The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’ve got to get away, Brenda thought sleepily. Before it’s too late.

She wondered hazily whether it wasn’t already. She was lying on her bed, a lazy smile on her face after another therapy session. She knew Pavlov was messing with her head, but it hardly seemed to matter.

She was still trying to escape, or so she told herself. Her attempts, though, were becoming a ritual: she’d wait for her keepers to come to bring her for treatment, then dart for the door; each time, they’d catch her and give her a hypo of that wonderful drug, which she now knew was called ecstacine. After that, she would be flying.

If she really got away, no one would give her any more.

Of course—her smile widened—she almost didn’t need it. She closed her eyes and let the sense memory of the drug-induced pleasure boil up within her. She thrashed and writhed happily for several minutes, her hands moving beneath her hospital shift to caress her bare flesh. Finally she squealed in release and sank against her sheets.

She gave a happy sigh. As she’d climaxed, an image of the doctor had blazed behind her clenched eyelids. He was wonderful.

A memory stirred. She was supposed to be . . . investigating him, wasn’t she?

Yes, she was. She had come to the Pavlov Research clinic on assignment for the tabloid Weekly Sensation. There had been some strange rumors about the Clinic, and her editor had thought there might be a story in them. So Brenda Cassaday had come to the doctor posing as a would-be patient, under the alias Brenda Cleland.

Her impersonation hadn’t survived her first interview with Dr. Pavlov. He’d offered her tea, a nice, inoffensive social amenity—but her cup had been laced with something extra. She had drifted away into a happy haze, and while she floated pleasantly in her chair, the Pavlov had questioned her. She’d told him everything. It had seemed perfectly natural.

He’d responded by turning her into a patient for real, subjecting her to more drugs and special machines. Brenda shivered: she looked forward to each session in the (PLEASURE) headset now, staring up into the beautiful (PLEASURE) hypnotic spiral above the treatment bed while incredible feelings roared through her and the doctor explained things. And after each treatment she would have sex with him, wild, animal sex, until she was too worn out to go on.

Brenda laughed softly. Her editor would explode if he knew what was going on. If she got away, she couldn’t tell him.

Dr. Sergei Pavlov sat in his office, reviewing the file on Brenda Cassaday. A smile played across his lips as he went over the papers. Every indication was that Ms. Cassaday’s programming was moving ahead exactly as he’d planned.

Ordinarily, of course, that wouldn’t even be in doubt. The women he conditioned as staff could be worked on steadily, since they wouldn’t be leaving until he decided he was bored with them. By then, they’d be clay in his hands, to be molded any way he chose—even physically; the Pavlov Research Clinic maintained an excellent plastic surgery practice, whose official purpose was to assist patients whose mental problems were linked to physical disfigurement. The Clinic’s income included payments from men, and occasionally women, to whom he provided obedient customized slaves—and those, too, he could treat as long as it took to fully liberate them from the free will he found so offensive in the female sex.

Ms. Cassaday was to be different. Her newspaper knew she was here. If she just disappeared, or suffered an “accident” or “breakdown,” there would be questions. So she would be released. But when she was, she’d be working for the Clinic. Not that she would know it, of course; to make the scheme work, the girl had to seem unchanged, even to herself. But when given her trigger, she would obey without question.

The instrument readings from her last session suggested she was nearly ready. One more treatment should do it. Then she could be sent on her way, complete with a harmless story for the Sensation.

It was a pity, really, to let a woman he’d acquired leave with even the illusion of independence. As he had explained to Brenda during their encounters, free thought was unnatural and unhealthy in a woman. It offended him to have to allow someone he’d cured to leave the Clinic still apparently sick. But—Pavlov sighed, his smile gone—it was necessary. And after all, it was only appearance.

They came for her in the morning. As usual, she ate breakfast under the watchful eyes of two of the Clinic’s gorgeous attendants. As soon as she finished, one of them said, “You will come with us now, Bren-da.”

The journalist said nothing. She watched for an opening, and when it came, she ran for the door. It was useless, of course; she had covered only half the distance when she felt a hand on her shoulder and a sharp sting in her arm.

As the pleasure bubbled through her, she whispered, “Thank you.” The thought flickered that she had let herself be caught this time. Why not? Being caught meant another injection of that wonderful medicine. . . . Her mind dissolved into pretty colors and bliss.

Dr. Pavlov looked up as the giggling, glassy-eyed Brenda Cassaday entered the therapy room, flanked by her bimbo-nurse escorts in their flesh-baring white uniforms. He gestured at the treatment table, and the two attendants helped their burden up onto it, secured the restraints and deftly attached the pleasure-stimulus helmet to her head.

“Excellent, girls,” he said. “You may return to your routine duties now.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov,” two feminine voices responded together.

Dr. Pavlov waited patiently. Repeated doses of the ecstacine with which he’d been treating Ms. Cassaday produced a sort of reverse tolerance, as the user’s brain was conditioned by it. It would take her a bit longer to come down than it had at first, and he needed her relaxed but aware.

Eventually, she blinked and stopped giggling. “Dr. Pavlov?”

“Ah, yes,” the psychiatrist responded. “There you are.” His hands played over the control panel.

Whatever Brenda might have said next was forgotten as the doctor took a familiar little silver bell out of an inside pocket of his white coat, showed it to her and shook it gently. As it sounded, the reporter thrashed and screamed in helpless pleasure. As she slowly shuddered to a stop, Dr. Pavlov nodded.

“Excellent, my dear.” He smiled. Brenda had reacted perfectly. Both the visible signs and the readouts from the pleasure helmet’s instruments confirmed that she had experienced an overpowering blast of sensory reward.

This time had been different, though. The helmet’s sensors had been active, but it had sent no impulses to Brenda’s brain. She had done it all herself, reacting to the tinkling of the bell by trained reflex.

“Uh . . . uh . . .ummm,” Brenda mumbled to herself as the last echoes of what she’d been feeling died away. Her eyes had rolled up in their sockets; now they came down and tried to focus.

His smile broadening, Pavlov rang the bell again.

“Ooo-OOOOOOHHH—!” Brenda squealed, gripped by another mind-erasing wave of pleasure. “Ahhh-UHHHHH!”

Pavlov let the ecstatic seizure run its course. At last, the reporter on the therapy platform sagged bonelessly against the cushioned surface beneath her, a silly smile on her face. Pavlov nodded, satisfied; again she’d generated the reaction herself in response to the bell. His hands roved over the controls in front of him again, and the ceiling plate slid back to reveal the induction spiral.

It began to spin. Brenda couldn’t help herself—she stared into the dazzling, whirling maelstrom of colors. It held her, pulled at her; her eyes followed its motion, trying to trace the spiral as it moved in and around, in and around. It was impossible to see anything but the colors, impossible to think of anything but the colors; the colors were her thoughts, whirling. Brenda’s lips fell open slackly; a little drool seeped from one corner of her mouth, unnoticed.

A minute or so later, the doctor spoke. “That’s right,” he told the woman strapped to the platform beneath the rotating disk. “Relax into the colors, follow the colors as they move in and around, in and around, yes, feel the colors, feel what you always feel when you watch the pretty disk, when you relax and watch the colors move, when you move with the colors, in and around, in and around. . . .” He went on in this vein for several minutes.

When Brenda began repeating, “In and around. In and around. In and around,” the doctor stopped the disk and moved the ceiling panel back over it. Brenda wouldn’t notice, he knew. She still saw the swirling colors, and would see nothing else until she needed to do so in order to obey a command.

He addressed her again, his words bypassing her conscious mind. “You have done very well, Brenda,” he told her. “Soon you will leave here. Let’s review what you’ve learned, shall we?”

“Yes, Doctor Pavlov,” agreed the hypnotized woman.

“What is independent thought, for a woman?” queried the doctor.

“Independent thought is a sickness for a woman,” recited Brenda. “Women don’t need to think. They aren’t made for it.”

“Very good, Brenda,” Pavlov responded. “And what are women made for?”

“Women are made for pleasure and procreation,” came the response. “Woman are made to serve men’s needs.”

“Excellent, my dear.” Pavlov reached down to gently stroke Brenda’s streaming red hair. “And what is obedience?”

“Obedience is pleasure!” Brenda cried eagerly. “Obedience is pleasure!”

“Perfect, Brenda!” Pavlov’s voice was triumphant. “Women are made for pleasure and procreation. Obedience is pleasure. Can you tell me what this means?”

Brenda furrowed her brow as her dazed mind struggled with logic. Finally she declared, “Women are made for obedience.”

“Yes,” confirmed the doctor. “Women are made for obedience. You’re made for obedience. Obedience is pleasure; you are eager to be given orders, because obedience is pleasure. You obey without reservation, because obedience is pleasure.”

“Yes!” panted Brenda. “Oh! Doctor! Please! Tell me what to d-do-ooooohh!“

“I shall, Brenda,” Pavlov assured her. He rang the bell again and watched smiling as Brenda bucked and babbled in bliss When at last she relaxed, a witless grin stamped on her face, he leaned over her and spoke again.

“I’m going to release you from the restraints now, Brenda.” Pavlov unstrapped the redhead.

Brenda lay there peacefully. A faint memory flitted through the back of her mind—hadn’t she wanted to . . . get away? She sighed happily and the thought went away. She was perfectly content to lie there and enjoy the way she was feeling until the doctor told her what to do next.

“Stand up, Brenda,” the order came. Brenda obeyed, her body righting itself and sliding off the treatment bed to stand meekly before its master. Pretty colors chased one another through the emptiness behind her eyes as she awaited her next instruction.

“Tell me what to do, Dr. Pavlov,” whispered the reporter. “Please.”

Pavlov smiled at her. “In a little while, I’ll summon your attendants to return you to your room, my dear,” he explained. “When I do, your ordinary clothing will be returned to you. You will put it on, because you are to be released. You have been cured, Brenda. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor,” sighed the woman. “I understand. I have been cured.”

“What have you been cured of, Brenda?” The doctor guided his patient gently.

“Independent thinking,” replied Brenda. “I have been cured of independent thinking. Independent thinking is a sickness in a woman, and I have been cured.”

“Do you remember what you are to do when you leave here, Brenda?”

The redhead blinked wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, Doctor.” She drew a breath and recited: “When I leave here, I will remember that I investigated the Clinic and found nothing wrong. The Pavlov Research Clinic is an outstanding therapeutic center, and when I write my report for the Weekly Sensation, that is what I will say. I will denounce the vicious rumors about the Clinic, because they are untrue and slanderous.”

Pavlov nodded. He’d worked carefully over the last several sessions to build a framework of false memories Ms. Cassaday would recall about her time here; the woman’s own mind would fill in the gaps automatically. “And what else?”

“When I am away from the Clinic I will act and think as if I were the same as I was before I came here.” Brenda blinked. “I must not allow anyone to know I have been cured. Some people wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s right, Brenda,” agreed Pavlov. “But what will you do if you ever hear my voice say the words ‘doctor’s orders’?”

The redhead blinked again and looked at the doctor with wide, empty eyes. “If I hear your voice say the words ‘doctor’s orders,’ I will no longer act and think as I did before coming here. I will listen for your next instructions, and I will obey those instructions.”

“And why will you obey those instructions, Brenda?”

“Because I am a woman, and women are made for obedience. And because,” Brenda’s breathing quickened, “obedience is pleasure. . . .”

“Excellent, Brenda dear,” responded Dr. Pavlov. He looked her over with a wicked grin. She was getting excited. Her training had linked that phrase to sexual arousal. “Now, what was that again?”

“Obedience is pleasure,” Brenda gasped. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. “Obedience is . . . oh, God, Doctor . . . pleasurrre!” She squirmed, hands going to her bosom to tweak her now-erect nipples through the thin fabric of her patient’s gown.

“That’s right,” Pavlov confirmed. “Obedience is pleasure. You are made for obedience. And what else are you made for?”

“T-to serve,” wailed the redhead, “To serve . . . men’s needs! Yes! Yes!”

Pavlov removed his coat, undid his tie and began to unbutton his shirt while a shuddering, glassy-eyed Brenda watched. “To serve my needs, isn’t that right, my dear.”

“Yes, oh, Doctor, please, yes. . . .” Brenda was breathing quite raggedly now. If the woman she had been when she first arrived could somehow have seen her as she was now, she would have turned and fled rather than confronting Pavlov. Gone was the coolly professional reporter she had been; in her place was a thing of flesh begging to be commanded. “Please. . . .”

“You feel wonderful, don’t you, Brenda?”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov, ohhh, yes,” the reporter sighed in rapture.

“But you know, don’t you, what you need to do, to feel even better.” Pavlov’s hands went to his belt, unbuckling it, then moved to undo the clasp holding his trousers shut. When he pulled down on his zipper, the sound sent Brenda into a frenzy.

“Yes! Yes! Doctor! Pavlov! Yes!” Frantic feminine hands fumbled with her loose-fitting shift, finally clutching it and pulling hard enough to tear the fabric as Brenda arched up and back in bliss. The shredded garment fell away as the redhead’s clenched hands let go. She launched herself at Pavlov, who was halfway out of his pants. The two of them toppled onto the treatment bed, and their bodies moved together. Brenda’s legs clamped around the doctor, and he thrust into her furiously, again and again.

Much later, Brenda relaxed. “Ohh, Doctor . . . Pavlov,” she whispered. Her eyes were closed, and her bare flesh glistened with perspiration.

Pavlov left off gently nibbling the redhead’s earlobe and asked, “How do you feel, Brenda dear?”

“Won’ful,” was the slurred answer. “Jus’ . . . jus’ . . . won’ful. . . .”

“Don’t go to sleep,” the psychiatrist ordered. “Just rest.” He rolled off the woman, got down off the therapy bed and dressed hastily. When he was done, he went to the phone.

“April,” he said into it, “Charma, report to Room 100, please. April, Charma, report to Room 100 immediately.” He put the handset back in its cradle and waited. He didn’t have to wait long before the nurses he’d requested appeared. When the door opened to reveal them, he nodded and said, “Come on in, girls. I need your assistance.”

The beautiful blondes entered and came to attention, the spike heels of their glossy white shoes clicking on the tiled floor. “Yes Dr. Pav-lov,” they chanted. “As you com-mand, Doc-tor Pav-lov.”

The psychiatrist gestured at Brenda, sprawled languidly on the treatment bed. “Take Brenda here back to her room,” he instructed. “Let her rest. Lay out for her the clothing she arrived in; Nurse Hedy will have it. Monitor her, and when she awakens, assist her in getting dressed, give her food, and then notify me.” “Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov.” The attendants moved efficiently to take Brenda in hand, supporting her between them. The reporter’s head flopped limply forward, her chin resting against her ample chest.

Pavlov addressed Brenda once more. “Brenda, you’re to go with these nurses back to your room. Walk with them, please. When you get to your room you may rest.”

“Yes, Doc’r P’vlov,” Brenda mumbled sleepily. She straightened up and began to walk on her own, guided by the blondes. As the door closed behind them, Pavlov nodded in satisfaction. Brenda’s conditioning was complete. She might need periodic reinforcement, but that could be handled easily enough. And he would have an unwitting agent in the media, one who would help him ward off any other would-be scandalmongers who might interfere with the Clinic’s work.

He toyed idly with an empty hypodermic syringe. Brenda’s programming would suppress the dependency on ecstacine he’d created in her. The drug’s hold was primarily psychological, and with her memory of her real experiences at the Clinic blocked, she wouldn’t remember the pleasure. Only when he spoke her trigger would the block be lifted; when it was, the memory of the drug would do its part in keeping her deeply enthralled. If he decided to call her in to refresh her training, injections of the compound would of course be part of it.

Not for the first time, Dr. Pavlov considered releasing ecstacine on the black market. It had real profit potential. And once again he decided not to do it. The market for it would almost certainly be taken over quickly by organized crime, and would definitely attract the very sort of official notice he carefully avoided. Sighing, he disposed of the hypo.

Brenda woke in her room, relaxed and smiling.

As awareness returned, she noticed she was dressed again, in a fresh hospital gown. She remembered shredding the one she’d had on before as lust had overtaken her at Dr. Pavlov’s command. She remembered leaping eagerly at Pavlov and dragging him down with her, bucking and thrashing against him, sex the only thing that mattered. The memory brought a wider, sated smile to her lips.

She stirred, then sat up, stretching sinuously with her head tilted back and her raised arms submerged in her cascading hair. Fantasizing that she was posing for a photo shoot for some men’s magazine, she turned her face sideways and arched her back, then lay back down and raised her legs, scissoring them slowly open and closed, open and closed.

Open and closed. . . . After several minutes, she was startled out of her rhythmic motion by the sudden opening of the door. She swung her legs down and looked toward the doorway in time to see the nurses who’d brought her back from treatment—April and Charma, was that their names? And which was which? She didn’t know—come in. One of them was carrying a bundle in one arm, while the other bore a tray from which food smells emanated.

“You will dress now and eat,” the one with the package announced. “We have brought your clo-thing. You are to be re-leased. When you have dressed and eat-en, Doc-tor Pav-lov will speak with you. Then you will be re-leased.” She put the bundle down next to Brenda’s bed, and the reporter saw it contained the clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived. The shoes looked polished and the other garments freshly washed.

“Thank you,” Brenda said. She took the food tray and fell to eating; as always after a session with the Doctor, she was very hungry. Her beautiful attendants came to attention and watched.

As soon as Brenda finished eating, one of the blondes spoke into a small cell phone. “She is rea-dy, Doc-tor Pav-lov.” The mechanical cadence of the nurses’ speech didn’t bother Brenda. Dr. Pavlov wanted them to speak that way; that meant it was all right.

Pavlov appeared a few minutes later,

“Well, Brenda,” he said, “it’s time for you to rejoin the world. Are you ready to do that?”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” answered the redhead. “I’m ready.”

“Remember,” he reminded her, “as soon as you leave here, you’ll forget all about your treatment here, and remember only that you found nothing wrong. That’s what you’ll tell your boss when you go back to work at the paper, and that’s the story you’ll write.”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov.” Brenda nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you also understand that when you leave here, you will again think and act the way you did before you came here?”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov.”

“And why must you do that?” Pavlov probed carefully.

“Because some people would not understand about your treatments,” Brenda explained. “Telling them would be bad.”

“That’s right.” Pavlov bobbed his head encouragingly. “But if you ever hear my voice say, ‘doctor’s orders,’ what will you do?”

“I will no longer think and act as I did before,” Brenda recited. “I will think only of obeying your instructions. I will obey your instructions without question, because I am made for obedience.”

“Exactly, my dear.” The Doctor smiled smugly. “Now come with me, Brenda.”

Brenda Cassaday stood. Dr. Pavlov offered her his arm, and she allowed him to lead her out of her room.

In the main lobby, the psychiatrist spoke again. “Goodbye, Ms. Cassaday. I called a cab for you before we spoke; it should arrive momentarily.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Pavlov,” Brenda responded by reflex. She turned away and passed through the lobby’s revolving doors into the sunlight.

There was a moment of dizziness. . . .

Brenda Cassaday blinked. Her head cleared.

What was that? she wondered. For a second or two, she had the feeling she’d forgotten something. Then she forgot about that feeling. A white car with the name of a local taxi service stenciled on it beeped at her, and she hurried to it. She was eager to get home, and then back to work. She had a story to write, even if it wasn’t what George would have wanted. She wondered if he’d even run the piece once she got it written.

Three months later. . . .

Brenda shook hair out of her eyes as she tapped away at her keyboard. She was eager to get her latest assignment out of the way: an article on a crazy old woman who kept a tiger in her apartment. It had been a punishment, the latest of several crappy stories she’d been assigned after the Pavlov Research Clinic investigation had turned out to be a dud.

A voice rang out above the general din. “Hey, Bren’!” it said. “You’ve got a call!”

“Who is it?” she yelled back. “No, never mind, switch it here!”

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up. “Who’s speaking, please?”

A familiar voice answered. “Dr. Sergei Pavlov here.”

“Dr. Pavlov?” Brenda lowered her voice. “What do you want, Doctor? I’m busy right now.” Her voice betrayed a touch of irritation—unfair, really, she admitted to herself; Dr. Pavlov could hardly be blamed that she’d failed to turn up some juicy scandal at his clinic.

The doctor noticed. “Tsk, tsk,” he scolded gently. “You sound tense. You really need to relax.” He paused, then added, “Doctor’s orders.”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” Brenda said. Her face relaxed into a calm mask as her thoughts swirled in and around, in and around, lost amid beautiful colors.

“I’m just calling to check in on you, my dear,” Pavlov said. “And, oh yes, to give you one instruction. If you should happen to be approached by someone asking questions about me or the Clinic, you will call here at once.” He gave her his direct office line. “You’ll tell me all about it—or if I’m not here, you’ll leave a message telling all about it. Then, when you hang up, you’ll forget you ever made the call. Do you understand, and will you obey?”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” whispered Brenda. “I understand. I will obey.”

“Then when I hang up,” instructed Pavlov, “you will again think and act as you usually do. You will remember only that this call was from a telemarketer, and you will think no more about it.”

“Yes, Dr. Pavlov,” the redhead murmured.

There was a click as the connection was broken, and then a dial tone.

Brenda slammed the handset into its cradle. “Dammit!” she swore. “How did these marketing assholes get my name anyway? And where I work, too!”

“Sorry,” came the voice of the young guy who’d taken the call in the first place.

“Never mind.” Brenda sighed and went back to work. She couldn’t even remember what it was the caller had been selling.

Oh, well. It wasn’t important.

She put it out of her mind.