The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Changes. Rapid, intense changes. New abilities, a new body, a new mind, all happening as quickly as Jonathan Bradford’s unconscious form could make them. His comatose state left him with no real control over the things that were happening. Sometimes when new abilities were created they activated and acted on their own.

Somebody had switched the TV in the ICU visitor’s waiting room on one of those damned political news stations. Rebekah Chaney could hear it from the nurse’s station. The angry voice drifting down the hallway was familiar, even though she never watched that crap. Why did so many people love all of that hate-mongering?

A mind was thinking about Hannah. A tendril of Jonathan’s newest ability sought out that mind and entered it. Television. Angry ranting about Hannah. Asshole. The tendril left the mind in the waiting room and sought out the source in a studio almost a mile away. The strain on Jonathan’s body was immense, but this new ability was on a mission.

“When is the President going to act? When is he going to stop coddling these animals?”

William Emery fixed the camera lens with a look of anger. He’d spent years perfecting his persona of a distinguished, respectable gentleman, pushed to patriotic moral outrage. It had served him well for nearly three decades, constantly building his net worth toward its current 82 million dollars. He turned to look at his latest co-anchor. Another pouty-lipped blonde showing an impressive amount of cleavage. They looked real on this one. Christy — her name was Christy… Meeks? Yeah, that was it.

“These jihadists have declared open war on us, Christy. They slaughtered Hannah Bradford in cold blood…”

The screen behind them continued displaying the sequence of still photos of the girl being held by the terrorist in the final moments of her life. The tendril was at the very limit of its current ability, but it forced itself into Emery’s mind.

Back at the hospital, an urgent beeping started on one of the monitors at the ICU nurse’s station.

“…and our so-called ‘leader’ is doing nothing at all. We need to take this war to the terrorists. We need to mobilize the full might of the United States military and show them that we WILL NOT sit by idly while they attack us! We need to avenge the murder of Hannah Bradford! We need…”

TRUTH! TRUTH NOW! Emery blinked.

“Need… need… need that frigging ghost writer to crank out my new book in a hurry. I’ll make a few more million from the stupid rednecks who watch us and buy everything we tell them to, even though they probably can’t read. The real payoff will be when America starts dropping bombs, though. My stocks in the defense industry will skyrocket and I’ll rake it in. Then maybe I’ll retire…”

Emery glanced over at Christy Meeks, who was watching him with her mouth open in shock.

“…or maybe not, if they keep putting brainless eye candy like her next to me. Look at those fucking lips! I wonder what it’ll take to get her to blow me.”

PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!

Emery’s eyes rolled back and he shrieked in agony before he collapsed forward onto the anchor desk, dead. A trickle of blood oozed out of his ear.

Now the media had a new salacious scandal to talk about. Maybe they’d leave Hannah alone.

Rebekah didn’t notice the gasp of horror from those watching the television in the visitor’s waiting room down the hallway as she answered the phone.

“ICU nurse’s station, Nurse Chaney speaking. Yes, Dr. Puri, I did page you. Jonathan Bradford’s readings started going nuts about five minutes ago. Well, his heart rate shot up to 210 and the readings from his EEG leads were like nothing I’ve ever seen. Massive brain activity for a few minutes, but it’s settled back to normal now. Yes, his heart rate is back down to… 62 at the moment. But his body temperature is now up to 124.6 and it’s not dropping. No, it’s not here yet, but I can call receiving and see if they have it. Okay, I’ll do that.”

The private investigator followed the S-class Mercedes at a discrete distance. They were eastbound on the Jericho Turnpike, headed out Long Island. At least this target wasn’t stupid, like most of them were, but a $170,000 Mercedes still wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Then again, if they went all the way out to the Hamptons, it would fit right in. That probably wouldn’t happen, though. The target wasn’t going to cart a waitress all the way out the Island just for an afternoon fuck. Ahh, there was his directional signal. He was probably going to take her to some no-tell motel in Commack or maybe Smithtown.

The target was smart. Then again, Mr. Timothy Rutherford didn’t get to be a bazillionaire executive at a Wall Street investment company at only 44 years old by being stupid. He’d set that hot little intern up in a nice apartment, after all. The stupid rich ones gave their side pieces keys to their “working late” apartments, never thinking that their wives might idly talk to the nice security people at the front desk one day, or maybe hire a decorator to surprise hubby with an apartment makeover that turns up a thong that she knows isn’t hers.

The intern was Chelsey Alexander, 20, from Chillicothe, Ohio, and a Junior at NYU. The folder back at the investigator’s office had a dozen photos of her and Rutherford having dinner together, entering her apartment together, leaving together, and generally looking like more than just professional coworkers. It also contained a memory card with a grainy 11 minute video of Ms. Alexander giving him a blowjob. The girl was not only gorgeous, but she appeared to also be quite talented. Not clever enough to close the curtains and hide them from a PI with a camera on the roof across the street, though.

Today’s equipment included the Nikon DSLR, the “spy” HD camcorder that was small enough to conceal in the palm of his hand, and his new infrared video system. On a cloudy March day, the IR gear should image quite nicely through closed curtains and maybe even some types of walls. The Mercedes pulled into a motel and the target exited the vehicle, then walked to the passenger door to help the waitress out. The guy certainly had a “type.” Both the intern and this waitress were leggy, with long black hair and huge chests. They probably looked a lot like his client had ten or twenty years earlier. Now SHE was a looker!

Maybe twenty percent of the time the suspicious wife was wrong. But four out of five times, if she thought her husband was fooling around, she was right. He wondered how Misty Rutherford would react when shown the proof that her suspicions were valid. Personally, he preferred somewhat older women to the young hotties. Eventually you’re going to want to talk to the girl, and it’s nice to have someone who can carry on an intelligent conversation. Mrs. Rutherford was an intelligent woman with endless legs and an impressive rack. His kind of girl, if he’d been stupid enough to screw around with a client. He wasn’t that stupid.

Misty Rutherford (nee Jenkins) was 39 years old with a 13-year-old son and a 14-year-old daughter, both attending a private school. She’d married Rutherford 17 years earlier, right after she’d graduated college. They lived quite comfortably in Scarsdale in a 23 room monstrosity that actually cost less than Rutherford’s “working late” apartment on Central Park West. Yeah, he checked out his clients as thoroughly as he checked out his targets. He wasn’t stupid. Sometimes the client was far more trouble than the target.

He was parked at the convenience store across the street from the motel. The camcorder rested on a beanbag on his dashboard. It was shooting out through his windshield and zoomed to record the entire front of the motel. The big lens on the Nikon caught seven close-ups as Rutherford and the waitress walked from the motel office to one of the rooms and went inside. They pulled the curtains across the big window facing the parking lot. Great! They wouldn’t see him when he pulled in, but the IR camera would be able to pick them up just fine through the glass and fabric. He started his car.

After a couple of years in the NYPD the average beat officer thinks they’ve seen everything. A couple of years later they realize that The City That Never Sleeps is probably spending those sleepless nights creating new varieties of bizarreness to confound New York’s Finest when they least expect it. What had sounded like a run of the mill “10-50” disorderly person in a SoHo night club ended up being… bizarre.

“Oh, so now HERE comes THE MAN! Motherfuckers always trying to keep a black man DOWN and now you call THE MAN to beat on my black ass!”

It wasn’t the first time Officers Robertson and Malone had heard that kind of talk directed at them or anybody who would listen. It was a fairly common thing when they had to deal with gang bangers. The problem was, this wasn’t an angry African American youth at all.

A nearly 500 pound white girl claiming to be a black man named Javon was tonight’s dose of weirdness. Her liquor ID card said that she was a 31-year-old named Lauren Daly, but she insisted she was Javon and she had no problem loudly expressing her dislike for New York’s Finest. A night or two in lockup would always clear out whatever drink or drugs had put someone into this kind of state and sober them up so that they could be arraigned.

That wasn’t the way things would go with Lauren, though.

“Call 10-85 for a wagon. There’s no way we can 10-81 her. She won’t fit in the car!”

Robertson nodded and made the call, then helped his partner restrain the woman. There was no way they could get her hands together behind her back and her wrists were too thick for standard handcuffs. A couple of heavy plastic zip-tie cuffs linked her hands in front of her, though, and her demeanor changed instantly.

“Oh God YES! Lee-Lee has been bad! You need to spank her and then fuck her! Come on, Lee-Lee will suck you and make you hard so you can fuck her, Daddy! Please fuck Lee-Lee!”

Malone jerked back in surprise. Javon had suddenly turned into Lee-Lee, and she was begging him and Robertson to debauch her in all kinds of ways!

“My ass! Ram your big cock in my ass. Make me scream!”

Okay, her eyes were a bright, sparkly blue and her long hair was a stunning shade of mahogany, but the girl weighed more than him and Robertson put together, even if they were in full riot gear! Knock 300 pounds off her and she’d still be pretty chubby, but probably fuckable then. Maybe.

“Fuck my ass and fuck my cunt! Lee-Lee needs someone to fuck her mouth, too…”

They hustled her out of the club as quickly as they could.

They were arguing about him.

Jon’s perception of what Dr. Puri was hearing was fading in and out, but they were definitely arguing about him. It was strange to be both hearing what they were saying and sensing what she was thinking. He’d had awareness, if not actual consciousness, for the past two days and he’d been learning how to use his new abilities. Things were still in flux, though, constantly changing.

“It’s been fifteen days and his insurance is about to max out. His employer self-insures, and they have a hard limit that he’ll reach within a few days. What do you propose we do then?”

Finance people only care about money. Aren’t we a hospital? Isn’t our purpose to help our patients?

“At some point we’re going to have give up on this persistent vegetative coma and just unplug him from life support.”

Asshole.

“He’s not in a vegetative state at all,” Ela Puri cut in. “His brain is very active. In fact, it’s incredibly active. And Mr. Bradford isn’t on life support, either. He’s breathing on his own. All we’re doing is monitoring him and trying to keep up with his feeding. We’re running 20,000 calories of glucose into him through four IVs and his body is still consuming itself.”

“Why the hell doesn’t he wake up, then?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Briggs. I’m an internist, not a neurologist.”

For a brief moment Jon saw through her eyes as she was turning to face another person at the table. Probably the neurologist. The new sense disoriented him and his connection to Dr. Puri faded. He pushed to reconnect to her.

“…in a refrigerated wrap to try to reduce the fever. Nobody’s ever lived through a fever of 126 degrees. Hell, nobody’s ever been recorded as having a temperature that high in any situation and he’s been that hot for nine days already.. His body is burning energy at an incredible rate. If we could get another IV into him, we might be able to keep up, but I’m not even sure. He’s burning off his body fat. Fortunately he had some extra to burn…”

“Hey,” Jon thought, “it’s not my fault I have a desk job as a grunt computer programmer. Or maybe ‘had’ a desk job, if it’s been that long. If they’re going to cut off my insurance, they’re probably going to ‘downsize’ me, too.” His attention returned to Dr. Puri in the conference room two floors below his ICU bed.

“…I’ll make a note to check it.”

Again Jon could see through her eyes as she reached for her pen on the table. As her hand approached the pen, Jon got impatient to hear more about his situation. The pen skidded a little more than an inch across the table to close the gap to her approaching hand. Jon could feel her stunned shock!

“Telekinesis. That’s new,” he thought. He hoped she didn’t panic. Immediately he felt her calming. Interesting. He wanted her to calm down and accept the pen jumping into her hand and it had happened instantly.

“What about the insurance, though?” It was Briggs again. He was a single-minded prick. “Doesn’t he have a family or something?”

“Not that we’ve been able to find. No spouse. No girlfriend has shown up. His parents died in a car crash three years ago. The only other relative we’ve found was his sister and…” Her voice trailed off.

A new voice: “We are NOT going to stop treating her brother, at least until the story of his sister is out of the news, Briggs. Can you imagine the negative publicity if we cut him off now?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Blake. You’re right of course.”

Finally! I wish the Administrator was committed to treating him because it’s the right thing to do, but I’ll take it any way I can get it, even if it’s the bad publicity because of his poor sister…

Dr. Puri’s pager went off.

“Mr. Bradford’s vitals are spiking. I need to get back…”

Hannah. The anguish hadn’t faded at all. If anything, it had focused into a sharp, brittle blade that sliced through his very soul. The images from the live TV report were burned into his brain. Terrorists. Dance club. Hostages. Standoff.

He’d heard about it on the radio in his kitchen as he ate his breakfast. He’d all but forgotten about it as he rode the train to work. He didn’t know Hannah was there. Why was she there? Why wasn’t he there to keep her safe? Dave had grabbed him the moment he came in the door.

“Jon! Come quick! I think your sister is on TV…”

She’d almost looked calm, even though the bastard had his arm around her neck to hold her in front of him as a human shield. He waved his other hand in the air, holding some kind of button on a wire, and screeched something about infidels. Jon wasn’t listening, he was trying to process the fact that his baby sister was in immediate mortal danger.

It was almost as if it was in slow motion to him. He saw the asshole’s thumb begin to move and then there was a flash and a loud noise through the cafeteria TV’s speakers. Blood and flesh were blasted toward the camera. The terrorist was gone. Hannah was gone. The scene had quickly switched back to the news studio, but the only thing visible was a hand holding onto the edge of the news desk as the anchorman vomited on the floor. Jonathan felt his mind come unhinged from reality and saw the floor slowly coming up at him as darkness closed in.

According to what he’d remotely observed at the meeting, that had been over two weeks earlier.

The night shift supervisor had just come on duty. Her shiny new name tag said ‘Cindy Schmitt—APRN.’ She’d been a RN for 13 years, passing her licensing exams just a month after graduating with her Bachelors in Nursing. The past two years she’d been back in school at night, taking classes for her Nurse Practitioner training. She’d passed her state exams just six weeks earlier and had been minted as an Advanced Practice RN. The ICU was her first choice of rotation.

“His vitals have stabilized, Dr. Puri, but his temperature has gone up another half degree. We’re running the cooling wrap at maximum. His white cell count still shows no indication of infection that could be causing the fever, so there’s no point in giving him antibiotics. What else can we do?”

What indeed? Ela had started him with a basic ice bath, but his temperature had just kept rising and the logistics of replenishing the ice had been a nightmare. They’d brought in the refrigerating wrap directly from the manufacturer, and it had worked much better than the ice bath. But now even that wasn’t enough. How could she… Something shifted in her mind.

“You know what, Cindy? There’s a reason his body wants to be so hot. We’ll keep things as they are for awhile and see how it goes.”

“Okay, Doctor.” The tall, heavy blonde made a note on the tablet she was holding, updating the orders back at the ICU nurse’s station. She looked at the man in the bed. Was that a smile? No, he looked normal. But had he smiled briefly?

“I’ve never seen anyone lose weight so fast.” Cindy almost wished she could drop her extra 25… okay, 37 pounds as quickly as her patient was losing weight. If it meant losing her sister and being in a coma with a fever that was almost certain to cause brain damage, though, she’d put up with struggling to lose 10 pounds and then gaining it back over and over. Poor guy.

“He’s burning through calories at an incredible rate. If there was some way to get more energy into him, I would. His body is consuming itself. I’m worried that he’ll starve to death on 20,000 calories a day. I can’t ethically operate and give him a feeding tube straight into his intestines, and that wouldn’t let us run in all that many more calories anyway. We’re doing the best we can. I just hope that it’s enough.”

The women left Jon’s bed. Even though she could monitor him from the nurse’s station or the duty supervisor’s office, Cindy knew that she’d check on him in person several times during the night. Poor guy.

His body and mind were changing — restructuring. He did need the heat. Things were changing quickly and the heat was both a byproduct and a necessary element of his transformation. Thankfully he’d been able to change Dr. Puri’s mind about that. It had actually been easy. His abilities were growing.

The doctor and Cindy were right about his energy needs, though. He needed a lot more energy. Ten times as much wouldn’t be nearly enough. From what he’d remotely “heard” at the earlier meeting about him, his changes had really started nine days earlier and they’d been accelerating. His insurance was maxed out, but they weren’t going to abandon him yet. If it took another three weeks, though, he didn’t know. Maybe he could manipulate whoever he needed to, but what if they weren’t close enough? It had been a struggle to reach Dr. Puri’s mind at that meeting and that had only been about 100 feet away, straight line.

He needed the changes to finish quickly so he could get out of there. He might need money, and he probably didn’t have a job any more. He also needed someone to advocate for him, since he really didn’t have any relatives any more…

Hannah. Pain. Anguish. Fuck.

Jon sensed Cindy noticing his heart rate and breathing spiking upward as he thought of his sister again. He felt her concern and empathy. There were many medical facts in her mind… 3500 calories per pound? He had an idea — for later.

“Hey Malone, your girlfriend’s been asking for you! Actually begging would be more accurate.”

“You missed your calling, Thomason, you should be doing stand-up at the Improv.”

The lockup officer grinned at Malone.

“She’s still claiming to be Lee-Lee. No last name. She’s been in there 24 hours and she hasn’t come down off whatever she took.”

“Probably another head case. Anybody call about her?”

“Nope. The sergeant said there’s no point in charging her, but we can’t cut her loose acting like this. If she doesn’t come out of it by the morning, they’re going to ship her down to the Psych Ward at City.”

In her cell, Lauren was terrified. She knew what Lee-Lee was doing. All that girl wanted to do was fuck and suck. She threw herself at any man or woman who would have her. It both horrified and tantalized Lauren. Sex was bad. Sex hurt. Lee-Lee was so horny all the time that she ignored the rules. She ignored the walls Lauren had built to keep herself safe. She begged people to touch her like Lauren had been touched all those years ago — touched, violated, raped, over and over. But it felt so good when Lee-Lee got men and women to touch her! She wished she could be as free and lusty as Lee-Lee.

Sometimes she was Javon. He was pissed off at everyone. Lauren could understand why Javon was so angry. Her stepfather had hurt her so much. Sometimes he hurt her too much and that’s when Rocky took over. Rocky was only four, like Lauren had been when her stepfather had first started touching her. Unlike Lauren, though, Rocky was as hard as granite. Nothing hurt her, she could take the pain, fear, and humiliation.

Rocky, Lee-Lee, and Javon didn’t remember what had happened. That was Camryn’s job. Camryn the camcorder was always there, observing and recording everything. She never talked, but she saw and remembered everything that happened in Lauren’s life, even when Lauren was one of the others. Sometimes she let Lauren see what she’d seen. Sometimes she didn’t. Right now she was watching Lee-Lee masturbate and she was letting Lauren see, hear, and feel everything that was happening.