The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Laurie Zormistradus enters the plush outer office of the psychiatrist. She is a lithe young woman dressed in a long, black trench coat, leather pants, and a baggy black button-down man’s shirt with the tails hanging out. She has a stylish but somewhat rumpled appearance, and her black eyeliner is smudged beneath her beautiful dark eyes. She sits on the long gray couch and looks down at the carpet with a worried pout to her lips, wondering if it was right to come here.

“I don’t suppose you have coffee?” she asks the receptionist with a small sigh.

The cute, blonde receptionist looks up from her computer terminal and points over at the coffee maker and pot on the kitchenette counter. “Oh, sure,” she says. “Help yourself.”

She goes over and pours a cup and talks as she tears the lid off a little plastic creamer. “I’m not even sure why I’m here. I mean, I’m a SUPERHERO. I’m used to taking care of my problems on my own.”

The receptionist tilts her head, watching Laurie for a moment, then says, “Oh, you must be Witchgirl, that government agent the docter is supposed to see today.”

Witchgirl sips the coffee and scowls a little at the burned taste. You’d think with the money this guy was earning he could afford decent coffee. “That’s right. That’s me. I’ve been having some...what’s the word they use...issues.”

The receptionist nods her head and gives a sympathetic smile, possibly well practiced, possibly authentic. Witchgirl shrugs. “You probably don’t get many superheroes in here, huh?” She sets the coffee down and walks over to the receptionist.

“No, we don’t actually.”

Witchgirl nods and looks at her watch. “It’s 11:00 now. Can I go in?”

The receptionist looks down at her terminal and types some things into her computer with a steady click click of the keys. A queried response comes up and she says, “Ummm...just one minute. The doctor is getting ready for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Laurie looks around the office...the plush carpet...the bland paintings on the walls. Everything around here seems comfortable and carefully planned to convey an image of serenity and sanity, including the receptionist, who is smiling happily at her computer screen. “The doctor will see you now,” she says, and Witchgirl heads through the office door, taking off her coat as she goes and looking around.

“Please, have a seat.” A voice speaks from the seemingly empty room. It is a kind male voice, possessed of a relaxed authority, but somewhat emotionless. “Please, have a seat.”

Witchgirl looks in the direction of the voice, but it has no real source. It seems to emanate from nowhere and everywhere. Witchgirl glances at the psychiatrist’s couch, then at the chair next to it. The chair is very large, obviously meant for the psychiatrist, but there is nobody sitting there. Well, as a super heroine, Witchgirl is used to strange situations, and the psychiatrist DID come highly recommended by that Internet Medical Resource Database. These new compu-psyches were the latest trend, and what the heck, they couldn’t be any worse than the human psychiatrists who were always urging people to find their inner children and establish boundaries.

She sits in the chair, legs together, hands on her knees.

“You are Lt. Laurie Zormistradus, correct?”

“Correct.”

“My records indicate that you are only 18 years old. Rather young for a lieutenant. What do you think about that? Has it ever caused you problems?”

Witchgirl scowls and wrinkles her upturned nose just slightly, as if smelling something distasteful. “Well, I’m ambitious. My father...pushed me...when I was younger. But that’s beside the point. The point is, I’ve been having these strange dreams. And, well, LOSING parts of my day sometimes. Whole chunks of my day.”

A long pause before the docter continues. “Rear Admiral Nicholas Zormistradus, retired. He is your father, correct?”

“That’s correct. But it’s still not why I’m here. I’m here because of the dreams, not my father. I feel very unsure of myself lately...like reality is frayed around the edges.”

Another pause. “Are you sure you would rather not talk about your father? As an authoritative single parent he must have had a profound effect on you.”

Witchgirl wishes she had brought the coffee with her from the outer office, even if it did stink. She wonders if this silly psychological computer program has caught a virus or something.

She scowls again and says, “Yes. I’m sure. Really.”

A longer pause. A pause you could drive two trucks through through. Three trucks. “I see.”

Witchgirl sighs again. She wonders if the computer program will be offended if she lets on that she is bored. This is worse than those long conversations she used to have with her father’s friend, American Justice, when she was a little kid. Gosh, that guy could go on forever!

“You mentioned strange dreams?” the program asks her.

“Yes. Dreams.” Finally.

“Tell me about your choice of clothing. It seems rather risqué for someone in the agency.”

Ack!!! She’s paying this guy-this voice-almost two hundred dollars an hour and he wants to talk about her dad and her clothes? “Well, it’s what I like. And we’re still not talking about my dreams.”

“You seem defensive.”

“I’m a superhero. Superheroes have distinctive personalities. My clothes are an extension of my personality.”

“Yes, a superhero. I see. Would you please describe what you are wearing and why you like it?”

“Well...these boots...my dad hates them. He says they’re too showy...that I should wear something more modest.” She laughs a short laugh and looks at the empty chair facing her. “But there I go...now I’m the one talking about dad. I guess he DOES loom pretty large in my life.”

“Yes...continue please.”

Witchgirl looks down at the boots. They are black, with a modest heel, and come up almost to her knee. “Oh yes...the boots...well...I just like them. I don’t know. I mean, isn’t a cigar sometimes just a cigar? Isn’t that was Freud said?”

Silence. Then the authoritative even-sounding voice. “I’m sure you do know. What made you pick them out?”

“They stood out on the rack. They were taller. They were really DARK black. I liked the IMAGE they conveyed.”

“I see. The next item of clothing.”

Witchgirl smiles. “The pants.”

“Did you pick them out purely to go with the boots?”

“Yes. But it was a little more than that. I had always wanted something like them when I was a kid and I was reading Batman comic books, you know? I know he’s just a fictional character, but he knew how to dress. He had style and panache.”

“And how does your father feel about the pants?”

Witchgirl rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t like them, of course.”

“Does your father have a particular aversion to the colour black?”

“Well, he says the whole ‘black magic’ implication is kind of sending the wrong message, but this is the year 2001, and lots of people wear black. I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

“No, of course not. Continue please, Lieutenant.”

“Well, anyway, now that you mention clothing, there is something strange that happened recently that I should mention.”

“Oh?”

“I was in a store, just walking through the bathing suit aisle on my way to the exit, and I saw a pink bathing suit, and I stopped, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Now, I’ve never worn pink in my life...like I said, I like dark clothing...but this caught my eye. I had to pull myself away from it and almost run to the exit.”

“I see.” A longer pause. A pause you could drive a truck through. “Lieutenant, could you please stand for a moment.”

Witchgirl stands up. Now what? Just when she thought it couldn’t get any stranger. But the voice IS rather comforting. She looks around the room and sighs and decides to just do as the voice says. She puts her wait weight on one foot, cocks her hip, and waits. A long pause. The voice finally says, “There’s a full length mirror to your right. Could you please walk up to it and tell me what you see.”

She does as she’s told and smiles slightly as she looks into the mirror. “That’s an easy question. I see me.”

There is condemnation in the silence. Witchgirl shrugs. “Okay. Okay. I’ll try harder. I see a young woman. Eighteen years old. Somewhat tired looking.”

“Good. Continue, please.”

“She’s dressed in black boots and leather pants and a dark shirt. She’s slim...maybe too slim because she hasn’t been eating right. And her hair is pulled back and tied with a thin black string.”

“Thank you. Now if you wait just one moment. This mirror is a holographic projection, a sort of video screen. I control it, and can apply changes to the base image in the same way that a graphic artist can render changes to an image in an art program. Often I use it in treating patients with self-image problems.”

“I don’t have self-image problems,” Witchgirl says, but the voice doesn’t seem to be listening anymore.

The mirror image ripples a little, as if reality were being bent, and then clears, displaying an 18-year-old woman with her black hair tied into a bun. She’s wearing a military dress uniform, Army style. Her body type, and features are actually identical to Laurie’s features. The figure seems to mirror her movements, though with a slight delay.

“Can you tell me what you see now?”

“A woman...me...but dressed differently...in military clothing.”

“Continue, please.”

“She looks...unhappy.”

“You think so?”

Witchgirl nods, a frown appearing on her mouth.

“Yes. Very unhappy.”

“Interesting. Lieutenant, this image represents how you dressed to report to the agency until two months ago. Do you feel you were unhappy back then?”

“Well...somewhat...yes. I felt...repressed. I felt like I couldn’t be ME. Like I was trapped somehow.”

“And now, if you would be so kind, could you describe the bikini that you saw? The pink one that you mentioned.”

“Well...it was very small...and it was kind of day-glo pink.” She snickers a little. “It looked like it would glow in the dark.” She looks down at the carpet and runs a hand through her hair. “And it was cut kind of high...very high actually up the side...and the back wasn’t much more than a thin strand of fabric...” Witchgirl can’t help but smile remembering it.

The mirror image ripples once more, and when the image returns, the reflection shows Laurie in the bikini she described. It is small and stylish, with small plastic circles holding it together at the hips. The fabric has a slight gloss to it.

The figure again mirrors her movements with a delay. She raises an arm and the figure raises an arm. She smiles and the figure smiles. Interesting. Almost hypnotic.

“Can you tell me what you see now?”

Witchgirl looks deeply into the mirror and sees herself dressed in the pink bikini. “A girl...and she looks...so happy.”

Deadpan. “Happy you say?”

Her voice is slow and slightly dreamy, like she has just woken up from a short nap. “Yes....very...happy.”

“Do you find her somewhat tired looking?”

“No...she’s perky...excited...full of life.”

“Interesting. If you would be so kind, could you compare and contrast the three mirror images, the reflections that you have seen in the mirror?”

Witchgirl smiles. “Of course. The first is okay...kind of drab and dark...not very...pleased with life...the second is VERY unhappy and kind of...well, kind of ugly, if that doesn’t sound too rude. And the third is BEAUTIFUL. She’s so pretty and happy, the kind of girl women want to be and men want to be WITH. Actually, maybe women want to be WITH her, too. And maybe men women want to BE her too.”

“Oh?”

Witchgirl moves a little closer to the mirror, so she is about six inches from the reflection. “Yes. I know I do.”

“I see.”

Witchgirl touches the mirror lovingly with her fingers. She brings her other hand to the mirror as well, almost caressing the reflection. The image distorts and then returns to Laurie’s current appearance, the renderings gone.

“Lieutenant?”

Witchgirl blinks and gasps and steps back. “Huh? What happened?” She feels tears running down her cheeks...why is she crying? She touches her face and turns away from the mirror. “Doctor...I think I’m going crazy.”

“It’s okay, Lieutenant. The fact that you can recognize that you have a problem is the first step in solving that problem. Would you care to sit down again?”

Witchgirl sits down in the chair beside the mirror, still not facing her reflection. “I don’t think I know who I am. I feel like my personality is...splitting apart.”

A long awkward pause. “That’s what we are here to find out.”

Witchgirl wipes her arms across her eyes. “Gosh, this sure is conduct unbecoming an officer. Dad always told me superheroes NEVER cry.”

“It’s okay, Lieutenant.”

Witchgirl sniffles. “It doesn’t FEEL okay.”

“Would you like to take a moment to gather yourself, Lieutenant?”

Witchgirl bows her head slightly, her straight black hair falling into her face. “This is ridiculous. My nerves are shot, and I’m talking to some psychologist I can’t even see, and I’m having these strange trance-states and hallucinations and blackouts and insomnia.”

There is no answer. Witchgirl sighs and looks around the room. The silence is heavy, like air before a summer downpour, and she notices for the first time that the room has no windows. She wonders again if she should have come here at all. She can hear the click click click of the receptionist’s fingers on the keyboard from the outer office.

“Doctor?” she finally asks.

Witchgirl waits for a reply for what seems like forever.

“Yes?”

“Do you think...I’m going crazy?”

“No.”

“Well, I sure feel like it. I sure feel like it.”

A pause again. Another frustrating, unsettling pause.

“I apologize,” the voice says. “We have run out of time.”

Witchgirl stands slowly and leaves the office. She wants to stay now-she wants to talk and talk and talk-but instead she moves past the smiling receptionist without saying a word, down the stairs and out onto the grimy city streets. She moves like a ghost through the bustling crowd, feeling numb and disembodied.

She’s halfway home before she realizes she’s forgotten her coat.