The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Damn!” Dr. Igor Tserov swore. “Where is that imbecile Sandor anyway?”

Dr. Tserov’s mood was not helped by the weather. The crumbling Austrian castle in which he lived and conducted his research let in the damp and the roar of thunder when a storm struck, which happened frequently. It was happening now. Igor’s gnarled hands and the massive hump on his permanently-bent back hurt badly.

Long ago, when his similarly afflicted ancestor had served the third Baron Frankenstein—the real-life individual who had inspired the famous novel and its innumerable adaptations—the lightning had been useful. Massive accumulators had gathered its power in an era when artificial generation of electricity had been in its infancy. The third Baron had used that energy in his experiments. These days, of course, the castle had its own generators, and if necessary it could tap into the outside power grid. If anything, the frequent thunderstorms were a hindrance now, for they produced static which could upset delicate instruments.

Dr. Tserov eased himself into one of the big padded chairs scattered around the laboratory. He’d had them specially made to accommodate his twisted frame. He’d done everything he could until his muscular lackey returned with his next experimental subject.

Igor grinned, showing large yellow teeth. His ancestor might have been little more than a pair of hands and a strong back, but the family had come up in the world. His great-grandfather had finally inherited the castle and what remained of the Frankenstein fortune just after World War I, a bequest from the last of the old nobles his family had served so long, and his grandfather and father had built on that legacy. He himself had become a scientist at last, every bit as much of one as the third Baron.

Not that ordinary scientific work had ever interested him. His peers were not the Mendels and Darwins, the Salks and von Brauns of the world, but more . . . unconventional sorts. He’d studied under Boris Balinkoff before the doctor and his hulking servant had disappeared years ago somewhere in the Pacific, and carefully applied the work of men like Stepford and Goldfoot in pursuing his own private project. It didn’t bother him that they were mocked as “mad scientists” by the world at large; they were visionaries, unwilling to be constrained by others’ limited notions of what was possible or by society’s petty fears and rules.

And his work was finally bearing fruit.

Dr. Tserov pressed a button built into the armrest of his chair. A bell rang, and a few moments later, a voice answered: “You rang, Dr. Tserov master?”

Igor looked up. A gorgeous, long-legged redhead in a very short-skirted maid’s outfit stood before him.

“Tea, please, Lana,” he directed. “Earl Grey, two sugars.”

“Yes, Dr. Tserov master,” the redhead responded. She turned and moved off to fetch his beverage, her high-heeled shoes clicking on the stone floor.

Igor sighed. So nearly perfect. If only it weren’t for that voice! Deep, gravelly, echoing, it sounded as if it should be coming from some cadaverously-thin seven-foot butler—a male butler—instead of from a beautiful five-foot-ten-inch woman.

Ah, well, live and learn. Lana was perfectly suited for the duties she performed. And if all went well with this latest subject, he’d finally have someone to help him iron the bugs out of the invention which was his life’s work.

The thing was, the device almost worked now. In the early days, his guinea pigs had had a disturbing tendency to simply disintegrate, or melt down into puddles of goo; then, later, there’d been other sorts of problems. Lana and some of the other castle staff were much closer to what he had in mind.

Dr. Tserov’s inspiration had been a bitter one. Malformed as he was, he’d gone through adolescence dateless, seeking consolation in books. Even in college, women had wanted nothing to do with him, even if he’d helped them with their studies. Finally one of them had said outright, “Face it, Eye-Gore”—how he’d hated that nickname!—“the only way you’ll ever get a date is if you build one!”

Igor had seethed in silence. His mocker doubtless thought any such thing was impossible, but he knew it wasn’t; the third Baron and his successors had proved that.

Unfortunately, they’d also shown the risks involved. A century and more of Frankenstein experiments had piled up a bleak record of creations gone out of control, leading to bad ends for their makers.

Control was the key, he’d realized. Control would have to be built in from the start. And for that, it would be necessary to start with living raw material, not the corpses the Frankensteins had gone to such trouble to acquire: living human beings with undamaged bodies and, more importantly, brains. It was a miracle the Frankensteins had managed to produce anything more than drooling vegetables.

A new approach was called for, too. Science had come a long way since the end of the eighteenth century, when old Victor Frankenstein had started his work. There were tools available he could hardly have imagined. If the rumors were true, for example, the Frenchman Andre Delambre had been working on a matter disintegrator/reintegrator, a teleporter, before his accidental death. If Tserov could gain access to Dr. Delambre’s notes, there were ways such a technology could be adapted for his own purposes.

Igor, his ugly face now wreathed in a smile, resolved to brush up on his French. Paris was supposed to be lovely this time of year. . . .

It had taken many years of effort to produce his great creation. The erotic reconstructor was a Holy Grail of sorts, something men had dreamed of for centuries: a machine capable of creating perfect women to order, beautiful, obedient, and sculpted in both mind and body to whatever form might be desired.

And it was almost perfected. Its best products were already good enough to be used as sexual bribes for potentially troublesome people; the local police chief, the mayor, and an overly inquisitive young Interpol agent had all been effectively diverted this way. Reminded, Dr. Tserov chuckled. The last he’d heard, the Interpol agent had married the blonde babe Igor had sicced on him. The last thing he’d be thinking about from now on was a deformed doctor in a moldy medieval castle.

Unfortunately, almost wasn’t good enough. The reconstructor wasn’t reliable. It might work perfectly one time, then fail grotesquely the next. Something still wasn’t right. He needed a fresh perspective—and it wasn’t as if he could openly ask for help. That was why he was waiting for Sandor and whomever he brought back. He needed a truly competent laboratory assistant, and since he couldn’t exactly advertise (he smiled again, visualizing a personals ad: RESEARCHER SEEKS ASSISTANT TO HELP IN DEVELOPING DEVICE TO MANUFACTURE PERFECT WOMEN), he’d have to create one. He’d programmed the required transformation template, a matter of weeks of labor; if there were no errors in it and the machine worked properly, he’d soon have the helpmate he sought.

And if he failed this time, he’d try again—and again, and again, if necessary. As long as it took. After all, there were plenty of potential subjects out there.

Suddenly, the door to the laboratory banged open, and Sandor’s rough voice boomed, “Doctor! I have found a guinea pig!” “Excellent!” Igor exclaimed. “Bring her here, Sandor, at once! At once, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Doctor!” Igor’s minion responded. A huge figure with disproportionately muscular arms, a neck so thick his head appeared to be stuck atop his shoulders like a turret on a tank, and a heavy-boned face whose watery blue eyes peered out from under massive brow ridges, Sandor was almost too large to use the old-fashioned stone stairwell, cut in an age of small men. Awkwardly, he descended the winding stone steps to the laboratory, struggling to keep his balance as he held onto the squirming bundle slung over one massive shoulder. A rat scurried out of the way just in time to escape being squashed under an immense foot as Sandor moved downward. “At once, Doctor!”

“And why, by the way, didn’t you use the tranquilizer?” Igor asked coldly. “You might be having an easier time now if you had.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Sandor said, laboring down toward the doctor. “I did use it, but she woke up too soon. I had to tie her up.”

Igor snorted. It was possible, of course. It was also possible he’d forgotten, or bungled the injection. Never mind; at least he was here, and with his prisoner alive and apparently unhurt.

Finally Sandor reached the bottom of the stairwell. Crossing the laboratory’s damp stone floor, he deposited his burden in front of the Doctor. The burden spoke. It spoke English. “You can’t do this to me! I’m an American citizen! This is kidnapping!”

Dr. Tserov regarded Sandor’s prize clinically before answering. She was a plain woman somewhere in her mid-forties, very tall—nearly a hundred ninety centimeters, or about six feet, as the Americans still insisted on figuring such things—with bobbed blonde hair. Her slender figure was nicely curved, with what the doctor, out of his personal interests, estimated at a C cup bosom. Blue eyes blinked furiously at him from behind glasses which miraculously hadn’t fallen off as Sandor carried her downstairs like a fresh-killed deer. She was surprisingly composed; she wasn’t struggling, wasn’t trying to break the grip Sandor still maintained on one arm. Not that it would have mattered, of course, if she had, since her arms were firmly bound behind her back.

Yes, he decided, she’d do. “What information do we have on her?” he asked Sandor, who passed over the woman’s purse with his free hand. Scanning its contents, Dr. Tserov confirmed that, yes, she was an American, a tourist. Her name was Stephanie—he didn’t bother to notice her last name; she wouldn’t be needing it anymore. She was forty-six years old. There were no family photos or other signs of personal attachments; glancing at her hands, the doctor noted she wasn’t wearing a wedding or engagement ring. Better and better. All the fewer people to raise a fuss about her disappearance.

“Hel-LO,” Stephanie said defiantly. “Standing right HERE, weirdo.”

“My apologies,” Igor said, bowing mockingly He spoke English, too, along with German, French and Russian. “Permit me to make introductions. My name is Dr. Igor Tserov, and this is my assistant Sandor.”

“And when do I meet your greatest creation, nutjob?” Stephanie shot back. “You know, the monster?” She shot a nasty look at Sandor. “Or is this him?”

Dr. Tserov smiled indulgently. “There are no monsters here, my dear,” he assured her. It wasn’t exactly true: some of the things in the chambers below the laboratory, survivors of his earlier efforts, might qualify—but she didn’t need to know that, at least not yet. “However, as for my creation, here it is.” He gestured toward the reconstructor.

“Open the door, please, Regina,” he said to the short brunette standing next to the machine.

Regina obeyed, giggling. She was another of his near-successes; although outwardly perfect, her brain was locked into an endless pleasure cycle which made it impossible for her to concentrate on any but the simplest tasks. “Yes, Herr Dok-tor,” she managed to say as she pressed the button which caused the reconstructor’s intake door to slide open.

“Place her inside, Sandor,” Igor commanded.

“At once, Doctor,” his servant rumbled. He moved forward, half dragging, half carrying his captive toward the opening. Meanwhile, Dr. Tserov moved to a side control panel and began making final adjustments: setting dials, pushing buttons, throwing switches. A low hum began to build within his apparatus.

Finally, Sandor reached his objective. Effortlessly, he stripped the ropes away from his prisoner, then pressed his hands firmly against her back.

“No!” Stephanie cried. “Don’t! Please—!”

With a powerful shove, Sandor sent her stumbling through the reconstructor’s intake.

As soon as she regained her balance, she tried to turn around and back out—but it was too late. The pressure of her feet on the machine’s floor triggered the entry doors to close again, too quickly. Stephanie, terrified, started banging on the door. “Let me out! Let me OUT!”

And then . . .

A jolt of indescribable sensation passed through her. And another. And another, faster and faster until there seemed to be a steady throbbing through every cell of her body. She felt weird, as though she were dissolving, melting, her flesh and bone shifting and flowing like wax under a flame. At first, it hurt, but very soon, the pain gave way to mounting pleasure. For no reason she could put her finger on, she thought of an old movie she’d seen where there had been a shape-changing creature. If it had been real, would its metamorphoses have felt like this?

Then she was floating, just floating. She couldn’t feel the throbbing anymore, or the flowing of her body; she couldn’t feel her body at all. She thought vaguely that she ought to be frightened, but somehow, she wasn’t. Strange feelings and ideas began invading her awareness, crowding out what had been there before. Stephanie struggled to hold onto herself, but it was as if her thoughts were being molded, sculpted, by strong, knowledgeable hands.

DR. IGOR TSEROV IS MY MASTER, a voice suddenly blared in her head. I OBEY DR. TSEROV IN ALL THINGS. I AM DR. TSEROV’S ASSISTANT IN THE LABORATORY AND HIS EAGER SERVANT EVERYWHERE.

“No,” Stephanie whispered—or did she? “That’s crazy! Dr. Tserov isn’t—” DR. IGOR TSEROV IS MY MASTER, the voice insisted, pushing aside her denial. I OBEY HIM IN ALL THINGS. I AM DR. TSEROV’S ASSISTANT IN THE LABORATORY AND HIS EAGER SERVANT EVERYWHERE. Again Stephanie tried to protest, and again the voice boomed, crowding out her thoughts. On and on it went, seemingly forever—and each time, Stephanie’s resistance was weaker. It was so hard to fight when she couldn’t feel anything, or see anything, or hear anything but DR IGOR TSEROV IS MY MASTER. I OBEY HIM IN ALL THINGS. . . .

Finally Stephanie succumbed, admitting—but was she actually saying it aloud? She would never be sure: “Dr. Tserov is my master. I obey him in all things. I am his assistant in the laboratory and his eager servant everywhere.” The booming voice in her head had made it impossible to think anything else.

The voice’s message changed. I BELONG TO DR. IGOR TSEROV BODY AND SOUL. I OFFER MY MIND IN SERVICE TO DR. TSEROV’S GREAT WORK AND MY BODY TO DR. TSEROV. IT IS PLEASURE TO SERVE DR. TSEROV WITH MY MIND AND WITH MY BODY. IT IS MY PURPOSE IN LIFE TO SERVE DR. TSEROV WITH MY MIND AND WITH MY BODY. ALL THAT HE ASKS OF ME I SHALL PERFORM. I LOVE DR. IGOR TSEROV. I DO WHATEVER HE DIRECTS, BECAUSE I LOVE HIM AND I BELONG TO HIM BODY AND SOUL.

Stephanie repeated this too, absorbing it into her consciousness. A vague flicker of something deep in her mind still cried out weakly, but it was shouted down and buried. “I belong to Dr. Igor Tserov body and soul,” Stephanie said, no longer worrying whether she was actually speaking aloud or not; it didn’t matter. “I offer my mind in service to Dr. Tserov’s great work and my body to Dr. Tserov. It is pleasure to serve Dr. Tserov with my mind and with my body. . . .”

The voice was replaced with a torrent of information. As this new data flooded into her, Stephanie became aware that she could feel her body and sense her surroundings again. She was standing, utterly relaxed, inside the strange apparatus into which the Doctor’s servant had placed her. She slumped to her knees, savoring her submission to gravity, and remained kneeling with her arms limp at her sides and her head bowed. The walls around her were glowing now, a reddish radiance which faded as she watched. The information continued to flow, telling her all sorts of things, making everything clear.

The voice returned. NOW IT IS TIME TO SERVE DR. IGOR TSEROV. There was a sudden pneumatic hiss, and another doorway opened, on the opposite side from where she’d staggered in, admitting light from the laboratory.

Stephanie crawled into the light, exiting the machine. “Stand up, Stephanie,” a voice commanded. Stephanie knew that voice: it belonged to Dr. Tserov, her beloved master. Eagerly, she got to her feet.

“Excellent,” Igor proclaimed. “Mobility unimpaired, primary verbal comprehension operational.”

He inspected her carefully. Yes, he decided, the physical transformation had gone perfectly, at least on the outside. “Do you know who you are?”

“Of course, Doctor Tserov,” Stephanie responded. “I’m Stephanie, your new laboratory assistant.”

Another test passed. Two, really. She had accepted her programming, at least on a basic level—and unlike the unfortunate Lana, her voice was richly feminine, a husky contralto, just as the reconstruction template had specified.

Another test: “Do you remember your life before you came here, Stephanie?”

“Yes, Doctor Tserov.” That was acceptable; it had been simpler and less risky to adjust her attitudes than to try rebuilding her memories entirely from scratch.

“How do you feel about that life, Stephanie? Would you prefer to return to it, or to remain here with me?”

“Oh, Doctor, please!” she laughed. “Of course I want to stay with you. My old life doesn’t matter anymore.”

Igor smiled broadly. “Would you like to have a look at yourself, Stephanie? I think you’ll be very pleased with what we’ve accomplished together.” Turning his head, he ordered, “Regina, bring the mirrors, please.”

A giggly “Yes, Herr Dok-tor” was followed by the appearance from behind the reconstructor of a set of full-length mirrors, hinged together and mounted on a small wheeled platform. Stephanie remembered seeing the dark-haired girl who was pushing it, just before she’d been pushed into the machine. The mirrors reflected a clock on the opposite wall, and she was startled to realize that less than ten minutes had passed since the reconstructor’s entry door had closed on her. It had seemed like much, much longer.

She mounted the platform and looked at her reflection in the mirrors. She gasped.

“I’m beautiful,” she cried. “I’m beautiful!”

And it was true. Her six-foot height, something she’d always found to be a nightmare in a world where even most men were inches shorter, had been reduced; she now stood only about five feet nine. Her once dull blonde hair had turned a brighter shade, with strands of red amid the gold, and styled in a thick bun which framed a heart-shaped face. The features in that face were barely recognizable—they might have belonged to some gorgeous sister, or perhaps cousin, she’d never had: bright green eyes, a pert nose, full, pouting red lips that looked as if they’d never need anything so crude as lipstick. Her figure had filled out, too, not freakishly but as if the natural padding her hips and breasts had already possessed had simply been redistributed on her now shorter frame.

Even her clothes were different, she was amazed to see. She was now wearing a very short charcoal-gray skirt and a snugly fitting white blouse, open at the neck, under what looked like a cutoff version of a white laboratory smock. Her sensible thick-soled walking shoes had been replaced by glossy high-heeled white stilettos. The skirt, lab coat and shoes showed off what were now elegant legs. Startled, Stephanie realized she was now even shorter than she’d thought; the heels added a good two inches beyond what her old footwear would have, meaning she couldn’t be over five-seven or so in bare feet.

“How . . . how did you do this?” she gasped. “If everything went as it was supposed to, Stephanie, you should know the answer to that question,” responded Igor. “Think, Stephanie. Don’t you know?”

And, she was suddenly aware, she did. As soon as Dr. Tserov had told her to think about it, the knowledge had flooded up from the depths of her mind. She’d had no special scientific education before—but now, she was an expert in all sorts of fields, ranging from biology to cybernetics to particle physics, all the many disciplines which were involved in Dr. Tserov’s great work. Languages, too: like him, she knew, she was now fluent not only in English but in French, German and Russian as well.

Dr. Tserov read the truth in her eyes, and smiled triumphantly. It had worked! Of course, he’d need to run the full set of checks to be sure, but he was confident of what he’d find.

Stephanie provided more evidence moments later. “The erotic reconstructor is a biomorphic converter intended to rebuild living human subjects at the molecular level according to programmed specifications. The fundamental operating principle is . . .” She continued in this technical vein for more than a minute, until Igor raised a hand to signal her to stop.

“Excellent,” he gloated, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent! Come, my dear,” he beckoned, and Stephanie came forward, “let’s test you fully, and if things turn out as I expect they will, we’ll have a real celebration tonight!”

The testing took all day, but when it was done, Dr. Tserov was practically beside himself with joy. Stephanie was everything he’d hoped for, in body and mind alike.

That night, the two of them dined alone. After dinner, they shared a fine wine from the days of the Frankensteins, and went to bed.

Stephanie’s new body got a real workout then. She writhed eagerly beneath Igor’s rough form, pulling him into her, pressing his craggy face into the soft cleft between her breasts, kissing him with abandon. Igor responded enthusiastically, grasping her to him and thrusting powerfully. By the time the two of them dropped into exhausted, sweat-soaked slumber, Stephanie’s hairdo had come undone, letting her red-gold mane cascade down to her shoulder blades. When Igor awoke in the morning, his hands were tangled in its luxuriant softness. He lay there for some time, unwilling to let go or awaken his prize.

Finally, reluctantly, he stirred and got up. As he was dressing, he heard a small noise, and turned; Stephanie was sitting up, stretching, letting the blankets fall away from her magnificent form.

“Good morning, Doctor Tserov,” she greeted him in that throaty new voice of hers.

“Good morning, Stephanie my dear,” Igor replied. He was exultant. Last night had been the final test, and she’d passed with flying colors. Her lovemaking had been utterly unrestrained. There had been not the slightest hint of reluctance, no inhibitions, no suggestion, however faint, that she found him anything but desirable. Her programming was perfect. She was perfect.

Perfect. . . . And with her help, perhaps he would finally perfect the erotic reconstructor itself. If he did, he might use it to repair some of his earlier botched jobs, like Lana and Regina; then he’d move on to greater things. There was the prize, for one thing—the great prize named for the family his own had served for so long. If he could win that, his ancestors and he would be vindicated at last. And then, perhaps, he might be able to explore other applications of his great invention. Oh, the possibilities. . . .

The ghost of Igor’s lifetime of humiliation shrank and faded a bit in its haunt in the back of his mind. Someday, he vowed, it would be banished altogether.

Dr. Tserov addressed the greatest creation of his greatest creation: “Get up now, Stephanie. We’ll have breakfast, and then we can get right to work. We have a lot to do.” He rubbed his hands together. “A lot to do.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Stephanie replied, jumping out of bed and reaching for her clothes. “I’m eager to get started.”