The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Light breaks over the horizon. Sails of sheet-diamond unfurl, and flap and fill. Within seconds, you can hear the thrum of mechanisms and circuits. Power is there, to be taken out of the still air and the empty sky. Light makes the engines turn. The barge moves again. Upriver.

Helena pushes through the doors, on to the deck. The morning air is cool and dry, but the heat, the heat is coming. The workers are already out in the fields, and the masked overseers are spraying them with a heavy mist of oil. Numbers beyond counting, their muscular bodies glistening as they bend to the task. The closest ones, nearest the banks, stand for a few moments and watch the vessel as it drifts past. She wonders if any of them still recognise her uniform. They can surely see her, the only figure currently on deck; do they remember what these clothes mean? Probably not. They just watch.

Soon however, the sun is fully up. The huge diamond shrouds capture the sunlight and blaze, and you need the goggles to look at them. She can feel the light, all around her. Her hair will be blazing in silver and gold. The workers bow their heads. Some of them kneel. The barge sails on.

She walks to the front of the barge. The prow. It’s where the main gun is fixed, inside an armoured globe. The long barrel is extruded from the spherical pod, hanging sleepily over the water. It points at nothing. There is never anyone else on the river.

Kristen is inside. There must always be someone inside the gun pod, because… Well, just because.

They must sit, legs straddling the control stick, ready.

They have to be slick, and wet. Kristen wears her jacket, insignia bright on the shoulders, over a bikini. Her fingers are down there. The bikini panties are soaked. The shaft of the control stick is greased with her moisture. Helena keeps her own jacket tightly fastened. She should probably discipline Kristen for the uniform breach, but there are more important matters to concentrate on.

Helena gives the order and Kristen begins to thrust her hips upwards, stroking herself against the shaft. Helena spends a few enjoyable minutes, watching. Then she checks the river. Nothing. Kristen makes a grunt of exertion. Helena sets the timer, the numbers dropping away into freefall, and leaves her to it.

Back on deck, the sails are bright as the sun itself, and much closer. She puts on the dark goggles, so that she can see what she’s doing. The key-pad beeps as she taps in the code, and then the hatch in the middle of the deck opens. There are three of them, down there in the darkness of the hold, but it’s Alyssa’s turn. She climbs the ladder, takes the eyeless mask that Helena offers her and then stands, naked, before the mast.

Helena uncoils the hose. Alyssa’s skin is pale, and almost unblemished. It’s an unheard of thing for someone who’s spent a couple of years in the service, even in these strange times when there’s no one to fight. It’s smooth, white, perfect. Even though she’s seen it hundreds of times, Helena still finds herself slightly stunned at the sight of Alyssa’s body.

But there are things that have to be done. Because … her mind skips over the thought. Because if she doesn’t spray her, Alyssa will burn.

She pulls the trigger and dark, oily liquid shoots out of the nozzle on the end of the hose. It spatters over Alyssa’s skin. Helena angles the spray, until it has touched the whole of Alyssa’s body, and she’s been painted as black as the mask covering her face.

Now she’s ready. Helena ties her to the mast. Alyssa’s arms are wrapped around it, her breasts squashed against the thick ferro-plastic pole. Helena kicks her feet apart. She doesn’t need to do that; Alyssa would have obeyed in a heartbeat, but you get used to doing things a certain way. The way they have to be done.

She leaves Alyssa for a while to let the anticipation build, and goes to her cabin. From out of the strongbox she takes the cat, which is a short obsidian rod that exudes nine slender lengths of rubbery cable, and the phallus, which is a longer, thicker rod, with a different purpose. It’s hard to believe these things had once been buried.

She remembers. At first, the girls hadn’t wanted the objects to be used on them. Being whipped and penetrated in front of the mast was something that they’d tried to resist. Even Helena herself hadn’t really wanted to do it. She supposes that if she really tried then she’d be able to recall what the problem had been. It doesn’t matter. The girls, the crew, she corrects herself, all think differently now.

A quick glance over her shoulder, and then she unfastens her shiny black trousers and slides her hand down between her legs. She’s made herself wet already, thinking about what she’s going to do to Alyssa. It isn’t time for Helena to come yet, but she loves to get herself close … close …

By the time she’s back on deck again, Alyssa is moaning. The sounds she makes are not words in any modern tongue. They are ancient, holy sounds, of desperate need.

Helena doesn’t make either of them wait any longer. She alternates the use of the cat and the phallus. Both devices make Alyssa cry out in a way that makes Helena want to touch herself again. Soon, it will be time. For now, both of them are focused on a purpose. The only higher purpose.

The barge continues to drift upriver, under the slowly climbing sun.

At noon, they reach the place where the temple once stood.

It is long gone. The stone has been rendered into powder and dust by artillery and explosives. The bunker however, is made of stronger stuff; the sort of stuff that can withstand munitions dropped from orbit. As a result, it stands in the middle of a large, circular lake, which is really a crater that the river has filled.

The bunker doors are just above the water level. There is a short, rusting pier in front of them, trailing streamers of algae and weed. The barge is too massive to tie on there, so she programs it to hold position and four of them lower a small skiff, with a single solar sail, into the river.

The day is quiet. Sometimes they hear birds, or the sound of creatures moving in the river, but the only other sounds are the whisper of the solar engine and the slap of the water. They tie the craft to the pier. The rope looks like it may be beginning to rot.

Helena uses her officer’s badge (the only practical use it has now) to open the blast doors. Inside, it is dark. Not as dark as the hold of the ship, because there are some sickly yellow lights on tripod stands, but dark compared to the sun at noon on the diamond sails.

Stairs lead down, and down, and down.

On the first level, when they reach it, she checks the stores. There is bottled water, and rum, and packaged rations. She tells Kristen to organise another two days of supplies. She knows that she’ll come back to find the girls, the crew fucking in these dim corridors, but that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

On the fourth level, the air begins to freshen. On the fifth, it is almost sweet. The light is brighter here, even though they’re far, far underground.

The Commander is on the fifth, too. She’s in the brig. That’s not how things are supposed to be, and Helena can’t quite ignore the unease mixing with anticipation as she opens the cell door.

The Commander looks well, all things considered. She’s naked, apart from a metal collar, but her body is still lean and strong. There’s no hurry in her movement as she stands up from the chair, and no self-consciousness in her nudity. Her hair is long, and straight, and shadow-black. When she looks at Helena, it’s clear which of them should really be in charge.

“Commander.”

“Helena.”

“How long has it been now?”

“Fourteen days.”

“Has the dawn come already?”

“Hours ago.”

“And now we’re together again. Has anything changed?”

The Commander always asks this strange question.

“No. Everything is as it must be.”

The Commander sighs.

“Let’s get it over with.”

She doesn’t sound enthusiastic, but there’s a slight tremor to her lip, and her eyes glance over to the corner of the room, where the drone is hovering. It’s the merest hint that the Commander might want this too. Each time it’s getting more difficult for her to hide it.

“Restrain her,” Helena says to the drone.

The Commander cries out as the drone’s manipulation fields swipe her legs out from underneath her. She doesn’t fall. The drone’s fields hold her, horizontal and face down, in mid-air. At first, her legs kick at nothing. Then, they seem to be kicking through something, something invisible. Finally, they don’t kick at all, but only flex at the knees and move apart, as if they’re straddling a barrel.

“Bastard machine,” the Commander says.

The Commander’s breasts hang freely beneath her. The drone has been programmed to leave them unsupported, so that Helena can reach under and feel them, large and heavy in her hands.

“Mmmmm.”

“This isn’t you Helena,” the Commander’s voice is a whisper, but who else would be listening? “None of this. When we took those things out of the tomb, the excavation, there must have been something in them. Nanobots. Remember? They’ve got into your body and now something’s controlling your brain.”

Helena moves around to stand behind the Commander and takes the phallus out of the waterproof satchel. She loves the way it feels in her hand, the firmness of it. In the cell-light, it looks glossy and wet.

“We have to do this,” Helena says, “because-“

“Because nothing!” the Commander hisses. “Sailing up and down the river, like the fucking Sun-Goddess! They’re inside your head, but it’s all lies!”

The Commander is angry, but between her legs, she’s moist. Helena positions the tip of the phallus there.

“Ohhh. Helena, don’t. Listen. Think. This doesn’t... You’re a marine, not a priestess. You need to remember.”

“There’s nothing to remember,” Helena says. “This is the way it’s always been. The way it has to be. Yesterday, and tomorrow, and today.”

She rocks the phallus back and forth, watching the Commander’s juices trickle down it. The woman still wants to resist, but she wants to come, too. She slides the head in. The Commander moans as her pussy stretches around the thing. Helena pauses, letting her feel the inevitability of it all, and then begins to fuck her with the polished black rod.

“Wait, I… wait… ohhhhh. Helena, please. Just let me…”

“You still want to be free,” Helena says. “but we have to be slaves. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“It’s a mistake!” the Commander shouts. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this! They’re using you to-“

“Gag her,” Helena says to the drone.

The Commander’s voice is suddenly muffled as the drone creates a sphere of force between her lips and expands it to force her jaws open. The Commander’s mouth forms a perfect O of surprise.

“Doesn’t that feel better?” Helena asks. “You don’t have to worry about thinking or speaking now. The only thing that matters is the way this feels.”

She works the phallus faster and faster, sliding it all the way in and all the way out. It’s slippy to the touch now; she has to hold it tight.

The Commander’s head slumps in defeat. At first she makes some pleading noises, around the drone’s gag. Soon though, she’s making the sounds they all make. The sounds of need.

“Yes,” Helena whispers to her. “You’re starting to understand. It’s all going to make perfect sense.”