The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Wallace

I checked my phone again. 9:17 AM. She was late.

Not that I was surprised, Phoebe had been running behind schedule more often than not over the past few weeks, but it left me standing here in the dam control building with nothing to do but think, and thinking was not my friend these days.

The morning sun was already getting hot, reflecting off the concrete of the dam structure visible through the old glass doors in front of me. I adjusted my glasses—the frames always slid down when I started sweating—and tried to focus on the pleasant hum of the generators below, the reassuring thrum of machinery doing what it was supposed to do. Prospect Ridge Dam was producing power again. That was good. That was progress.

But my mind kept drifting back to Phoebe.

She was… God, she was something. Sharp as hell, brilliant even, the kind of intelligence that made working with her both intimidating and thrilling. And attractive, undeniably attractive, in that way that made me feel like a creep for noticing because of everything that had happened, everything we’d all been through.

I ran a hand over the top of my head, feeling the familiar smoothness there, the horseshoe of hair that remained on the sides and back. Forty-three years old, balding, lanky in a way that had never quite translated to “tall and handsome.” I’d made my peace with my appearance years ago, mostly, but standing here thinking about Phoebe brought back that old self-consciousness.

I snorted. What was I even hoping for? Seducing her? Asking her out? It was ridiculous. The whole world was in chaos, the entire country was trying to reassemble itself from the ground up, and I was into the only woman on Earth who was still, rightly, traumatized by what men had done to her.

And me? I was traumatized by what I had not done, but eventually tried to do.

When shit had first hit the fan, I’d been a good guy. I helped women get to safety, hold my ground, refused to claim anyone, tried to protect them. I watched my protegees get taken one by one, by stronger men, men who understood the rules of this new game I refused to play. I thought I had to be better. I thought I was. When I finally realized I’d lost everything, was heading toward a lonely existence, decided to play, it was too late. I roamed the county like a pathetic little human raccoon, desperate for the scraps, for any woman I could still claim. Never found one. And then? The team at Echelon, lead by Phoebe and Dr. Quinn, managed to free all women, and I was left with nothing, not even my dignity.

So yeah... Under normal circumstances I’d be considering asking Phoebe out, trying to make a move, flirting or whatever it was I used to do back when flirting felt like a neutral, positive act. But these weren’t normal circumstances. I could tell from the way her body tensed whenever I got too close, the way she avoided eye contact, the way she’d shut down any conversational topic that wasn’t directly related to the work at hand. She was uncomfortable around me. How much was me specifically and how much was men in general, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to push it.

I pulled my laptop out of my messenger bag and flipped it open, using the distraction of work to chase away the useless thoughts circling in my brain. We’d made good progress on the transmission lines, managed to find and replace a few damaged sections, repaired a couple of the substations that had been ransacked, and were now on the verge of being able to route power from the dam’s turbines to most of Chantwell. At least I was making myself useful, however I could.

We’d spend every morning here, coming up with the best next steps, brainstorming, then we’d drive wherever we were needed, directing teams, checking out damaged sections of the grid. The work was solid, tangible, and fulfilling, a concrete way to measure my days.

I heard a car engine outside, the sound of tires on gravel, and a moment later, Phoebe’s old Honda came into view, pulling up next to my Ford pickup. She parked and got out, a little breathless, her face slightly flushed.

“Hey,” I said, stepping out from behind my laptop as she approached. “Morning. Well, late morning.”

“Sorry,” she said immediately, breathless in a way that seemed more about stress than the short walk from her car. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve been… I’m not sleeping well lately, lost track of time this morning.”

There was something off about her. More off than usual, I mean. She was always a bit tense around me, but this was different. Her eyes kept darting away, then back, like she couldn’t decide whether to look at me or not. Her hands fidgeted with the strap of her bag.

“It’s fine, really,” I said, trying to sound reassuring and probably failing. “No problem at all. You should, uh, try to get some rest when you can. Maybe some melatonin? Or chamomile tea? I know it sounds stupid, but—”

I cringed internally even as the words left my mouth. Melatonin? Chamomile tea? Jesus Christ, Wallace, the woman was held prisoner and mind-controlled by a psychopath three months ago, and you’re suggesting herbal remedies like some kind of wellness blogger.

Phoebe ignored my idiotic advice entirely, which was probably the kindest thing she could have done. She set her bag down on the table we’d been using as a workstation and pulled out her laptop.

“So where are we with the Chantwell substation?” she asked, her voice shifting into professional mode. “Did you get a chance to test the transformer replacement yesterday?”

“Yeah,” I said, grateful for the return to technical territory. “Voltage regulation is holding steady, no fluctuations. We’re good there. I was thinking today we could focus on the distribution lines from the substation to the residential areas. There are still a few sections that need—”

I was talking, but part of my attention had drifted. The way she moved as she set up her laptop, efficient and precise, the curve of her neck as she bent over the keyboard, the way her hair fell forward…

She looked up suddenly, catching me staring.

Our eyes met for a fraction of a second before I jerked my gaze away, pretending to be very interested in something on my own laptop screen. Heat crawled up the back of my neck. Smooth, Wallace. Real smooth.

I could feel her discomfort from across the table, the way her posture had stiffened slightly, the way she’d shifted her chair just an inch further from mine.

Fuck.

The next three hours were excruciating.

We worked side by side, reviewing schematics, cross-referencing voltage readings, planning the route for the distribution line repairs. The work itself was fine—good, even. Phoebe was quick, asked the right questions, caught details I’d missed. We made real progress.

But I couldn’t stop being aware of her. The way she chewed her bottom lip when she was concentrating. The slight furrow between her eyebrows when something didn’t add up. The curve of her shoulders under her t-shirt.

Stop it, I told myself. Stop being a fucking creep.

But my eyes kept drifting. And she kept noticing. And every time she noticed, that tension between us ratcheted up another notch.

I was forty-three years old, for Christ’s sake. I had a master’s degree in electrical engineering. I’d spent two decades working in a professional environment without making an ass of myself. And here I was, acting like a horny teenager who’d never been in the same room as an attractive woman.

Get it together, Wallace.

By the time noon rolled around, I was mentally exhausted from the effort of trying to appear normal and professional while fighting the urge to look at her every five seconds.

I pulled my lunch out of my bag—a sandwich I’d thrown together that morning, an apple, some chips. Phoebe reached for her bag, then paused, her hand hovering over it.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“What?”

“I forgot to pack anything.” She rubbed her face. “I was rushing this morning and—”

“Here,” I said, pushing half my sandwich toward her. “I’ve got plenty.”

She hesitated, looking at the food, then at me. For a moment I thought she might refuse, and I wouldn’t have blamed her. But then she gave a small nod.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

I bit into my half of the sandwich, trying to think of something to say. Small talk felt wrong, but silence felt worse. Maybe I could ask her about—

Phoebe plugged a hard drive into her laptop and opened what looked like a complex piece of code. Her attention immediately zeroed in on the screen, her sandwich forgotten on the wrapper beside her.

“So, uh…” I started, but she didn’t seem to hear me.

Her fingers moved rapidly across the trackpad, scrolling through what looked like a version control log. Lines and lines of modifications, each with a timestamp, a description, a name.

I ate my sandwich and tried not to stare at her again, but curiosity got the better of me. I leaned slightly to the side, trying to see what had her so absorbed.

It was a list of commits—modifications to a program. Each line had a date, a description of what had been changed, and the username of whoever had made the change. Most of the names I didn’t recognize, but the descriptions were dense and technical. “Adjusted neurotransmitter response threshold.” “Corrected VLF frequency modulation.” “Removed sabotage in handshake protocol.”

Her cursor scrolled down, down, down.

Then it stopped.

One line stood out because it was incomplete. There was a timestamp, a file that had been modified, and a username.

But no description.

The username was clear enough even from where I sat: Dr. Bernard Smith.

Phoebe went completely still.

Not just still like someone who’d stopped moving. Still like someone who’d been flash-frozen. Her hand on the trackpad didn’t twitch. Her shoulders didn’t rise and fall with breath. Even the micro-expressions that usually flickered across her face—concentration, frustration, curiosity—all of it vanished.

I took another bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly, before I registered that something was wrong.

“Phoebe?”

No response. The cursor hadn’t moved. She stared at the screen like it was showing her something impossible.

“Hey, you okay?”

She jolted, her head snapping toward me like she’d forgotten I was there. “What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. Her voice was too high, too tight. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. She was trying to smile, trying to look normal, but her hands were shaking as she started closing windows on her laptop, stuffing the hard drive back into her bag.

“I just—I forgot I have something I need to do today. Something important. I should—” She stood up abruptly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll stay in touch, okay? We’ll pick this up tomorrow, or—or whenever.”

She glanced at me, and that’s when I saw it.

The look.

It started as a sensation in my gut, a cold twist of recognition that took a moment to reach my conscious mind. I’d seen that look before. I’d seen women look at men like that.

And now Phoebe was looking at me the same way.

My heart started pounding, hard and fast. She turned away, heading for the glass doors, moving too quickly, her gait just slightly off.

My mind raced. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. The way she’d frozen when she saw Smith’s name. The way she was looking at me now. The way she was trying to leave, not just leave but flee.

She was almost at the door.

Before I could think it through, before I could second-guess myself, I was moving. My chair scraped against the concrete floor as I shoved it back, my legs carrying me across the room faster than I’d moved in years.

“Wait!” I called out.

She didn’t stop.

I reached the door just as her hand touched the handle and slammed my palm against the glass above her head, blocking it from opening.

She spun around, pressing her back against the door, eyes wide. “Please,” she said, her voice soft, almost calm, like she was trying to reason with a wild animal. “Please, just let me leave.”

She was staring at me, and there was something in her expression I couldn’t quite parse. Fear, yes, but also… conflict? Like part of her wanted to stay and part of her wanted to run.

“Please…” she said again, and this time her voice broke slightly, desperate and exhausted all at once.

And that’s when I understood.

She was scared I was going to claim her.

Which meant—

Oh God.

Oh God, it was possible.

My hand shot out before I could think it through, grabbing her wrist. She didn’t fight. Didn’t try to pull away. Just looked at me with that same expression—fear mixed with something else. Resignation? Acceptance?

I felt like I was watching myself from outside my body. Like I was split in two. Part of me—the part that had wandered the county three months ago looking for anyone left to claim, the part that had cursed my own kindness and morality—that part surged forward, seizing the opportunity I’d thought was lost forever.

The other part—the part that knew this was wrong, that knew what I was about to do was monstrous—could only watch in horror as my mouth opened and the words came out.

“You’re mine.”

The change in her expression was instantaneous. The fear melted away like ice in sunlight, replaced by the most beautiful, grateful smile I’d ever seen. Her whole face lit up, her eyes shining, and she looked at me like I’d just saved her life instead of… instead of whatever the fuck I’d actually just done.

I stepped back, my hand releasing her wrist, my brain short-circuiting.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice suddenly full of concern. She moved toward me, closing the distance I’d created. “It’s all right. I’m yours. That was—that was a good call. Well done.”

I nodded, panting, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time, felt like jumping off the top of the dam, felt like I’d just made the worst and best decision of my life simultaneously.

“Are you—” I managed, my voice shaking. “Are you really okay?”

“I’m perfect,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. She was still smiling, her whole posture relaxed now, open.

“Are you really… mine?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and the certainty in her voice made my knees weak. “I’m yours.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, something like relief washing over me even though I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. Relief mixed with horror mixed with confusion mixed with—

Phoebe laughed, shaking her head. “Fuck! I’m such an idiot,” she said, looking up at me with something that could only be described as adoration. “I missed this feeling. God, I missed it so badly. And it’s wonderful that it’s you. You, out of anyone else. And right now, before I could fix it.”

“Fix it?” I repeated, my brain struggling to catch up. “Phoebe, what the hell is happening? How is this even possible? How could I claim you? You were freed. Everyone was freed.”

She took my hand—just took it, naturally, like it was the most normal thing in the world—and gently led me back toward our workstation. “Come on, sit down. I’ll explain.”

I sat. She sat across from me, but closer than before, leaning forward, her eyes never leaving mine. She looked so happy. So genuinely, radiantly happy.

“I’ve been having weird dreams since I used the freeing program on myself,” she began. “You know I used a modified version, right? One that doesn’t remove the trauma?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Someone at Echelon mentioned that. Said you wanted to process everything yourself, the hard way.”

She nodded. “Right. But something felt wrong. The dreams—they weren’t nightmares. They were… good. Really good. I kept dreaming about being claimed, about how amazing it felt to serve, to obey, to please…” She paused, her cheeks flushing slightly. “And when I woke up, during the day, I knew it was wrong. I knew what had been done to me was a violation. But at night, my brain kept going back to it, kept craving it.”

I stared at her, trying to process.

“So today I checked the code,” she continued. “I’ve been suspicious for weeks that something was off, that the freeing program didn’t work properly. Like I was free, but… not really? Like something in the back of my mind was always there, calling to me, telling me I needed to be claimed again, reminding me how good it felt.”

My stomach twisted.

“I looked at the commit log,” she said. “Something I hadn’t done before. I was so eager to just use the program, to be done with it, that I only checked the code itself. And that’s when I saw it—Bernard Smith had modified the original program. A day before his death. Just one modification, no description. And I realized…” She laughed, but there was an edge to it. “The program didn’t free me. It just unclaimed me. Which means anyone could have done what you just did.”

The words hung in the air between us.

“He sabotaged it,” I said slowly, understanding dawning. “Smith sabotaged your version of the program.”

“Yep.” She was still smiling, but now there was something manic in it. “I can’t believe I didn’t check the commits. I’m such an idiot. I went through the code, it looked fine, I didn’t spot any difference from the standard version. I assumed it hadn’t been tampered with because Smith never said a word about it while I was claimed by him. So I just used it. It unclaimed me, and I thought that meant I was free. And I left it at that.”

I sat there, completely dumbfounded, my brain trying and failing to process what she was telling me.

Phoebe moved closer, her hand reaching toward me, but I must have flinched or something because she immediately stepped back, her expression shifting to concern.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m giving you space. I just—I’ve noticed how you look at me. I thought you’d want to…” She trailed off, studying my face. “Have you ever claimed a woman before?”

I let out a soft, humorless snort. The question felt weirdly similar to being asked if I was a virgin, and maybe in her current state, it was exactly that kind of question. A measure of experience. Of conquest.

“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t. By the time I… by the time I decided to try, it was too late. There weren’t many women left unclaimed, and the ones that were…” I shrugged helplessly. “I couldn’t find them.”

“That must have been lonely,” she said, her voice soft with sympathy. “Hard. Watching other men get what you couldn’t have.”

I nodded, and my eyes, without any input from my conscious mind, dropped to her chest. The curve of her breasts under her t-shirt. I jerked my gaze back up, but it was too late.

She’d noticed. And she was smirking.

“It’s okay,” she said, standing up slowly. “You can look.”

And then, maintaining eye contact, she reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt. Pulled it up slowly, teasingly, revealing her stomach, then her bra—plain black—and then she pulled it over her head entirely and tossed it aside.

She reached behind her back, unhooked her bra with practiced ease, and let it fall away.

Her breasts were perfect. Full and soft, nipples already hard in the cool air of the control room.

“Go ahead,” she said, that playful smirk still on her face. “Touch them. They’re yours.”

I felt myself getting hard, felt the blood rushing south, felt my brain shorting out as I tried to reconcile what was happening with any kind of rational thought.

I had just claimed Phoebe Conrad. Smart, beautiful, brilliant Phoebe Conrad. The woman who’d helped decode the Source’s programming and free every woman on Earth. And now she was mine. Completely mine.

She moved closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, and took my hands in hers, guiding them up to her breasts.

The moment my palms made contact with her skin, something in me snapped. I squeezed, feeling the weight and softness of her, and she let out a soft, pleased sound that went straight to my cock.

“God, yes,” she breathed, pressing into my touch. “That feels so good. Pleasing you feels so good.” She laughed, a little breathless. “I’ve been such an idiot, resisting this. My mind knew all along. I needed to belong to someone. I needed this.”

I kept touching her, my hands exploring tentatively at first, thumbs brushing over her nipples and feeling them harden further under my touch. She arched into it, encouraging me with soft sounds and whispered words.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Don’t hold back. Take what you want. My happiness is making you happy, that’s all I need.”

The words should have disturbed me more than they did, but my body was overriding my brain, drowning out the ethical concerns with pure physical want. She was watching my face intently, I realized, studying my reactions. When I squeezed harder and her breath hitched, she noticed the flicker of satisfaction in my expression and immediately pressed closer, offering more.

“You like that,” she said, not a question. “You like being rougher with them.”

I did. God help me, I did.

My gaze dropped to her mouth, those full lips slightly parted, then down to the obvious bulge straining against my jeans. She followed my eyes, and I watched something click in her expression, not calculation exactly, but understanding. Analysis. She was reading me, figuring out what I wanted before I fully knew myself.

“Can I?” she asked, already sinking to her knees, her hands moving to my belt.

I nodded, unable to form words.

She worked quickly, efficiently, unbuckling my belt and unzipping my jeans with practiced ease. When she pulled my cock free, I was already rock hard, precum beading at the tip. She looked up at me with those intelligent eyes, still Phoebe, still brilliant, but now entirely focused on pleasing me, and wrapped her hand around my shaft.

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” she said, and then she took me into her mouth.

The wet heat was overwhelming. I groaned, my hand automatically going to her hair, tangling in the strands. She hummed around me, the vibration making my hips jerk, and adjusted her technique immediately, more suction, less tongue, responding to what made me react.

She was learning me in real time, cataloguing what I liked. When I gripped her hair harder, she moaned and took me deeper. When I cursed under my breath at a particular swirl of her tongue, she repeated it. It was like she’d turned that brilliant scientific mind entirely toward the problem of my pleasure, optimizing her approach with every passing second.

“Fuck,” I breathed, watching her head bob, watching my cock disappear between her lips. “Phoebe—”

She pulled back slightly, licking along the underside of my shaft, and looked up at me with such genuine happiness that it made my chest ache. “Am I doing good?” she asked, and the eager need for approval in her voice sent a fresh surge of arousal through me.

“Yes,” I managed. “So fucking good.”

She smiled and took me back into her mouth, deeper this time, until I felt the back of her throat. The conflict in my mind was fading, overwhelmed by the physical reality of what was happening. This was real. She was mine. And she wanted this, or at least, the programming made her want this so completely that the distinction didn’t matter anymore.

I felt myself getting close, my grip on her hair tightening, my hips starting to thrust. But before I could finish, something in me shifted. A bolder impulse, a darker want that I’d been suppressing suddenly surged forward.

I pulled her off my cock abruptly. She gasped, looking up at me with surprise and a hint of concern,—had she done something wrong?—but I didn’t give her time to process. I hauled her to her feet, my hands rough on her arms, and she laughed, delighted by the sudden aggression.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Whatever you want.”

I grabbed the waistband of her jeans and yanked them down, taking her underwear with them. She stepped out of them quickly, still laughing, and I shoved her backward against the work table, scattering papers and her laptop. My hands were everywhere: her hips, her thighs, squeezing and claiming and taking.

“Turn around,” I growled, and she obeyed instantly, bending over the table and presenting herself to me.

I took a moment just to look at her: the curve of her ass, the wetness already visible between her thighs, the way she was trembling slightly with anticipation. This was Phoebe Conrad. Mine. Completely mine.

I lined myself up and pushed into her in one hard thrust.

She cried out, her back arching, and the sound was pure pleasure. She was tight and hot and so fucking wet that I slid in easily despite the force. I pulled back and thrust again, harder, and she moaned, pushing back against me.

“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes. Use me. Please.”

I gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and started fucking her in earnest, all my restraint gone. The table scraped against the concrete floor with each thrust. She was making these beautiful desperate sounds, half-moans and half-words, telling me how good it felt, how perfect, how much she needed this.

I could feel her adjusting even now—the angle of her hips, the way she clenched around me, reading my reactions and optimizing for my pleasure. When I grunted at a particularly deep thrust, she pushed back harder, taking me deeper. When my grip on her hips tightened, she moaned louder, giving me the feedback that I liked being rough.

“You feel so fucking good,” I groaned, watching my cock disappear into her again and again. “So perfect.”

“Yours,” she panted. “I’m yours. God, I’m so happy I’m yours.”

And she meant it. I could hear it in her voice, see it in the ecstatic arch of her spine, feel it in the way she met each thrust with eager desperation. The programming had rewired her completely, made serving me into her entire purpose, and the guilt I should have felt was drowning under waves of pure physical pleasure.

I reached around, found her clit, and rubbed it roughly. She came almost immediately, her whole body going rigid, her pussy clenching around my cock as she cried out my name. The sensation pushed me over the edge, and I buried myself deep, coming hard inside her.

For a moment, we both just stayed there, panting, my body pressed against her back. Then reality started creeping back in, the enormity of what I’d just done threatening to overwhelm me.

But Phoebe turned her head, looking back at me with that radiant smile, and said, “Thank you. God, thank you for claiming me!”

And I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us catching our breath, my softening cock still inside her. The reality of what had just happened was starting to settle over me like a weight: I’d claimed her, fucked her, and she was thanking me for it.

Phoebe straightened slowly, and I pulled out, watching as she turned to face me. Her expression had shifted, becoming more serious though still suffused with that same caring attention.

“What now?” she asked softly.

I blinked, still a bit lost in the haze of post-orgasm thoughts and ethical vertigo. “What do you mean?”

She bit her lip, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “Do you want to keep me? I mean, it’s okay if you don’t—I’d understand—but I really hope you’ll keep me.”

I stayed silent, my mind churning. Of course I was going to keep her. I’d just claimed her. She was mine. The thought should have horrified me, but instead it sent a warm pulse of possessive satisfaction through my chest.

But I didn’t say anything, and Phoebe must have interpreted my silence as hesitation because she started talking faster, words tumbling out.

“It’s fine, really, I mean—I’ve been struggling, you know? Since I freed myself. Or thought I freed myself. I’ve been depressed, not knowing what to do with myself, having these dreams, feeling like something was wrong with me.” She moved closer, her hand reaching for mine. “And now I’m happy. I can be so happy serving you. And I can make you so happy, Wallace. I promise.”

She was watching my face intently, reading my reactions, adjusting her approach. “You don’t have to worry about anyone finding out. I can make sure there are no traces of Smith’s sabotage in the code. I’ll delete that commit, rewrite the history, whatever it takes. And besides, no one is really paying attention to that anymore. Everyone thinks it’s over.”

A small smile played at her lips. “I can just tell everyone I fell in love with you. No one would suspect a thing. We’ve been working together for weeks, it would make sense.”

I felt myself stirring again despite having just come, fascinated by the way her brilliant mind was now entirely devoted to problem-solving for us. For me.

“We can keep working,” she continued, her voice taking on an almost dreamy quality. “Helping restore Chantwell, being part of the community. Or if you want, we could leave. Find somewhere quiet where no one knows us, where you’d be free to use me however you want without worrying about my friends finding out I’m claimed.”

She moved even closer, pressing against me. Her next words came out more carefully, like she was testing the waters, curious but anxious.

“I could even help you claim other women, if you wanted. If that’s something you’d…” She trailed off, watching my face for any sign of interest or revulsion.

I frowned, my brain finally catching up enough to engage with the practical questions. “I thought that was impossible. Freed women had the handshake scrambled when the Source tried to lock everyone in permanently. And didn’t they release a counter-virus that destroyed the VLF matrix in women’s brains?”

Phoebe paused, thinking, and then a smirk spread across her face. She looked almost delighted, like I’d just asked exactly the right question.

“That’s true,” she said slowly. “But…”