The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When Mr. James T. Anderson purchased his Houseslave 3000 ten years ago, he was very particular about bringing it in for its quarterly servicing at Slave Labs. Although the Houseslave 3000 itself was a bio-mechanical engineering masterpiece, each one a nearly-perfect imitation of the human form, the advanced artificial intelligence programming tended to develop bugs over time, small quirks that could lead to a system failure if left unchecked. Because of this tendency, Slave Labs assured its customers that the quirks were merely a byproduct of the advanced artificial intelligence algorithms, and were easily erased with regular check-ups that were administered on a regular basis, free of charge, by the company.

The breakthrough technology was kept tightly under wraps by Slave Labs, the secret known to only one man, Edmond Horn, a child prodigy who developed the technology in his late teens. Nothing even remotely as advanced has been able to compete in the last ten years.

James became even more cautious about regular servicing when an urban legend arose of a Houseslave 3000, whose regularly scheduled checkups had not been maintained, brutally murdering a man and his wife as they slept in their bed. A story which may have fallen by the wayside if, soon after the rise of the urban legend, a similar account had not actually appeared on the news.

Although the news coverage created quite a stir and temporarily halted production of the Houseslave 3000, further investigation revealed that the victim’s unit had been replaced by a stalker, a psychologically disturbed woman who had gone to great lengths to have her body surgically altered to appear like the owner’s Houseslave 3000. After briefly masquerading as the victim’s Houseslave 3000, she shot him in a jealous rage, incited by a visit from his mistress.

“Cindy,” said James, using its name to make Cindy aware that it was being given commands.

James had picked the name after a beloved aunt, who was recently deceased when he was meticulously filling out the application, ordering a model with her general description, even down to the southern accent that he had always loved. Cindy arrived with a dark brunette wig, light green eyes, and a slender build with an angular oval face. Although his Aunt Cindy had always possessed an aura of elegance natural to a Georgian southern belle, the regional charm was lost on the drone Houseslave 3000.

“Go fetch my briefcase and start the Mercedes,” James commanded.

Cindy stopped cleaning up the breakfast that she had made for James and his son Frank, and left the room, leaving James to finish his coffee in peace. James sometimes didn’t know how to behave with the Houseslave 3000 in his presence. When his late wife had been around, he hadn’t minded Cindy in the kitchen, it was just another appliance. Lately, however, it had become a distraction.

Often he would try to strike up a conversation over breakfast before realizing that Cindy could not respond with any kind of independent thought. Cindy could merely state facts or repeat what others had said, as if he were trying to talk to the morning broadcast news on the kitchen television. Its programming kept it from making choices or forming its own opinions, which worked well in keeping it perfectly obedient, but became a nuisance if you tended to forget that it was not in fact a human being.

When he had finished his coffee he straightened up his tie, dusted off his suit coat, and walked briskly to the front door. His routine was shattered when he found Cindy, naked as the day it had come out of the packaging, standing in the foyer, holding his briefcase in front of its anatomically correct form like a biblical fig leaf. On Cindy’s face was an expression that appeared almost confused, a variance from the usual blank stare.

James immediately spun around, bringing his hand up to his face like a visor, and, with his face flush in embarrassment, bellowed up the stairs. “FRANK!”

James had once speculated that the quarterly checkups had something to do with resolving conflicting commands. Such as being commanded to strip naked, then being told to go outside with a standing order that it could not do so in the buff. He guessed that the AI was forced to try and choose between the two orders, forming mental blocks that could lead to insubordination if left unchecked. Cindy was due in for a checkup soon.

James knew that his son Frank, who ought to be at school preparing to graduate in a few short days, had a habit of using Cindy for his viewing pleasure. Something not uncommon, as it was widely known, due to the Houseslave 3000’s uncanny degree of anatomical accuracy. The units even came with a bellybutton, which had been put in place for the customer’s peace of mind. In fact, if it were not for the magnetized barcode across the back of each Houseslave 3000’s neck, or the fact that they were all completely hairless and incapable of producing sweat, they could almost pass for human.

“Damnit Frank, I know you’re up there. She didn’t put her clothes back on!” James yelled, growing increasingly angry. Just then he heard a loud crash in the bushes outside, signaling his son’s flight. “Fuck,” he grumbled to himself, already forming suitable punishments in his mind. Just grounding him didn’t seem to be working.

“Cindy. Set my briefcase and keys down... and go put some clothes on.”

She complied, leaving the foyer and calmly walking down the hall toward her rest quarters. When she was gone James recomposed himself, picked up his things, and left for another long day at work, making a mental note to schedule a check-up for Cindy very soon.

It was after ten o’clock at night when James returned home, barely sober enough to walk. It took him a few tries, but he finally got his keys in the lock. Inside, the house was completely dark, the lights were out and the shades down. Lights out at nine was one of many strict rules in the Anderson household.

He threw his suit coat and keys on the chair in the foyer, knowing that Cindy would have them put away before he awoke in the morning. Clumsily, he made his way up the stairs, stopping short when he saw light emanating from under the door of his son’s room.

“That little...” he mumbled, standing up as straight as he could. He crept up to the door and opened it without a sound, intent on catching his son at whatever he was doing. He did, although he regretted it.

What he saw astounded him. Cindy was once again naked, though this time the Houseslave 3000 was kneeling at the foot of his son’s bed, her lips wrapped around his cock, mechanically bobbing her head up and down.

Cindy looked into James’ eyes, not missing a stroke of her motion. Frank just lounged back with his eyes closed, unaware of the intrusion, enjoying Cindy’s complete servitude.

Without a single, dumbfounded word, James slammed the door and staggered down the hallway to the master bedroom where he clumsily began to remove his clothing. He couldn’t get any farther than his shirt, however, as he was too drunk to even work his belt buckle, and so he just surrendered, collapsing onto the bed.

He didn’t realize that he had passed out until a sound awakened him. The next thing he knew, Cindy emerged from his closet, calmly pacing through the darkness of the room. Performing her duties, he realized. In his lingering alcoholic haze, he could barely remember tossing his suit coat across the arm of the chair in the foyer. What he could not remember was just how long it had been since a beautiful naked woman had walked through his bedroom.

“You should be resting,” he told Cindy, trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

There was no response as it made her way toward the door.

“Cindy!” he shouted, momentarily forgetting himself.

Cindy turned to look at him, awaiting orders. How oblivious she was to the taboo of the situation was obvious in her blank stare.

He laughed at himself, bringing up a hand to stifle the self-averting chuckle. Cindy wasn’t real, he remembered. Cindy was real, just not really real, like real people are real.

“Why are you naked?” he demanded.

“Master Frank commanded me to remove my clothing, James,” Cindy answered honestly, with no concept of what it was saying.

Now his son had it calling him Master? He should have seen it coming. In fact there was a sort of inevitability to it. With a repressed young kid, libido like a rabbit, and a synthetic woman at his command, he should have known. He began to wonder just how anatomically correct the Houseslave 3000 really was, deciding quickly to change the subject.

“Cindy, did you know that I had you manufactured to look like an aunt of mine?”

“I did not, James.”

“I’ve never told a soul.” He paused to think a moment. “I guess I still haven’t.” He paused again, recollections of his aunt flooding his mind.

“She was my first, you know,” he told her.

Cindy just stood in silence. James continued anyway, recounting his story for the first time.

“When I was just sixteen, my parents were going through some rough times. To shield me from all the drama of the divorce, they sent me to live down in Georgia with my aunt for a summer. At first it was awkward. My aunt had never been a mother, had never even been married. She just had boyfriend after live-in boyfriend. When I came to stay, her current fling was an Italian charmer, probably closer to my age than hers.

“I often masturbated in the heat of the hot Savannah nights to the sound of her bed pounding against the wall, her excited moans, and the musky smell of sex that wafted throughout the dark house. Her hot fling burned out rather quickly, and I had to turn to the stash of Playboys I found while rummaging around in my aunt’s attic.”

As James reminisced, his hands began to gravitate toward his growing excitement. He was sober enough now to manage working his belt buckle loose.

“I was sitting on the edge of my bed doing just that, when my aunt walked in on me. She hadn’t even knocked first, perhaps knowing exactly what she would find. I looked up when I heard the door creak, and there, framed in the backlight of the doorway, stood her petite figure, clothed only in the fine white silk of her nightgown.

“I can help you with that,” she said, easing into the small bedroom. I could almost see her naked form through the silky gown as it clung to her, nigh transparent with her sweat, sliding across her body in the moonlight as she walked.

“As my mother’s youngest sister, she was only twelve years my elder. Her body wasn’t like the buxom, big breasted blondes I’d masturbated to in the Playboy Magazines. She was lithe and elegant, with small perky breasts and sleight hips, and an attractive sexual being all the same.

“I didn’t move, afraid to end the beautiful wet dream with my awkward clumsiness. She held my gaze from the moment she entered the room, her knowing eyes penetrating mine as she knelt at the foot of my bed, slowly guiding my cock into her waiting mouth with her soft touch. The Savannah heat was merciless that night, as was my aunt.”

“We fucked all summer long. That was in the summer of ‘76, thirty years ago this month. In the spring of ‘77 my cousin Theodore was born. He didn’t look Italian.”

James, thoroughly engrossed by his vivid memories, didn’t even realize at first that his busy hands had been replaced by the ministrations of Cindy’s more mechanical touch. The unit took his cock into her mouth, bobbing its head up and down as she looked into James’ eyes, listening indifferently to the ending of his story.

Apparently, Frank had made some standing orders of his own.