The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The woman in the cushioned wheelchair surveyed the laboratory with satisfaction. Everything was finally ready.

“Very good,” she complimented the small crowd of people around her. “You’ve done exactly as I wished.” She paused, then spoke the word they were all waiting for: “Pleasure.”

Moans of ecstasy swept through the men and women surrounding the wheelchair. They had been conditioned long ago to respond in that way to that word from her, and even though she no longer possessed the unique talent which had planted that response, she had been able to find methods of keeping it fresh. It was their ultimate reward; their bodies reacted to it with a roaring burst of sensory reward. If she chose, she could reduce any one of them to a drooling lump by simply repeating it several times in quick succession. In that condition, they were utterly suggestible.

Once, she wouldn’t have needed even to speak. Once, she would have been able to turn any man, or any woman, into a slobbering mass of flesh just by willing it so. Those days, unfortunately, were past. The explosion and fire which had nearly killed her ten years before had done too much damage.

An ordinary woman, in fact, would have been killed. But Perfecta was no ordinary woman. By some definitions, she wasn’t a “woman” at all. She certainly wasn’t human, at least not in the way her servants were.

For the statuesque redhead in the wheelchair had neither mother nor father, in the usual sense. She had been created as the world’s first android—or “gynoid,” as her maker, the deeply disturbed Dr. Evan Humble, had called her.

Her six-foot-three-inch frame had been grown from an entirely artificial fertilized human ovum whose genetic code had been tailored to produce her creator’s personal sexual fantasy. Once it had reached full development, it had been implanted with a number of devices meant to give it enhanced abilities—greater strength, speed and durability, heightened intelligence, and a kind of electronic telepathy which allowed her to access computer systems, downloading information from them and sending data back. That final gift had been used by Dr. Humble to program her with speech and other skills. He’d had no use for a full-grown woman with the mind of an infant, no matter how beautiful she might be.

Unfortunately for him, he’d done too good a job of playing God. He’d given her a build no ordinary woman would ever have and a sexual drive to match. Moreover, the implants which allowed her to communicate with computers also enabled her to affect humans. She could not read minds or transmit coherent thoughts, but she was able to influence the more primitive parts of the human brain. All too soon, the doctor’s creation had literally screwed him senseless.

After that, she’d scanned the entire contents of his lab’s computer archives into her mind and gone forth to remake the world.

“I nearly succeeded, too,” the gynoid murmured.

And it was true. She’d capitalized on her looks and unique powers to make herself the prophetess of a new, pleasure-based cult whose influence had grown rapidly. Only when the authorities had taken the drastic step of blowing up the strip club she’d converted into her Cathedral of Divine Perfection had she been thwarted. The intervention of a devoted follower had been all that had saved her from total destruction.

That follower spoke now from his place behind her chair. “Is something wrong, Mistress?”

“No, Solomon dear,” Perfecta assured him. The former Reverend Solomon Dennis had come to her as an enemy, a crusader against the sins of the flesh he saw her as encouraging. His rigid rectitude hadn’t allowed him to resist her; he had become her devoted slave. And so he remained, even now that her beauty was marred by fire (and, she reluctantly admitted, by the beginnings of middle age, for physiologically she was now in her early forties) and the implants which had helped her subjugate him no longer functioned. He would do anything for her, believe anything she said. In the dark times after the Cathedral’s fall, she had needed such a servant.

“No, Solomon,” she repeated. “Just . . . reminiscing.” She paused. “Wheel me over to the slab, please. Good boy.”

Solomon Dennis obeyed, grateful for the opportunity to serve his priestess of perfection. Grasping the handles of the wheelchair in which Perfecta sat, he pushed it toward the large flat block on which there rested a magnificent female form.

The body strapped in on the right side of the platform might have been that of Perfecta herself, as she had been when she had first awakened all those years ago. That was only natural, since it had been cloned from Perfecta’s own cells. And when it awoke, it would possess all the powers Perfecta had once owned. Her own body would not accept replacement implants—she had tried, carefully, but it seemed they had to be installed before the brain was activated, or they simply didn’t work—but this one would have everything she had lost.

And that meant she would have again what she had lost!

“Prepare me,” she commanded.

Solomon and the others moved to do as she had ordered. Shortly she was lying nude on the left side of the activation table, secured just as her counterpart was.

“Now the transfer connections,” Perfecta ordered. Her slaves moved to lower two elaborate headsets into place, fastening the nets of contacts into place on two identical scalps. At last they were finished.

Perfecta allowed herself a moment of gloating before issuing the final instruction. She had come into the world with memories downloaded from a limited archive; Dr. Humble, after all, had created her as a glorified sex toy and a tribute to his towering ego, not to function as a full-fledged person. It was his own fault he had so badly underestimated her. But Perfecta intended to transfer her own mind into this new, still-perfect vessel.

She had no fear the process wouldn’t work. She understood her maker’s technology completely, and had long since worked out what she needed to do. Assembling the necessary equipment and growing the new body had been the only real obstacles. Hobbled by her injuries and with her cult dispersed, it had taken time to gather what she required.

A rumbling penetrated the building from outside. The weather forecast had mentioned a possibility of thundershowers this evening.

Perfecta smiled. It was a good omen. There had been a thunderstorm in progress when she first awoke in Dr. Humble’s laboratory.

“Proceed,” she said. Another of her servants, a balding man in a white lab smock, threw a large switch.

Perfecta closed her eyes. . . .

And opened them. Only a moment seemed to have passed.

But it had been longer than that. From where she lay, she could see the clock on the wall. Over an hour had elapsed.

And her field of vision had changed subtly. She was no longer looking up from the left side of the slab, but from the right. Flicking her eyes to the side, she saw an inert female form.

“Release me,” she directed.

“Yes, Mistress,” her servitors intoned as they moved to free her from the restraints holding her down and disconnect her from the transfer headset which had evidently done its job.

Perfecta stood. She luxuriated in being able to do so unassisted for the first time since the fire. She flexed and posed, testing her new body’s mobility, and ran her hands over her face. Then she walked over to the three-view mirror set up in one corner of the laboratory and inspected herself carefully, arching and turning on the balls of her feet.

“I’m perfect again,” she exulted. Artificial she might be, but she was human enough that the scarring of her flesh had wounded her vanity as well. “Am I not perfect again?”

“Ohhh, yes,” moaned the technician who’d operated the mind-transfer device. He was sweating and breathing shallowly as he stared at Perfecta’s nude body. “Oh, yes, Mistress. Perfect. . . .”

The gynoid undulated over to him and cupped his chin in on hand, tipping it up slightly to permit him to look into her eyes. “You may call me Perfecta, Dr. Phelps,” she crooned. Then, in a mischievous test of her new implants, she reached out with her mind and caressed his brain’s arousal and pleasure centers.

Dr. Phelps squealed. His body bucked and shuddered, and with no verbal prompting from the glorious redhead, he reached out and gathered her body to his. Perfecta allowed him to do it. The hand she’d been using to hold his chin went down and began playfully undoing the buttons of his smock.

She was careful. She had learned at the beginning that overstimulation could cause a human to simply shut down, retreating into a coma. She didn’t want that to happen to Phelps, not while she still found him useful. Nevertheless, very soon the man was writhing mindlessly on the floor, thrusting into his goddess as his hands clutched blindly at her and nonsense burst from his mouth.

Meanwhile, the impulses from Perfecta’s implants which were driving her partner to ecstasy were also working on everyone else present. Moans and gasps of eagerness and pleasure filled the cavernous room as the gynoid’s slaves went at one another, all inhibitions discarded.

At last the redhead relented, releasing Phelps. As she untangled herself languorously from the sweat-soaked scientist, he sagged bonelessly to the floor.

“Ohhh, Mistress,“ he sighed. His half-lidded eyes wandered randomly for a few moments before focusing. ”Thank you, Mistress Perfecta. Thank you. . . .” His eyelids dropped shut and he relaxed even further, smiling. Seconds later, he began snoring softly.

“Take him,” the gynoid commanded. She reinforced her words with a pulse of stimulation. “Place him somewhere he can rest undisturbed.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The words whispered from several mouths in unison as her retinue shivered, helplessly enjoying the gynoid’s caress of their brains. They would have done as she told them anyway, but under the influence of her restored power, it was ecstasy to obey. Still naked and glassy-eyed, Perfecta’s servitors picked up their fellow slave and carted him off toward the rest quarters adjoining the lab.

By the time they returned, Perfecta was dressed.

At “birth,” she had been indifferent to clothing. Dr. Humble had provided garments for her as a gesture to social convention—and also, she’d quickly understood, in a futile effort to minimize her sexual influence over him. In the years since, though, she had come to realize that clothes could serve many purposes, from simple concealment to identification of social status and profession to deliberate accentuation of physical attractiveness.

The garb her old body still wore had been simple, utilitarian. Scarred, crippled and in seclusion, she had needed little else; she’d have gone nude if her damaged flesh had been less vulnerable to heat and cold. Now, though—!

Perfecta returned to the three-way mirror and inspected herself again. Her massive chest strained at a V-necked white halter under a short jacket. Her taut belly showed bare. So did the bottoms of her breasts, where they swelled away from her body; the top had not been designed for anyone with her exaggerated proportions. Form-fitting charcoal-red trousers covered her legs to mid-calf. White pumps with three-inch heels completed the outfit, adding to her already imposing height. Perfecta raised her arms and wound them in her thick mane of hair, piling the rich red tresses high to add even more to her stature, and turned back and forth on her toes. Yes, this would do. A thought came to her and she laughed. During her long convalescence, she had seen a number of movies featuring the creation of artificial beings. One, dating back to long before her own maker had been born, had featured a female creature. With her hair up like this, she bore a superficial resemblance to that fictional being. Although, she thought smugly, I’m much more beautiful.

Soon it would be time for her to venture forth into the world once more. When she did, things would go differently than they had before. She had learned much.

Fist she would rebuild her power base among the natural humans. Quietly, this time; the Church of Divine Perfection had proven useful, and its remnants might still serve her purposes, but it had been too flamboyant. It had drawn too much opposition, too soon.

There were influential people who had fallen under her sway before. She could use them again. It wouldn’t even be necessary to visit them herself. Before her defeat, she had grown interested in the human method of mind control known as hypnosis. She had learned to use it herself, although she wouldn’t need it now—but more importantly, several of her acolytes had grown quite skilled in its use. The gynoid had conducted a number of experiments with humans lured into her lair, and had found that especially with males, a sexual focus made the technique particularly effective. Her efforts at maintaining this headquarters and acquiring what she needed to build and operate its facilities had been assisted by a number of her—the humans’ expression was “guinea pigs”—who, naturally, had no idea how they were being used.

“Clarissa,” she said, addressing a leggy woman with short black hair, “have you finished that profile I requested?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the other woman responded. “It’s in the data archive now.”

“Excellent!” A moment’s concentration was all it took to bring the dark-haired woman to her knees, drooling and babbling joyfully. A few seconds more and Perfecta had assimilated the file.

Perfecta smiled broadly. It was as she had hoped. Some of her most highly-placed former worshippers were still readily available. A few had even risen further in society.

She reached down, cupping Clarissa’s chin in one palm.

“Clarissa, my dear,” she instructed the brunette, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Oh, yes, Mistress,” moaned Clarissa. She was still spiraling lazily down from the heights of sensory reward to which a single thought from the gynoid had taken her.

“Listen very carefully, Clarissa dear,” Perfecta commanded. “I need you to pay a visit to someone. A special visit, you understand, as we’ve discussed.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Clarissa murmured. “A special visit.” Her right hand came up, fingers extended as if holding some dangling object, and swayed back and forth briefly before dropping again.

“I see you do understand,” the synthetic woman observed. Clarissa was one of the females who had proven adept at hypnosis. Sending her on this errand would make a good test of that aspect of her plan. If she failed, if ordinary hypnosis proved insufficient in dealing with humans accustomed to giving orders, Perfecta might be obliged to act directly after all.

Clarissa giggled. “Yes, Mistress.” Her eyes were clearing. “I understand perfectly.”

“Excellent,” came the response. “When you return successful, Clarissa dear, you may call me Perfecta.” The gynoid reached out with her power once more; Clarissa, still on her hands and knees on the floor, moaned happily and arched her back. “You will find it—rewarding to do so.”

She released her implant-powered hold on the brunette, who remained groveling before her, panting. Finally the woman gasped, “Rewarding . . . yes, Mistress.”

Perfecta allowed her subject to collect herself. When Clarissa’s head finally cleared, she got to her feet and hurried off to do as she’d been bidden.

The gynoid smiled. Clarissa would be conditioned to feel the same overwhelming pleasure simply from speaking Perfecta’s name that she could be given by the android woman’s power. When her training was done, her own brain would do all the work, just as with the “pleasure” keyword; Perfecta would no longer need to use her power on her. The extra verbal trigger was a precaution she intended to take with all of her followers whom she trusted to gain control of others.

All of her natural-human followers, at least.

Crossing to a control station, Perfecta called up a monitor view of the cavernous room beneath the laboratory. She panned the camera across the row of nutrient tanks it contained. Each one held a humanoid form, ranging in size and maturity from a tiny fetus at one end to several nearly full-grown females at the other. The floating bodies were largely obscured by tubes and wires, but the gynoid knew what each one looked like.

Each was different. She had no wish to replicate herself endlessly—on the contrary; she was to remain unique. And not just in appearance: these next-generation gynoids were to be given lesser enhancements than her own, and, though their own implants would make them immune to her erotic power, they would be programmed to regard her as their natural leader.

But their individuality would serve another purpose as well. An army of identical, spectacularly-built Perfectas would be—the gynoid smirked briefly—conspicuous. Giving each one a unique appearance would make it easier to infiltrate human society.

Perfecta allowed herself to look ahead, briefly, to the future she had planned. She, of course, would rule over all. Beneath her would be the lesser gynoids she was creating; beneath them, her human trusties; and on the bottom, the mass of uninitiated humanity. She had not yet decided whether, among her initiates and the commoners beneath them, she would place the females above the males. She found the idea appealing—males, in her experience, were silly creatures—but was uncertain whether it would really be productive.

But that was for later. There would be time enough to make such choices when her agents were in position. The synthetic siren stroked the switch that shut off the screens she’d been viewing. Reveling again in her restored mobility, she strode out of the laboratory into the adjoining room which served as a communications center.

The command chair in that room had been designed for both comfort and function. Perfecta sank into its cushions and tapped out a brief set of commands on the touch-screen panel embedded in the right-hand armrest. The network terminal in front of her sprang to life.

Perfecta closed her eyes and concentrated. Information began downloading into her mind faster than even she could possibly read it off a screen.

Shortly her eyes opened and she smiled.

Rising from her seat, Perfecta returned to the lab. There was one final task to perform there.

Her discarded original body still lay on the transfer platform. Turning to her servitors, she commanded: “Remove this husk. Prepare it for disposal.”

Her slaves moved to obey. They gently lifted the limp carcass which had only recently held their mistress’s mind off the slab and carried it out of the room. They would place it in a sealed, anonymous container and then contact one of Perfecta’s outside tools, an individual with convenient connections in the criminal community who would take charge of it and make it disappear permanently. He would ask no questions. There were more ways of controlling people than those Perfecta had used in her former life; for him, it was enough that he was being well paid. Since the fire, with her powers gone, the android beauty had cultivated many such people.

Satisfied that she’d tied up a loose end, Perfecta retired to her quarters.

Her plans were finally bearing fruit. . . .