The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Governor Slate slammed the rolled-up newspaper town on the dresser beside his bed. “Bastards,” he snarled. “Sons of bitches! They can’t do this!” Anyone watching would have been surprised at his fury; the Governor had a reputation for calm and politeness. But the story he’d just read had enraged him.

NESSEN PETITION SUCCEEDS IN PLACING GOVERNOR’S RECALL ON BALLOT, cried the headline. Below, the subhead read Special Election To Be Held; State Authorities Accepting Candidates’ Filings.

Slate knew he was unpopular with a lot of people. This, however, had caught him by surprise.

Technically, of course, despite what he’d just said, he knew “they” could do this. The state constitution provided for recall elections, even for the governor’s office. But there hadn’t been such a contest in living memory.

And he was vulnerable. It galled him to admit it, but it was true. His term as governor hadn’t been a happy one: budget shortfalls had forced him to hike taxes, and a shortage of power-plant capacity had caused rolling blackouts throughout the state before he’d finally managed to buy enough out-of-state power, at exorbitant prices.

He rubbed his head in pain.

A feminine voice said from behind him, “Are you feeling all right, Philip?” Moments later, slender hands began massaging his neck. It felt wonderful.

“It’s nothing,” he sighed, relaxing. “This pipsqueak assemblyman Harris Nessen’s launched a petition drive to have me thrown out as governor by a special election. I’m trying to run one of the largest states in the Union despite the hostility of the administration in Washington, and now, two years before the next regular election, I have to fight just to keep my job!”

“You’ll beat this,” purred the voice. “You’re better than they are. Smarter than they are.”

Philip Slate’s head rolled loosely as the rhythmic pressure on his neck continued. “I’m glad . . . you think so, Tina,” he mumbled. It was hard to form words, with strong fingers molding his flesh, sending wave after wave of pleasurable sensation through him. “Sometimes I . . . doubt it . . . myself. . . .” He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He was drifting, drifting, on a sea whose waves were gentle fingers kneading his neck and shoulders.

Tina was saying things to him. Her words sank into his mind before he quite knew what they were. It didn’t matter. He relaxed more, and the world went away.

Tina giggled. Philip had fallen asleep. She had quite worn him out last night, apparently; although he’d awakened only a little later than he usually did, all it had taken to put him right back under was a relaxing massage.

She’d met the Governor at a political dinner to which her mistress’s burgeoning web of contacts had gotten her an invitation, supposedly as a member of the press. She had a high-quality fake ID from a quite genuine news service to document that identity. It listed her as Tina Masters, a little joke on someone’s part.

It had been simple to get the politician’s attention. Her looks had been enough to draw the eye of every man in the place. It had been somewhat harder to get him alone; besides the mob of guests at the dinner, Governor Slate had been surrounded by his security detail. Tina was strong enough to have overpowered all four of the burly guards, but a subtler approach had obviously been called for.

One had occurred to her. She’d selected one of the waiters and turned on the charm. After she’d worked on him a little, he’d been eager to help out by passing a note along with the next course and pointing her out.

Poor boy, Tina thought, smiling reminiscently. He must have been so disappointed he didn’t get to see more of me. The waiter had been cute, but she’d been after bigger game that night.

Slate had slipped away from his protectors earlier. No doubt he’d intended to take just a few minutes, but once he and Tina were alone together in the small coffee shop across the street from the convention hall where the dinner was going on, what he wanted hadn’t mattered anymore. Over cups of cappuccino, they had talked for more than an hour, while Tina used her implants to adjust his thinking. By the time she’d permitted him to return to the dinner—he was supposed to give a speech, after all, and it wasn’t time yet to embarrass him publicly—he’d invited her to come up to his hotel suite later.

Naturally, she’d agreed. At eleven-thirty that night, she’d appeared at his door; as promised, his security people had been ordered to let her pass. Within half an hour they’d been in bed, and Tina had been using her body and her powers to addict him to her.

It had worked. They had had several more clandestine meetings during the governor’s trip through the state; he always made sure she knew where he’d be staying and could pass through security. Soon enough his guards had gotten the idea.

Now she was staying at the governor’s mansion itself, as his guest. Common sense should have told Philip Slate that letting a spectacular blonde who was not his wife room at the mansion was a bad idea. Common sense, however, had waved goodbye some time ago.

As far as Tina was concerned, that was just fine. Deprived of a politician’s natural wariness, Slate would be all the easier to destroy when the time came.

Perfecta watched the evening news with satisfaction. Harris Nessen’s petition drive had gathered force just as she’d hoped.

As she’d expected, the peculiar situation had drawn a mob of candidates—everyone from the lieutenant governor, an earnest nobody who’d suddenly seen a chance at the brass ring, to an assortment of novelty figures including a well-known porn actress and a hugely-muscled bodybuilder.

The muscleman had piqued the gynoid’s interest. Surfing the Net for background on him, she’d found he had had several movie roles of the sort one might expect, and even a few one might not. He was wealthy, handsome and charismatic, popular with the press, but of limited intelligence and education; unmarried, though he’d had a long string of romances, even one with a daughter of one of the country’s foremost political families. He was, she’d decided, perfect for her purposes.

Under normal circumstances, someone like him, with his intellectual limitations and lack of political experience, would have had a poor chance of winning the governorship of this state. But with Perfecta in the picture, these were not normal circumstances.

Especially now that the ranks of her gynoid followers were growing. Her latest report from Tina was most encouraging, and two more had been activated since she’d sent the blonde out to take Governor Slate.

The dark girl who had been next in line after Tina had been given the name Sherry and put in place in the media. Unlike Tina, whose journalistic role had been a thin veneer intended merely to give her a plausible excuse for approaching her politician target, Sherry had been programmed with a full set of skills which would allow her to perform credibly as a reporter. That made it easier for her to operate within the print and cable-TV empire of the man who was her ultimate objective. She had already arranged to be invited to a meeting at the media magnate’s corporate headquarters, scheduled for tomorrow. The almond-eyed android awakened after her had struck up a friendship—to use no stronger word—with one of Harris Nessen’s colleagues in the state assembly. Both synthetic sirens shared the seductive powers possessed by Perfecta and Tina; no ordinary human could resist them.

But Perfecta had no intention of leaving everything to her “daughters.” Picturing the muscular figure and handsome face of the man she’d chosen as the next governor, she smiled.

Stanley Blackmoor gazed out across a sea of cameras and spoke, pitching his words not just for the throng of onlookers physically present but for the television audience he knew would see and hear him.

“Governor Slate has lost the trust of the people,” he informed his listeners. “I voted for him in the last election”—not really true (he hadn’t bothered to vote), but the advisers who’d flocked to his newborn campaign had suggested he say it—“but he’s disappointed me. He’s made one mistake after another. Why should the voters have to wait, and let him screw up more, before choosing someone else to do the job?” The angry rumble from the crowd told him his words had struck home.

As he delivered the rest of his lines, reading them off from memory with the skill of the actor he was, he reveled in the reaction he was getting. Six months ago, he’d have laughed off any suggestion that he run for office. Once the recall movement got rolling, though, he’d taken a look at some of the others who were stepping up as candidates and decided that if they could do it, why couldn’t he? After all, most of them weren’t political professionals either, and none of them—not even the lieutenant governor, what’s-his-name—had the public recognition he did. His movies might not be classics, but by God people watched them, even quoted from them.

And now he was the front-runner. Of course, he reminded himself, it wasn’t a sure thing that he’d win. A lot could happen in the next eight weeks. And it was even possible that Slate would keep his seat. Under the weird two-step procedure of the recall election, a majority of voters would first have to vote to throw him out before they could choose among his would-be successors. No governor had ever been removed this way.

A woman watching from near the front of the crowd caught his eye. She was a striking figure, over six feet tall, with long, rich red hair and a model’s face. Though the day was warm and sunny, she wore a bulky overcoat which thoroughly concealed whatever figure she might have.

There was something about her. . . .

Blackmoor knew he had a reputation where the opposite sex was concerned. As a good-looking, bulge-muscled guy active in both the bodybuilding and movie fields, he’d have had to be flamingly, obviously gay to avoid that—and he was anything but. A lot of the rumors were true. But he liked to feel he could control himself. He’d seen too many others brought down by messes in their private lives. But somehow, this woman pulled at him; just looking at her, even all bundled up as she was, gave him a hard-on.

Then their eyes met.

The actor-candidate gasped. He had to meet this woman! He’d never felt anything like this!

He turned his head and spoke to one of his assistants, pointing out the redhead as he did so. The man nodded; this wasn’t the first time his boss had asked him to set things up with some babe. Looking over Blackmoor’s newest sex interest, he grinned. Overcoat or no overcoat, she was obviously prime. He felt himself coming erect, and fought it sternly. Down, boy, he told himself. The big man wants her.

Watching, Perfecta smiled to herself, pleased. Blackmoor had obviously felt her influence. Her hearing wasn’t quite keen enough to allow her to hear what he’d said to his subordinate over all the background noise, but she could read lips. He wanted to arrange a meeting.

Splendid. That was just what she wanted, too.

Perfecta stepped into the shade of a nearby awning. The coat she had on was really too hot for this weather. Although she’d been built to be difficult to damage or destroy, she wasn’t immune to discomfort. But it had been either wear the heavy garment or create a spectacle. Evan Humble’s adolescent impulses in fashioning her made it difficult to go out in public without attracting attention—and while she had nothing against that, there were better times and places for it than this. It would be hard to get to Blackmoor alone if she had to contend with a gaggle of gaping males all vying for her notice.

Someone stepped out of the press of humanity, coming toward her. It was the man she’d observed Blackmoor talking to. She smiled.

The man introduced himself, and, as Perfecta had expected, asked if she’d like to meet the candidate privately. Naturally, she said yes. “But,” she added, “I need to make a quick call first, if you don’t mind.”

Blackmoor’s aide nodded, and Perfecta drew a cellphone from beneath her coat, punched a speed-dial number and spoke. “Solomon, I won’t be needing you for a while. I’ll call when I need the car.”

The go-between was impressed. Whoever this woman was, she sounded rich. If she could afford a chauffeured car, she might be able to make a nice big contribution to his employer’s campaign.

“This way, please,” he said when she’d put the phone away. Perfecta allowed him to lead her off toward a limousine, in which Blackmoor himself was already waiting.

Blackmoor’s man ushered Perfecta into the car, watching in admiration as she folded herself to get in. God, the woman was gorgeous! Sweat popped out on the lackey’s face. He squirmed, aware of a sudden pressure and urgency in his groin. Even after Perfecta was safely out of sight inside the vehicle, he had to struggle to regain his composure. As he got into the front passenger seat, his hands were shaking; he was glad he wasn’t going to be the one driving.

The gynoid was perfectly aware of the effect she’d had. And she hadn’t even been using her powers! Men were such fools, she laughed to herself. Such tools. Well, she had use for tools.

She found herself seated next to Blackmoor. Reaching out gently with her abilities, she stroked his brain with gentle waves of pleasant sensation. Very soon, without consciously intending it, he reached out and draped his powerful right arm around her. She smiled and allowed her target to draw her closer to him.

At last he spoke. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation, Miss—?”

“Perfecta,” she told him. There was no need for the subterfuge of “Eve Humble” here. Sitting together in the shady interior of Blackmoor’s limo, they were already past that.

“What a—an unusual name,” Blackmoor croaked. He prided himself on always being in control with women, but somehow this one was different. “Is . . . is it your first name, or your last?”

“It’s my only name, Stanley,” the gynoid purred. “You don’t mind if I call you Stanley, do you?”

“S-Stan,” the bodybuilder gasped. “J-just call me—Stan.”

“All right . . . Stan.” Perfecta reached up with her own right hand to caress the powerful bicep of the arm around her. The man attached to the arm shivered in delight. He might have been less happy if he’d known the woman with him was strong enough to break him in half—but Perfecta had no intention of revealing that, not unless it were absolutely necessary.

They drove for a little while, during which Perfecta permitted Blackmoor to pull her even closer. Waves of desire and wonderful sensation washed through the would-be governor, softening his resistance. Perfecta herself basked in the feedback from her subject. At last she said: “Stan, I’m hungry.” It was true. Her supercharged metabolism required a lot of food, even when she hadn’t been using her physical enhancements. The fact that sharing a meal would also help to bind Blackmoor to her emotionally was a bonus. “Can we go somewhere for dinner?”

“Of course. Dinner.” Stanley Blackmoor’s eyes were slightly glazed as he responded. “Where would you like to go?”

Perfecta had little experience with restaurant dining. She knew, though, that some establishments were regarded particularly highly. Her . . . escort . . . was likely to know these places. And after all, why shouldn’t she eat at the best places, when she was to rule the world?

Stanley Blackmoor watched in fascination as his date daintily ran a napkin over pursed pink lips. He’d known a lot of women, but never one like his. Her voice, her face—perfect. And when she’d taken off her coat, that body!

Blackmoor chucked softly. The waiters had danced attendance on her as if she were one of the movie stars he’d dated in his younger years. That rack had to be silicone or something, but who the hell cared? Just looking at her made your head spin. Both heads, the big and the little.

And boy, could she put it away. Stanley was a pretty big eater, but he’d never be able to pack in two whole large steaks, several side dishes, an entire bottle of wine and a rich dessert the way this Perfecta had without feeling stuffed. She merely looked satisfied. If she ate like that all the time, why didn’t she weigh three hundred pounds?

The candidate summoned their waiter and requested the bill, The white-coated server nodded, walked away, and returned a short time later with the tally. Blackmoor paid the tab and left with Perfecta. Admiring eyes followed them to the door.

When the ravishing redhead suggested that they go back to his place, Blackmoor agreed quickly. A small voice of warning cautioned that he was setting himself up for trouble, fooling around like this while running for office. He didn’t listen. He didn’t want to listen.

At the candidate’s orders, his limo driver headed for the luxurious apartment complex where he was currently staying. Blackmoor owned a million-dollar ranch-style house, but even before he’d decided on his run for the governorship, he’d been there maybe two months out of the year. Since starting his political race, he hadn’t been back once.

The uniformed doorman ushered them inside, his eyes widening as he took in Blackmoor’s companion. Perfecta hadn’t bothered to put her concealing overcoat back on after their meal; she swept regally into the apartment building’s lobby with it draped over one arm, the other arm entwined with Blackmoor’s.

Mischievously, Perfecta shot the man a powerful bolt of sexual pleasure. He bleated and gasped as he came, powerless to stop himself or think of anything else. Blackmoor didn’t notice; his attention was focused on the fabulous female with him.

The gynoid laughed silently. That hadn’t really been necessary, she knew, but she had enjoyed it. The natural-borns made such wonderful toys, all the more since she could feel everything she made them feel. She’d missed this so badly! Now that she’d been reborn in a fresh, fully-empowered body, she felt the urge to make up for lost time.

They went up in the elevator, which had an actual human operator. The redhead restrained herself from playing with him as she had with the doorman. Blackmoor was occupying the penthouse suite, and the elevator took its time getting here; several people goon and off at lower floors before they arrived.

When at last they exited the elevator, Perfecta looked around. She was quite pleased. Her new slave (of course, he didn’t think of himself that way, she reminded herself, but he would, he would. . . .) occupied quarters befitting the consort of the future mistress of the world. Skylights let the sun stream in from overhead, nourishing the large ferns potted at strategic locations along the hall and inside the suite itself. Overhead and wall-mounted light fixtures designed in the ornate style of a long-ago age further decorated the place even when the lights themselves weren’t on. The spacious central room contained a wet bar in an oak cabinet along with large comfortable chairs, an oversized couch and an entertainment center including a large high-definition television, players for DVDs and compact discs, and a computer. Racks held a number of discs; breaking free of Blackmoor, she examined them and found, as she’d guessed, that the disc library included copies of all of the actor-candidate’s movies.

Perfecta chuckled warmly. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Stan?”

“Um, uh, y-yeah,” Blackmoor stammered. God help him, he wanted this woman! It was hard to think of anything else, hard even to talk straight. Fingering his collar, which suddenly seemed unbearably tight, he explained, “I’ve got two or three of these places; there’s one in the capital, for instance, and another downstate near Cayuga Valley, where they shoot a lot of stuff for my films.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime, Stan,” murmured his companion. “After you win, of course. But right now . . . " She approached him again and ran her fingers lightly over his chest where it strained at his expensive shirt. The fingers wandered to the shirt’s top button and undid it, then slid slowly downward.

Blackmoor groaned. It was too much! Perfecta’s touch set him on fire!

He couldn’t wait any longer. Turning, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed.

It was like being caught up in a hot whirlwind. The luscious woman he’d brought home writhed seductively atop the sheets, going through a steamy striptease that melted what was left of the muscleman’s mind. The next thing he knew, he was ripping away his own clothes. When both of them were nude, Blackmoor struck a muscle-show pose, flexing his massive biceps. Perfecta, poised on her knees on the bed, clapped and laughed. The sound rolled through him like a tide of ecstasy.

Stanley Blackmoor didn’t remember much of the night that followed. He had a foggy impression of the magnificent Perfecta seizing him and pulling him down to the bed, then mounting him. He thrust into her automatically, sensation shooting through him in an erotic electrocution which had him flopping, thrashing and babbling nonsense. Impossibly strong female hands and thighs held him in place, a prisoner of pleasure. When he came, his eyes rolled up into his head and he saw colors, beautiful colors, he had never imagined before.

Then there was another image: himself, lying spent beneath the tawny tigress who’d squeezed him dry. He tried to think, tried to say something, but those impossible bazooms lowered, engulfing his face, and he was smothering, but it was wonderful; Perfecta slid a long-nailed hand around, pulling his head up, sinking his face deeper, deeper into her cleavage. Incredibly, he was hard again, and his hips bucked helplessly. He forgot all about trying to talk, trying to think. There was another shattering blast of release and pleasure.

Then it was morning, with the dawn sun shining redly through his bedroom window. Perfecta was straddling him again (still?), crooning things to him as she looked down into his face. He had the vague feeling that she was giving him instructions of some sort, and that his voice was acknowledging them, but he was too relaxed. He couldn’t focus on what was happening, what she might be saying and how he might be replying. And after a minute or so, he drifted off again.

When he swam back to awareness, Perfecta was sitting patiently by the bed, dressed again.

“Awake at last,” she purred. “How are you feeling, Stan?”

He sighed in contentment. “Wonderful.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Perfecta responded. “I had a good time, too, Stan.” She stood up and looked down at him sprawled bonelessly amid the tangled mass of the bedclothes. “I’d like to see you again, lover. Would you like that?”

Stanley Blackmoor shivered. “Oh, please God, yes!” After a moment he added: “Who do I have to kill?” As the words came out, he wasn’t sure he was kidding.

The redhead looming over him laughed. “No one, Stan.” She bent over him, her immense bust shadowing his face, and stroked his thick dark hair. “All you need to do is remember that you can trust me completely, no matter what, and follow my advice. And of course, you understand that our relationship mustn’t become public. That would hurt you, and I don’t want that. I couldn’t ever see you again, if it seemed that were going to happen.”

Stanley managed a feeble nod. “I understand. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“That’s a good boy, Stan,” Perfecta praised him. “If you can do that, and remember to trust me and do as I say, we can go on seeing each other.”

“Thank you,” breathed the movie strongman as he lay, still weak as a kitten, amid the shambles of his bed.

Perfecta turned. “I’ll be in touch,” she promised. Smiling, she left the apartment. Once outside Blackmoor’s building, she contacted Solomon Dennis, commanding him to bring her car.

It was some time before Stanley Blackmoor found the strength to drag himself out of bed, pull on a robe and pad out to the bathroom and eventually the kitchen. Reviewing what little he recalled of the previous night, he whistled in disbelief. That woman—Perfecta, she’d called herself—was incredible! She was like something out of an oversexed adolescent’s fantasies come to life.

He had to see her again, he knew. If keeping their encounters—“dates” seemed too tame a word—secret was the price, he was more than willing to pay it. And if she wanted to give him advice, he’d take it. He couldn’t help trusting her.

Back at her headquarters once more, Perfecta lounged nude on her bed, head propped on one deceptively slender arm. A lazy smile flitted across her face as she thought of her time with Blackmoor. Not only was he perfect for her political plans, he was a satisfying sexual steed, strong enough to give her more of a ride than ordinary men. She was going to have a lot of fun as she guided him toward the destiny she had planned.

She’d take her time with him. She didn’t want another Solomon Dennis, utterly broken; Blackmoor had to seem the same man he’d always been, or his chances of political success would evaporate despite all the help her other servants, and their servants, could provide. She needed him to win this special election, to put him—and her—in position for the next phase. But once he’d done so, she’d be the power behind the throne. By the time he occupied the governor’s mansion, although he’d still believe he was acting on his own free will, he would be completely dependent on her and utterly unable to say no to anything she might suggest.

And she would have a lot of suggestions.

The gorgeous gynoid smiled. The irony was, many of her recommendations would be genuinely helpful. Her pawn could not advance to become a king if he made the wrong moves, as the unfortunate Governor Slate had done. But while all eyes were on the improving fortunes of the state, her people—gynoids and natural-borns alike—would be extending the invisible web of her control.

Ten years ago she had been defeated. She had not realized the lengths to which the natural-borns would go in dealing with a threat to their power. But she had learned from that experience, taken precautions, and she would continue to do so.

There would be no one to stop her this time.