humans, the creatures began practicing infanticide on their own offspring; the idea of simply not producing them in the first place was utterly foreign to their most basic instincts.

A fatal threshold was crossed. There were no longer humans enough to sustain the shapeshifters’ mental functions while allowing them to breed. The conquerors were forced to choose which of their needs to serve. They chose in favor of reproduction, despite knowing what it meant. Slowly at first, then more quickly, they regressed—and as they did, their neat hive-society broke down. One of the first things to go was the ability to make and launch new pod-vessels. After that, other elements of technological society crumbled. And in their handling of their human livestock, they began to grow careless.

Eventually, with their masters no longer as cunning or alert as they had once been, humans began escaping into the wild. Even the drained among them were clever animals, at least as smart as chimpanzees, and although many died, some survived—especially in the tropics, where the climate was warm and food was easy to find. New generations, their brains intact, came and went. Here and there, surviving pockets of people descended from those the aliens had never caught made contact with their wild relatives, passing on what little knowledge they retained of the old days.

The aliens weakened, degenerating at last into the mindless predators their kind had been when they first arrived. They could not survive long that way, except in hibernation. A few managed to achieve that state, waiting in dormancy for the approach of unwary prey; a few more managed to catch enough feral humans to eke out a bare existence for a while. Most simply died.

Thousands of years passed. The polar ice advanced, grinding the last remains of the old civilization under it, and then retreated. New languages arose, new religions, new cultures, replacing those which had been forgotten. Every so often, one of the hibernating shapeshifters was awakened and took human victims—but too few of them remained to conquer the planet again. One by one they were destroyed, and faded into legend.

Humanity rose, spreading out from the tropics as it had in ancient times. It prospered, learning more and more, gaining more and more mastery over the world it inhabited. Once more it turned its eyes to the silent stars, wondering why it seemed to be alone. In time, humans once more began to venture into space themselves. Their progress seemed unstoppable.

At least until the next pod-vessel arrived. . . .