The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The stimjoint was crowded, acrid white mist drifting in from the dark street outside as the tachspacers streamed (or in a certain percentage of cases, staggered) in and out. A wide holoscreen mounted behind the bar flashed and scrolled and blared the words ST. CLAIR BLOC WINS UE SHAREHOLDER VOTE over and over, in a variety of languages. The constant, teeth-rattling, roar of the nearby spaceport’s arriving and departing orbital shuttles was only partially blunted by the establishment’s cheap dampening screens.

The woman who finally figured out how make “antigrav” work for truly large objects, Yolanda thought, was going to become incredibly rich.

She looked down at the man as he smoothly slid through the milling mob and onto the threadbare hoverstool beside her. He looked almost relentlessly bland, as if he’d made a special effort to be sure you’d forget him five minutes after you saw him. Even the forest-green streaks in his brown hair were muted. There was something about his eyes, though... a spark of sharp intelligence lurking in there, somewhere, which was more than she’d seen in any of the usual assorted surfaceclingers and dreebs who had been vectoring in on her since she had first hit dirt on the Strip.

And of course, there was the box. He set the largish, crude-looking, rectangular item down on the bartop with the same exaggerated care a man would show with a crate stacked full of fresh eggs. (Not that there was a fresh chicken egg within sixteen light-years of their present location...) Yolanda pursed her wide lips, examining the object. It was almost certainly being employed a deliberate conversation-starter. What the fark. It had worked. It was clear this cloddy dirtball of a stopover didn’t have anything else of interest to offer at the moment. And, if it proved necessary, when it was time to head back to the shuttle and then the gigantic Tachfreighter currently in orbit somewhere above their heads, she could give this dirttreader the brush-off with one hand tied behind her back.

“What’s in the box?”

The man looked at her, his finger still aiming a ‘come-hither’ gesture at the Githrik stimdealer behind the bar, who ignored the blandishment with stereotypical stoicism.

“Hmm? What’s in the box... Well... my dear Miss...” a glance at her jumpsuit’s Guild insignia... “Tachship Navigator... one of my deepest held personal philosophies is that you should never tell the whole story to anyone. Even... heh... even to yourself.”

She arched an black eyebrow. “Profound. So what is it?”

He sighed. “I am surrounded by Philistines. Ah well. I’ll show you part of it.” He carefully positioned the box so that it was in front of him on the counter, and tapped a couple of pads on the object’s side. A slot slid open on the top, and something rose into the bar’s dim dirty light. A tendril of lavender. It twisted with slow, smoky, grace, dancing a slow tango with the air currents, a finger that seemed to beckon at her.

Come hither...

“Is it a holoemitter?” She stared at the color. Her hands suddenly itched to touch it, feel it slipping through her own fingers, back and forth. Back and forth.

“Not exactly. It’s a bit more... solid.”

“Is it safe? I mean, safe to touch?” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dancing filament.

“Of course.” He negligently passed his hand over it. It flickered around his splayed fingers, and seemed somehow to withdraw in disgust.

“Can... can I touch it?” Yolanda’s eyes were very wide now.

He shrugged.

“If you want.”

Even before the words were entirely out of his mouth, she reached out. The strand wrapped around her dark fingers. Stroking. Caressing.

“Ooooohhhh...”

Another stand immediately slipped out of the slot, wrapping firmly around her wrist and pulling it close, as if to keep her from escaping.

But she had not the slightest desire to escape.

A third tendril appeared, and discretely disappeared into the sleeve of her jumpsuit, quickly twining its way up her arm like an blood infection crawling towards her heart.

Then a fourth.

And a fifth...

“Hey, Maureen.”

Maureen looked up from the disassembled innards of the shuttle’s navicomputer in surprise, holding a rack of new Moran biochips in one gloved hand. Cyberganglia spewed everywhere. Yolanda was standing in the chamber’s hatchway, holding a large box in her arms.

Maureen disconnected the clinging diagnostic probe from her biocircuitry implant, and automatically shook her long ribbed hair back into position, the vibrant red-green-and-orange strands glowing and popping. She carefully set the biochips back in their nutrient bath and pulled off the antisept glove before speaking.

“Yo? Back so soon? That’s a bad sign. I was going to go hit dirt myself once I finished the last of the skipper’s farking upgrades. Doesn’t this farking flyspeck have anything of interest?”

Yolanda smiled widely, her teeth very white.

“Oh, yes. In fact, I found... a little toy... down on the local Strip that you just have to see.” She stepped the rest of the way into the room, and punched the hatch closed with one elbow.

It was a room, somewhere, one of a million such anonymous rooms scattered down through history. A large metal table dominated its center, standing in a tight, bright, circle of light. The light emanated from a large globe high overhead that floated free of the ceiling and walls.

The room was not empty, however. The two nameless, naked, pieces of meat crouched on hands and knees on the table, facing away from each other, two pairs of toes almost touching. Between two sets of long, widely-spread legs, two exposed cunts throbbed and glistened. And between those two cunts, a largish box had been carefully positioned in the center of the table, framed by a neat diamond of flesh, half ebony, half pale white.

A voice spoke, bland and ordinary.

“You are not to move now. You are not to move or speak, see or hear, unless I give you explicit permission to do so. Do you understand?”

No response, eyes and lips half-open, all showing white. From one set of those lips, a last drop of something equally white and milky slowly rolled down, hung by a thin strand for a long moment, and finally splatted onto the table top below.

“You may answer the question.” The man, his face matching his voice, ran his finger up the sealseam on his brown trousers as he spoke, closing the links between the molecules.

“Your slave understand, Master.” A chorus of two female voices, both low, soft, and blankly joyous.

“Excellent.” He casually slapped a firm white ass that rose high into the air, producing a small involuntary squeak of pleasure from the cum-dripping mouth to which it was attached. He turned to an invisible audience and smiled. Kicked aside a hastily-discarded TachNav jumpsuit with one low red shoe. “I believe the cycle is proven to work. I think the... recruitment process speaks for itself. Are you satisfied with your investment?”

“Of course, Mr. Jones.” The holofield resolved itself from blackness into a fetus-like man, floating in micro-gravity at the edge of the table. Floating one hundred and forty-two light years away. He smiled as he spoke, his eyes goggling. “I’m very satisfied. As I knew I would be once I read your first message. I’m glad we could put our differences behind us and work together on our little project.”

Jones gave a short bow, tinged with only a trace of irony. “Nevertheless, I do once again want to apologize about that bit of unpleasantness on Sirius S-3 with my predecessor. However it was unavoidable. One has standards to maintain.”

“Sirius S-3 was a minor inconvenience. Certain of my more... enthusiastic... boys wanted to string someone up after what... Smith’s ‘droid did to Esherick and his fellow morons, but it was simple enough to make them happy. And now even the UEDF thinks that Smith is dead. I’d be willing to pay extra if you’d tell me how you managed that.”

“Mr. M, please. Mr. Smith is dead. As for how it was accomplished... Let us just say that I have always believed in planning ahead.”

“Of course. Of course.” M’s hologram waved its weedcigar in the general direction of the box. “The new generation of devices contains the extra security features we discussed before?”

“Oh, yes. Why our dearly departed Mr. O discarded the Orions’ sensible use of a trigger phrase, I’ll never know. But then, he seemed to have something of blind spot about such matters, as Mr. Smith’s ‘droid could have told you. He didn’t even keep his tachyon relay separate from his biocomputer banks, and even the best encryption can be cracked. With our... doubly-improved device, you can now either hardwire a password into a new slave, without the use of which a command will not be accepted, or you can wire her to respond only if she can smell her master’s pheromones. Or both. Not perfect security, of course, but then, is there such a thing?”

“We’re working on it, Mr. Jones. Always working.” M fell silent for a moment, puffing thoughtfully.

“Is there something else?”

“Just something I still don’t understand about the entire affair, and I don’t like farking loose ends, however minor. Why did O kidnap and program that particular UEDF officer... whatshername...”

“Captain Angelica Phelps.”

“Yeah. It’s been bothering me ever since some of his people contacted some of my people with a request for something that... caught my interest. I started keeping an eye on him. At first, what I didn’t know was why he was kidnapping any UEDF officer, since it looked like he was going to just replace her with a vatdroid, which we know always ends up being farking pointless, especially when it comes to the UEDF. Of course, when your message told me he already had that Orion gadget, that part of it suddenly made sense. But why her, particularly?”

“Perhaps, someday, she will tell us.”

M flashed a thin, unpleasant, smile. “Yeah. Perhaps. But that won’t happen for a while, if ever. Another of O’s failings was thinking too big, too fast. We’ll have to move real slowly and quietly, for now. Both the UEDF and the Rigellians will be all farking over this for a few decades. We’ll start out on the frontier somewhere, maybe move in on some of O’s old business territory. His main line of goods offers some obvious ideas for the use of that thing.”

“I’d suggest we try a little test. On the new terraforming colony at Ankar III.”

“Oh?”

“I did a little research. For one thing, it’s on the opposite side of UE space to the Rigellians. Secondly, it’s where my two new...” A wry glance at the table and its two occupants... “...helpmates’ ship is heading next. And lastly, word on the... ah... street... is that Moran Interstellar will be awarded the colony’s municipal governance contract. And although it may be a bit gauche of me to mention trade secrets, am I correct in understanding that you are not... without influence... in regards to the Moran board of directors? Mr. M?”

A laugh from the man in the holofield.

“Mr. Jones. I think this is the start of a... most productive... friendship.”