The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Vendatrix


At that very moment Max was entertaining one of his chief accomplices and occasional client, a woman of mature years and refined tastes. Her name was Lydia Dunn. The years she had put to use climbing her way to the top of the intelligence agency—the Commission of Sex Crimes—whose whole purpose was to find and catch people like Max. The tastes she had refined by a secret partnership with Max. Many years ago, before they developed this odd alliance, Max had actually assisted her career by pointing her to some of his competitors in the underground market of sex trafficking. Files on Russian Mafia prostitute rings and the inevitable Thailand trade had been sent through devious channels to land on Ms. Dunn’s desk. She had been impressed with their accuracy, and wealth of inside information. Recognizing a mind as ruthless and efficient as her own, she had tracked the information to its source—as Max had intended her to. The two had met at last, in Berlin cafe, each guarded at a distance by their own invisible security network.

Max had calmly accepted the gamble that he could be arrested right there in the cafe. Not so his associate Andre. The Frenchman had flung his hands in the air when he heard about Max’s plan to meet the chief of the Commission of Sex Crimes. He had railed that Max was taking too much of a chance, this she-devil Commissioner was not to be trusted. “These Americans are insane about sex—la cafard, crazy. As if sex could be a crime! We French are more civilized, we see sex as the gateway to love! And this woman, this Lydia Dunn, is the worst, la Grande Inquisitor.” When he saw that Max was determined to make the meeting, Andre had insisted on guarding Max’s back, and picked a seat in a bistro across the street with a clear view of the cafe sidewalk table. Max could see him out of the corner of his eye, the slender Frenchman holding a small glass of wine in one hand, and his sharpest knife palmed in the other.

Max and Lydia Dunn had both waved away alcoholic beverages and settled for espresso, trying to take the measure of each other: She, dressed in American casual, but with manicured hands that told of her expensive tastes; He, dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit and looking for all the world like an English banker. But she noticed his hands had the rough texture and scars of an altogether different upbringing.

“How long have you been in the business, Max?” she asked.

“What business is that, Madame?”

“Come now, Max, let us not fence with each other. I know very well you are in the business of smuggling prostitutes into the States through your front corporation, the so-called ‘XTC Doll Company’. Only you have a new approach—from what my sources tell me.”

Max regarded the stainless steel pocket watch had propped against the ashtray to keep track of the time. One hour only, Andre had insisted, and then I’m coming across the street, knife in hand. “You cannot expect me to speak with such indiscretion about my affairs,” he said.

Lydia Dunn laughed. She had reached into her shoulderbag and dropped a file on the table marked “XTC Doll Company—Investigation”. “This is what one of my bright young woman investigators gave me a few weeks ago. We’re on to you, Max.”

Max’s face betrayed no shock or even anger. Instead, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out an thick envelope tied with a red string. “And this is what my people uncovered about the bribes paid by my competitors into a Luxembourg bank account which we later traced to a you.”

Lydia Dunn glared at him, then smiled. The smile of tiger, thought Max. “Well well well. It looks like we could both do each other some harm.”

“Or some good, Ms. Dunn.”

“I hear you got a whole new approach to the business, Max.” And when he hesitated, she said, “Come on, no secrets. Not between us. What’s the special deal you got going?”

So he had told her. How he and his associate Andre had stumbled across the mind-conditioning device left behind by the retreating Stassi when the Berlin Wall came down. The East German secret police had used the device to wring secrets from spies and informers, but Max had immediately seen a more commercial use—the psychological conditioning of sex slaves for the insatiable appetites of the post-Cold War global economy. He spoke with contempt for the clumsy violent methods of his competitors, who trolled the gutters of Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia for drug addicts to throw into filthy brothels. “We have it down to a science now,” he said. “Do you know how we get our merchandise across borders?”

“How?” she asked, intrigued. “Hopefully not stuffed in the trunks of Volkswagens.”

“Hardly. We fly them across, suitably escorted, on first-class tickets.”

“Their minds are that much under control?” She arched her eyebrows. “Why, Max, you clever fiend.”

“No, I’m not clever. But my competitors are worse than stupid—their methods attract too much attention. They’re so inefficient and clumsy that the world press would soon notice them, and that would be bad for my business. Now that they are out of the way, perhaps we can come to some agreement. Naturally, there would be compensation to you, the usual financial arrangements.”

“Naturally, Max.”

“And we could help your career. Most of the people in this business are actually rather. . .distasteful.”

“And you’re not? You and your French friend, who I gather is posted across the street?” And she had pointed a red-fingernail at Andre, making sure the Frenchman saw she was pointing at him. Andre’s face darkened as he realized he had been made, and he turned away, scowling.

“You think he’s with me?” Max had challenged, but he knew it was pointless.

“Well, either your friend—Andre, isn’t it?—has a big knife in his pocket, or he’s really turned on by American woman cops.”

Max had raised his coffee cup. “Salute,” he said, and quaffed the dregs of the thick coffee. “So you know my partner, maybe a little bit about our organization. But you, see, Ms. Dunn, I know a little bit about your organization, too. Like the young woman who drafted this investigation. She’s is after your job, isn’t she?”

Lydia regarded her table companion with a new respect. “You have done your homework, haven’t you? Okay, then, let’s get down to business. What do you want?”

“Information on any impending investigations by your agency, such as that one,” his eyes flicked down to her file. “What protection you can offer, should any of our people get picked up in the States. All we want is to be left alone. And what may we do for you?

Lydia Dunn’s smile hardened. “The usual financial arrangement as you put it. Double what your competitors were paying, you seem much better organized.”

“And what else?”

“The occasional collar. I need to show the Secretary of the department that my Commission is getting results. Surely you can let me have my little catches.”

“And what else?”

“The occasional young lady would be nice. Slender, with good hands. And tongue. Not drugged, thank you. ”

Max had heard about her personal tastes. “Drugged is not our style. I think we can handle that, Ms. Dunn. And what else?”

Lydia Dunn learned forward. “Since you brought it up, this woman who’s gunning for me, Christina Hilshire. I once made a—shall we say, overture?—to see if we couldn’t get better acquainted after hours, and the little hussy spurned me. Can you believe it, Max, the insult? I think she’s heard rumors about my extracurricular activities.” Lydia Dunn leaned back in her chair, her eyes flinty and hard. “I was hoping you could use your imagination on that one, Max.” Lydia Dunn drew a photograph out of her bag and shoved it across the table. “A real barracuda, wouldn’t you say?”

Max studied the photograph at length. Expensive clothes, haughty features presenting a cold beauty. And a look in the girl’s eyes that seemed to dare anyone to cross her. He didn’t say so, but the photograph struck him as what Lydia Dunn probably looked like when she was younger. He pocketed the photo. “We will see what we can do,” he said. Then he called to the waiter. “Otto! Zwei cognac, bitte!” He turned back to his companion as the burley German waiter put the cognac glasses filled with dark golden liqueur on the table. Max took one of the drinks and offered the other to Lydia Dunn. “To your health, Ms. Dunn.”

“And to yours, Max,” Lydia Dunn had replied. “And you will come up with something on that Hilshire bitch, won’t you? She’s really on my ass.”

Max had kept his promise and also kept the photograph. When Lydia Dunn was finally ushered into his office by one of his exquisite office lovedolls, Max rose to great the Commissioner with old-world courtesy.

“Miss Dunn. Welcome to the Island.” He gave her a single vigorous handshake, Saxon style. Her grip was as firm as his own. “Ah, you got my message about dressing for the weather. The island look really becomes you.”

Lydia Dunn tossed her Panama hat on the hatrack and smoothed her sundress. “Why, thanks, Max, how nice of you to notice.” She took the proffered woven cane chair. “It’s taken some doing to get away. But I finally get to see the famous Island.”

“Famous only to a select few, I hope.”

“How can you say that, Max? It’s a world-known resort.”

“True. Let’s say it’s true purpose is known only to a few. As for the resort—excellent camouflage, wouldn’t you say? Better than some silly deserted island that can be seen from surveillance satellites. Here we attract some of the most beautiful young girls in the world, at astonishing low discount prices, to spend a week on this picture-perfect paradise.” He spread his arm out to the bay window, showing the azure blue of the bay outside.”

Lydia Dunn said, “Only for some of them, that week turns out to be a lifetime.”

“Not one has complained yet,” said Max.

“You’ve rather taken that option away from them, haven’t you, Max?”

Max polished his rimless glasses. “I see we’ve come. . .accompanied.”

Lydia Dunn said, “Oh, yes, I never go on my vacations without It.”

“It” stood obediently and silently by Lydia’s Dunn’s chair. The girl was collared, with the leash held firmly in Lydia Dunn’s hand. Max glanced down at the faded photograph at his desk, then back to the figure at the side of Lydia Dunn. “I can still recognize her—well, somewhat.”

“Really? Well, we might need another treatment here on the island. I wanted to eradicate every last trace of my former nemesis—the former Christina Hilshire.”

Max studied “It” with professional interest. The whole technology of the Ultimate LoveDoll process focused on a single goal: to keep their Dolls as human and natural as possible, but condition their minds and bodies to be perfect love slaves for their owners. The kidnaped girls first underwent intensive mind-programming. When they were thoroughly brainwashed, a physical training program and cosmetic surgery produced females of breathtaking beauty to accompany their complete compliance with any sexual demand. Max always felt an engineer’s pride that you could dress up your LoveDoll and take her to an embassy ball as a princess, then have your way with her in the limo on the way back.

The same could never be said for “It”, he noticed. Because “It” had become the target of her owner’s wrath. And Lydia Dunn had never forgiven Christina Hilshire for trying to expose her connections with the very sex merchants she was supposed to be prosecuting as the Commissioner of Sex Crimes.

Max knew the girl’s mind had been reduced to machine-like obedience. He had heard that Lydia Dunn kept “It” chained (for effect only, the girl wasn’t going anywhere) next to the home entertainment system of her living room, and that her close circle of friends were welcome to use “It” along with the toys and amusements.

Physically, “It” could never be mistaken for an Ultimate LoveDoll. Under Lydia Dunn’s demanding instructions, Christina’s body had been molded to look like an old-fashioned rubber blow-up doll—a cheap one, at that. “It” had breasts inflated to ridiculous size, like twin watermelons protruding out from her chest. “It’s” lips were gigantic, thick and moist and soft, and pressed together to form a wet airtight seal, that would give heavenly delight to any cock thrust deep inside. Her other apertures were equally moist, swollen and inviting. “It’s” feet had been molded to walk on tiny ballerina points, the heels seven inches off the ground. “It’s” hands were covered by the rubber into useless mittens, that Lydia kept cuffed for appearances sake. And her skin! Max winced at the cheap plastic veneer that Lydia had insisted on for her hated rival, even the cheesy seams.

Max looked back at the face, those utterly empty wide-eyed doll eyes staring straight ahead, the corner of the lips turned just slightly up to form a daft smile. The make-up was deliberately overdone, heavy eyeshadow, Egyptian eyeliner, bright spots of blush on her cheeks, and fire-truck red lips—all tempting any fun-lover to make lasvicious use of her. “It’s” hair hung untamed and tangled, giving the doll a well-used look.

Christina Hilshire, rising star of the Commission, Vassar graduate cum laude, former model, had been turned into the cheapest variety of sex toy.

“You really can see that bitch’s face, still, Max? I think it’s the eyes. Just as cold and calculating as ever, hm?” (In fact, “It’s” looked quite blank as buttons to Max). “I know she looks a bit scruffy, Max, but I lent her to some friends of mine over the weekend, to use in their country home, and they barely had enough time to hose her down before returning her.” Lydia gave a quick jerk on the chain that snapped to the front of the collar. “And It’ could barely keep up with me, disembarking from my private Lear jet.” Max glanced down and saw the pointed feet were hobbled by eight inches of heavy chain. “You were a very bad girl for wanting my job, weren’t you, and you’re still a bad girl. That’s why I have to punish you every night, don’t I, after I play with you?” And Lydia gave the chain another sharp jerk.

‘Max shuddered at the vindictiveness of women in general, and Lydia Dunn in particular. Then again, he thought, the Hilshire girl had it coming. She could have exposed Max along with Lydia, and Max had no illusions the politicians and prosecutors in a dozen countries would be baying for his blood. His only security lay in secrecy. And the protection offered by this woman, Lydia Dunn, in her role as Commissioner.

Lydia glanced at a nearby side table. An architect’s lamp hung over it, casting a zone of light over a neat arrangements of tiny mechanical parts, tiny gears and screws all laid out in neat rows, together with delicate jeweler’s tools and magnifying glass. “Why, Max, what is this?”

“I repair pocket watches. It helps me to relax.”

“How. . . quaint. Don’t you like the modern digital ones?”

“Those you don’t repair, Lydia. You just through them away. But something of quality deserves to be polished and restored.”

“Just like your girls, Max?” she asked teasingly. “Exchange the parts, buffed and rewound for use.”

“I really don’t see the comparison. Well, to business. I wanted to show you the operation, because we’re going to have to tool up for some heavy production, and your agents might be reporting hints and clues of it, so it was important you knew what was happening. We have a new batch coming in from one of our Pleasure Cruises, and you can watch the process with them. Max’s hand flicked a control on his desk, and Lydia Dunn raised her eyebrows in surprise as the whole side wall flickered into transparent glass. Max’s office was in fact an observation deck over the whole laboratory that transformed the kidnaped subjects into programmable sex machines. The first cadre of Andre’s kidnaped women were being led inside, their rubber suits as black and glossy as obsidian, their pretty eyes looking out of the slits in the molded head hoods.

“As you can see,” said Max in his crisp engineering voice with just a trace of Bavarian accent. “we’ve split the conversion process into several different stages. It’s more efficient that way, and fewer mistakes are made. This group of, ah, subjects has already been pre-conditioned on board their ship. We found that we can handle them better as a group when they are already docile and obedient.”

“Quite,” said Lydia Dunn dryly.

“All of the girls have their cortex jacks inserted—the neurosurgeon who does this work is tops in his field, we pay him in blondes. And this batch have already had three weeks of physical sculpting and cosmetic surgery. Ah, the first one is coming through. Her name is Tamantha, I believe,” Max said, referring to a clipboard. “We can watch the whole process from here.”

“Better yet,” said Lydia Dunn, “let’s go down to the floor and see it.” And Max noted the way her eyes burned color rose in her cheeks..

“Very well. You can leave It’ here.”

“Your staff is welcome to use her in the meantime, Max.”

“Like trying to offer candy to workers in a chocolate factory,” he replied. “They’ve seen it all before.”