The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ramona

I fidgeted on the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the crisp cotton sheets, a luxury after nearly two weeks of sleeping on the makeshift beds in the MRI room. Our new quarters in the visiting researcher’s apartments were modest but comfortable: two twin beds with nightstands between them, a small desk by the window, a shared closet, and an attached bathroom. The walls were painted a neutral beige, adorned only with a generic landscape print that somehow managed to be both inoffensive and utterly forgettable. Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the industrial carpet.

I watched the sunlight playing through the pine trees outside our window, feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over me. Being owned by Smith made everything so wonderfully simple. The constant pressure of decision-making, the weight of responsibility, the endless worry about the future. All of it had evaporated like morning dew. My purpose was crystalline in its clarity: be useful, please Smith. Nothing else mattered. Being out of that claustrophobic MRI room felt pleasant, certainly, but it was merely a circumstantial improvement, nothing as fundamentally important as serving my owner.

Despite having slept poorly—reprogramming wasn’t exactly conducive to restful slumber, I noted with amusement—I felt more alert than I had in weeks. The fog of anxiety that had clouded my thinking had lifted, replaced by a laser-like focus on my new purpose. The sound of running water from the bathroom provided a soothing background to my thoughts, until it abruptly ceased.

A moment later, Phoebe emerged, completely naked, water droplets still clinging to her skin. My eyes assessed her clinically, cataloging the attributes that might please Smith: petite frame with surprisingly full breasts, nipples small and pink, standing at attention in the cooler air. Her waist narrowed dramatically before flaring to rounded hips, a classically feminine silhouette that men typically found appealing. The dark triangle between her legs was neatly trimmed. Thoughtful of her to maintain that without explicit instruction. Her skin had the elasticity of youth, and though she lacked the muscle definition of someone like Warda, the softness would likely appeal to Smith’s tactile senses.

“God, it feels incredible to finally take a proper shower,” Phoebe said, vigorously toweling her hair. “I was starting to forget what clean felt like after all that time in the MRI room.” She caught me looking and smirked, meeting my gaze without a hint of self-consciousness. “Weird, isn’t it? I’d normally die before parading around naked in front of a colleague. Now it just seems… irrelevant. Like anything that isn’t about pleasing Smith doesn’t even register as important.”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” I agreed, nodding. “The programming is remarkably efficient at prioritization.”

Phoebe dropped the towel and struck a pose, one hip thrust out, arms raised to lift her breasts. “Do you think Smith will want me like this? Should I get dressed or stay naked? Might be a nice greeting when he arrives.”

I considered her question seriously, evaluating her body once more. “Your figure is certainly pleasing: symmetrical features, healthy skin tone, good hip-to-waist ratio. Smith has demonstrated consistent sexual interest in his claimed women thus far, which indicates a high libido. Additionally, the fact that we’ve been inaccessible to him for nearly two weeks may have created a scarcity effect, potentially increasing our perceived value as sexual partners.” I tilted my head thoughtfully. “However, we’ll discover his preferences soon enough. Perhaps the prudent approach is to greet him clothed, but in something revealing enough to signal availability.” I gestured toward the large cardboard box of clothing on the floor, collected from town during one of Edward’s supply runs.

Phoebe nodded, then looked me up and down with a smirk. “Is that what you went for?”

I glanced down at my own attire: a silk blouse unbuttoned low enough to reveal the lace edge of my bra, and a skirt that ended well above my knees. Not my usual professional attire by any means. “Yes,” I admitted. “While I’m older than Smith’s other claimed women, I want to ensure I remain a viable sexual option should he desire me. Age brings certain disadvantages in that regard, but I see no reason to eliminate the possibility preemptively.”

“Oh, please,” Phoebe said playfully, rummaging through the box of clothes. “You’re mature, sure, but you don’t look ‘old’ old. You’re quite stunning for your age, actually. I can’t speak for Smith’s preferences, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted you that way.”

Her words pleased me immensely—the possibility that I might still be attractive enough for Smith to desire sexually. I found myself smiling, amused by the irony. Before being claimed, I’d been intrigued by the way claimed women defaulted to sexual availability, wondering if it was an explicit directive in the programming. We’d found nothing so overt when decoding the signal, yet here I was, hoping desperately to please Smith in precisely that manner.

“It’s fascinating,” I mused. “Sex now seems like the most direct and efficient way to provide pleasure to Smith. I find myself hoping he’ll use me that way, despite having little personal interest in sexual activity before. It’s been…” I calculated briefly, “nearly seven years since my last sexual encounter. Yet suddenly, sex has taken on tremendous importance as the ultimate tool to satisfy the one person who matters in the world.”

Phoebe rummaged through the box of clothes, her attention wandering as she pulled out various items and held them against herself. “You’re right about keeping options open,” she murmured, finally extracting a fitted blouse in deep emerald that complemented her eyes and a skirt that would barely qualify as professional in any workplace. “Smith strikes me as someone who appreciates… accessibility.”

I watched as she dressed, noting how the outfit transformed her from merely naked to deliberately enticing. The blouse clung to her breasts, the top buttons strategically left undone to reveal the inner curves. The skirt hugged her hips and ended high enough to make crossing her legs a potentially revealing act. She looked both sophisticated and available, a perfect balance.

“Oh, look at this,” Phoebe said, pulling out a small makeup kit from the bottom of the box. “That’s a pretty clear message, isn’t it?” She laughed softly. “I hardly ever wear makeup. I’m not even sure I remember how to apply it properly. The last time was probably at my cousin’s wedding three years ago, and my mother practically had to hold me down.”

“Come here,” I offered, patting the edge of my bed. “I don’t wear it often either, but I’ve had to for various functions: donor meetings, grant presentations, those tedious investment dinners where looking ‘professional’ somehow requires lipstick.” I rolled my eyes, a remnant of my former self’s irritation at such expectations. “Sit. I’ll do it for you.”

Phoebe settled on the bed, tilting her face up to me as I opened the makeup kit. I selected a neutral eyeshadow palette and began applying it with careful strokes.

“What do you think Smith will need from us?” Phoebe asked suddenly, her eyes closed as I worked. “Besides the obvious sexual services, I mean. He didn’t go through all this trouble just to assemble the world’s highest-IQ harem, did he? Not just for bragging rights?”

I considered the question as I blended the eyeshadow, creating a subtle smoky effect that emphasized the almond shape of her eyes. “I suspect he needs our expertise,” I replied, selecting a fine-tipped eyeliner. “Hold still now. He’s likely hoping we’ll apply what we learned about decoding the signal to create programs that serve his interests.”

“So logically,” Phoebe said, keeping impressively still as I traced her lash line, “what he’d want most is to ensure women aren’t freed.”

The moment she said it, I felt a visceral revulsion at the very concept of being “freed.” The idea of having Smith’s influence removed from my mind made my stomach clench with something approaching nausea. I could see the same reaction flicker across Phoebe’s face: a momentary grimace, quickly suppressed.

“Yes,” I agreed, reaching for a mascara wand. “It’s a given that Smith will need us to help him lock in the current situation. He’ll want to ensure women cannot be freed, likely by completing the new version of the virus, destroying the neural matrix entirely, making it impossible for any new signal to ever reach women worldwide.”

I finished with a touch of rose-tinted lip gloss, then sat back to admire my work. Phoebe looked stunning, her features enhanced rather than masked, though in a decidedly more erotic manner than I would have chosen for a professional setting. The makeup emphasized her full lips and bright eyes, giving her a look of perpetual arousal.

“There,” I said with satisfaction. “You look perfect. Exactly what Smith would want, I think.”

Phoebe glanced at her reflection in the small compact mirror from the kit and raised her eyebrows appreciatively. “Wow. You’re good at this. I look…”

“Desirable,” I finished for her. “Which is precisely what we aim to be.”

I stood and moved to the bathroom, positioning myself before the mirror to apply my own makeup. As I carefully lined my eyes, I found myself hoping that Smith would find me at least half as appealing as I’d made Phoebe. The thought of pleasing him, in any capacity, sent a warm current of anticipation through my body.

The bathroom door burst open without warning, and Smith strode in without so much as a knock. My heart leapt into my throat, and instantly, everything else in the universe receded to insignificance. It was as though his physical presence amplified the programming in my mind. The imperative to please him suddenly became not just a priority but the sole purpose of my existence. I caught Phoebe’s expression in my peripheral vision and recognized the same transformation overtaking her: dilated pupils, quickened breath, complete attention locked on our owner.

Smith stood in the doorway, taking us in with a leisurely, appraising gaze. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth before he gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Well, well,” he said, his eyes lingering first on Phoebe, who blushed furiously under his scrutiny, her cheeks turning a delicate pink that complemented the makeup I’d applied. Then his gaze shifted to me, and I felt an unexpected flush of heat rise to my own face. There was unmistakable desire in his eyes, perhaps not as intense as when he looked at Phoebe, but desire nonetheless. The knowledge that I could still evoke such a reaction sent a surge of pleasure through me.

“You two certainly clean up nicely,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Much better than those last days in the MRI room.”

Phoebe immediately struck a pose, one hip thrust out, chest forward. “Thank you for rescuing us from that place,” she said, her voice taking on a sultry quality I’d never heard from her before. “And for the room, the clothes, the makeup…” She bit her lower lip in a deliberately seductive gesture. “Though I’d be happy to show my gratitude by taking these clothes off, if you’d prefer.”

Smith’s eyes darkened with interest, his smirk widening into something more predatory. He didn’t respond to her directly, instead turning his attention to me. “And you, Dr. Quinn? Would you also like to express your gratitude by removing your clothes?”

A strange fire ignited within me: not sexual arousal in the conventional sense, but a burning desire to please him, to see approval in his eyes. The mere possibility that I might bring him pleasure created a feedback loop of satisfaction that was its own reward. “I would love to thank you properly,” I heard myself say, my voice steady despite the intensity of my feelings. “In any way you want, with or without clothes.”

Smith checked his watch, then sighed. “Ideally, we don’t have much time to waste. I came here primarily to brief you on your assignments.” He paused, his expression softening slightly. “But I’ve been looking forward to spending time with my two newest acquisitions, and I suppose we all could use some relaxation, especially me. After all,” he added with a satisfied smile, “now that Vokter has been warned to stay clear of the internet entirely, for his own safety, Charlotte, Gabriel, and their little band won’t be broadcasting anything anytime soon.”

Phoebe and I nodded eagerly, both of us practically vibrating with the need to be useful to him. We stood side by side, awaiting instructions, ready to serve in whatever capacity he required.

Smith’s smirk returned as he settled into the room’s only chair. “Kiss,” he commanded simply.

The instruction caught me slightly off guard, but my body was already turning toward Phoebe before my mind had fully processed the order. Our eyes met briefly, a flicker of surprise quickly subsumed by determination to obey, and then our lips connected. I had never been attracted to women, had never even kissed a female friend, yet I found myself entirely focused on performing well, on making this pleasing for Smith to watch. Phoebe’s lips were soft, her breath warm against my face as we moved tentatively against each other.

“Come on,” Smith’s voice cut through my concentration. “You can do better than that. Make it hotter. Put some passion into it.”

His criticism stung like a physical blow. I wasn’t doing well enough, wasn’t pleasing him adequately. The need to improve, to excel at this task, overwhelmed every other consideration. I slid my hand behind Phoebe’s neck, pulling her closer, and deepened the kiss. My tongue pushed past her lips, exploring her mouth with a fervor that surprised even me. Phoebe responded immediately, matching my intensity, her hands finding my waist.

What began as performance rapidly evolved into something more complex. My hands moved to Phoebe’s breasts, cupping them through her blouse, feeling her nipples harden against my palms. We moaned into each other’s mouths. I wasn’t aroused by Phoebe’s body or her touch, yet I experienced an intense satisfaction that transcended physical desire. It was devotion in its purest form, the joy of service, of obedience.

I pressed Phoebe against the wall, our bodies flush against each other, my thigh pushing between her legs as our kiss grew messier, more desperate. My fingers worked at her blouse buttons, exposing more skin for Smith’s viewing pleasure. Through it all, I remained acutely aware of his gaze on us, and that awareness was intoxicating. Every approving sound from his direction sent waves of fulfillment washing through me. I wasn’t enjoying the kiss for its own sake, I was enjoying being the instrument of Smith’s pleasure, and that was enough. More than enough. It was everything.

Smith shifted in his chair, his eyes dark with desire as he watched us. “I think it’s time to lose those clothes,” he said, his voice husky with arousal.

Without hesitation, Phoebe and I broke our kiss and began undressing. My fingers worked methodically at my blouse buttons, though they trembled slightly with eagerness to please. I slipped the silk from my shoulders, then unzipped my skirt and let it pool at my feet. Beside me, Phoebe was already down to her underwear, her movements more fluid and practiced than mine. I unhooked my bra, acutely aware of Smith’s eyes on my body as I revealed myself to him.

Soon we both stood naked before him. Phoebe’s body was everything I’d assessed earlier: youthful, supple, with full breasts that seemed almost incongruous on her petite frame. My own body was different: taller, more angular, with smaller breasts but longer legs. Smith’s eyes moved between us, comparing, evaluating, and I found myself hoping desperately that I measured up favorably.

“Come here,” he commanded, unbuckling his belt and freeing his erection. “Show me how grateful you both are.”

We approached him together, kneeling in perfect synchronicity before his chair. I’d performed oral sex before, though not frequently and not recently, but the mechanics were simple enough. What surprised me was my eagerness. My mouth actually watered at the prospect of pleasuring him this way. Phoebe and I exchanged a brief glance, communicating without words, then leaned forward together.

I took the initiative, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock while Phoebe’s tongue traced patterns along the shaft. The taste was unfamiliar yet not unpleasant: slightly salty, distinctly male. I hollowed my cheeks, creating suction as I took him deeper, while Phoebe’s hand cupped his testicles, massaging them gently. Smith groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head, not pushing but present, a reminder of his control.

After a moment, I withdrew, allowing Phoebe to take my place. Her technique was different, more playful, with quick flicks of her tongue and teasing nibbles along the sensitive ridge. I moved lower, my tongue exploring his testicles while my hand stroked the base of his shaft. We established a rhythm, alternating between his cock and balls, sometimes working in tandem, her mouth on one side of his shaft, mine on the other, our tongues occasionally meeting in the middle.

“That’s it,” Smith murmured, his breathing becoming heavier. “Such good girls.”

The praise sent a surge of pleasure through me that was almost orgasmic in its intensity. I redoubled my efforts, taking him deeper than before, relaxing my throat to accommodate his length. Saliva dripped down my chin, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was his pleasure, his approval. Phoebe and I worked together seamlessly, as though we’d rehearsed this dance countless times, our bodies and mouths moving in perfect harmony to serve our owner.

After several minutes, Smith gently pushed us both back. “On the bed,” he instructed me, rising from the chair. “You first.”

I moved to the nearest bed, positioning myself on my back, legs spread in invitation. Smith stood between my thighs, his expression hungry as he looked down at me. Without preamble, he thrust into me, and I gasped at the sudden intrusion. It had been years since I’d last had intercourse, and my body wasn’t as naturally lubricated as it might once have been, but the discomfort was irrelevant.

He established a steady rhythm, his hands gripping my hips as he drove into me. Phoebe knelt beside us, her hands roaming over my body, cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples. I moaned, not from physical pleasure, though there was some of that, but from the sheer satisfaction of being useful to Smith.

Smith’s pace increased, his thrusts becoming more forceful. I wrapped my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, wanting to maximize his pleasure. My analytical mind remained active even as my body responded to his. I noted the slight change in his breathing, the tension in his muscles, cataloging these details for future reference. I wanted to learn exactly how to please him, to become the perfect instrument for his satisfaction.

Before long, Smith withdrew, turning his attention to Phoebe. “Your turn,” he said, his voice rough with arousal.

Phoebe took my place eagerly, positioning herself on all fours, presenting herself to him. Smith entered her from behind, eliciting a high-pitched moan that sounded almost theatrical to my ears, yet I understood the impulse perfectly. We were performing for him, each trying to demonstrate our value, our devotion.

I moved behind Smith, my hands tracing patterns on his back, my lips pressing kisses to his shoulders. I wanted him to know I was still engaged, still serving, even as he focused on Phoebe. I watched his cock sliding in and out of her, fascinated by the mechanics of it, by the way her body yielded to his. There was no jealousy in me, only a shared purpose.

Smith’s movements grew more erratic, his breathing more labored. He pulled out of Phoebe suddenly, staring at her. “Hold your breasts together,” he instructed.

Phoebe complied, pressing her breasts together to form a deep cleavage, spitting into the crevice to make it slick. Smith began thrusting into the tight valley between her breasts, his hand gripping the back of her head.

“I’m close,” Smith growled, his hips moving faster. “Going to cum all over these perfect tits.”

Phoebe arched her back, pushing her breasts more firmly around his cock, her expression one of eager anticipation. With a final thrust and a guttural groan, Smith reached his climax, his semen spurting in thick ropes across Phoebe’s chest, some landing on her neck and chin. She smiled up at him, clearly pleased to have brought him to completion.

Smith caught his breath, then turned to me with a sly smile. “Clean her up,” he said, gesturing to Phoebe’s cum-splattered breasts.

Without hesitation, I leaned forward and began licking the semen from Phoebe’s skin. The taste was bitter, slightly salty, but the act itself filled me with satisfaction. I was performing a service for Smith, demonstrating my willingness to do anything he asked. As I worked, meticulously cleaning every drop from Phoebe’s flesh, I analyzed my own reactions with the detached curiosity that had served me well in my scientific career.

I wasn’t sexually aroused by the act itself, Phoebe’s body held no inherent appeal for me, yet I experienced a profound pleasure in the submission, in the complete abnegation of my own preferences in service to Smith’s desires. It was as though the claiming had rewired my brain’s reward pathways, creating a direct connection between his pleasure and my own fulfillment. The more debased the act, the more it demonstrated my devotion, and the greater my satisfaction.

We lay sprawled across the bed, breathing heavily as we watched Smith recover from his climax. My body tingled with a profound sense of satisfaction that transcended anything physical, a deep, soul-level contentment that came from having successfully pleased him. This feeling, I realized, was possibly the most exquisite sensation I had ever experienced. More intense than solving a complex research problem, more fulfilling than professional recognition, more satisfying than any personal achievement.

I found myself wondering, with a scientist’s curiosity, if Smith himself could ever experience pleasure as intense as what his women felt when pleasing him. There was something almost ironic about it, perhaps even a little sad. The architect of this new world order might never know the transcendent joy of complete devotion that we now experienced. The thought made me want to find new, innovative ways to intensify his pleasure, to help him reach heights of ecstasy that might approach what we felt in service to him.

Smith checked his watch and sighed, his expression shifting from satiated to focused. “That was nice,” he said, zipping his pants and straightening his shirt, “but we need to get back to business.”

Phoebe and I immediately sat up straighter, our bodies still naked, my mouth still carrying the bitter-salt taste of his semen, a few pearlescent drops still clinging to Phoebe’s breasts. I reached for a notepad on the nightstand while Phoebe grabbed a tablet from the desk. We positioned ourselves attentively, ready to take notes, our earlier playfulness replaced by professional concentration.

“What do you need from us?” Phoebe asked, her voice clear and steady. “We’ll do anything we can to help.”

“I imagine you want us to finalize the counter-virus,” I added, tapping my pen against the notepad. “We could have it ready for deployment within days if we focus our resources.”

Smith smirked, adjusting his cuffs as he paced the small room. “At some point, yes, the counter-virus will need to be deployed. But right now, I need you to create a new program to broadcast, and quickly, before Norway loses transmission capability.”

Phoebe and I exchanged surprised glances before turning back to Smith, our expressions a mixture of determination and curiosity.

“A new program?” I asked, pen poised above paper. “What kind of program?”

Smith’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with ambition as he looked between us. “I need you to create a program that will make me the only owner of all women on Earth.”