The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bishop Jacob Hartley frowned as he hung up the phone. The mayor had sounded . . . odd.

Hartley had known Edward Hennessey for years, since the days when he’d been an ordinary parish priest and Hennessey an up-and-coming police captain. He’d been pleased when the other had been named commissioner, and had voted for him when he’d run for mayor. He’d always respected the man, even when they’d disagreed; the only real strain in their relationship had been over then-Commissioner Hennessey’s decision to bomb the Cathedral of Divine Perfection to break the spreading power of the Perfectionist cult. He’d gone along with it, but the gruesome spectacle it had turned into had left a sour feeling behind.

The man he’d just spoken to might almost have been someone else. There’d been a strange tone in his voice. After a moment, Hartley recognized it: the tone was that one sometimes encountered in the very devout when they were talking about religion. Fervor, that was the word for it.

And whatever else one might say about Hennessey, the Mayor was not a strongly religious man. Oh, he attended Mass fairly regularly, and contributed to the Church, but no one would ever have called him a crusader for the faith.

Nevertheless, that was how he had come across. And what made it even odder was that he’d called Bishop Hartley to ask what seemed to be a purely secular favor.

“There’s a lady who wants to meet with you,” Hennessey had informed him. “Her name is”—he had hesitated briefly—“Eve Humble. I’d really appreciate it if you could make time for her.”

“Of course,” Bishop Hartley had replied. He had checked his calendar and found a vacant slot not too far off.

“That sounds perfect,” Hennessey had answered. “Just . . . perfect.” He’d paused again before finishing, “I’ll pass the word on to Ms. Humble.” And he’d hung up.

The Bishop’s frown deepened. He’d allowed himself to be talked into meeting with this woman, whoever she was, without the least idea of what it was supposed to be about. Once, that might not have been such an issue—but that was before all the scandals. An officer of the Church had to be very careful these days. One never knew what might happen, or what might be said to have happened.

Still, it wasn’t as if he were particularly prone to lusts of the flesh. He trusted himself. And if false allegations were made, he was confident he could knock them down easily enough.

Shaking his head, he returned to his work.

Perfecta smiled. The phone call from her slave Edward Hennessey had brought good news: he had arranged a meeting with Jacob Hartley, just as she’d asked him to. It was to take place tomorrow afternoon.

She only regretted that it couldn’t be today. The clock was ticking. Very soon it would be time to activate the first of the next-generation gynoids, and she wanted to have amassed as much power as possible by then, so that she could send the new ones out to begin spreading her influence elsewhere.

She stretched, flexing the sleek muscles under her skin, as her brilliant brain continued to scheme. The subtler approach she’d decided to take this time would take time, even with the help of other gynoids. Patience did not come naturally to her, but it was one of the many things she’d learned since opening her eyes in Dr. Evan Humble’s laboratory that stormy night ten years ago.

She inspected her nude form in the tall three-way mirror set up along one wall. After enduring so many years in a scarred and crippled body, it warmed her to see herself as she had been at the beginning: six feet three inches tall, with a cascade of bright red hair framing the face of a model over a body out of a man’s wildest fantasies. A particular man’s, actually: Dr. Humble had designed her appearance out of his own fevered sexual imagination, intending to use her as his personal plaything. Too bad for him that the implants he had given her to make it easier to download information into her brain, and to control her in other ways, had given her the power to control him instead.

On top of all its other infirmities, her original body had begun showing the early signs of aging—if anything, even sooner than it should have. This body was fresh, new. Someday, she supposed, it wouldn’t be. Now that she knew the mind transfer process worked, however, that was no longer a problem. When the time came, she would simply replace it. The new order she meant to establish in the world would be ruled by her forever.

And she had her full powers back! Her knowledge of her creator’s science had told her she couldn’t simply replace the damaged circuitry implants in her old body; the enhancements had to be installed before the body was activated or they wouldn’t function. But now she had replaced the body itself, implants and all.

Hartley had come up in the world since the old days. Even though Perfecta did not intend, this time, to use religion as a vehicle for her own rise to power, it would be useful as one instrument among many. She was sure that once she had had the opportunity to meet with the bishop, he would be more than happy to assist her in its use.

The gynoid laughed ruefully. She had been so naive in the beginning, so confident in her superiority. And the behavior of the natural-born had seemed only to reinforce her—arrogance, she admitted she might as well call it. They had fallen so easily under her power! She hadn’t given enough thought to how very many of them there were, how small a fraction of their population she had taken over. That had been her undoing.

And it would remain a problem as long as she remained the only one of her kind. But fortunately, if all went well, that would not be very much longer.

Seating herself at the control console, she called up the monitor view of the gestation chamber where the new gynoids were growing. She inspected them carefully, allowing her eyes to linger on the chamber at the far right end of the row of growth cylinders.

The female inside appeared to be perhaps twenty-five years old, although it had been slightly less than two years since the artificial zygote from which she’d been grown had been assembled. Platinum-blonde hair floated around her beautiful face. Behind her closed eyelids, Perfecta knew, her eyes were ice-blue. She was shorter than the original gynoid, a mere five feet ten inches, and her curves, while spectacular, were not quite as extreme as Perfecta’s own. None of the new generation were built quite like Evan Humble’s dream girl; their less flamboyant appearance would help them infiltrate among the natural-born. Perfecta refused to admit even to herself that it also ensured she had no rivals in gorgeousness.

The blonde stirred as Perfecta watched. Yes, the gynoid decided, it was very nearly time to awaken her. The necessary personality matrix had been assembled, and rested in the data bank, waiting for download. At this moment, she was nothing but a creature of reflex; once she had been programmed, she would be as much a thinking being as her creator.

The others were coming along, too. Next in line was a dark-skinned, dark-haired model whose synthetic DNA had been based largely on African templates. Beyond her was a shorter girl with saffron skin and straight black hair. Perfecta meant to conquer the world; for that, she would need operatives who could pass as members of each of the natural humans’ main population groups. The gynoid knew that these groups harbored negative attitudes toward one another, but these meant nothing to her, except as tools for controlling humans.

The ravishing redhead’s stomach rumbled. She was hungry. Her new body’s metabolism, like her old one’s before its crippling, ran hot; her appetite for food was nearly as insatiable as her desire for sex.

She summoned her servants and ordered that dinner be prepared. They hurried to obey, and when the meal was ready everyone sat down together to eat. Perfecta had encouraged such communal dining as one more way of strengthening her slaves’ emotional bonds to her and to one another during the long years she had made do without her implants. With her powers restored, she still considered the custom useful.

After the meal, the gynoid went to her room. It contained a small data terminal, and for the next couple of hours she busied herself scanning the Net. Before her transfer into her new body, she had grown used to monitoring news developments which interested her just as a natural-born woman would, relying on keyboard and mouse. Now she could access on-line information directly; besides speeding the process, her abilities also let her bypass most security safeguards.

Not for the first time, Perfecta wondered where Dr. Humble had gotten the technology he’d used in creating her. She had found no indication anywhere that anyone else was cloning humans, let alone enhancing them as she had been enhanced. And in reassembling Humble’s equipment based on the technical knowledge she’d taken from her creator’s computers so long ago, she had been struck by the way it seemed to have been improvised, almost as if it had been imperfectly copied from some more sophisticated original. What that original might have been—if there was one—she had no idea.

And again not for the first time, she put the matter out of her mind. It had no bearing on her plans.

As Solomon Dennis drove the sleek late-model car through traffic, the smile on his face never wavered. He had served his glorious mistress for ten wonderful years, since her reign as high priestess of the Church of Divine Perfection. For much of that time she had needed him even for simple things; the infidels had hurt her so badly! But now, miraculously, she was restored, once again the divine female who had turned a hostile television preacher into her adoring worshipper.

“Pleasure,” he sighed. A warm wave washed through him. It wasn’t the ecstasy he would have felt if she had said the word, but it was enough to make his eyes glaze momentarily.

“Careful, Solomon,” the resplendent redhead in the passenger seat chided him. “Keep your mind on the road, that’s a good boy.” “Yes, Perfecta,” the former evangelist said. He was so proud of being allowed to use her name. He must not disappoint her, he told himself. He focused on his driving. Perfecta smiled. Solomon was so eager to please. She had tamed him with pleasure at their first meeting, and before the Cathedral fire she’d tightened her hold. In the decade since, he had never shown the slightest sign of resistance. She understood human psychology well enough now to guess that there must have been a strain of submissiveness in his character all along, one camouflaged by the religious role he’d played before meeting her. In that role, he had been able to submit himself to his unseen God, secure in the knowledge that doing so wouldn’t oblige him to do anything he didn’t want to do anyway, while dominating his congregation through their emotional dependence on him.

She suspected that the man she was now traveling to meet was much the same. She didn’t know, of course, but it seemed logical. He had, after all, chosen to submit himself to the will of an authoritarian religious hierarchy, not merely as a congregant but professionally. Not that it mattered; even if there were no secret urge within him to grovel before a master, or mistress, her renewed powers would overwhelm him quickly enough. And when that happened . . . !

The gynoid’s smile broadened. Hartley had been among those responsible for the cataclysm which had left her disfigured and crippled. Like Hennessey, he would spend a long time paying for that.

“Yessss,” Perfecta hissed softly. “A very long time.”

“Mistress?” There was concern in her driver-slave’s voice.

“Nothing, Solomon dear,” the gynoid assured him. “Just keep your mind on your driving.”

“Yes, Perfecta.” The former Reverend Dennis obediently turned his concentration back to his assigned task.

That was one difference between her abilities and the techniques of hypnotism she had researched, the redhead reflected. In a hypnotic trance, Solomon Dennis would not have noticed her words unless they were directed at him. As it was, he maintained full awareness—at least as long as she was not actively stimulating his brain’s primitive regions with her power. That had its advantages: she would not, for instance, have cared to ride in a vehicle operated by someone under hypnosis.

At length they arrived at their destination, the Church of the Holy Trinity. It had the traditional fixtures: steepled roof with small bell tower, large exterior crucifix and stained glass windows. The cross bore a contorted figure of Jesus, rendered in agonized realism.

At the door, Perfecta pressed a button. A buzzer sounded, followed by a female voice: “Yes?”

“My name is Eve Humble,” the gynoid announced. “I have an appointment with the Bishop?” She injected just the slightest note of uncertainty into her voice, amusing herself by pretending to be no more than the ordinary visitor Hartley would be expecting. Once they were alone, the mask would come off, along with everything else.

There was silence for a few seconds. Then the voice returned: “Come in, please.”

Perfecta grasped the door handle firmly and pushed her way inside. The interior of the church was much as she would have expected, with a high vaulted ceiling over a large atrium filled with pews which descended toward a stage bearing a lectern, an altar and a large, very expensive-looking organ. Above the altar was a pair of religious paintings. A second floor ringed the worship area, allowing a panoramic view of services in progress.

“Take the stairs to your right,” the voice instructed. “Or if you prefer, there’s an elevator.”

Perfecta took the stairs, enjoying the ease with which she mounted them. After spending so long confined to a wheelchair, she found physical exercise pleasurable. And after so long as a cripple, she intended to take as much pleasure as she could.

The Bishop’s office was directly at the top of the stairs, plainly marked by a polished brass nameplate mounted on a door next to a large window mostly obscured by lowered Venetian blinds. Perfecta opened the door and walked in.

“Ms. Humble?” Perfecta recognized the voice of the gray-haired female who greeted her from the reception desk inside as that of the person who had let her into the church. “Or is it Miss, or Mrs.?”

The gynoid nodded. “’Ms.’ will do,” she informed the receptionist.

“Go on in,” the other woman instructed her, waving one hand at the closed door to the right of her station. “Bishop Hartley is expecting you.”

That’s what you think, Perfecta said to herself with just a touch of malice. She was quite sure that whatever Hartley was expecting, she wasn’t it.

Bishop Hartley looked up as the door opened.

His eyes widened as he saw the woman who stepped into his office, a towering figure with bright-red hair bound into a thick knot. The hang of the heavy overcoat covering her from neck to mid-calf suggested a massively obese frame, but the beautiful face above the coat’s upturned collar belied that impression, as did the ease and grace of the woman’s movements and the slenderness of what he could see of her legs.

A moment later he gasped in disbelief as his visitor removed the coat, calmly hanging it on the coat rack near the door. Instead of grossly fat, she was incredibly, impossibly endowed. The blouse she was wearing strained to cover the billowing masses of breast which projected ahead of her. Cut for a more normal build, it wouldn’t tuck in, but plastered itself on her like a halter top. The top several buttons were unfastened, revealing a chasm of cleavage. Tight white pants covered long, exquisitely molded legs to the ankles, which themselves were emphasized by the high-heeled glossy black pumps in which the woman’s surprisingly small feet were encased.

He stared. He couldn’t help himself. He’d never seen anything like this.

“Of course you haven’t, Bishop Hartley,” Perfecta said, smirking. Foggily, Hartley realized he’d mumbled his thoughts aloud. “I’m one of a kind.” For a little while longer, she added silently.

“Whuh-whuh-one of . . . a kind,” Hartley blathered. Without realizing it, he had half risen from his seat; his hands were gripping the corners of his paneled oak desk hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

Perfecta smiled. She had turned her implant powers on the bishop the moment she’d first made eye contact, and he was helpless against the feelings now surging through him. “Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” she asked coyly, batting her eyelashes.

“Uh, nnngh,“ groaned Bishop Hartley. “Of—of course. A seat. Please, take a seat.” He waved weakly at the comfortable roller-mounted chair beside his desk.

Perfecta smiled, continuing to lash her helpless victim with focused waves of lust and pleasure as she took the offered seat. As soon as she sat down, Hartley did likewise, practically collapsing into his own chair.

The cleric struggled desperately to regain his composure and steer the meeting to business. “What,” he gasped, “what did you want to see me about, Ms.—Ms.—!” Her name, what was her name? He couldn’t remember, it was lost, somewhere in the warm valley between those impossible breasts.

“Ms. Humble,” the gynoid reminded him. “Eve Humble.”

“Yes,” Hartley croaked. “Of—of course.”

“But I had another name, once upon a time,” the stupefying vision said. “Can you guess what it was?” She turned up the gain on the sensations she was pouring through her victim, and smirked as he went rigid and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.

“I-I-uhh! I-I-uhh! I-I-UHHHH!“ Hartley jerked and thrashed like a hooked fish as he came, hard enough to see stars and hear fireworks. “Can’t! Oh, God! Can’t! Oooahhhh-ha-hoooo!“ Perfecta, watching, took smug satisfaction in the signs she’d seen on entering that Bishop Hartley’s private office was efficiently soundproofed. That freed her to amuse herself more—strenuously—at Hartley’s expense.

Nevertheless, the amorous android eased off for a moment. There was no point in totally exhausting her new plaything before she could even have sex with him. Besides, she had something to say to him, and she wanted him conscious enough to hear and understand.

“My name was Perfecta,” she announced. “Was, and is.” She waited for Hartley’s reaction.

Eventually it arrived. The bonelessly slumped figure in the expensive chair behind the desk raised its head, focused its glassy eyes and said, “Perfecta?”

The gynoid nodded, smiling again. “That’s right, Bishop Hartley. Jacob. I can call you Jacob, can’t I?”

“Y-yeah,” gasped Hartley. “Jacob—call me Jacob.”

Perfecta waited again. Eventually realization came into Hartley’s eyes. “That was the name of the . . . the stripper who led the Perfectionist cult, years ago.”

“So it was,” the redhead agreed. She reached across the desk to run her manicured hand along Hartley’s cheek. The cleric shivered at the sensation.

“But—but she’s dead! The explosion, the fire—she was trapped in it!”

“Yes.” A harder note entered Perfecta’s voice. “I was. If not for a loyal follower, I would have died. As it was, I was very badly injured.”

“But, but I don’t understand,” Hartley stammered. “You don’t look hurt. You don’t even look any older! You look,” he closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing his head against Perfecta’s smooth, stroking hand, “perfect.”

“Yes. Perfect.” The gynoid motioned with her free hand toward a large painting of the Resurrection which hung on one wall. “I have been . . . restored. Born again, one might say.” She laughed softly.

“I, I still don’t—”

“Understand?” Perfecta interrupted. “Don’t worry about it, Jacob dear. You don’t need to understand it. You don’t need to do anything but believe. And you do believe, don’t you?”

“Uhn. Oh. God. Yes.” Hartley moaned his response as he fought to think, fought for awareness of anything but the feelings pouring through him. It was a losing battle; he was already forgetting why he should even try. “Believe.”

Perfecta studied him with a clinical eye. He was surrendering, just as she’d expected. And her instruction to “believe” played on a deep aspect of his personality. It was simply a matter of transferring his will to believe from his religion to her.

“Say it, Jacob,” the redhead ordered. “Say ‘I believe.’”

“I believe,” Hartley repeated.

Perfecta smiled broadly and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them as the paralyzed pastor watched wide-eyed. She let the garment fall open. “Say ‘I believe in Perfecta.’”

“I, I, I—!” Hartley struggled. Perfecta leaned closer to him and he blurted, “I believe in Perfecta! Gggnnhh!“ Foam flecked his lips as he gritted out the words between clenched teeth.

“Very good, Jacob,” the synthetic siren crooned. “Now say, ‘I believe only in Perfecta. Nothing else matters.” She slithered closer, wriggling out of her blouse entirely and allowing her massive mammaries to slide squashily across the surface of the bishop’s desk, under his watching eyes.

“O-only in Perfecta,” Hartley stammered. “I-I believe only . . . in Perfecta! Nothing else—d-duhhh!—matters!“

Perfecta gloated. The erotic display she was putting on, coupled with the steady stimulation of his brain by the signals her implants were sending, was overwhelming his will. Each statement she forced from him burned its way into his mind as it left his lips. Associated with overpowering pleasure and desire, the words became true for him as soon as they were uttered.

So profound a change in his fundamental beliefs probably could not be made permanent in a single session, she knew. That didn’t matter. He would belong to her completely for a time, and each visit she made to him thereafter would deepen his submission to her. He would join Hennessey as a former enemy reduced to groveling adoration.

The android woman studied her conquest. Hartley was fifty-eight, she knew, but kept in excellent shape for an unenhanced human of his age. Bone-white hair framed a handsome face still only lightly lined. The robes he wore concealed his build, but the gynoid had seen media footage of him exercising in public events like the city’s yearly marathon, and knew he was trimly muscular beneath the loose fabric. Yes, she decided, he would be an appealing steed to ride.

Laughing, she pulled herself up onto the desk and wriggled out of her pants. She wore no underclothes; she didn’t need them. Without bothering to remove her shoes or the sheer stockings visible only by way for the slightly deeper shade they turned her skin from foot to upper thigh, the gynoid poured herself into Hartley’s lap, straddling him. Her arms snaked around him, pressing his face into her chest. The entire front half of his head disappeared into the soft flesh.

Strange muffled noises came from the bishop’s buried mouth and his body shuddered with wave after wave of ecstasy. He was helpless to free himself; if she had wished, Perfecta could have suffocated her former foe to death. He would have enjoyed every moment of that erotic execution.

But the artificial woman had other plans. After a minute or so, she gently lifted Hartley’s head from its resting place. The cleric drooled slightly as his face came free.

“Now, Jacob,” Perfecta commanded. “Take me. Take me, and surrender to me completely. Take me, and believe only in me, and in the pleasures only I can give you.” As she spoke, she turned up her power to its maximum.

Jacob Hartley screamed and hurled himself at the gorgeous gynoid. The pair of them surged up out of the chair they had awkwardly occupied onto the polished surface of Hartley’s desk, hurling paperwork, pens and desk phone alike aside. The phone flew off the desk, landing on the floor with a harsh ring.

Perfecta assisted the cleric in peeling out of his robes and the ordinary clothes beneath. It didn’t take long. Then, still atop his desk, she allowed him to plunge into her. His mindless squeal of release followed only seconds later.

There was a large couch against one wall. Hartley slept on it sometimes when he had to remain at work overnight. Perfecta eased Hartley and herself off the desk and half led, half carried the now-nude bishop over to it. The pair fell onto the cushions and picked up where they’d left off, Perfecta alternating her partner from pumping between her legs to spurting between her breasts, then back again, until his merely human stamina was clearly at its limits. Only then did she leave off manipulating his body and brain and allow him to fall, exhausted, against her.

Human males were particularly suggestible in that state, she had learned. Stroking Hartley’s hair gently, she murmured, “Surrender to me, Jacob. Surrender to Perfecta. Surrender to pleasure. Perfecta is pleasure. Obedience to Perfecta brings pleasure. Believing in Perfecta, trusting only in Perfecta, is pleasure.”

Hartley repeated her words in a hoarse whisper. As he did, they sank deep into the blankness of his mind.

His breathing changed. Perfecta intervened: “No, Jacob. You mustn’t sleep yet. I know you’re tired, so pleasantly tired, but you mustn’t sleep yet.”

“Mustn’t . . . sleep yet,” Hartley echoed. His eyes opened.

Perfecta ordered her priestly puppet to his feet, then got up herself. At her command, Hartley put his clothes back on, and while he dressed himself, Perfecta also slipped back into the garments she’d worn to the appointment. By pure reflex, Bishop Hartley seated himself in his chair behind the desk; the debris around it didn’t register.

Perfecta sat as well, and waited. After a little while, she judged that her prey had regained enough awareness. “Jacob, you understand who I am now, don’t you? I’m your mistress, your goddess. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” whispered Hartley. “Oh, yes. You’re my mistress. My goddess.”

“That’s right, Jacob dear,” the ravishing redhead crooned. Then, in a more normal tone, she instructed: “But others might not understand. Not yet. So you mustn’t let anyone know how you feel, Jacob. Because they wouldn’t understand.” She paused, then said, “If you tell anyone, they might try to keep you from ever seeing me again. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No,” the bishop whimpered. “Please.”

“Of course you don’t,” Perfecta agreed. “So what you must do is go on as before. You must act as if nothing special happened between us today. If anyone asks you about this meeting, make up some story they’ll believe. You mustn’t let anyone know how you feel now, how your thinking has changed. Do you understand, Jacob?”

“Yes, Perfecta.” Jacob nodded, eyes bright. “I understand.” He was so happy! His glorious goddess was telling him what to do!

“But you’ll know,” continued the gynoid. “You’ll know, and when you hear my voice giving you instructions, it will feel wonderful”—she emphasized her words with a fresh pulse from her implants; Jacob gasped—“and when you obey those instructions, it will feel even more wonderful.” Another surge of sensation; another helpless noise from Hartley. “You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you, Jacob?”

“Anything.” It was a moan. “I’ll, I’ll doanything . . . you ask.“

“I’m so glad,” Perfecta cooed. Then, in one smooth motion, she rose to her feet. Looking down at Hartley, she smiled an owner’s smile. “Until next time, Jacob.” Pursing her lips, she blew him a kiss.

Bishop Hartley groaned and shuddered, and a fresh damp spot began to grow at the crotch of his trousers. He was still trembling with bliss when Perfecta, now safely back in her “Eve Humble” persona, closed the door to his office behind her.

It was nearly half an hour before he managed to pull himself together enough to pick up the mess in his office. Luckily, the phone hadn’t been damaged by its plunge to the floor. He tidied up, finishing by changing his damp trousers; fortunately his robes were still unstained.

Unlike the man beneath them, chided the ghost of his former self. As soon as he’d become aware of it, the thought vanished.

Back at her headquarters, Perfecta lolled nude on the oversized bed in her personal quarters. Her confrontation with Jacob Hartley had been every bit as satisfying as she’d hoped it would be. The sexual denial practiced by the clergy of his particular religion had made him all the more passionate, once her powers had overcome his self-control—and once raw sexuality had broken down his conscious mind, he had been totally receptive to her suggestions. She fully expected that he would become one of her most loyal followers, just as the Reverend Solomon Dennis had done.

Presently she tossed on a robe and ventured out to the control center. Once again she summoned the view of the gestation chamber and studied the readings from the instruments in the growth pods. She paid particular attention to the pod containing the eldest of the new gynoids.

At last she nodded. Yes. Tomorrow.