The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Thomas Randle was a successful businessman. His success had helped him forge connections both in the mayor’s office and at the state level. There was talk of his running for office himself.

His prosperity hadn’t been built by wasting time. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered to meet with the woman now waiting outside his office. His secretary Willa, though, had urged him to see this—he glanced at the yellow sticky he’d found in his In box—Clarissa Trager. He trusted Willa’s judgment.

He made a last few neatening motions, adjusting the papers in his In and Out baskets into perfectly ordered piles, and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “You can send Ms. Trager in now,” he announced.

“Yes, sir,” Willa’s voice answered, its pleasant timbre slightly spoiled as usual by the electronic undertone imparted by the intercom. A moment later, the door opened.

Randle’s jaw dropped slightly. The woman who stepped through was stunning. Tall, cool, glossy hair so deep a brown it was nearly black. Cut in a pageboy style, it framed a model-perfect face highlighted by sparkling green eyes. She was dressed in a gray sheath cut low in front; an emerald pendant on a gold chain drew attention to the cleavage her outfit revealed. Glossy high heels covered small feet.

Randle eagerly rose to offer his visitor the chair facing him across the desk. Smiling, she sat, crossing her legs neatly.

Randle’s secretary, also smiling, closed the door quietly and returned to her desk. Once there, she opened a side drawer beneath the desktop and pulled out a small object: a lapel pin in the traditional mirror-of-Venus shape, a ring perched atop a cross. For several minutes, she sat quietly with it in her hand, remembering.

The pin was a keepsake from a time in her life Willa Dean found it expedient to keep discreetly buried. She had thought it was over forever. Then, just recently, she’d received a phone call. The instant she’d heard the wonderful voice at the other end, it had been as if something had gone click! in her head: it had all come back, everything she’d tried to put out of her mind, as if it had happened only yesterday.

Her caller had had a simple request: arrange for her boss to meet with a certain person. That person would match a certain description, and would be carrying a pin like the one Willa kept hidden. The secretary had been sobbingly grateful to comply; the one asking the favor had shown her things, made her feel things, she could never have imagined, things she’d tried desperately to forget once she could no longer experience them. She’d do anything now for a chance to have them again.

On the other side of the closed office door, Randle knew nothing of this. He knew only that Willa had ushered in a very attractive woman. With an effort, he forced himself to meet his visitor’s eyes and ask, “What is it, exactly, you want to discuss? My assistant didn’t say, exactly, only that it was important.”

“Yes,” purred Clarissa Trager. “Very important.” The executive had given her the opening she’d been looking for.

Her right hand stole to the chain from which her pendant hung, lifting it away from her bare flesh and letting the gem dangle between her fingers in front of her ample breasts. As she’d been trained to do, she set it swaying gently, catching the light from the office’s overhead light fixtures.

“I represent a group of people interested in the economic future of this city,” Clarissa said to Randle. Keep it vague, nonspecific, she told herself; it’s not important what you say to start, just so long as it holds his attention. “We feel that you are one of the people we should approach.” True enough, and meant to appeal to the businessman’s vanity.

“Er, yes,” Randle responded. His eyes, which had wandered down from Clarissa’s face again, had begun blinking in rhythm with the motion of the gem as he strained to see past it into the cleft of her bosom.

Clarissa nodded. “Of course.” She continued to swing the jeweled ornament hanging between her fingers. “We need people with economic resources and political influence—resources and influence like yours, Mr. Randle. We can’t afford to waste time going back and forth among a whole lot of people, filling out all sorts of paperwork, seeing this secretary, that assistant and the other minor official. It’s much more efficient to deal with people who can get things done than going back and forth like that. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The executive nodded. His eyes kept blinking, struggling against the pendant’s motion. “Much more efficient . . . than going”—he paused; behind their flicking lids, his eyes were starting to follow the jewel now—“back and forth.”

Perfecta’s emissary smiled. It was working. Just as her mistress had instructed her, once she had drawn his attention with the sexual bait of her breasts, it had been easy to hold that focus and deepen it with the pendant.

“That’s right,” she said soothingly. “Wasting time is so tiring. Running back and forth, back and forth, is so tiring.” She smiled. “Just thinking about it makes you tired, doesn’t it?” She yawned.

The simple trick had its intended effect; Randle yawned back.

“So tired,” Clarissa went on. “It’s easier not to think about it, isn’t it? It’s easier not to think. So much easier to just relax; you’re so tired, your eyes are getting heavier. You need to keep them open while we’re talking together, need to focus, but they’re so heavy.”

Randle’s eyelids sagged. He kept blinking as he followed the notion of the pendant, but his eyes no longer opened completely. Some part of his mind was trying to warn him about something, but it didn’t seem important. His eyelids were getting so heavy. . . .

“So heavy,” Clarissa repeated, as if reading his thoughts. She leaned slightly toward the executive, who was leaning forward toward her. “Go ahead, close them for a minute. I won’t mind. You can just rest, and listen to me explain what I want, instead of going back and forth, back and forth with me over it.” She held the pendant closer to Randle’s eyes, still gently swinging it back and forth, back and forth.

The businessman’s eyelids fell shut. Behind them, his eyes continued to track left to right to left to right, over and over.

“That’s right,” said Clarissa. “Just rest, and listen to me. You just need to relax, and listen to me.”

“Just need t’ relax . . . and listen,” Randle agreed. It was hard for him even to get those words out.

“Your eyes are closed, but you can still see my emerald pendant, can’t you, swinging back and forth. Back and forth.”

“Yes,” mumbled Randle. “Pendant. Back and . . . forth.”

“It’s very tiring to go back and forth,” Clarissa told him. As she spoke, she tucked her pedant away; she didn’t need it anymore. “It’s easier to stay still, and relax, and let the pendant move instead, back and forth, yes, that’s the way, let its motion work for you, let it carry you where you need to go to relax as you listen to my voice and trust my voice and relax listening to my voice. . . .” She droned on in the same vein for several more minutes, deepening her hold on him.

Finally she addressed him in a more normal voice. “Mr. Randle, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Randle mumbled. “Hear you.” He nodded, slowly, slowly.

“You’re very relaxed, aren’t you?” asked the bewitching brunette. “Very relaxed. I’ve helped you to relax, and you’re so very relaxed, so very, very relaxed, you know you can trust me.”

Another slow nod. “So very relaxed. I can . . . trust you.”

“That’s right,” the dark-haired beauty said. “And people who trust each other can use each other’s first names. Mine is Clarissa; what’s yours, Mr. Randle? What’s your first name?”

“Thomas,” came the answer in a whisper.

“That’s a nice name,” Clarissa said. “Open your eyes and look at me, Thomas. I have something to show you.”

Randle obeyed.

Clarissa slid her free hand into her blouse and withdrew a photograph she’d had nestled over her left breast. She showed it to Randle and asked, “Do you know who this is?”

“No,” the executive mumbled. “Don’t know.”

“Her name is Perfecta,” the android’s operative explained. “She’s perfect. Beautiful. You find her perfect and beautiful, don’t you? Of course you do.”

“Of course . . . I do.”

“Just looking at her picture makes you dizzy with desire, doesn’t it.”

Thomas Randle moaned.

“That’s right, Tom honey,” Clarissa said. “I can call you Tom, can’t I? Of course I can. You want Perfecta so badly, don’t you? You’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything,“ Tom gasped. There was a growing bulge in his trousers. “I, I’d do . . . anything.“

“That’s just wonderful, Tom,” the brunette said. She reached into the handbag she’d stowed next to her seat and came up with a small audio recorder. She turned it on and played a brief message Perfecta had recorded for her. When it was finished, she spoke to Randle again.

“Do you understand what you need to do for Perfecta?” she asked.

“Yes,” the businessman answered. “When I hear her voice, I will do as she says. It will seem perfectly natural . . . to do as she says. I will believe that what I’m doing . . . is my own idea.”

“Very good, Tom!” Clarissa clapped her hands. Randle had absorbed Perfecta’s suggestions readily. The hypnotic program would do until her mistress had time to visit him in person and bind him further with the pleasure her miraculous powers could create.

Just thinking of that pleasure made Clarissa hot. Looking at Randle sitting there, deeply hypnotized and very obviously aroused, she giggled. Why not? She was sure Perfecta wouldn’t mind.

“Tom,” she said, “you like me, don’t you? Yes, you do. You trust me, and you like me.”

“Yes,” he answered softly. “Like you. Trust you.”

“Call me Clarissa,” the dark-haired hypnotist instructed. “Remember, you trust me. We’re friends.” She smiled mischievously. ”Intimate friends.”

“Yes . . . Clarissa,” responded Tom. ”Intimate . . . friends.”

“You want me,” the woman informed him. “Right here. Right now. You’re so aroused, so excited, yes.”

“Yesss,” Tom hissed.

Clarissa reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one at a time while posing in her seat, bosom outthrust and head tilted. When she’d opened the last one, she slipped out of the garment in a sinuous motion, then leaned forward. “Do my bra, Tom honey,” she commanded.

Randle gave an animal snort and leaned across his desk to obey. His fingers found the clasp at her back and unfastened it. The brassiere fell away, revealing Clarissa’s full breasts. The pendant she’d used to put him under dangled between them.

The gynoid’s follower oozed onto the desk, rubbing her breasts across its polished top as she advanced on the hypnotized Randle. “Take me, Tom baby. Take me now.”

Tom Randle hesitated. A fragment of memory surfaced, inhibiting him. “I . . .” he shook his head in a futile effort to clear it. “I’m . . . married?”

Clarissa pouted. This was inconvenient. Fortunately, it was something she could handle. She reached for the pendant and brought it back up, swinging gently. Tom’s eyes locked onto it at once.

“That doesn’t matter, Tom honey,” she told him. “Forget about it.”

“I . . . I . . .”

“You trust me completely, don’t you, honey?” Clarissa’s voice was coaxing. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, isn’t that right?”

Tom was lost, lost in the sway of the pendant, the insistence of Clarissa’s voice, the urgings of his body. He could only agree. “Yes, Clarissa. I know you’d never . . . do anything to hurt me.”

“Then forget about being married,” she suggested. “Just forget about it, and take me. After I’m gone, you can remember your wife and your marriage.”

“Yes, Clarissa.” Randle repeated Clarissa’s commands.

“After I’m gone,” the brunette elaborated, “you’ll remember being married, and you’ll forget about having sex with me. You’ll forget everything about this meeting except that it happened, and that we talked about business. Do you understand, Tom honey?”

“Yes, Clarissa.” Tom moaned again as the dark beauty slithered closer and brushed his lips with her bare breasts. The In and Out boxes resting atop the executive’s desk were brushed aside, falling unnoticed to the floor.

“Then take me, Tom! Take me now!” Clarissa ordered.

Tom lunged at her, all else forgotten.

Two hours later, a sated Clarissa Trager roused herself and got dressed. She prodded Tom into half-consciousness and got him dressed as well. Then, sitting on his lap and framing his face with her hands, she gave him final instructions.

“You’ll remember only that we talked business,” she reminded her stupefied subject. “But when the time comes, you’ll do what you must do, won’t you, Tom sweetie?”

“Yes, Clarissa,” mumbled Randle.

“Tell Clarissa what it is you’ll do. Tell Clarissa what your instructions are.”

Tom reeled off the indoctrination he had been given, word for word. Satisfied, Clarissa nodded and stood up. “I’m leaving now,” she told her captivated audience. “When I leave the office, you will return to full awareness. As we’ve discussed, you won’t remember what really happened here. But when the time comes, you will do as you’ve been told.”

Tom nodded. “I won’t remember what . . . really happened here. But when the time comes, I will . . . do as I’ve been told.”

Smiling, Clarissa Trager left Thomas Randle’s office. She was confident she had served her magnificent mistress well—and if she’d served herself too, who could complain.

She laughed softly. She certainly couldn’t!

Perfecta received her servant’s report in silence. When Clarissa finished, the gynoid smiled knowingly.

“I’m very satisfied,” she told the dark-haired woman. “And I’m sure you were, too, by the time you finished with our Mr. Randle.”

Clarissa flushed. She hadn’t mentioned the sexual bonus she’d collected from her target—it hadn’t seemed necessary—but her mistress had guessed. Was she in trouble now?

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Perfecta. “The important thing is, he is our Mr. Randle now. Everything he owns, everything he has access to or can influence, is ours to command.” It might, she admitted to herself, be too soon to be entirely sure of that—but every indication was that Randle was under control. All that remained was for her to seal the deal personally, whenever she found the time; meanwhile, if necessary, Clarissa could be sent to him again. “And now for your reward, as promised. Speak my name.”

“Perfecta,” Clarissa said obediently.

The gynoid reached out with her power, flooding the natural-born woman with shattering sensations of arousal and pleasure. Clarissa’s eyes rolled in her head and she squealed shrilly.

“Again!” Perfecta commanded sharply.

“P-Perfecta,” stammered Clarissa. Once again, the gorgeous redheaded android facing her extended her mental probes into Clarissa’s brain, prodding its primal centers. And once again, Clarissa cried out in ecstasy. Eyes crossed, she fell to hands and knees. She stayed there, head hanging, panting. Perfecta allowed her slave a few moments’ rest, then reached down and placed one hand under Clarissa’s chin, raising the brunette’s head until her eyes met those of the gynoid. “Again.” It was a struggle for Clarissa to comply this time. “P-p-puh . . . Perfecta,“ she managed at last. Moments later, she fell over on her side, writhing and slobbering in the grip of another artificial spasm of lust and reward. Pretty starbursts and pinwheels of color crowded her vision. Perfecta waited until her subject was lying quietly on the floor with a vacant smile on her face. Then: “Speak my name again, Clarissa dear.” Clarissa obeyed, responding to the command by pure reflex this time. As soon as the word left her lips, another mind-searing blast of sensation ripped through her. “Again, dear,” Perfecta demanded. . . . Presently the gynoid stopped. Clarissa lay on the laboratory floor, legs spread, smiling, eyes unfocused. She was naked now, too; in the throes of ecstasy, she had ripped off her clothes, which lay scattered around her in a halo of fabric and leather. She shivered with pleasure as she babbled softly, “Perfecta Perfecta Perfecta Perfecta. . . .” Perfecta ran elegantly tapered fingers through her rich mane of red hair as she regarded her handiwork. She nodded in satisfaction. Her servant had taken to the new conditioning just as she’d expected. From now on, the mere mention of her mistress’s name would reduce her to helpless joy. With that programming in place, there was no risk in permitting her to control others as she, in her turn, was controlled. Of course, she might need a few more sessions to make her implanted responses truly permanent, but that could be managed easily enough. Perfecta squatted down and ran her fingers through Clarissa’s hair. “Sleep now,” she told her. “Sleep for me, Clarissa dear. Sleep and rest, so that you may serve Perfecta.”

Clarissa’s body thrashed as the sound of the gynoid’s name lashed its short-circuited brain. Then, with a sigh, the brunette closed her eyes and relaxed. Soft, regular breathing told her mistress that the woman on the floor had fallen asleep as commanded.

Perfecta picked up her slumbering slave as easily as Clarissa herself might have hefted a five-pound bag of potatoes. Cradling the woman’s limp form in her arms, the glamorous android carried her away.

It was just a short walk down a corridor to Clarissa’s quarters. Like the rest of Perfecta’s inner circle, Clarissa Trager lived with the gynoid in the huge converted factory which served as her headquarters. The derelict building, a relic of a long-ago bankruptcy, had been discreetly acquired by the artificial woman’s Perfectionist cult before the Cathedral’s destruction and made over to serve the gynoid’s needs. The cult’s ownership had never been discovered by the authorities in the purge following the fiery raid, and the factory’s location, in the same run-down, largely abandoned area of town where Dr. Humble had sited his own lab, provided further camouflage.

Perfecta laid her burden down gently on the bed in her slave’s room. For a moment she lingered, inspecting Clarissa. The human woman would sleep for several hours at least, she concluded. Satisfied, she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

She was well pleased. Only yesterday, she had finally freed herself from the prison of her damaged original body, regaining the beauty, mobility and powers which were her birthright. And today had been productive as well, bringing a new and potentially very useful slave under her control with Clarissa’s help, confirming that her human minions could bring others into the fold as she’d hoped—and demonstrating that she need not fear allowing those minions that power.

Of course—Perfecta chuckled—there was no reason to let Clarissa and the others have all the fun! Her own sexual appetites were quite well developed, and during her long invalidhood, they had had all too little satisfaction. There was one man in particular she looked forward to seeing.

But her creator, she told herself firmly, could wait. There were others who deserved her attention first.

She sat at a data screen and activated it. A nudge from her implants and it scanned the Internet, bringing up a picture.

The former police commissioner, Edward Hennessey, was a hard-faced man in his early sixties, his iron-gray hair receding over angry blue eyes. Five years ago he had quit the police force to run for mayor on a law-and-order platform, and won in a walk. His involvement in launching the assault on the Cathedral of Divine Perfection had been controversial—images of burning buildings, exploding gas lines and frightened, fleeing people had been used over and over in his opponent’s campaign ads—but the public, fed up with years of rising crime and a city administration largely seen as ineffectual, had flocked to him anyway. Now there was talk of a race for governor, for the Senate, perhaps even the presidency.

Perfecta had no objection. Hennessey could run for any office he chose. Soon, she would be running him. And once he was in her power, she meant to take her revenge. The man who had nearly destroyed her would grovel at her feet, begging for forgiveness.

Just thinking about it made her breathe faster.