The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Natalie finished her story and looked expectantly at the stern young man holding the clipboard. He looked like a stereotype: dark business suit, dark glasses, short hair, clean-shaven. He was about 24 or so. He stared back but said nothing for a long time. Natalie wished she could move, but she was strapped into a hospital bed. She ached to fuck him.

“Ms. Palmer,” he finally said, “we appreciate the information.”

He turned to a similarly-clothed man beside him. Natalie thought he sounded for all the world like Jack Webb. “Go over this. Check out every place she’s been. Pay particular attention to the nail salon and the two bars; any place she might have encountered a woman over the age of 35.”

He looked back at Natalie, who was wondering what his dick looked like; how it would feel inside of her. “Thank you, Ms. Palmer. The psychiatrist will be in shortly.”

“I’m here now, Mr. Meecham,” came a familiar voice. Natalie craned her head to see Dr. Ellen Freemont enter from the door close to the bed. Dr. Freemont was different somehow. Natalie had always felt that Ellen Freemont was tough but a warm person, but there was no warmth there now. She looked at Natalie but didn’t smile, observing her like a lab rat.

“I see the breasts have stopped growing. You’re reaching the final stages. How are you feeling?” she finally asked.

“Tired. Horny.” Natalie closed her eyes and felt the strap on her right arm shift slightly. It was a little loose. She pulled against it.

Dr. Freemont indicated one of three bags of clear liquid dripping into Natalie’s left arm. “The drip helps with that. Takes the edge off, or so I’m told. Do you know where you are?” Natalie shook her head. “You’re back at the mental hospital. It’s a special quarantine ward that few people know about.”

Freemont looked at a pile of multi-colored papers on a clipboard. “Your body has had a considerable shock. You’ve been unconcious for three days, partly from the Ketamine, partly from the stress. You were severely dehydrated. We were afraid we’d have to dialize you but your kidneys are much better now.”

Natalie asked the question no one else would answer. “My daughter. Jennifer. Is she ok?”

“She’s fine,” Freemont said. “The virus only affects women and only those who reach a certain age. The cut-off seems to be around 40 or so. Some more, some less, but it’s a good reference point.”

“Dr. Freemont...”

“Dr. Jenkins,” the older woman corrected her. “Dr. Frieda Jenkins. Dr. Freemont is a myth; a fabrication.”

Natalie looked confused. “Dr. Freemont...”

“Jenkins.”

“Jenkins... How can that be? I worked for you for twenty-four years.”

Jenkins looked at one of the drips, writing something down in her notes. “Yes. And I’ve been lying to you for twenty-four years. See how that works? My name isn’t Freemont.”

Natalie struggled with her bonds. The right arm strap was looser but still holding. She wished that she could move. Her left leg itched and she tried to will it to stop. “What’s this all about?”

“The virus,” Jenkins said. “It’s all about the virus. We released patient 375 into the hospital last week. We needed her to infect someone through an exchange of bodily fluids. Fortunately the virus creates in the infected individual an urge to spread it around in the final stages.”

“Wh-what is it?” Natalie whispered, feeling a small twinge of fear for the first time. As quickly as it appeared, the fear was gone.

“We built it,” Jenkins said smugly. “It’s what we call a ‘designer virus’. Its main functions are supposed to be to increase a woman’s ability to bear children at a later age and to make her want to share the virus with other women. We got part of it right. The other effects need... fine tuning.

“Any woman in your age group would have done. We just got you by pure chance.”

Natalie looked at her left hand. No sign of the scratches. “Why am I so calm about all of this?”

“One of the interesting side-effects of the strain you’ve been exposed to is a detachment from certain emotions,” Jenkins said, holding a penlight to Natalie’s right eye. “That’s why you don’t care about your daughter anymore beyond a casual interest. Your wants and desires have become more important than any relationships in your life and your drive to procreate is through the roof. You’d die to mate... to fuck right now, wouldn’t you?”

Natalie nodded. She looked at the wall clock that she’d been staring at for the past six hours. It was a 24-hour analog military clock. Five PM. “When will I be released?” She felt the urge to play. To find a young man and fuck him.

Jenkins looked at her clinically, leaning on the side bed rail. “The solution we’re using on you helps control your urges and brings down the fever, but your body will build up an immunity to it in short order. Within a couple of days you’ll be much like patient 375. After that, you’ll quickly die from the fever. Sorry. There’s no cure.”

Natalie roared in rage. She strained as much as her weakened body allowed and her right arm broke free. She quickly grabbed Jenkins’ left hand and brought it to her mouth, clamping down hard on it. She could taste the older woman’s blood on her tongue. Jenkins shrieked. Slapping Natalie’s face hard with the clipboard, she managed to break free and backed away, holding her left hand and looking at Natalie in shock.

“My only regret,” Natalie panted, tired from the effort, “is that I won’t live long enough to watch you die, asshole. You’re going to look pretty damned stupid running around in a miniskirt, you dried-up old bitch!”

Frieda Jenkins looked down at her bleeding hand. In her mind’s eye she could imagine the virus rushing through her system. She felt a craving and at this point she knew that it was only psychological. It couldn’t be happening yet. Not really. But she was already jonesing for a man.