The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There was ice in her mind, fragile crystals that clung to her frozen thoughts and stretched the swollen nerve cells to bursting. The damage had already been done, the injuries years old and yet held in check despite the passage of time. It was the bitterest irony, that the cause of her problems was the very thing that slowed its progress to a sluggish crawl.

Memories of pain clawed at her, the touch of steel so intimately sharp that it could push its way through the chemical haze. Needles piercing her soft flesh, biting deep and filling her veins with frost. Mercurial strands ravishing her helpless body, coating and changing, as the surgeon’s blades began to stroke and flense.

Something else claimed her flailing thoughts, placating the torrent of dolorous anxieties. Inhuman calm washed away her fears, melting the memories into quicksilver ooze and leaving only an unfamiliar present. Fresh thoughts stretched away into the darkness, seeking understanding. For a moment, Rachel tried to follow, but they moved too far and too fast.

Steam billowed and her ears were filled with hissing echoes. Time accelerated, embracing its errant charge, and dragged her back into remorseless progress. More insults were added to the injuries, as cell walls popped and fizzled in the growing heat. Other, less flimsy, processes stepped into the breech, bolstering the failing system. But, nevertheless, something was lost in every transition.

Rachel collapsed, pitching forwards almost as soon as the umbilicals began to detach. Tubing and devices slid wetly from their slippery sockets, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. Thick fluid puddled around her, while flaccid muscles strained to support the unaccustomed weight. Even the light was blinding, until, mercifully, it dimmed to a far softer hue, as the filters finally snapped into place.

It had been exciting at first, the thought of working on a Top Secret project. All the positive vetting had been worth it, the interminable questions, and even the unlimited explorations of his personal life. But, Curtis had to admit, with the benefit of hindsight, that working at Site 3 was actually deathly dull.

A holdover from the Cold War, and long since rendered obsolete, the facility, located some 120 feet beneath RAF Rudloe Manor, was supposed to have been the command bunker for the UK government in the event of a Soviet nuclear attack. It was vast, covering over 35 acres, and designed to accommodate some 4000 people in relative comfort.

But it had been mothballed in the early 1990s, and found its role largely superseded by the, far more secure and accessible site, beneath Whitehall itself. Of course, having invested such vast sums of money on the project, even the Ministry of Defence were disinclined to simply abandon the facility. And that left people like Flight Sergeant Maxwell to ensure that the place kept running.

An alarm had sounded that morning, a signal that had never been activated before, and which, according to the extensive operating procedures, wasn’t even supposed to exist. Intrigued for the first time since his arrival, Curtis grabbed his toolkit, and headed into the bowels of the complex, where the siren continued to wail its plaintive warning. It was probably nothing, just rats gnawing through the cabling, (again), but there was little enough else to do and, even the possibility of excitement was better than nothing.

He followed the increasingly urgent call, delving into parts of the facility that had clearly remained untouched for at least a decade. Thick cobwebs clung tenaciously to every surface, and dust pooled thickly, rising as scattered motes with every careless footfall. By the time Curtis reached the vault, he was half-choked and his eyes streamed. But none of that made any difference when he stared through the gap in those heavy steel shutters.

A wet stain crawled slowly towards the exit, drawing his eyes to the naked body lying sprawled in the small chamber. It was obvious that she had tumbled from the innards of the tall cylinder, washed out with the flood of syrupy liquid. The woman’s skin was shockingly pale, and the contrast seemed even greater where that smooth flesh merged into silver.

She was a patchwork doll, part metal, part meat. One arm had been replaced completely, forcing perfect chrome to slide into the soft curve of her swollen breast. The other changed at the elbow, leaving her with a forearm of burnished metal. Both legs were gone, refashioned with polished precision. And the image of her all-too human sex was reflected infinitely in their mirrored surfaces.

Curtis stood there, and stared, unable to take in what he was seeing. Then, his training took over and he lunged towards the nearest sound-powered telephone.

“Maxwell,” he announced without preamble, “TURNSTILE, Level Delta, 3 East Second Street. I need a medical team, at the rush. One casualty. And, you better get someone from Command, this one’s way above our paygrade.”

Panic gripped her as she fought to awaken. Fractured messages and thoughts ran behind her eyes, speaking in riddles, using words she didn’t know but still somehow managed to understand. Pieces were just absent, bits of her that had simply gone. Rachel didn’t know what it meant, but then understanding had never been a prerequisite.

Her memory struggled; fighting to hold onto something, while her other self began to fill in the blanks. She could remember the tank, the necessity for cold storage. Foreman had told her, although for the life of her, Rachel couldn’t remember what he looked like, or even who he had been. It was so long ago, and the more she groped for that fading past, the less clear everything became.

She looked over to the nurse’s station, recognising the tall ginger-haired woman but still having to be reminded of her name. It was very important that she tried to do things for herself. But again, although the certainty was there, it was far more difficult to remember why.

Rachel felt herself shivering, as paranoia began to wrap her thoughts in its caustic embrace. There was something very wrong here, and although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, little discrepancies had begun to nag at her awareness. They were frightened of her; that much was obvious from their body language. But there was more to it, and it was that uncertainty her other self was playing upon.

“Claire,” she sighed, and relief poured through her as the younger woman approached, “When can I see my family?”

For an instant the nurse’s expression was unguarded and Rachel could see the undisguised fear and discomfort. It took only a moment for the mask to slip back into place, but that was enough. The sense of wrongness redoubled, twisting her perception and turning this caregiver into an enemy.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, subtle cues belying the compassion of those words, “But so far we’ve not be able to find any record of you, or anyone you’ve mentioned.”

The lie struck her with an almost physical force, the woman’s obsequious tone grating as she spoke. Of course they knew about her family, it was all in the files. She remember how detailed her file had been, how they had collected every detail of her life and stored it away in one of those numberless filing cabinets. For a moment she tried to hold onto the fleeting impression of that anonymous life, but it had already gone.

“What happened to you, Rachel?” Claire asked, voice filled with false empathy, “What did they do to you?”

Nonchalantly, the nurse reached over to the IV stand. Their eyes met, and Rachel glimpsed the cold calculation beneath. Here was the source of her confusion, this woman and her noxious drugs. She had no idea what they were dosing her with, but it was obvious that they no longer had her best interests at heart.

Rachel’s body reacted immediately, responding to the perceived threat. The concealed chamber in her left forearm sprung open, and a row of translucent shards swung into place. With preternatural speed, she plucked one of the needles loose, and punched it cruelly into the back of Claire’s exposed neck. At best the woman was a traitor, at worst the entire operation was compromised.

Claire tried to flinch away, as something painfully sharp touched the base of her skull. A whispered moan escaped her lips, and fire swept over her body, washing away what little strength she had left in a tide of unimaginable pleasure. Rachel held her close, as the small woman collapsed, limbs suddenly useless. The embrace was warm and comforting, despite everything else that had happened. And she realised, quite unexpectedly, that she could no longer find the will to even struggle.

“Rest now,” Rachel’s silken words seemed to whisper, “The crystal needs a moment to format itself, but for the moment just enjoy the feel of its caress.”

The nurse tried to speak, to demand to know what was happening, but that only made the fire burn even hotter, cleansing any doubts and forcing her to accept the totality of her helplessness. Rachel carefully stroked the nape of her neck, manipulating something and sending electric flashes deep into her captive brain.

“It’s a psi-crystal,” the other woman’s voice oozed into Claire’s thoughts, “At least a fragment of one. And what you can feel now, is it interfacing with your brain. Once that’s done, I can give you your body back. The question you should be asking, is what you have to do for me in order for that to happen.”

Pulses of light added their emphasis to each word, lending a dizzying clarity to the strange woman’s suggestions. Each flash seemed to echo within the vault of her skull, illuminating each new desire with their lurid flames. Feedback buzzed discordantly behind the nurse’s eyes, while harmonic chains tinkled spastically down hypersensitive nerve tracts.

Then, in a cold wash of excitement, she felt her blouse ripped brutally open, scattering buttons in a clattering cascade. Air lapped at her exposed skin, adding its chill attentions to the heat of synthetic arousal. The brassiere went next, the expensive silk shredded in an instant, leaving her bereft of even its flimsy protection. Fire and ice wrapped themselves adoringly around each straining nipple, stretching them into puckered cones of adamantine excitement.

“Part of the process of assimilation is learning,” Rachel’s silent words explained, as her hands pressed into that heavy, yielding flesh, “And the remainder is teaching.”

The woman’s touch accentuated every other sensation. Those perfectly smooth hands swept effortless over her skin, leaving a slick wet film in their wake. Claire’s breasts burned and froze, as the warring elements fought to claim her. And all the while, Rachel was painting them with that slippery lubricant, each caress tormenting and teasing her to new heights.

“The crystal needs to learn what you like,” the voice whispered, “But, over time, it can also teach you to enjoy new experiences, and sensations. Things that you never thought would interest you.”

Electricity tingled madly over the ripe globe of one succulent breast, playing angrily over the palm of Rachel’s impossibly silver hand. But the pain was almost immediately swallowed in the blazing glow of crystalline ecstasy. Claire felt it happen, the wet snap of shifting priorities, as new pathways and associations were formed, deep inside her cortex.

Metallic fingers closed hungrily around one taut, swollen nub, squeezing and twisting with unusual viciousness. Claire felt her aching sex just melt, as what she knew must be pain, coiled itself around her cunt and clenched. Rachel dragged that pendulous, painted tit upwards, clinging tightly to the already abused nipple. Hot juices spilled unheeded from the nurses’ shivering lips, glazing her thighs in the same oily sheen.

“This is what you want,” the voice explained, “It’s what you’ve always wanted. To be taken, abused, used and broken. To give yourself so utterly to another, that you cease to have any separate existence of your own. To become their object, their plaything, their possession, their property.”

Each word pounded more forcefully into her psyche, as the nurse’s mind itself became just another erogenous zone, ready and eager to be so cruelly manipulated. Perfect and precise, every pinch and caress simply lit up her brain in a frenzy of mismatched and unerringly wonderful signals. Her mind latched onto each new idea, clinging to them with the shock of total conviction.

Energy roared through her thoughts, crackling avidly over every cleft and fold. Like two conjoined clits, mind and body responded to the thrill of reward. Arching and shudder in delicious expectation. Her brain was bathed in the oozing control of that soft, melting voice, and, as the remnants of herself puddled around her gaping lips, all she wanted was to do exactly as she was told.

Rachel stared down into the nurse’s empty eyes and felt that other part withdraw. Cool detachment gave way to painful uncertainty, leaving her almost utterly bereft. The hateful symmetry was that her own mind was becoming just as damaged and subsumed of that of her erstwhile victim. And, just like Claire, she found herself reaching out for some sort of constancy.

Some catastrophe must have occurred and, without the mesh to fill in the blanks, she had no option but to fall back on emergency protocols. The problem was that she could no longer remember what those consisted of. All she knew was that at least part of the program had been infiltrated, and her first priority was to get that information to someone with the requisite clearance.

The holes in her memory made Rachel want to howl in frustration and anguish, this was critically important, and yet, the more she groped, the further understanding seemed to recede. Fear clutched at her, as she realised what had to be done. The thought of losing even more of herself filled the young woman with horror, but right now she needed to be something other than this crippled, broken thing.

Claire stirred, murmuring softly and seeking guidance. The echo of her own plight drew Rachel back, delaying the decision but not removing that necessity. She had questions, and in her newly cooperative state, the nurse was now in a position to answer. Ignoring the discomfort that was still struggling to be heard above the raging tide of psychomimetics, she stroked the helpless woman’s cheek and let her voice whisper into that captive mind.

“Claire,” she sighed, coaxing more from the nurse’s exhausted pleasure centres, “Where are they? Where’s my family?”

“I don’t know,” Claire moaned, despair clouding her features, “Please, don’t let it stop.”

Rachel pushed a little, letting the embedded crystal resonate with new urgency. Claire stiffened in response, back bowing, while glittering beads of sweat began to slide over her straining curves. A little gasp was all she could manage, as the barest hint of Rachel’s power flowed into and over her.

“Hush now,” Rachel smiled thinly, “Just be honest with me, Claire. Tell me what I want to know, and this never has to end. I just need to know what’s happened to my family.”

“I don’t know,” she groaned, voice pained and strangled, “I’m so sorry; I just don’t know anything, nothing at all.”

But Rachel had already tasted the sincerity that lay heavily upon each word, and she could feel that Claire was telling the truth, or at least the truth as she knew it. There was no hint of mental manipulation, not until she had gotten her psychic claws into the young woman’s mind. Guilt tried to slip through her defences while she was distracted, but she was familiar with its tricks and beat it back with ruthless efficiency.

“It’s okay,” Rachel whispered after a moment, “I know. You’ve done so well. Rest now, and know how pleased you have made me.”

Another mental caress and Claire was drifting happily back into blissfully acceptant lassitude. Rachel watched as her captive tumbled downwards, and was surprised to find herself envying the young woman’s thoughtless state. It took several seconds to recognise the insistent touch of her other self, but its priorities were far different to her own, and she wasn’t yet ready to give up the search.

That part of her had no interest in the fate of her family, and Rachel had no doubt that when she did finally relinquish control, it would be next to impossible to regain it. There was supposed to be a way for the separate facets to communicate with each other directly, but perhaps predictably, that was just another piece of knowledge that she could no longer access.

Irritably, she plucked the cannulas from her arm, grimacing as the puncture marks continued to ooze darkly for far longer than expected. Diagnostics ran half-seen behind her eyes, mute reminders of her current state. Warning systems prickled at the edges of her awareness, failsafe mechanisms slipping another notch towards finality. Anxiety forced its way back into her muddled thoughts, using the absences to stoke her fears.

Something was happening to her, something terrible, and although the details were denied her, Rachel knew that she had to stop it. The battle seemed so clear in her mind, while the true consequences eluded her. She had fought this before, railing against her imperatives and holding the nightmare in check. Jumbled images exploded in her mind, splinters of memory that were as unfathomable as they were horrific. She recoiled, bracing herself against the onslaught and then the psychological shrapnel dashed away what remained of her fractured thoughts.

The closed circuit television shut down the moment Rachel woke. But that was only to be expected. The watchers were very well aware of what the mysterious woman was capable of, or at least that’s what they told themselves. The security cordon was holding, although the digital attack was proceeding far more quickly that they had anticipated. In the end though, that didn’t matter. TURNSTILE’s network had been physically and electronically isolated, as another precaution.

Two entry teams were on standby, but for the moment at least, the powers that be were happy to wait and see exactly what happened. It was a dangerous game, but their understanding had increased almost exponentially since she had been locked away. So, the subject might throw up a few surprises along the way, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Hubris so often dogged the heels of the truly gifted, pushing them to over-reach themselves.

None of them even paused to consider the fate of the young nurse. She hadn’t volunteered and had no understanding of the risk her charge posed. Of course, to use the old military idiom, that was life in a blue suit. And besides, they reasoned, she was sure to yield some very useful information, when she was vivisected.

Her tongue eased effortlessly between Claire’s already gaping folds, lapping in luxuriant strokes, as she daubed the woman’s already captive clit with whirls of silver circuitry. The nurse’s throbbing nub could only shiver helplessly under that remorseless attention, accepting each caress and the eager sparks, which leapt and flowed with every intimate touch.

Rachel took a back seat, still lost in the confusion of her incomplete awakening. The other self picked up the suddenly slack reins, drawing them painfully taut and letting its slippery, controlling cords grind wonderfully into her body and mind. It knew what to do, even if she didn’t. The base was compromised, almost certainly due to enemy action, and without any countermand, she had to assume that they were now at war.

Geneva Convention be damned, so what if Claire was technically a POW? The bitch had been more than happy to drug her. She deserved whatever she got, didn’t she? Rachel paused, as confusion warred with her steely conviction. The girl knew nothing; she was as much of a pawn in all of this, as Rachel herself. She fought again it, desperate to drag herself back into the light, but the other was just too strong, and its touch simply too sure.

Her mind responded helplessly to the soft, insistent urgings. Following the paths laid out before her, unable to fight the gentle, but increasingly irresistible, draw of that coolly mechanical mentor. The other claimed her hands, taking them completely and then letting them flow easily over her captive’s supple curves. Nanomolecular soup dribbled from every pore, coating and shrouding Claire’s nubile body in an argent cocoon.

Strands of living lightning wound slowly around Claire’s body, pooling in every crevice and seeping ever downwards in tingling streams. The glistening cords of liquid fire sunk eagerly into powerless flesh, biting into her heart and uniting with the tiny shard of living crystal. Sensations reached through the controlling fog of absolute control, dragging her back, even while they threatened to hurl her more deeply into that wonderfully mindless emptiness.

Words glittered across Claire’s retinas, glowing runes burning hotly and casting mirror-bright afterimages whenever her eyes moved. Electricity sang through her nerves, coiling hungrily, as myelin melted into scalding silver droplets. And then, the circuits caught hold, igniting her marked clit with cerulean flames and sealing her fate.

Metal bound itself to burning flesh, sinking gleaming tendrils into muscle and bone. Crystal fractured and divided, filling her thoughts with shattered facets that rewrote and revised her horribly molten mind. Heated arousal ran in blistering rivulets, cascading and cavorting across newly silver skin.

Claire screamed, giving herself utterly to the joy of that transformation. Suddenly supple fingers flexing into spasming claws, as she came and came. Desire shivered and crawled over her perfect curves, tracing more lines of glowing circuitry. Writhing polymers, smart plastics and memory metals wrapped about her, clinging without and within.

“Do you understand,” Rachel asked softly, her voice massaging the crystalline folds of her captive’s painfully sensitive mindclit, “what needs to be done?”

The nurse groaned happily, her mirrored skin gleaming with unresolved arousal. No reply was necessary; Rachel was already hardwired into her mind. She had no thoughts but those her captor had chosen to grant. Claire knew that should concern her more than it did, but for the moment at least, she was happy to bask in the knowledge of her total surrender.

“Ten minutes will be long enough,” the other woman explained, “Do you think you can hold on for that long, Claire?”

Claire nodded, certain that, no matter how difficult it might be, she could do as she had been told. Rachel’s smile was worth any hardship, and the delirious taste of her approval was purest ambrosia that lingered over the powerless heat of her captive thoughts. She was smothered in waves of chrome compulsion, drowned in the delicious tide of controlling circuitry, and she loved it.

“Good girl,” Rachel encouraged, gently stroking the young woman’s throat, “Start counting then.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Colonel Lansdale, demanded angrily, “How the hell does a naked girl slip past our security teams, undetected?”

“That’s pretty much what she does, Colonel,” Squadron Leader Burroughs retorted, “We’re getting reports that entry team bravo are down. No word yet on their status.”

“Well what are you waiting for, an invitation?” the grizzled solider shouted, “Secure the perimeter, and send in the alpha team to see what’s left of nurse whatsname.”

“Goldman, Sir,” Burroughs shot back irritably, “Team alpha on their way now; I’m patching their feed through to the main screen.”

The assembled watchers stared up at the grainy image, fighting the nausea engendered by its jerky movements. It was clear that a small battle had been waged in the narrow confines of the subterranean corridors. Bodies were scattered here and there, their bodies twisted like ragdolls.

A medical orderly knelt by one of the casualties, noting with some surprise that the young man was still alive, and apparently unhurt, although clearly unresponsive. Then, the team were sweeping forwards, through the twisted ruin of the isolation unit’s clamshell doors. For a moment the picture dissolved into static, and then the screen was filled with something entirely unexpected.

It wasn’t initially clear just who the metallic-skinned woman was. But sitting as she was, completely naked, and with both shining hands ploughing hungrily in the deep furrow between her perfect thighs, the soldier’s obviously failed to recognise her as a threat.

Silence greeted the scene, as the watchers held their collective breath. Then, Burroughs broke through the reverie voicing the truth that many of them had already half guessed.

“It’s Goldman,” she whispered, eyes wide, “My God; she can spawn more of them! Colonel, we have to evacuate … now!”

The nurse’s head was already thrown back in her wild abandon, silvery sweat beading her beautifully smooth body. Tight, swollen nipples stood proud, perfect points that seemed to strain with every thrust of those buried hands. She was moaning, and at first there was no sense to those undeniable carnal and increasingly desperate noises. But as she neared the denouement the random sounds resolved into recognisable words.

“Three, two, one,” Claire gasped, as her body tensed in readiness, “For you … Rachel … only for you!”

They had only a moment to stare at one another, realisation biting home, and then she came. Most of the watchers hurled themselves towards the exits, even knowing how little difference it would make. But Burroughs just sat there, a look of utter horror etched into her face. Her shoulders slumped in resignation, and that was when the shockwave hit.

The crystal absorbed Claire’s building sexual energy, channelling the desire and letting it resonate through her newly augmented body. The field expanded, finding harmonics in the tiny shards with which the soldiers had been felled, and adding new impetus to the strengthening feedback loop. Her climax was the trigger, focussed through the expanding lattice and pulsing with devastating effect across the site, ignoring walls and other man-made barriers completely.

Raw need washed through the air, psionically fuelled lust that branding its indelible mark into the minds of anyone who felt its perversely delicious touch. Nothing could stand in the face of that potent desire; it simply scoured away anything else. Subsuming intellect into unexpurgated and uncontrolled passion.

Burroughs gave an animal growl, which in turn was echoed throughout the small observation room. Without thought, she hurled herself at the nearest warm body, tearing at their uniform, while the equally wanton soldier ripped and shredded her suddenly constricting blouse.

The surge rippled outwards, its effects lessening with the distance but still more than enough to devastate the surrounding area. The victims were left entirely helpless, unable to take care of even the most basic necessities. All that remained of their minds was the echo of Claire’s all-consuming orgasm and her unquenchable lust for the woman who had claimed her so utterly.

The Pleiades Club was one of the last bastions of Old England. Unashamedly chauvinistic, the members prided themselves on obstinately refusing to ‘move with the times’. The smoking room was as remarkable for its understated opulence, as it was for the complete distain its presence showed for the laws of the land.

His ‘off the peg’ suit was shockingly out of place, but still the visitor managed to blend in. In every respect he was ordinary and entirely unremarkable. But the letter of introduction clutched in his sweaty fist was more than enough for the porter to show him every courtesy.

Director Peterson, in contrast, would never be part of the anonymous herd. The port-wine stain splashed across his face was the smallest part of it. Even seated, and all but concealed behind The Telegraph, he still managed to cut an imposing figure. The porter discreetly pointed him out to the guest, and then withdrew from the dark and suddenly, strangely oppressive room.

“It’s out,” the bland young man announced without preamble.

“What happened?” asked the director, but didn’t bother to look up from his paper.

“Containment failed at 21:32,” the visitor explained, mechanically, “And all communication ceased, as of 21:43.”

“The Site?” Peterson wondered, with all the emotion one would normally summon when greeting their mother-in-law.

“Total loss,” the young man admitted, “Along with most of Wiltshire, a fair chunk of North Somerset and parts of Gloucestershire.”

The broadsheet rustled briefly, but that was the only outward sign. The visitor shifted uncomfortably, unsure how much information he needed to pass on. But Peterson took only a moment to collect himself and, his next question struck right at the nub of the problem.

“But you said it was out,” the Director said pointedly, clearly unhappy with the answers to far, “How could it have detonated and yet still remain a threat?”

“We think the blast was caused by a secondary device,” he began, “It was too small to have been the primary. So, for the moment, Sir, we have to assume that it’s still out there.”

“It can do that?” Peterson asked wonderingly.

“Apparently,” the visitor nodded.

“Where will it go now?” he asked softly, “What will it do?”

“We don’t know,” the man began carefully, “But from its reaction, it appears to have decided that the Site had been infiltrated somehow. It is going to need conformation, one way or the other. If it gets good news from the mesh then it’ll pull back, just like last time, but if not … Well, we’ve already seen what the secondary devices can do.”

Finally the paper dropped to the table, and the older man pinned the messenger with one bloodshot eye. That appraising stare said it all. In Peterson’s mind at least, this young man was just another high-flier, the same kind of know-it-all that had gotten them into this whole sorry mess in the first place. When would they learn to leave well enough alone?

“The mesh has been offline for about a decade. So, why don’t you give me your best guess?” he hissed menacingly, “Where’s it going?”

“London,” the man said without hesitation.