The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“We’re gonna send you in as one Mario Andretti, a quality control inspector at the BioRobotics plant,” explained Doctor Sigmund, as he worked on fitting the Latex head-mask over Rick’s face.

“This thing will never pass close scrutiny by the guy’s fellow workers and friends!” Rick protested.

“Ah, that’s the beauty of this whole operation, shamus! Once you’re inside the joint, you can get rid of the mask, and become your usual obnoxious self! None of your co-workers will know you, and they’ll just assume you’re some guy brought in off another shift!”

“You’ve forgotten one teensy-weensy little thing, Einstein!” retorted Rick.

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“Yeah! A company as security conscious as BioRobotics, is bound to be carrying out routine ID microchip scans, on all people entering or leaving the manufacturing facility, and comparing them with N.P.M.A. Central Records!”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, in case you hadn’t realized, there’s no way you can change my ID chip, without blowing us both to kingdom-come!”

“We ain’t gonna change your ID code, smuck!”

“Well, how are you going to...?” A metaphoric bulb suddenly switched on in Rick’s brain. “Of course,” he gasped, as realization dawned, “you’ve changed the central computer records! How the hell did you manage to do that?”

“All their computer hardware is supplied by a sister company of ‘Droids ‘R’ Us’,” explained the doctor, with a smug smile. “If we can’t hack their data banks, then nobody can!”

The BioRobotics Inc. manufacturing facility, was located on a rundown trading estate, at the Northern end of the Bay. It was surrounded by a high electric fence, with constant guard-dog patrols along the inner perimeter, and three security checks, before anyone actually got into the manufacturing area, which looked more like a hospital than a conventional assembly-line factory. “Obviously they ain’t gone into mass-production yet?” mused Rick, re-reading the meager data supplied by Scrooge, under the dim interior light of the hovermobile.

He had set the Ford Galactica down, a couple of hundred meters from the main gates, in a narrow side street. Any closer, and the clanking and groaning would’ve alerted the facility security guards! He checked his appearance in the interior mirror. He looked a passable imitation of the real Andretti, providing the light wasn’t too bright. He checked his watch. Five to ten! The night-shift was due to start at 10:00 pm.

He picked up his lunchbox, and exited the hovermobile. He hurried along the dimly-lit street, took a deep breath, and walked in through the main entrance.

The security guard gave him a bored look, as he handed over his lunchbox and ID card, for inspection, before stepping through the ‘walk-through’ ID scanner, directly linked to N.P.M.A. Central Records. When no alarm bells went off, Rick realized he had been holding his breath.

“You’re cutting it mighty fine tonight, Andretti!” the guard growled, handing back his ID card. “How come you ain’t got Salami and pickle on rye, tonight? You always bring Salami and pickle?”

“I, uh, I felt like a change! It ain’t a crime is it?” Rick muttered, gruffly.

“Okay, okay, I only asked! You sound like you’re catching a cold, Andretti? You know the company rules about possible cross-infection?”

“Sure, sure! I’m fine I tell you!” Rick muttered, trying to keep to the shadows.

“Yeah, well, okay, but get that butt moving, buddy!”

Rick hurried away, clutching his lunchbox and ID. He had to pass through two more checkpoints, without further hitch, before he was finally inside the facility proper. The place turned out to be a maze of wide corridors, with little monorail trucks rushing to and fro, piled high with various robotic parts. Luckily, there were direction signs everywhere!

Glancing around, to check that the coast was clear, he ducked into the nearest public toilet, and slipped into a cubicle. With trembling hands, he stripped of the latex mask, and stuffed it behind the low-level cistern. He cleaned himself up with a few toilet tissues, then entered the washroom, and swiftly washed and dried his face.

“Hard night on the tiles!” he said, to the startled guy who emerged out of a cubicle three down.

The guy grunted, then hurried out, tucking his shirt into his pants.

After swiftly checking that his face looked okay, in the wall mirror, Rick hurried out after him.