The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Vendatrix


Once they got on the floor, Max noticed that each girl of Andre’s cargo had sported a “Handle with Care” sticker on her smooth black asscheek—Andre’s waggish sense of humor which only made Max shake his head. They watched as Tamantha/Tami was gently guided through the central door, a white-coated technician on either side. They unhooked something on her suit, and peeled the thick rubber off. Lydia Dunn could not hide her gasp. Every strand of hair had been shaved from Tami’s nubile body. Even her eyelashes. They took her a glass enclosed octagon-shaped chamber and postured her to stand with her legs spread and her arms held out. Streams of some liquid jetted out from all sides, drenching her body and splashing through the grate on the door, washing away the sweat and moisture and leftover cream from three days at the oars. Billows of steam partially clouded the view.

“That’s a special solution,” said Max to Lydia Dunn’s enquiring look. “It dissolves the remaining hair stubble right down to roots. She will be as smooth as a billiard ball from this point on. Secondly, it cleans the whole body surface—not a blemish will remain. Finally, there’s a chemical in the liquid that softens the skin, and will help bond her bodysuit.” Lydia Dunn admired the way the girl’s body glistened with that liquid shine. Somehow the shaved aspect of her nudity, combined with her totally submissive behavior, made her infinitely appealing to the jaded matron. The water stopped, and great fans took over, blowing heated air on the girl’s body. She kept her body still and her eyes closed.

When she had completely dried off, a technic opened the door and led the girl to what looked to Lydia Dunn to be a futuristic dressing station. Technicians projected an image of her body on large screen, with hundreds of little dots. Carefully they touched her skin with some kind of stylus, referring again and again to the screen.

“What’s all this about? Are you giving your girls tattoos, Max? I’m surprised at you.”

Max smile was as humourless as her own. “Hardly,” he said. “Those are ultraviolet registration points. Each bodysuit is custom-designed for every girl. Those points help them fit it perfectly.”

“Ah, yes, the famous bodysuits. I wondered how you squeezed the girls into them.”

“It’s not a matter of squeezing, as you will see. Each suit is made up of hundreds of thousands of special polymer fibers. We got the measurements of the subject was on shipboard, and from those we used computer simulations to create the one perfect body form for her—taking into account her starting body shape, the modifications we did on her onboard—just look at those breasts, won’t you?—and the demands of the market. When the bodysuit is fitted on her, those fibers are designed to shrink, slowly compressing and molding her body into the perfect shape. But that’s not all,” he added with his engineer’s enthusiasm for his own creation, “the liquid we coated her body with in the spray chamber”—and he pointed to the octagon compartment with the clear glass walls—” binds the body suit, actually melding the polymers to her skin. It’s an organic bond that keeps on moving inward through the body orifices, on a molecular level. After a few hours the bodysuit covers her—inside and out.”

“How do you get the damn thing off?” asked Lydia Dunn.

“You don’t. It’s permanent,” replied Max. “The subject stays that way, both her mind and her body reconfigured for pleasure. Ah, here it is now.” The two watched was the technicians gingerly extracted the bodysuit from its pre-marked plastic cover. They held it up to Tami, standing in docile silence. Then they opened the suit and fitted its gossamer sheen over her body, having her step through the lower half, then pulling the transparent fabric over her arms and the hooded helmet over her shaven-smooth head. Using hand-held sensors, the technicians tugged the bodysuit this way and that to make sure the registration points matched with the girl’s imprinted stylus marks. When he was satisfied that the silvery bodysuit fitted perfectly over her form, the chief technician led the girl to a machine that looked to Lydia Dunn like one of those iron maidens one found in ancient dungeons, except this was made of polished acrylic and form-fitted for a spread-eagle stance. Upon closer inspection, the surface appeared constructed of hundreds of octagon-shaped segments A breathing tube shaped as phallus was slipped between her lips, a dildo pressed deep inside her loins, and the technicians closed the shell with a snap.

Max and Lydia Dunn could still see her through the clear shell. The chief technician threw a switch, and the dildo began a slow undulating cycle of penetration.

“What’s this all about?” asked Lydia Dunn.

“Just watch,” said Max.

Tami began to respond to the relentless sexual stimulation. Soon her body was writhing within the confines of the shell. Her pelvis began to rise in rhythmic subjugation to the steady caresses of the machine. Her whole body was so sensitive now to sexual stimulation that Lydia Dunn’s practiced eye could tell the girl was right on the cusp of a super-orgasm. At the exact moment right before Tami’s body was about to spasm into the sexual frenzy of release, the chief technician threw a switch.

A jolt of sheer blue energy flashed through cradle. Lydia Dunn could see the segmented sections of the cradle press in with an audible hiss, like an industrial laundry press. The acrylic surface of the shell fogged over. After a few moments of checking various monitors, the chief technician unsnapped the shell. It opened slowly, with a few faint wisps of smoke coiling to the ceiling. The technicians helped Tami from the diabolical machine.

Lydia Dunn could see two differences in the girl right away. First, her skin had the blush and of sexual arousal, and her face had that yearning, hungry look of a woman who is right on the verge of a totally consuming orgasm—Lydia had seen it often enough to know, except now it seemed to be a permanent condition, like a freeze-frame of her psyche. Lydia commented on the second curious difference. “That bodysuit was snug before, but now it seems to be actually. . . melded on to her skin.”

“Very astute of you, Lydia,” said Max. “The cradle did exactly that.”

“What’s it made of?” she asked.

“Biochemistry at work,” said Max. “The liquid solution we put on before the bodysuit actually binds the suit to the skin. Then the organic polymers interact on a molecular level and the suit actually grows around and inside her—she will be totally encapsulated by the end of the day.” Max’s voice became animated as the engineer in him basked in the pride of creation. “We had the mind-control device before—we got that from the East Germans after the Stassi secret police had to leave their technology behind as they got out, when our Berlin Wall came down. The bodysuit came later.” He motioned to one of the technicians, who brought over the bodysuit intended for the next subject. He gave it to Lydia Dunn.

Lydia Dunn let the cool and smooth material run through her hand, like she was sampling fabric. On the girls, it looked so skintight it could have been sprayed on. Max continued speaking. “The material is actually millions of micro-fibers, all computer programmed to the girl’s physical specifications, which we get ahead of time. Only the specifications are not what the girl is—they are what the girl should be, for the most perfect form for her body. I’ve often thought that each woman has one perfect body shape, just for her. Once the suit is put on, and the cradle activates it through heat and pressure, the fibers start to contract to their programmed shape. The construction is gentle, but it is relentless. Once the girl’s form has been modified, then the beauticians take over, add hair and other features—makeup, nail polish, whatever the customer wants—and you end up with a physically-perfected, psychologically conditioned, and behavior-modified love doll.”

“But can’t the poor girl hear every word you’re saying right now. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a—what did you say, a perfect love doll?”

“She can hear all right, Lydia. But does she comprehend? At this stage, I doubt it. We’ve deactivated the centers of speech in her brain, and independent thinking is neutralized before it reaches the neocortex. We can even program her to hear only her owner’s voice—the voice of command.”

But Max was wrong.

Tamantha did hear. And some last tiny flickering spark of her self-awareness did comprehend. She did not fight back, she felt no desire to resist. In fact, thanks to the searing sexual hunger that had been hard-wired direct from her mind to her loins, she yearned to be put to pleasure-use. And yet she still knew what was going on around her. And the sensation she felt the most right now as she should stock-still, arms at her side slightly outstretched with her palms up, was the still-warm bodysuit molding itself around her body, joining with it, and molding her in turn like she was some shrink-wrapped delicacy. She could microfibers gradually tightening, shaping her body to its custom-marketed design, a cascade of sensations that the shadow of her mind followed with a kind of detached horrified fascination. Her ripe-melon breasts shaped themselves into perfect orbs with slightly upturned aureole. The bodysuit smoothed her asscheeks into a perfect “bubble-butt” that no amount of exercise would ever have accomplished. Oh, God, her waist!—it felt like a boa constrictor squeezing her stomach to form a perfect hourglass figure. Then her feet—the toes being drawn downward, as if by some magnet, locking feet into ballerina tiptoe posture so that she would walk on six-inch heels from now on. Tamantha even felt her the micro-fibers go to work on her mouth and cheeks until she felt her mouth assuming a soft bimbo smile, the last expression she would ever have. Once the pre-programmed microfibers had tightened to their specified tension, they locked into elastic compression. And Tamantha felt that last tiny spark of self-awareness being locked in, too—never quite extinguished, but never doing more than just being dimly aware what was happening to her.

Lydia Dunn’s eyes shone with admiration. “Max, you’ve done it. I never knew there was so much technology behind this.”

“Well, we pick it up as we go along. There is still much we don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to duplicate a natural tan.” Max beckoned to Tami, and the girl-doll obediently walked over to them. “The suit is in its transparent mode, so you can see the results of five weeks of being at sea. Look at that golden tan! Our clinicians have tried to come up with a synthetic tint to the skin to match it, but”—and he shook his head sadly, the engineer thwarted—“they have not even come close. That is why this one, all the girls that Andre brought in, will probably be assigned back to the cruise ships, where wealthy passengers enjoy the sun-kissed look on their playthings. We call such lovedolls Pleasure Crews’.”

Max led Lydia Dunn to the final station, where a new set of technicians took charge of the the body-suited automaton that used to be Tamantha. They fussed over her with wigs and nail colors and contact lenses, as if preparing a supermodel for a photo shoot. They tried a wig whose locks tumbled over the girl’s shoulders like strands of spun gold.

“The market is still strong for blondes,” said Max. “The Middle East princes always inflate demand for the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Western goddesses they see in American cinema.”

“There’s more after this. Back at our island clinic, there will be a few anatomical fine-tunings. Each doll’s vagina will be electro-stimulated to make them supple and strong and very sensitive. And I believe something the technicians call speed bumps’ are installed in all appropriate orifices for greater sensation.” Max’s attention was diverted by a man waving from the scaffold above. “Oh, look, there’s Andre now. Shall we have some sherry and talk some business? Then I need to meet with my associate. Our staff here will be processing this lot all day.” He gave her a knowing look. “If you see any one of them that interest you, let me know and I’ll set her aside.”

“Why, Max, you know just what to say to make me feel tingly all over.” The matron’s eyes glittered in anticipation.