The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Then you’ll do it?” The silken voice caressed Chet McCulloch as he sat at his desk in the McCulloch News System headquarters in downtown Los Angeles.

“I-I . . . yes, I’ll do it,” the media mogul agreed, staring into the ample cleavage mere inches from his face. He sighed. The woman now perched playfully on the edge of his desk was very persuasive. It felt so good to agree with her, to do things for her.

It was hard to believe he’d only known her a few weeks. She’d talked her way into being invited to a meeting he’d arranged to discuss coverage of the recall election, and quickly caught his attention. He’d been impressed with some of the comments she’d made. He was honest enough to admit he’d found her very attractive, too.

It wasn’t surprising. Sherry Rochambeau had medium-brown skin, lustrous wavy hair a few shades darker, and large black eyes in a model-perfect face. She had great legs, which her short skirt was showing off to good advantage right now, and a very healthy set of lungs.

At sixty-two, McCulloch had had his share of experience with women, even beautiful ones. He’d been romantically linked with several Hollywood celebrities—even married to one for a few years. He’d always been careful, though, not to fool around with anyone in his own organization. That was nothing but trouble.

But Sherry—he couldn’t seem to think straight when she was around. And he couldn’t bring himself to stay away from her. The day after their first meeting, they’d gone out to eat and then back to his place for the night. By morning, he’d been sure he was in love. When she’d suggested that he find her a job in his office, he had agreed immediately.

Since then, he’d come to depend on her more and more. Every once in a while, when she wasn’t around, he’d find himself worrying that he seemed to be letting her manipulate him. But then she’d come back, and he’d lose that train of thought again.

Just now, they’d been talking about his coverage of the recall election. Like everyone else, he’d been following it carefully. Stanley Blackmoor was the obvious front-runner if the first part of the vote went against Governor Slate, but in the last few days there’d been indications in the polls that the voters were having second thoughts about tossing Slate out The governor’s people had been very clever in making the recall seem less like an expression of the popular will than a coup led by Assemblyman Nessen—effective enough to force Nessen to drop his own bid for the governorship.

But Sherry seemed to think there was a story out there that might tip the scales. She’d kept telling him about rumors the governor had a mistress, that he was even shacking up with the bimbo in the governor’s mansion itself. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have gone after a story like that, not without more evidence than one woman’s say-so about things she’d supposedly heard. But when he’d objected, Sherry had . . . insisted . . . in that special way of hers. He hadn’t been able to say no.

He told himself he wasn’t just thinking with the wrong head. If Sherry were right, it would be a great scoop. MNS had been sagging in the ratings lately, falling behind the Big Three and Eagle News. It needed a big story. And if she were wrong—well, lots of big stories never panned out.

Slate and Tina drew stares as they were seated. Governor Slate was no stranger to the Peacock Club, but he’d never brought a date as eye-widening as the woman with him. A flashbulb popped, and Slate frowned. The Peacock was supposed to be discreet: reporters were permitted in, but they weren’t supposed to be allowed to take pictures inside the dining area. It spoiled the Victorian men’s-club ambiance. He called their waiter over and complained, and a minute later, a tan-suited man was carefully escorted out.

Slate barely tasted his food when it arrived. His attention was utterly focused on the beautiful woman seated across from him. She was wonderful. . . .

Tina smiled at the smitten male at the table with her. She hardly needed to use her powers on him anymore; he was thoroughly conditioned to adore her. Just a small steady pulse of pleasure and desire kept him totally fixated and heedless of any risks.

She’d seen the reporter too, of course. Her mistress Perfecta had arranged for his presence here through the media baron the dark-skinned gynoid Sherry now controlled. The journalist had his own instructions, and would play his own unwitting part in the unfolding plan.

Dinner concluded, the governor and Tina left the Peacock Club. As their car pulled out of the parking area, Tina spoke: “Let’s not go back to the mansion tonight, Philip honey.”

“No?” Slate was puzzled. “Why not? Where should we go?”

“The mansion’s so—official,” Tina pouted. “I know a much more private place.” Leaning forward, she gave their driver directions, along with a dose of broadcast bliss, and smiled as she heard a faint moan from the front seat, followed by a “Yes, ma’am.”

“Wait,” the governor protested weakly. “I don’t, I, unnnhhhhh—!“ Whatever he’d been about to say vanished from his mind, swamped by s a sudden surge of sexual sensation. He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, content to just let things happen.

The limo drew up to a small but luxurious-looking hotel. Perfecta had suggested it to Tina: it belonged to an old Perfectionist whose loyalty had been revived instantly by a visit from the gynoid. Tina placed a hand on Slate’s shoulder and shook him gently.

“Hunh?” The governor had fallen into a light, happy doze under the influence of Tina’s implants; now his eyes opened and he sat up straighter.

“We’re here, Philip sweetie,” the blonde beauty informed him. “Isn’t this a nice, cozy place, just like I said?”

Philip Slate smiled. “Yes, darling.” He felt so good, and he knew Tina would make him feel even better soon. Nothing else mattered.

The clerk on duty didn’t bat an eye when Governor slate came in with his blonde bombshell. She, too, belonged to Perfecta’s old cult, and was eager to serve her returned mistress. She scanned the credit card Slate presented and entered his name in the guest register, then presented him with the keys to Suite 3-A. She watched coolly as the governor and his paramour walked off.

Once they were out of sight, she took out a cell phone and dialed the number she’d been given, the number dark Sherry had passed on to her boss from MNS headquarters. She spoke quietly into the phone for a few moments, listened for a few more, and hung up, pleased.

Tina closed the door carefully, making sure to leave it unlocked. Philip Slate didn’t notice that detail. He was too busy letting the tides of pleasure wash him away. He needed Tina, oh God, he needed her now!

The golden-tressed gynoid teased him along through the exquisite mutual strip she’d trained him to perform with her. At last, when they were both naked, she allowed him to throw her onto the freshly-made double bed and plunge atop her, entering her body. Her powerful thighs clamped him in place as her skilled hands ran up and down his torso, gently massaging the nerve centers which would further heighten what he was feeling. She rocked and writhed and thrust against him, guiding him, controlling their rhythm. The skills with which she’d been programmed and the cunning circuitry embedded in her cloned brain let her drive him to the edge of coming and keep him there, helpless and oblivious.

At last the door opened. A flash went off.

That was Tina’s cue: all at once, she triggered her partner’s orgasm, and he screamed her name as his muscles all squeezed at once. There was nothing else in all the world for him.

Seconds later, Slate began swimming back to reality. His eyes opened and began to focus just as another camera flash erupted.

“What?” By reflex, he twisted toward the unexpected burst of light. As the camera-bearing reporter came into his peripheral vision, he flung himself away from Tina. He didn’t make it to his feet; instead, he toppled ingloriously to the floor at the foot of the bed.

Another flash. “Governor,” a male voice cried out, “I’m Ken Morris of the Tribune. Who’s your friend?”

A red-faced Philip Slate got to his feet, covering his private parts with one hand in a futile gesture of modesty as Tina lolled sensuously amid the tangled bedclothes. “Get out!” he roared. “And if you try to publish those pictures, or any story about this, I’ll sue you personally and that rag you work for right into the ground!”

Morris grinned. “Whatever you say, Governor,” he answered mockingly. The slight stress he placed on the final word left no doubt of his meaning: Slate was in no position to make threats. He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him. The lock clicked.

Slate sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He was done for. Once that sleazy scribbler’s story and photos were published, whatever hope he’d still had of holding onto his office would be gone. Even if the Tribune declined to publish Morris’s photos, the story alone would cripple him—and odds were the pictures would go public anyway on the Internet.

A dull anger swept through him as realization dawned.

“You set me up,” he growled at Tina. Turning to confront her face to face, he shouted, “You bitch, you set me up!“ For the first time since he’d met her, he was genuinely angry at Tina—furious, in fact. He lunged toward her, grabbing at her shoulders, his face contorted in a snarl.

An ordinary woman would have been frightened. Tina wasn’t. She reached up calmly, gripped Slate’s wrists and broke his grip.

She could easily have gone on to break a good deal more. But there was no need. She had only to concentrate. . . .

Sweat popped out on Philip Slate’s face. He gasped.

Tina smiled and guided Slate’s hands to her naked breasts, cupping them against the yielding flesh. Then she released his wrists.

The hands stayed where they were. Slate shuddered as pleasure flowed through him. He tried to think, but it was impossible.

“Please don’t be angry at me, Philip honey,” the blonde importuned him. She knew she didn’t have to ask. She could feel his arousal, his surrender to the sensations she was sending him, and it excited her in turn.

“Oh, God,” the politician moaned. “I can’t—I can’t—Tina, oh, please, Tina. . . .” He lowered himself onto her and finished, “I can’t help myself, I can’t stay mad at you, oh, Tina, I love you!” His mouth came down on hers, and for a little while he was mindless flesh and nothing more.

As the governor bucked and heaved between Tina’s thighs, the gynoid caressed him eagerly, taking her own pleasure. Her mind, unlike his, kept working.

Perhaps, she thought, she would keep him. He had money. Losing his political office wouldn’t mean he couldn’t afford to keep her entertained outside the bedroom.

Slate went rigid, throwing his head back and emitting a scream of joy as he discharged himself into Tina. Then he collapsed onto her, utterly relaxed.

Tina had found he was very vulnerable to suggestion at this point. She stroked his hair and murmured into his ear, “That’s a good boy, Philip. You love me. You trust me. You want to do what I tell you to do. You can’t help it, and you don’t want to. You’re weak for me, but it feels so good to be weak for me. That’s a good boy, Philip. . . .”

She kept repeating those words, over and over, punctuating them with gentle pulses of pleasure directed at Slate’s brain, until his soft, regular breathing told her he had fallen asleep. She lay there with him, enjoying her own physical sensations and the knowledge of her power over the man in her arms. When he woke, he wouldn’t consciously remember what she’d said to him—he never did—but he’d be that much deeper under her spell.

“Wow.” Chet McCulloch was impressed. “When you promised me a story, I had no idea it’d be this good. This is a blockbuster!” He had a copy of reporter Tim Sellers’ story in his hand, and prints of the photos Sellers had taken were fanned across the top of his desk.

“I aim to please.” Sherry Rochambeau’s voice was a suggestive purr.

“This’ll fix that SOB Slate but good!” McCulloch’s jubilation carried a certain amount of personal malice. He and the governor had sparred repeatedly, and Slate had made so secret of the contempt in which he held the tabloid titan.

Sherry chuckled. “I suppose it will.” Of course it would, she added silently. She and the others would make sure of it. Slate’s removal was essential to the plans of their mistress, so nothing would be permitted to keep it from occurring. If necessary, Tina could make Slate embarrass himself further—as much further as it took.

“I feel like celebrating,” announced McCulloch. “Let’s go out.”

They had dinner at the South Seas Club, a posh establishment whose decor featured palm trees, ferns, and murals suggesting island beaches. It was the sort of place McCulloch’s employees couldn’t afford to visit, which was one reason he’d chosen it. In the back of his mind he remained uneasy about people knowing he was dating a woman who was on his payroll. Someday, he supposed, he’d have to face that issue, if he wanted to go on seeing Sherry—and he desperately wanted to go on seeing her. But the longer he could put it off, the better.

After their meal they went back to McCulloch’s lavish penthouse apartment. It wasn’t long before they were in bed and Sherry was using her carefully-crafted body, her programmed skills and her implant powers to drive the press lord into a frenzy. He was powerless to resist, powerless even to think of resisting, as she rode him to several climaxes in succession.

At last she permitted him to stop; her acute senses had detected the early signs of the sort of biological collapse Perfecta had warned her that human males might experience if pushed too far. His death would be inconvenient, as would his lapsing into sexual coma: his control of information systems the natural-borns relied on for news and entertainment made him too useful. Only when the mistress had gained full control of this world could he and others like him be discarded.

Disentangling herself from the billionaire’s blissfully unconscious body, Tina coolly went into his luxurious bathroom, used the toilet and showered. Then she returned to his bed, eased his limp form to the side, lay down and closed her eyes. Presently, smiling, she fell asleep herself.

The election’s outcome was a foregone conclusion. If things had been going better for the state, a recall campaign wouldn’t have had a prayer. Even the surprise revelation that Governor Slate had been screwing around with a blonde bimbo might not have been enough, by itself, to destroy him—not even when those pictures popped up, just as he’d feared, on the Net. But coming on top of everything else, the scandal had been the last straw, just as he’d feared. Fifty-eight percent of the voters cast their ballots in favor of his removal, and a similar majority went for Stanley Blackmoor as his successor.

Philip Slate had given a gracious concession speech at eight that evening, by then, there had been no doubt of the verdict. During the transition period, he had been nothing but helpful. The morning Blackmoor was to be sworn in, the deposed governor had offered him a last bit of advice.

“Watch yourself,” Slate had warned. “This office draws all kinds of fire. Not just the usual political opposition, or the scandal-seekers”—his face had reddened briefly—“but people with their own agendas, people who see you as someone to be used. One of the tests of success in politics is whether you can recognize such people and deal with them.”

Blackmoor, flush with confidence, had brushed him off. “I can handle myself,” he’d answered. “I didn’t get where I am now”—he’d swung his arm, taking in the plush office in which the two of them were standing—“by letting people jerk me around.”

He’d really believed it, too.

Slate had sighed and dropped the subject. That had pretty much killed their meeting, and he’d left the office. He had been in the crowd, watching, as Blackmoor was sworn in. A gorgeous blonde had been with him, the same babe he’d been caught with. There didn’t seem to be much point in trying to hide their relationship anymore, when it had been so publicly exposed.

As he’d watched the big actor take the oath of office with one beefy hand on a Bible his predecessors had used for the purpose since the nineteenth century, Slate had wondered who had really been behind the recall. Despite Harris Nessen’s dislike of him, the recall petition just didn’t seem like something the assemblyman would have come up with on his own.

Well, it didn’t matter. What counted was that he was out, and Blackmoor was in. The beaten politico wished Blackmoor luck. He’d need it. The action star had been swept into office on the strength of his fame and charisma, but it would take more than that to actually run the state. It would take brains, and from what he could see, Blackmoor didn’t have a lot of those.

Perfecta smiled in satisfaction as she watched the inauguration ceremony on one of her laboratory’s monitor screens. Governor Blackmoor cut a bold figure in his expensive suit as he promised to lead the state out of the quagmire in which, he said, Slate had sunk it.

He performed flawlessly, playing to the media and spectators as though running through a well-rehearsed scene from one of his movies. In a way, he was; the gynoid had organized regular practice sessions for him during the runup to the election, training him in how to apply his acting skills in supposedly “unscripted” public political events. She had even written the address he was delivering now.

“I’ll represent you, and nobody else,” he promised the assembled crowd and the unseen television audience. “I’m not a politician; I’m just a citizen. I have no ties to the special interests in this state. No one owns me.”

Sitting in her comfortable command chair, Perfecta threw back her head and laughed.