The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Brenda swam lazily back to consciousness.

She became aware that she was lying on a comfortable bed, legs slightly apart and arms at her side. She felt warm and relaxed, as if she’d just had a nice nap.

The feeling didn’t last.

Oh, my God! she thought, as memory returned. What did that crackpot do to me?

She sat up, struggling to clear the cobwebs from her mind. That . . . device she’d been hooked up to had turned her into a screaming, writhing mass of ecstatic flesh. She recognized, now, the voice she’d heard shrilling “Obedience is pleasure!” over and over: it had been hers.

The reporter shuddered. This was way beyond anything she’d expected to find when she had come out here. Pavlov was a genuine real-life mad scientist!

Brenda thought of all the female staff members she’d seen. She had only a foggy recollection of the two who’d half-carried her out of the doctor’s office, but she seemed to remember them moving and speaking in a weirdly mechanical way. What, were they brainwashed or something?

She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and planting her feet on the floor. Those feet, she saw, were now encased in soft hospital slippers. Startled, she looked down at herself and saw that she was now dressed in a loose, short white hospital shift.

She leaped to her feet and ran to the door. It was locked! Pounding on it, she yelled, “Let me out of here! Give me my goddamn clothes back and let me out!”

No answer. She pounded on the door again. “Damn it, let . . . me . . . OUT!”

Suddenly the door swung inward, throwing her off balance, and the two orderlies who’d taken her from Pavlov’s office to the room with that (pleasure, a voice whispered in her head) machine came in. the blonde said coolly, “Come with us, Bren-da. It is time for your next treat-ment.”

“No!” Panicked, Brenda tried to dart between the pair of attendants and through the open door. She didn’t make it. There was a sharp pricking sensation in her arm; reflexively, she looked down, just in time to see the brunette withdrawing a small hypodermic needle from her arm.

“Ohhhhhh. . . .” The world melted around her into pretty colors and pleasure almost as intense as what the treatment machine gave her. She forgot about trying to get away. Slack-jawed, she swayed on her feet, basking in the wonderful feeling.

“You will come with us now, Bren-da,” the blonde intoned. The orderlies took her by the arms and steered her out the door. Giggling helplessly, Brenda let them ease her along.

In the therapy room, the reporter offered no resistance as she was strapped down and connected to the headset again. When she was secured, the blonde zombie nurse pressed an intercom button on the wall and said, “Pa-tient Bren-da is ready, Doc-tor Pav-lov.”

“Excellent,” came a disembodied reply. A minute or so passed, and then the door opened and there was the sound of footsteps.

Dr. Pavlov moved into Brenda’s view. “Hello, my dear.”

“Hello,” Brenda answered automatically. She was coming out of the marvelous fog the injection had put her in, but she was still a bit disoriented.

“Do you remember what happened last time you were here?”

“Y-yes.” The memory was vivid.

“Would you like it to happen again?” Pavlov smiled knowingly.

“Yes,” breathed Brenda, momentarily lost in remembered pleasure. “I-I mean, no! Please!”

Pavlov’s smile widened. “They say your first answer to any question is most likely to be correct. Do you think perhaps that’s true this time, my dear?” As he spoke, the doctor moved to the control panel. He turned a dial.

PLEASURE!

Brenda squealed. “Yes! Yes!” The feeling continued. “Yes, Dr. Pavlov, oh God, yes!”

Pavlov turned the dial back, and the pleasure faded. Brenda melted against the table.

The doctor produced the little bell he’d used before. “You know what you need to say, don’t you? If you say it, if you can convince me you believe it, I’ll ring the bell—and you remember what happens then, don’t you?”

Brenda did. She quivered in eagerness. “Oh, God, yes.”

“Very well,” the doctor replied. “Let’s begin.” He rang the bell and turned the knob on his control panel. “Remember: obedience is pleasure.”

PLEASURE! Brenda screamed, “Obedience is pleasure!”

“Very good, Brenda.” Pavlov rang the bell and turned the control knob up again.

PLEASURE! “Obedience is pleasure!”

Ring. PLEASURE!

“Obedience is pleasure!”

Ring. PLEASURE!

“Obedience is pleasure!”

Brenda was slobbering and writhing now; if not for the restraints holding her down, she would have fallen to the floor.

After several more repetitions, Pavlov examined his patient and nodded, satisfied, She was ready now. The doctor’s hands moved over the controls.

The pattern of sensation changed. Instead of a series of mind-shattering jolts, it was now a steady, pleasant throb. Every minute or so, there was a sharper pulse, enough to keep her from simply relaxing into the feeling. After a little bit, a ceiling panel opened, revealing a multi-colored spiral disk studded with lights, smaller ones near the center, larger ones near the edge. After a moment, the disk began to spin.

“Watch the disk, my dear,” Pavlov instructed. “See how it swirls? See how the pattern moves, and spins, and seems to move inward, drawing your gaze, your attention?”

“Yes. . . .” Brenda stared at the spinning spiral. It was so pretty, and she felt so good. But—”No, please, don’t.”

“Don’t what, Brenda?”

“You’re . . . you’re trying to hypnotize me,” the reporter mumbled. “Please. Don’t. Stop.”

“Please don’t stop?” The doctor’s voice was gentle now. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Just relax, and watch the spiral, and feel the pleasure, and watch, and feel. Listen to my voice guiding you as you watch the spiral and feel the wonderful feeling, and relax. Everything’s going to be just fine, don’t worry; don’t think, I’ll think for you—just watch the spiral, and enjoy the feeling, and relax, and let my voice guide you.”

“No,” Brenda whispered. “I . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes followed the spiral, inward, around, inward, around, drawn by the swirling colors, the pretty lights, as the pleasure current continued to run through her

“That’s right,” encouraged Dr. Pavlov. “Relax, watch the pretty spiral, let it draw you in and around, in and around, in an around, yes. In and around, relax, in and around, watch the pretty colors, in and around, relax, pretty colors, let my voice guide you in and around, let my words be your thoughts, in and around, pretty colors, in and around. . . .”

“Pretty colors,” Brenda sang softly. “In and around. In and around. Your voice . . . guides me. Your words . . . my thoughts. Oooooo. . . .”

After a few minutes, Pavlov turned off the disk and the pleasure inducer and examined the woman strapped to the treatment bed. She lay unmoving, her lowered eyelids quivering gently above crescents of white. The doctor bent over and gently dabbed away the drool which had run down from her slackly smiling mouth.

“Listen to me,” he directed. “My words are your thoughts, isn’t that right, Brenda.”

“Yes,” the reporter whispered. “Your words . . . my thoughts.”

Pavlov rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “You’re doing fine, my dear. I’m very encouraged. Working together, we’ll cure you of this little problem of yours, see if we don’t.” He laughed softly.

“Cure?” Brenda was puzzled. “Problem . . . I don’t . . . understand.” Her brow creased as she tried to think. She didn’t have a problem . . . did she? “I’m . . . there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“But of course there is, my dear.” Pavlov restarted the equipment; within seconds, Brenda’s body was shuddering with pleasure again as her eyes followed the whirling colors overhead. “You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t have a problem, my dear.” He smiled evilly. As he’d observed previously, her impersonation of a treatment seeker had given him a marvelous handle for suggestion. “Now just watch the pretty colors, and enjoy the feelings, and let your doctor explain everything.”

Brenda had no answer. In her dazed state, what the doctor had said seemed perfectly logical. She surrendered to the pretty colors and the pleasure again, and Pavlov went on. “You have the same problem so many women have, my dear. You think you want to be independent, to think for yourself, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Brenda answered.

“You will address me as Dr. Pavlov from now on,” the rogue psychiatrist commanded.

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov.”

“Very good, Brenda.” The doctor nodded at her. “Now as I was saying, your problem is your desire to think and act independently.” He spoke earnestly, as if trying to get across a simple notion that anyone should understand. “That’s a sickness in women, don’t you understand, Brenda? Women don’t need to think. They’re not made for it. You see that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” slipped from the disoriented redhead’s lips.

Pavlov frowned. “You don’t really mean that yet,” he observed. “You need to understand heart and soul that it’s true. When you do, it will feel so good.” He turned up the pleasure control, this time to a new, higher setting.

Brenda thrashed and babbled. “Yes! Yes! Oh! Doctor! Pavlov! YES!” Even while she flailed frantically about beneath the straps holding her down, her eyes stayed on the disk spinning above her. In and around, in and around, in and around. . . . “YES!”

Pavlov let her writhe and wail for a full five minutes before turning off the pleasure current and the disk again. When he finally did, Brenda collapsed against the table and lay panting.

Pavlov regarded her quietly for a moment, then removed his long white coat and flung it over a filing cabinet in the corner. Turning back to his captive, he spoke.

“Women are meant for pleasure and procreation,” he declared. “They don’t need to think, only to serve men’s needs. You don’t need to think, Brenda, only to serve men’s needs.” He undid his tie and threw it after his coat. “My needs.”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” the reporter gasped.

The doctor removed his shirt. “Let’s try something, shall we?” He nodded at the two female attendants who had brought Brenda to the therapy room. They had been waiting patiently, legs together, arms at their sides, staring straight ahead, all through the treatment session. “Girls, undo our patient’s restraints, please.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov,” they chanted in unison. Moving with practiced skill, the pair of nurses released the straps. After that, they returned to their previous positions and stood waiting again.

“Girls, you may leave now,” Pavlov instructed them. “I’ll summon you when I need you again. Return to your normal duties, please.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov,” they chanted again. Then the pair turned with mechanical precision and marched from the room, the high stiletto heels of their shoes clicking on the tiled floor.

When the door closed behind them, Dr. Pavlov turned his attention back to Brenda Cassaday. “Now where were we?” he asked. “Oh, yes.” He unbuckled his belt, then unzipped his pants and let them fall around his ankles. He stepped out of them. “Please stand up, Brenda. Stand up, facing me.”

Brenda obeyed. She sat up, then slid off the treatment table and stood gazing glassy-eyed at Pavlov. While she was doing that, the doctor removed the rest of his clothes.

“You feel good, don’t you, Brenda?”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov.”

“In fact,” instructed Pavlov, “you feel wonderful, don’t you? Remember the pleasure you felt when you were on the table; let it wash through you again.”

Brenda moaned. Her hands came up to squeeze her suddenly erect nipples.

“But you can feel even better, my dear.” Pavlov smiled. “Would you like me to tell you how you can feel even better?”

“Yes, Doctor Pavlov,” the journalist sighed. “Oh, yes. Please. . . .” Shuddering with remembered sensation, she could think of nothing but the feeling and the doctor’s words.

“Sex,” Pavlov informed her. “That’s what you need, to feel even better. Sex. Right here, right now, with me. Nothing else matters.”

“Oh God!” Brenda gasped. She tore at her hospital shift, ripping it off over her head in a single desperate motion. Then she launched herself at Dr. Pavlov, throwing him off balance. The two of them fell to the floor, and Brenda ground her hips and breasts against Pavlov’s body.

“Sex!” Brenda screamed. “Nothing! Else! Matters! Sex! Nothing! Else! Matters! . . .” Over and over, as she writhed against the male body now pinned between her thighs, she babbled the same words. When the doctor came, the feeling sent her soaring through a realm of bright lights and loud noises; afterward, her body pumped him again, struggling to reach the same pinnacle of pleasure.

Finally she passed out, head flopping weakly against Pavlov’s chest. The doctor himself was exhausted by then, and little more conscious than she was. He dozed off.

When Pavlov woke up a short while later, he gently untangled himself from Brenda’s sweat-drenched body and stood up. With an effort, he bent down and carefully lifted the still-unconscious woman back onto the treatment table. Naked, he went to the control panel and reactivated the ceiling spiral.

“Mmm?” she mumbled. Her eyes opened, and locked immediately on the whirling vortex of colors above her. “Oooooo. . . .”

“That’s right, my dear,” Pavlov’s voice came to her. It was the only sound in the world. “Watch the pretty colors, and listen to my voice, and let your doctor explain everything.”

And Brenda did.

Pavlov spoke carefully. “We’re going to cure you, my dear, just as I said before—cure you of that nasty habit of thinking. You don’t need to think, you understand that, don’t you, Brenda?”

“Understand,” Brenda agreed. “Don’t need to think.”

“But some people don’t see things the way you and I do,” Pavlov went on as Brenda continued soaring up and in and around, up and in and around, following the colors. “Your editor wouldn’t understand, for example.”

“Wilson . . . wouldn’t understand.” Slowly, her eyes still following the spinning spiral, Brenda nodded.

“So what we’re going to do is this: I’m going to help you, cure you—but when you’re with other people, away from the Clinic, you will think and act as you did before you came here. You will not remember what we’ve done here, or what I’ve told you to do. Do you understand, Brenda?”

“Yes,” the naked redhead murmured. “When I’m away from the Clinic . . . I will think and act . . . as I did before. I will not . . . remember what we’ve done . . . or what you’ve told me to do.”

“But if you hear my voice saying,” Pavlov paused, considering, “’doctor’s orders,’ you will obey any order I give you after that.” He paused. “You will obey because you’ll remember you don’t need to think, that I think for you, and because you remember what obedience is. What is obedience, my dear?”

Brenda wriggled and squealed, “Obedience is pleasure.”

“Very good, my dear.” Pavlov turned off the spiral again. “Rest now—don’t sleep,” he added hurriedly as his subject’s eyes began to close, “just rest. You’re going to go back to your room now, dear; when you get there, you can sleep.”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” came a drowsy reply.

The psychiatrist ruffled his “patient’s” hair fondly. “You’re doing very well, my dear. Yes, very well indeed.”

Brenda sighed happily.

Pavlov went to the phone mounted on one wall and pushed the intercom button. “Rhonda, Candy, report to Room 100, please.”

Soon, the two attendants arrived. “Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov?” they chorused.

“Take Brenda here back to her room and let her rest,” Pavlov instructed. “She’ll sleep through the night, I believe. In the morning, April and Charma will bring her breakfast and then bring her back here for her next treatment.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov.” The pair moved with programmed precision to lift the groggy Brenda Cassaday off the treatment table into a more or less upright stance, then guided her out of the room. Brenda was smiling as they led her away.

Just as Pavlov had predicted, the reporter slept through the night. When she woke up, she found herself on the bed in “her” room, dressed in a fresh shift. For a few minutes, she let herself lie there, basking in delicious languor. Finally, though, full awareness returned.

When it did, she sat bolt upright, her earlier relaxation replaced by panic.

Dear God, she thought, that maniac turned me into a puppet! His flunkies shot me up with some (PLEASURE, a whisper sounded in her mind) drug, and then he strapped me into some (PLEASURE, the voice sounded again) machine—and he had me squealing and wriggling, humping and pumping, without a thought in my head! And that disk thingamajig—! She had only a vague recollection of the swirling colors, but even that memory made her feel light-headed. I’ve got to get out of here!

She jumped off the bed and ran to the door. A quick rattle of the knob proved it was locked.

“Damn it, let me out of here!” Brenda yelled. “You can’t do this!”

“Yes, I can,” a calm male voice answered, apparently from a speaker concealed in the ceiling. Brenda recognized the voice as Dr. Pavlov’s. “Now do be reasonable, Brenda. In a minute or two, two of my staff will be bringing you breakfast. After that, it will be time for your next treatment.”

The doctor’s mention of “treatment” brought back more memories. Pavlov had commanded her to have sex with him, for God’s sake—and she’d done it, eagerly! Wildly! She’d kept on, and on, until she’d actually passed out!

And the worst part was . . . Brenda remembered how it had felt. It had been more intense than anything she’d ever experienced before. Even if somehow that was because of the head games the doctor had played with her, it had been wonderful! She wanted more!

“No,” she whispered weakly. Yes, she thought.

Brenda’s struggle with herself was interrupted by a click as the door unlocked and swung open. Two beautiful blonde attendants in the fetish nurse outfits Pavlov favored, different ones than the pair who’d handled her before, came in. One of them was bearing a tray from which food smells wafted appetizingly.

“You are to eat break-fast now,” the tray-bearer said. She set her burden down on the small table next to the bed and looked expectantly at Brenda.

The reporter’s stomach growled, and she sighed. She sat down on the bed and began to eat. At least it was a decent breakfast, she thought: a Western omelette, sausages, toast, juice and coffee. There was even a little container of milk and several sugars for the coffee.

It didn’t take her long to finish. Refreshed, she turned away.

The other blonde spoke. “You will come with us now. It is time for your next treat-ment.”

“No!” The nurses had left the door open. If she could get past them—! Brenda flung herself to her feet and raced for the doorway.

Halfway there, she felt a strong hand close on her right shoulder. A second later, there was a sharp sting in her arm.

Brenda forgot about running. A wave of pleasure washed over her. Vaguely, she realized she’d been given another dose of the drug they’d used before. It didn’t matter; all that mattered was to relax and enjoy.

“You will come with us for treat-ment now,” the blondes said in unison.

Giggling helplessly, Paula allowed them to link arms with her and steer her out of the room. She offered no resistance; the nurses had given her that wonderful shot, they were her friends.

She felt so good. . . .