The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chris gripped the steering wheel of her car tighter. Ahead, she saw the arch over the road that marked one boundary of the industrial park. This was her least favorite part of her drive, this no man’s land stretch. It always played on her nerves to drive through it because there were never any people around. She drove the same route every business day of the year, morning and evening, and had for almost half a decade; and she had never once seen a single person in the entire park.

Granted, she drove past early in the morning and late in the evening, but on the odd occasion where she had a working day off and drove through at a more reasonable hour, she never saw anyone. She never saw any other cars, either, no matter the time of day.

During her hour and change commute to and from work, she drove past empty fields, bare grass, and a thin forest; but she never felt as isolated during the whole drive as during the ten minutes it took to pass through one side of the park to the other.

When she crossed the boundary and entered, it always put her on edge. Even now, she was leaning forward in her seat, eyes scanning all sides of the road, rolling over the corrugated metal buildings, warehouses and brick offices, landing on walls and windows with hung blinds.

Just because she had never seen any movement in the area didn’t set her at ease. She always had a feeling that there was something there, somewhere, and she was always afraid whatever it was would capture her by surprise. Each time she scanned as she drove, she was always simultaneously relieved not to see anything and nervous about not seeing anything. Not seeing anything one second meant the next second could be the one where the unexpected sprang on her.

The park was also eerily quiet; when she had the windows down during her summer drives, in passing the fields and the grass and the woods, there was always ambient noise. In the park there was only dead silence.

When she drove through, it always reminded her of crossing a desert. There wasn’t one retail establishment in the whole area, nor any kind of residential habitation. The nearest civilization was the city now some 30 miles behind her, and her town, still some 30 miles ahead. It was always the half-way point of her drive, whether she was driving into the city or driving home to town. And she always felt like a lost wanderer crossing desert sands, stranded miles from both civilization and wilderness.

And inevitably, without fail, while she was in the park, she lost cell-phone service. She knew there was at least one radio wave company in the park somewhere, and however they ran her operation, it never failed to jam her reception.

It was when she was halfway through the park that it happened— her engine started to sputter. She gripped the wheel tighter and tried to ignore it. She was not a praying woman, but silently she prayed. Please. Just let me get out the other side of the park. Let me break down by the side of a field.

She was reminded seconds later why she didn’t pray, because if anyone had heard her prayer, they had decided to at the least ignore it, if not maliciously inflict the opposite of her desired outcome as punishment. Her engine gave one last whine, sputtered, and fell silent, and her car rolled forward a few feet before coming to a stop.

Because of the speed at which she had been driving, when the engine fell silent, she had a few seconds to steer the car on momentum alone, and had enough time to pull the car to the side of the road, close to the curb of the nearest sidewalk. When the car had come to a complete stop, she dug in her purse and found what she had expected. She had no service.

She exhaled in frustration, putting her head in her hands. This was her worst nightmare. She had always been so afraid of getting stuck in the park, so afraid that she had never even been able to say the fear out loud to herself. She’d always asked her mechanic to go above and beyond the basic level of maintenance, but had never allowed herself to wonder why.

She had even had literal dreams about this happening; the car breaking down, leaving her stranded. In the dreams, she wandered forever, and could never find her car again. She always tried very hard to forget them when she woke up.

But now it had really happened. She took the key in and out of the ignition a few times, turning it more than once, trying to spark the engine back to life. Her car refused to co-operate.

She fell back against her seat, in exasperation. What now? She couldn’t make an outgoing call from her car. And her service usually dropped a mile or so before she actually passed under the first arch, and stayed dropped until she was usually a mile or so past the second on. She’d have to walk a mile on foot either way, to get service and call a tow truck.

This wouldn’t have been so bad in the morning, but the sun was most of the way set, and everything had a dim red glow which would soon taper into complete blackness. She was reluctant to walk until she got service back; especially because it meant when she walked back to her car, she’d be walking in the night. As much as she hated driving through the park in the day, she couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to walk it on foot in the night. And she had broken down almost exactly in the center of the park, equidistant from both arches in and out.

She sighed. Refusing to walk for service left her with only two other options: hope that someone else would drive past and help her; or try to find someone in the park with a landline.

Which meant getting out on foot, and walking from entrance to entrance.

She liked that even less than the idea of walking a mile, but it was actually less disturbing to her than sitting in the eerie silence, waiting for someone to drive past who might never come. At least if she were walking, she’d feel a bit more in control of the situation.

It was the least awful of three bad options, but it didn’t make her keen on doing it. Reluctantly, she opened her car door, leaving her purse on the seat, but slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans. If nothing else, it could be a time piece for her. Or a flashlight, if she ended up wandering that long.

She hugged her light jacket close; not because of temperature, but just so she could feel there was some kind of barrier between her and her environment. She locked the car with a click of her key, and set out on foot.

She tried the brick buildings with proper doors first, but found them all locked. She tried the metal buildings, and even eventually the warehouses, banging on large, locked garage doors (and making herself jump from the echoing metal sound)— but no one in any building replied to her knocking.

After wandering the street that led into and out of the park to no success, she had no choice but to go walking down the side streets that branched off of it.

Those side streets were disturbing enough to inspire their own nightmares, but she was out of other options. She hated them because she knew they were streets that branched onto other streets, and those to still others. In her dreams, when she got lost in the park, it was because the streets became a labyrinth for her and she could never find her way back. It was feeling increasingly like she was stepping into the dream and living it in her waking life. It was hard to keep a lid on her panic.

She set out down the nearest side street, but found only locked doors. This led her onto another street of barred entry, which led her to another, and then another. By the time she’d made her seventh turn she was hopelessly turned around, the night was darker, and she had no idea which direction would take her back. Every door and wall she had pounded on had only replied to her treaties with an echo, and the more she knocked and made sounds, the more she was inexplicably afraid that something was going to hear her, and find her.

Just when she was debating turning down and walking an eighth street, she passed an open gate. This caught her attention, because there were a fair number of storage yards and parking lots interspersed with the buildings and the warehouses. But all of their gates were chained shut by now. It was the first open gate she had seen, and the first sign of life.

For the first time, with real hope that she was going to find another person, she left the road to pass through the gate. She found only a parking lot, but she didn’t let that deter her. The gate had to be open for some reason. She walked on.

Parking lot led to parking lot, led to warehouses and back alleys, and delivery driveways. She felt she was getting in to the heart of the park now, wandering behind gates, and fences, hidden between buildings and laneways. Still all was lifeless. Still all was silent.

As she stepped out the end of a laneway, she found herself staring at a sign— Office Supply Warehouse. There were quite a few “Office Supply” chain stores in the city, and she guessed this was where they kept their stock. Seeing a familiar brand name comforted her, but the warehouse was as empty as the rest of the park. She walked alongside it, dragging her hand along the metal siding, walking from front entrance to the back of the building.

And when she reached the back of the building: she saw it.

Across another parking lot, part of the way down another lane, there was a light.

A light meant people. A light might mean a phone. She knew it was not a streetlight, because it was golden in color, and all the streetlights in the park where white, or bluish. The golden light had to be coming from a building.

Desperate to finish her wandering, she broke into a run, crossing the last parking lot, and taking off down the lane. Her eyes had not tricked her— the light was clearer, only about halfway down the laneway. It was shining from the windows of a yellow-brown brick building; the windows of this building were not shrouded in blinds. She quickened her pace to the door, and knocked eagerly.

She only had to knock once for the door to swing open. It opened so fast that by the time she brought her fist down to knock a second time, it came down on empty air.

A woman stood in the doorway. She wore a pleasant smile, and a business suit. Thank god.

“Hi, my car broke down, and I—”

“You’re just in time,” the woman spoke over her. “They’re all sitting in the waiting room.”

Before Chris could ask the woman what she was talking about, the woman had gently taken her arm and pulled her in through the door, closing it behind her.

“But— ”

“Hurry, or you’ll be late,” the woman said, pulling at Chris’ jacket. Chris was bewildered enough to let the woman remove her jacket, but on impulse fished the keys from her pocket and slipped them instead into her pants pocket before the woman took it away.

“Through there,” the woman chided, gesturing with one hand. “Go on, now.”

Still with unanswered questions on her tongue, Chris walked the way the woman had indicated. ‘Through there’ she found a white hallway, and at the end of the hallway, a door.

She opened the door, and stepped in.

It looked like the waiting room of a doctor’s office, which struck Chris as bizarre, because she knew for a fact there were no medical practices in the industrial park; let alone buried in the middle of a back laneway. But that was what it looked like— there was an empty white counter with an empty desk chair pushed up to it which might have been a reception desk— and lots of padded chairs lining three of the walls. The fourth wall was bare, except for a door and a bland abstract painting.

She noticed next that she was not alone in the room; there might have been some thirty chairs, forming 3 sides of a square around empty floorspace, and 29 of them were full. There was only one chair left that was empty. It was nearest the door, and Chris quickly slid herself into it.

All the occupants of the chairs were girls; they all looked pretty close in age to Chris herself. They looked vaguely friendly, but they weren’t speaking with each other much. There were end tables at each corner of the room, with magazines on them, but most of the girls weren’t looking through them, either. They all sat, patiently, quietly waiting. What were they all waiting for?

Chris was beginning to get the feeling that she was in the wrong place; she had been confused for somebody else. Even so, maybe there was still a phone somewhere. She doubted any of the girls would be able to tell her if there was; but maybe the woman who had taken her jacket could. Or maybe there were other organizational authoritative figures around— maybe they would enter the room, and maybe they could tell her if there was a phone.

She leaned towards the girl next to her. “Do you know when—”

“Shh,” the girl replied. “It’ll be just a minute or two. Just wait.”

A minute or two didn’t sound so long to Chris.

She waited.

After what felt like only a minute, the door on the wall with the abstract painting opened, and three women dressed in white dresses came out. Each of them held a tray on one hand. Chris tried to crane her neck to see what was on the tray, but all she could see were what looked like the tops of little plastic cups.

The three women fanned out— two walked together to the corner at the end of the wall Chris was sitting against, and the third went the opposite way, starting at the wall with the door the three of them had come through; the corner that connected that wall to the wall with door that Chris had come through, and was still sitting just to the side of. Then they each began going down their line of ten chairs, handing each girl seated a plastic cup which had a little white dot in the centre of it.

Chris’ eyes went to the end of her line; because the woman had started there, she would be last. She wanted to see what the first girl who took the cup did.

No sooner had her hands wrapped around it then did she raise it to her lips, and tip the dot— pill?— into her mouth and swallow. The woman took the empty cup back and moved to the second girl, repeating the process.

Chris kept watching the first girl, as the woman continued down the line. She blinked a few times; and only five seconds after taking it, slumped forward as if she had fallen asleep.

Chris watched as this repeated; each girl took the pill, passed the empty cup back to the woman, and then slumped. She watched 9 girls take, swallow, return, sleep; and then she was tenth, and the woman in the white dress stood in front of her, holding out the plastic cup.

“Excuse me,” she said, swallowing her fear. “Is there a phone I could—”

The woman shook the container. “Take it.”

Chris frowned. “But—”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You have to take it.”

Chris was the last one conscious. The other two women had finished distributing their pills, and they were already disappearing past the abstract painting through the door. 29 girls were slumped forward in their chairs.

Shakily, Chris reached her hand out, and took the cup. She was definitely in the wrong place; she had definitely been mistaken for someone else. But she wasn’t exactly sure what the consequences for that would be. Maybe these people frowned on interlopers— did she really have any other choice than to blend in?

Her fingers closed around the plastic, and as she’d seen all the other girls do, she tipped the cup to her lips, and sent the pill down her throat.

She frowned as it went. It tasted only like mint candy— how could it only be mint candy? — but mint candy or not, she felt her eyes getting heavy. She reached a weak hand out, returning the cup to the woman as darkness swarmed the edges of her vision. She flopped forward, into oblivion.

There was a room. There was a white room, and there were bodies in it. She was another body in the room with the others. Had she had a name before? She couldn’t remember.

In the center of the room, there was a table, and on the table, there was a bowl. She couldn’t see what was in the bowl because she was on the floor. None of the bodies had any clothes, but they were all cloaked in sweat, or other juices. She couldn’t remember entering the room. She couldn’t remember ever having been outside the room.

She was grinding against another body, and a hand was moving between her legs. She looked to the girl she was pressed up against, with a frown. There was some kind of after-image to her vision— she shook her head to try to shake it off. For a second it looked like the girl was wearing her own face as a mask.

But how could she recognize her own face? Had she ever even seen her face before? Hadn’t she always been a faceless body, here, in this white room with the others?

She realized she was moving her hand too, between the legs of the girl in front of her. The girl’s eyes were rolling back in her head— she was wearing a mask— she wasn’t— she was— she wasn’t— she was— but even when she wore a mask, the girl’s eyes were visible through the mask’s eye openings.

It was mask of her own face— it was mask of facelessness— it was a mask of an animal, a lion, then a cat, then a bird with a beak, then no mask at all, and there had never been one.

She was confused, but the pleasure from the girl’s hand was making it hard to hold onto the confusion, and the desire for answers.

She felt a climax building in her, and thought she would lose the ability to think or wonder about anything once it happened. She needed to ask or the question would be lost. It was already so foggy it was hard to hold onto.

“What’s my name again?” She gritted it against the pleasure. And though the girl was looking far gone herself, she was not too far gone to process the question.

“There is no name,” the girl said. “All are one.” She shifted her fingers to drag them more skillfully against One’s folds. And One shifted her grip to mimic the touch against the girl’s folds.

“I am one,” she said, and it was partly a question.

“I am one,” the girl said in reply. They were one, and the other bodies in the room, moving like them on the white floor were one and the pleasure they all felt was communal, one experience repeating a hundred times.

“I think I used to dream of being here…” One said, feeling her pleasure rise in pitch.

“Of course you did,” the girl said, moving her fingers still more deftly. “We all wind up here eventually.”

The pleasure came then, and it brought the blackness with it, washing all the whiteness back into non-existence.

There was a blue room. There was nothing in the room but the girls, and they were not moving. None were moving. Each sat cross-legged, waiting patiently with wide-eyes, leaking out and lubricating in place, spilling on the floor. They listened to a voice they couldn’t be sure existed.

Obey.

It was a voice and it was audible— and then it was a whisper, and then it was a song, and then it was silence, and then it was the wind, and then it was dead air.

Obey.

It didn’t matter whether it was really there or not, because whether or not it was there, it was true, and worth listening to.

They sat, and waited, and as they sat, something opened just under the ceiling, and white mist poured out. It descended in curls to sit low on the floor, and seep in through noses and mouths.

Obey.

One breathed it the same as the rest of them; it was a collective breath, one organism breathing in perfect synchronicity through many hosts. There was more of the mist, descending in thick wafts and clouds.

There were images in the mist; colors, and rainbows, and lights. Pictures and streaks of paint against the white clouds. The color burst free, painting it like a canvas, and then was swallowed by it, only to burst free again. It happened so many times it became a dance; white and color swirling together into patterns and shapes and spirals, receding and approaching, giving more of the whiteness and then taking it.

Obey.

One breathed. She could almost remember being separate again. It rose to the surface of her mind, as if coming forward to be purged. She looked around at the other girls and could almost recognize her face on each body.

But were they wearing her face, or was she wearing theirs?

There was more of the mist, and she inhaled again. It spun her back into blackness.

There was a grey room, and only three bodies. Then there was a red room, and five. Then a silver room, with fifteen, and then a blue room with two. No matter how many bodies, and no matter the color of the room, there was only one consciousness in every space.

The bodies moved together, giving and making pleasure, or they sat still, or they pleasured themselves, or they listened to a nothing that may or may not have existed, or they breathed mist. It was an intricate dance, and One couldn’t keep track of it, because the blackness in her vision was so close. It only ever pulled half away, and then overwhelmed her again.

She was in one room, and then the blackness swarmed her and she was in another room. Then she pulled half out of it in a third, different room, before being once again overcome. She had no way of knowing how many rooms the blackness carried her through, had no way of knowing what happened in rooms in which her consciousness never surfaced. She might have passed through fifty rooms and fifty experiences unknowing, and only opened her eyes to three of the total fifty.

It didn’t matter; what mattered was the blackness that never left her, and felt so warm to curl up inside. Sinking back into and being swallowed again by it suddenly only increased the sense of peace and happiness.

It didn’t matter that she found herself constantly in the middle of doing things she hadn’t started, and then transitioning abruptly into other actions she also couldn’t remember starting. It didn’t matter that there was no bridge. Bridges were arbitrary. Consciousness and knowledge were arbitrary. Wholeness, Oneness, disappearing into the collective was the only thing that mattered.

The darkness took her again.

There was a white room. Ten girls kneeled on the floor in a circle. Ten girls stood in a sparse square along the walls. Ten girls stood in the centre of the circle.

The ten in the centre were circled around the table with the bowl, their backs to it, and each of the ten had a closed right fist, holding something. One didn’t know how she knew that there was a table with a bowl, because the standing girls blocked it from view.

But then, she wasn’t entirely sure where she was. She didn’t know if she was standing in the centre, kneeling, or standing along the wall. Somehow she had all three memories at once. She had stood, and kneeled, and stood. It felt like she was doing all three at the same time. She didn’t know where she actually was. She was the collective now; experiencing all three states at the same time.

There was a time to stand, and a time to kneel. The ten in the center stepped forward. The ten who kneeled closed their eyes, and stuck out their tongues, waiting for pearls. They would be given a pearl of flesh, or a pearl of white at random, and they would only know when they felt it on their lips.

The ones who were given a white pearl would swallow, and collapse, falling deeper into the blackness, always to be sent deeper. The ten who stood along the walls would drag their limp bodies back from the circle, and then walk to form a new center.

The five who had given the white pearls would kneel in the place of the five who had collapsed, and the five who had dragged the unconscious back to the walls would reform half of the center in the circle.

This was the dance; this was how it happened every time.

The five who had received pearls of flesh would suckle and lick at them, and the five who stood offering their flesh pearls would bear the suckling pleasure until their legs became too weak to sustain them. When they collapsed in the climax of their pleasure, the five still standing outside the circle would trade places with them, moving them along the wall, and administering them with a pearl of white to send them deeper.

The five who had suckled pearls of flesh would rise to complete the center of ten; and all would wait for the ten who slept to reawaken; and all would begin again.

The dance lasted for eternity, and there was no separation any longer. Everything was only sensation; the sensation of tasting minty whiteness, or sweet tears of the flesh; the sensation of collapsing into blackness or into pleasure; the sensation of being dragged, and sleeping thoughtless; the sensation of dragging. The sensation of kneeling or standing, the sensation of placing the white pearl on a waiting tongue with careful fingers; the sensation of eager licking between the legs.

It was all one, and it was eternal.

One of the thirty was singled out to be severed. The other of the thirty cried at the wrongness of separation.

Their cries were ignored. The lonely one was pulled out into the hall. “Wake,” she was told; and became Chris.

Blearily, she blinked, and found the woman who had taken her jacket standing before her, next to a second, naked woman.

“I’m sorry I was so late,” the second woman was saying.

The first woman didn’t acknowledge her, only looked at Chris. Chris realized the woman was holding her clothes out to her; the pair of blue jeans, the green t-shirt and white sweater.

The thought of having clothes on her skin made her want to cry.

“Please let me go back in the room,” she said.

“There’s been a mistake,” the woman said, still holding out Chris’ clothes. “You were never meant to be here.”

Chris didn’t understand how that could be true. She was never meant to be anywhere else. This was where she belonged— all her nightmares and dreams had really been arrows on the road leading her here.

“I’ve been travelling to this destination my whole life,” she argued, feeling tears prick her eyes.

“Thirty are chosen,” the woman said. “You are not one of the thirty. The thirtieth was delayed in her arrival. You wrongfully usurped her place.”

The thirtieth, the woman naked in the hallway, the woman who would not have to put clothes back on her skin, the woman who was about to enter the room, stood before Chris, her presence a condemnation. Chris had never hated anyone in her life as much as she hated this woman. If only she hadn’t existed. If only she had never come.

“You may enter the room,” the woman who held Chris’ clothes said to the thirtieth, and the thirtieth stepped past Chris, opened the door to step through, and then closed it again.

“Dress yourself,” the woman instructed her. “There’s no point in crying about it. A mistake was made, and will now be fixed.”

There was nothing Chris could do but obey, but it wasn’t proper obedience. Obedience had been collective, warm, blackness. This order was only cold, and singular. With wet cheeks she dressed herself, and when dressed, the woman in the hall took her arm, and steered her sternly down white labyrinthine hallways back out to the waiting room, and then through the waiting room to the foyer.

“Please,” Chris said, as the woman lead her firmly to the door. “I’ll do anything— I don’t want to go back to being an ‘I.’”

“You were not chosen,” was all the woman said. She opened the door, and gave Chris a firm shove, pushing her out into the cold night.

The door shut tightly behind her, and Chris stood for a long time in the laneway, staring at the golden light pouring out of the windows. The only warmth in the world was behind them. The only warmth, the only true warmth in the entire world was inside the building. She tried the door, but it was locked now. She pounded, and begged, and cried, and screamed, but the door stayed locked.

Finally, she gave up, and turned to walk down the laneway the way she had come, hours or years or centuries ago. She kept stopping to look back at the golden light.

It was only when she was standing in the parking lot behind the Office Supply Warehouse that she realized they hadn’t given her her thin green jacket back.

She turned, reinvigorated by the excuse to re-enter the building. She ran, with it propelling each step. They’d have to open the door to give her her jacket back. She could stand in the warmth just a second longer.

But when she turned down the laneway, the light had gone out.

When she saw the light had gone out, she didn’t bother going to knock on the door. She wouldn’t be getting her jacket back tonight, if she ever got it back at all. She was lucky she had put the keys in her pants, or else she would have been locked out of her car and her house.

She turned from the laneway, to make the long trek back to the car. She feared she had stepped back into her old dream, and would now become a lost wanderer of the industrial park, permanently turned away and cut off from all warmth in the world. But to her surprise, it only took her two turns and she was suddenly standing on the main street, her car just ahead of her. It didn’t seem right to her— she had wandered for hours, she had gone down eight different streets, and then through a gate, and then past dozens of buildings and laneways. It should have taken her an hour or more to find her car again, but inexplicably, it took only five minutes.

With a sigh, she unlocked her car door, slumping into the seat, putting her phone back into her purse. At least she had shelter to sleep in until morning; then she could wake and call the mechanic.

But an impulse struck her, and she put her key in the ignition.

Only one turn started the car, and it ran as if it had never stopped at all.

The time she had spent in the yellow brown brick building had felt like lifetimes and eternities, but had only happened in the space of about six hours. It haunted her in the next days and and weeks. She was a ghost in her regular life, moving aimlessly through her old routines. It felt like nothing in the world was real but that which had rejected her.

She took her car to the mechanic, and was met by him scratching his head. There was nothing wrong with the engine. There was no reason the car should have stalled.

She drove around the industrial park, trying to find the Office Supply Warehouse. She couldn’t.

She slept, and dreamed she was in the white room again.

She opened the mail one day, and found a white package. When she opened it, she saw that her thin green jacket was inside.

She didn’t know how she could go the rest of her life without that warmth. She didn’t know how she could go on if she wouldn’t be allowed to obey. She didn’t know how to live without crying for the lack of that black caressing warmth that had held her in its grasp, and never farther than half-arm’s length.

She decided she couldn’t— she had to find it again. She had to find it, and bang on the door until they came out and talked to her. She had to convince them. If thirty could be chosen, sixty could be chosen. Choose her as the first of the second thirty, then choose twenty nine others. She would recruit, she would do anything just to be within those walls again.

It was a desperate plan, but it was the only thing that made the aching in her heart stop. She got herself a map of the industrial park— to her relief, there was an Office Supply Warehouse on it, and only one Office Supply Warehouse, in the general vicinity of where she remembered it to be. She booked the day off work— she would quit her job later if they asked her to.

She drove; she found the Office Supply Warehouse. She parked her car, and ran across the parking lot, her heart surging with hope.

She turned down the laneway, and fell to her knees.

There was no yellow-brown brick building.