The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Amelia had been on many bad dates with many bearded men. In most ways Kirk was another in a long line of similar boys. Moist, flat eyes. Breath like a salt wind. Unlikeable opinions. But the beard was noteworthy. Enormous, burly, and spiked, like he was Santa Claus’ indie grandson. By itself it had a rich character and real personality, unlike its owner—it bristled at moods and seemed to shake, satisfied, when Kirk was pleased.

“I’m only here for the summer, actually,” Kirk said, as a selling point on Kirk. The bad dates fluctuated wildly between men with inflated self-importance and depressed tubs of male. “For the big symposium.” He licked his fingers after almost every french fry. “Where we’re transforming all the local girls into bimbos.” He sniffled, like eighty-five percent of the dates.

“These are good,” Kirk pronounced, about the onion rings. He’d ordered both those and fries and mozzarella sticks, for a table of two. Amelia blinked.

“Bimbos?” she said, cautiously. This, this was new.

Kirk nodded and hooked another onion ring with his finger. His nails were caulk-grimy. “I’m here with Mr. Placer,” he said, significantly. “He’s mostly a tech guy. That kind of vector. Cell phones. Radio signals, cell phones, wifi, all of that stuff. He says pretty soon he’ll be able to dial up any girl not behind lead walls and just make her into whatever. Yeah.”

“Transforming girls into bimbos?” Amelia said. She made a characteristic decision regarding bad dates. Grab purse, one quick smile, walk steadily towards the exit. She managed the purse part. Otherwise her legs cycled uselessly underneath the table. The air around her, despite this being a campus brewpub, had a sudden cold, slick sense. There was a hint of apology in Kirk’s beard.

“You agreed to the date, so you can’t go,” he said. His beard had a sheen of mayo-ketchup. The man had housed two sets of appetizers, and had ordered the double bacon burger. “I’m not much more than a plug-the-wire tech but yeah, I can do that much.” he puffed up a bit. “I mean I’m not Mr. Placer but I did a full catch routine over a single wifi encounter.”

“Great work,” Amelia said. She pursed her lips. “I should be more scared.”

“Oh, I dampened the amygdala reaction,” Kirk said, nodding. He dismissed the accomplishment with his knife. “101 stuff. Its not the amygdala’s fault, I guess. Its set up to be hypersensitive to stimuli. Mr. Slater can turn it off entirely by whistling on a comb. Calling help? Go for it.”

“Thanks,” Amelia said. She’d dialed her Mom, after doing a quick inventory of her options. One nice thing about no fear response was a relatively clear head. Kirk’s beard was sympathetic: it was worth a shot. “Mom?”

“Yes, honey?” Mom’s reassuring voice.

“I wanted to call you and say that our weather here is fantastic. Blue skies. 75 degrees. Sunny. Its amazing. Anyway I have to han—I have to—” Amelia made a big effort, and nothing came out of her mouth. “I have to—go. So long! Bye!”

She slid the phone onto the table, reflective. Kirk waved a waitress over and ordered two more beers for the table. “Your Mom sounds nice,” he said, grinning, with just a touch of apologia. The beard was reddish-brown, magnificent, and sorry. “I didn’t do that. If you’re in the perimeter you’re stuck for the summer. Goes for everyone.”

“I was going to go on internship,” Amelia said, spinning her phone. In a cog sci class her Professor had told them: you don’t really have a mind. You have a collection of soggy parts that collaborate to pretend to consciousness. They barely work. Cognition is a big game of pretend. People were a big mess of needs wrapped up in a barely-there intellect.

“You’ll call in a few days to cancel that,” Kirk said. “But hey, we leave in late August, you just have to make it through with your libido and intellect intact.” He pointed a french fry at her. He’d received a new basket at some point. “Hey, are you horny for me? Even a little?”

“No,” Amelia said. She shook her head. “Nope.”

Kirk’s shoulders slumped, one after the other. “I can’t get it right,” he muttered. “Sex drive and attraction shouldn’t be this much of a challenge. I could wipe your memory clean, why can’t I manage this?”

“Sorry,” Amelia said. She drank a beer she had no intention of paying for. The bit about making it through August stuck with her. Wasn’t that possible? There were thousands of people on Seeprince campus. There were—how many evil mind controllers? That seemed important to know.

“I keep screwing up the locus and getting girls hot for my beard,” Kirk complained. The beard appeared smug, attractive. Amelia imagined it cleaned up and with a fresh sheen of oil. She could rest her cheek against it on cold nights, feel the pleasant male burr on her skin. Lumberjack chic.

“You could sh—” she suddenly couldn’t say it. Kirk nodded, understanding.

“I could never shave this guy,” he said, stroking it. Amelia itched to be his hands. It had to feel really good to touch. “Anyway. Its fine.”

She could stay out of everyone’s way for two months, right? Amelia paused with her mouth halfway filled with beer. How exactly WAS everyone going to be turned into bimbos?

“Oh, its definitely drugged,” Kirk said, recovering himself. He seemed to enjoy her reaction. “Look, you can’t get away from it. We are pervasive. P-E-R-V-A—” he hesitated. Spelling the word out lacked the oomph he had locked himself into. “S-I-V-E. Its pervasive.”

Nonetheless, Amelia spit the rest out, onto the floor. Her cheeks felt warm. Or was that just from the imagined rustle of Kirk’s beard? She slid the drink across the table. Her erstwhile Mind Controller took the glass and drained it.

“Anyway, enough about me,” he said. “What about you? What’s your major?”

“Anthropology,” Amelia said. “I’m an Anthropology Grad Student.”

In the morning Amelia dismissed the experience entirely. She’d gone on a bad date. It had ended with a move Amelia had discovered and employed many times: the chaste kiss. It was a masterpiece move, communicating the barest, slightest affection in the most asexual way. Not just a peck on the cheek, the key was in keeping her lips arid-level dry, two crackly tubes. The move communicated lack of interest better than any awkward conversation. Kirk had gotten that treatment and absorbed it without expression. Date over.

Although, looking back, she’d spent a little more time smooching his beard then initially intended. With a bit more tongue.

But even so, Seeprince College seemed: normal. Summer-lazy and tame. There was no outward sign, to Amelia’s eyes, of ongoing sex conspiracy from barely believable madmen. No parading amazonian giantesses with basketball tits, no crop of nymphs made out of co-eds. The girls she could see were dressed in sweats and shorts, often with sweaters tied demurely around their waists.

It was all a bad dream, she told herself.

“Look what they’re just handing out!” Mia told her, sucking avidly on a large popsicle penis.

Mia was her roommate, reassuringly earthy, and tended to be barefoot. She wore overalls as a personal signature. Today was the same, except one strap was undone. She held a very big pecker on a stick. It was purple-grape, the ice molded with oversized veins.

“Mia?” Amelia said, cautious. “Where’d you get that?”

“Handing them out,” Mia said. Her tongue was bright purple. She sank herself into the communal apartment couch, the better to concentrate on licking. “Some guy is. Just outside. You should get one.”

“You know that’s… a penis?” It was very much unmistakeable, although Amelia had not run into a real one quite that large. This popsicle was easily a foot long. Mia seemed totally unphased by the girth of it. Her hand was already covered in sticky blue-white goo, which concerned Amelia further.

“Oh yeah, its a total hoot,” Mia agreed. “Watch this, all the girls were showing off.” Just like that, her thoughtful, vegan roommate shoved the icee dong to the very back of her mouth. Only a few inches stayed clear. Mia sucked so hard the ice visibly lost its purple. She grinned at Amelia as it emerged. “Ta-da. Does that make me a slut?”

“And they are just handing these out? Who is they?” Amelia said. She sat down very slowly next to Mia. Many things worried her. Not just the intrusion of a big popsicle dick. Mia letting the runoff slobber onto a couch she usually kept perfectly clean. Mia letting purple drool run down her chin. The way she giggled between licks. That was not Mia. Mia was more serious than she was. Mia would scroll through her phone at various social injustices and audibly sigh and moan.

“I dunno, they,” Mia said, unconcerned. “Some guy and a girl. They. They are right downstairs, you better hurry. Everyone is going crazy for one. Oh my god, these are SO good. If you suck super hard there’s like this…. cream. In the middle. Its bonkers tasty Amelia, holy shit.” Mia steadied herself for another hard pull. This time she got every last inch of sculpted ice lolly treat in her mouth. Her eyes went unfocused. Amelia watched her overall-clad legs inch apart.

The popsicle did look super delicious.

“I gotta… do some homework,” Amelia said. The sugar-cold scent filled the apartment room. Did popsicles normally smell like that—a hint of vanilla, a lot of lavender? Didn’t they normally smell like nothing—or at most, sugar-red? This was like a sprinkling of petals. More goo dribbled out of Mia’s mouth, despite her best slurping efforts. Amelia forced herself into her bedroom, sat down at her computer, where there was an e-mail from her internship confirming her withdrawal.

She stared at it.

Kirk’s beard fizzled in her mind.

She’d sent the e-mail the same night as their date. It was professional and firm—well-composed and literate. She’d explained that she had to decline due to a personal matter.

Amelia had no memory of any of it.

“Amelia! Check this out! Porno!”

Mia drew her back in. She appeared to have a brand new ice cream—or at least, this one was a different color. More pink. There was too much for Amelia to process but—how long had she spent in front of the computer? Wasn’t it—seconds?

Her roommate was sticky-sweet with sugar coating. Her overalls were spackled. She looked very tasty. And on screen there was two girls scissoring frantically to a 90s synth porno beat.

“Isn’t this something? They must’ve fucked up with the campus cable,” Mia said, gesturing with her sugar dong stick. The new one was just as penis-y as the last. “We get porno now! Look at those two go!”

Amelia looked. It wasn’t very intimate. The girls were sweaty, naked, and seemed desperate for stimulation. They were on an old bedspread, gripping it with both hands, so they could grind off on each other. They alternated moans and grunts. The cameraman kept the focus as close to two rubbing vulvas as he or she could. Mia gave Amelia a coy look.

“Looks like a fun summer activity, doesn’t it?” she said. Both eyebrows went up. Her second overall strap was undone, and Mia wore only a short yellow cutoff shirt underneath. She had long legs and wore purple socks.

“Mia, we don’t even get cable, at all,” Amelia said. Her eyes locked on the screen. There was a curious effect in the hertz refresh, almost like a gentle pull…

“We’re turning you into a dumb, slutty bimbo,” Kirk reminded her, in her memory. They were. Horny and hot and dumb and helpless…

Amelia managed to squeeze her eyes shut. She got into her bedroom, locked the door, and shut off her computer by yanking the power cord out of the wall. Into her backpack she threw clothes, a few books, and retrieved her hiking sleeping bag from the back of the closet. Her phone—Amelia hesitated—powered down and inside of a sock.

And then she was out the door, eyes just open enough so she wouldn’t trip. She caught Mia with her hands down the front of her overalls, still watching the cable. Her roommate at least guiltily withdrew her fingers when Amelia busted in. Out the front door. Away from the penis popsicle cart, doing very brisk business, mouths of repeat customers already stained a viscous purple or pink. The boys were getting blue titties on a stick.

She had to be forgotten for two and a half months. Left alone and neglected. She was uniquely forewarned and forearmed. Amelia knew a lot about human survival. There were only so many absolutely necessary biological imperatives.

She could do this.

The space had occurred to her the morning after the Kirk Date, when the last bits of embarrassment were still washing out in the shower. The Mirgrey Building housed the Department of Anthropology and had done so for around one hundred and fifty years. It was a pile of grey stone shipped from a far away quarry, layered densely with prevailing academic trends from a whipsaw field of study—queer support flyers over displays of ransacked native american headdress. It was somewhat removed from the rest of campus, on its own beyond a bunch of green lawns.

In the main rotunda someone had donated a fragment of skull apparently last belonging to Homo Erectus. The administration had whipped up an entire imagined skeleton from plaster, lovingly inserted the sliver of actual bone, and placed the entire mass of painted vermiculite in the entrance. Empty eye holes stared down at Amelia. Usually very creepy, it was, at least, not trying to make her into some sort of brainwashed sex slave. She ignored the thing. The campus nickname for the thing was Rick.

“Fuck off!” Amelia told Rick, as an ancestor of all men. Removed from immediate danger she was able to get pissed. Amelia prided herself on only unleashing a seething anger when appropriate. For real situations she was cool head, cool heart. “God damn you fucking god damn men! Like you don’t fuck us enough as-is!”

It worried her that her hands were suspiciously sticky. Amelia didn’t want to look in a mirror, in case her tongue was colored purple.

Up above Rick the ceiling appeared to terminate in a gauzy, indistinct skylight. Most students assumed it was some dirty translucent paneling.

Amelia opened a door clearly marked ‘NO ENTRY’. It led to a short, spiraling staircase. From there, another clearly marked forbidding door. And that led into the Aerie.

It was, as far as she knew, completely forgotten by all. Amelia had first found it over a year prior, idly breaking rules during a late night. Probably because the clouded glass in part of the floor really did look remarkably fragile and old. Abandoned, it was not stuffy—there were many windows, including most of the ceiling. From the bone-dry chalkboards on the south wall it had probably served as a favored classroom at some point, with the best lighting and natural ventilation.

Amelia swept part of the floor with her foot and put down pad, sleeping bag, backpack, and sat on them.

After awhile she went and prodded the glass in the floor. It creaked alarmingly at the slightest weight. Well, she probably was not a sleepwalker.

And after that she opened her notepad and wrote:

BIOLOGICAL IMPERATIVES

• Air
• Water
• Food
• Shelter
• Sleep

After considering her situation she added ‘Poop/Pee’ to the bottom of the list.

“Air, check,” Amelia ticked them off. “Water, no. Food, no. Shelter… yes. Sort of.” The door didn’t have a lock, just a faded “NO ENTRY” label that she herself had ignored.

She considered adding “Social?” to the list. Obviously she couldn’t spend an entire summer staring at an old chalkboard. The window on the north end did have a perfect view of the campus quad, so that was maybe thirty minutes a day staring time. She gave it a shot: were the skirts on all the girls extra skimpy that day? Were the boys walking around with unusual swagger? Only one thing seemed out of place: a jogging woman slowed to a stop to ogle a duo of beefy men walking by in athletic shorts. A full halt and a complete thirst turn. Amelia watched the girl’s chest heave, not just from jogging.

Thirst. That was another issue, she was thirsty. Water, there was a biological imperative.

The nearest bathroom was down the stairs and down a hall. Amelia had forgotten to bring a water bottle. She had to try and fit her head underneath the tap and lap up the water. At the first touch she froze:

Wasn’t it simplicity itself to drug the water supply?

Cautiously she extended her tongue. It tasted like—water. The no-taste that was water. No pink sugar aftertaste, no metallic or chemical overtones. Or were there? At no point had she ever wondered what water should taste like.

She was VERY thirsty. Her mouth tasted like old sweets. A gauzy memory rattled around: herself noisily enjoying a popsicle in front of the computer monitor. The blue gooey center was especially yummy yummy. Sticky sugar goo running down her hands as she typed out e-mails she could not recall even a little. Amelia opened her eyes. She was gulping down huge mouthfuls of water, as fast as she could, her throat open. It was an efficient way of drinking water, at least.

After a moment of rigid panic she relaxed. Drugging the water seemed too simple, too easy. Anyone could do that. Why bother with delicious ice cream dongs if it was just a matter of treating the aquifer? And besides, she had no choice. Water was right after air, as imperatives went. She drank and drank until she sloshed.

Amelia finally examined herself in the mirror.

Hers was a face that, at least, it was tough to imagine bimbo’d up and stupid-slutty. She had a flat, cold face with a long ridge of aristocratic cheekbones. Her hair ran straight and flat down to boob level from a severe central part. She had freckles and a ground-in hiker’s tan. Naturally heavy bags under her eyes. As bodies went, hers was tall. Puberty hadn’t bothered with more than a basic silhouette of curves.

Her hair was going to get gross and oily really fast without a shower. But that was a next-day problem. Roughly sixty-five days remained.

“Conner, come on… come on….” a girl’s voice. “Here?”

It was unconvincing, even to Amelia, on the other side of a door. Whoever it was alternated between husky, feminine desire and girlish giggling. They were being really loud. “There’s a creepy skeleton in here! What about… mood and stuff?”

Amelia risked peeking out from the doorframe of the bathroom. Already her fortress had been breached by horny co-eds. The couple outside, urgently kissing, were generally dressed like normal people. The girl had on her atheleisure tights and the boy wore aging jeans. That raised Amelia’s concern level: already standard students out for a normal day were deciding to go fuck in public spaces. The girl’s protests seemed to be totally about ambience—she was on her tip-toes to make out with him. The boy, Conner, had both butt cheeks in large hands and was hoisting her upwards.

He was, Amelia admitted, really tall, with loping arms that probably gave great hugs. The girl was already undoing his shirt buttons.

“I”m glad we have… bio class together….” the boy said. He put both hands underneath her shirt. His technique clearly treated women like different bits for him to fondle and play with, and the girl was really loving it. They’d stopped kissing so she could whimper underneath his hands. Amelia felt flushed all over. Even her shirt, pretty much soaked with water, was way too tight, way too hot.

There were all sorts of alarming things—the girl especially was so horny she couldn’t get his buttons right. Amelia was familiar with horny women. She’d been one. In truth she was one right then. Buttons weren’t that challenging, even while a guy was pawing at your tits. At last she managed it, just as the boy pulled down both panties and pants in one rough tug. Amelia was sure she heard a rip in a fairly expensive pair of tights. They looked at each other, exposed.

‘D—” a more normal girl voice, struggling to fight past waves of desire. “Do you have a c-condom? We—we definitely need a condom.”

The boy breathed out a snarl of sheer frustration. There was a moment of reality.

“Yeah, I got one,” he said, sulky. His cock hung in front of him, unflagging, as he reached into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and took out a rubber.

Relief mixed curiously with liquid lust in Ameila’s veins. There was something so normal in a boy grudgingly putting on a condom. Even if the girl was helping him with it, kneeling down, unrolling the translucent white sheath over the guy’s dick. Perhaps—Amela rested her head against the bathroom door—there would be resistance? Resisters? Others had to see a blossoming student body and think: something was off.

Right?

“Ooh, Conner!” the interruption was only for a second. Perhaps to make up for it, the girl had wedged herself into a marble top by the huge staircase, legs already pointing skyward, up towards Amelia’s hiding spot. The angle forced Conner to fuck nearly vertically, like the side of a bed, except with nothing but hard rock underneath his partner. He didn’t seem to care about lack of cushioning, thrusting deeply from the first stroke on.

It was a base rut, and Amelia couldn’t imagine how it felt any good for the girl. Pinned between sweating, relentless man and cold marble. Long, artless thrusting. In a drafty stone room in public. “Oh, Conner, oh CONNNNERRRRR!” the girl moaned, utterly into it. Her feet, still in running shoes, kicked at his back, urging him on. The girl had her arms thrown out, helpless, and the echoes of her satisfied screams echoed off stone, marble, and plaster bone. Her ass must be more padded then it looked, Amelia thought, trying to swallow. Despite drinking a gallon of water her mouth was very dry. Conner leaned forwards and nutted, just as the girl wrapped her legs around his back.

“Oh Conner, oh Conner” the girl was broken by it. Conner pulled out, yanked off a very full condom, and tossed it in disgust.

“Never again,” he told the girl, about the condom, commanding, stern, masculine.

She giggled helplessly, trying and failing to nod. Amelia watched them slowly walk out, still all over each other. The too-filled condom rested by the skeleton bones, generally the same hue. Amelia ignored it, walked upstairs on very shaky legs.

Once there, she realized that she absolutely, definitely, could not masturbate.

There was just no way. Touching herself would lead to more touching herself, which would lead to blowjobs, which would lead to sex. The only way out was total abstinence from all self-play. Even if her pussy was sopping from watching a girl creaming herself from a rough, heavy fucking on stone.

Instead she found a tiny sliver of chalk and, with unsteady hands, marked a 1 on the old chalkboard.

Roughly sixty-four days to go.