The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The blare of the TV echoes as Tracy hurriedly stuffs her suitcase, one eye trained on the clock on her nightstand. She hardly notices the pink rays of dawn peeking over the horizon. There isn’t much for her to take in. Her head is filled with itineraries. Check-in, returning the rental car at the gate, followed by the interminable waiting in line at airport security; praying for heaven’s sake that she isn’t singled out for a cavity search by a pervert airport screener whose idea of a date is more in line with Girls Gone Wild than candles and merlot.

She inspects the luggage. Khakis? Check. Sweaters? Check. Underwear? Double check.

She brushes her teeth one more time before zipping up her luggage. Tracy’s eyes flicker as she glances at the television. The weatherman said there’d be a fifteen minute delay—something about a low pressure system over New England. But at least it isn’t as bad as those severe storms that passed over two weeks before—that would’ve but a damper on her travel plans.

A yawn escapes her lips as she stretches her arms and legs. She can already feel the bottom falling out, the onset of tiredness and fatigue. The drowsy exhausted eyes. She hasn’t gotten up this early since high school. If she had it her way, she would slept in ‘til noon. But then some things one really can’t control.

As she grabs her suitcase, her eye catches sight of the glint of the jewelry she handled two nights before. Tracy agonizes for several minutes, debating whether or not to take them. She feels stupid for having an attachment to them, yet they are the closest she has to a security blanket. She knows it’s irrational, but with so much going on these days, at the very least it gives her some sense of shelter against the bad things happening around her.

Oh what the hell, she gives in, What’s the point of getting dressed if you can’t show off once and awhile? With a prick of the earlobe, Tracy grabs her suitcase and descends the stairs, the click-click-click of her boots reverberating throughout the house. She pauses to jot a quick note to her mom explaining her absence, glancing ruefully at the empty coffeepot.

She pulls into the local service station, gassing up and buying a quick coffee before departing for the hell that is I-75. She tries to remember the exact route. The fog in her brain isn’t helping. She curses her decision to get up early.

As she barrels down the highway, she turns on the radio, hoping the grating sound of wannabe divas keeps her from driving off the side of the road. Her cell phone goes off midway through her journey, the familiar ringtone of robins chirping forcing her to pull into an exit.

“God.” She murmurs. “What is it now?”

“ONE MESSAGE RECEIVED.” The black lettering screams.

“Who could be texting me at this ungodly hour?” Tracy depresses the button.

“I hrd abt what hppned from yr mom. If I’d knwn, I’ wndnt hav snapped. 4 give me? Call ASAP—Suzy”

Tracy rolls her eyes as she dials the number.

“Hey Tracy.” A whirring sound is clearly audible in the background. “Did you get my text?”

“What are you doing?” Tracy raises her voice. “Canning peaches or something?”

“No.” Suzy pants. “Just my usual morning workout. Treadmill, strength training, you know, the usual. Look, I ran into your mom in the supermarket yesterday. If you don’t want to talk about it that’s fine, but my schedule just opened up. I got an open house later at three, but anytime before then should be okay...”

“Now isn’t a good time.” Tracy interrupts. “I’m headed to the airport right now and—”

“Sure, whatever you want.” Suzy backtracks. “If you need anything you got my number, right?”

“Over and out.”

Click.

Tracy sighs and pulls out the restaurant parking lot, heading back the same way she came. She tries to remember the route she plotted out, feeling under the gun even as she puts her foot to the accelerator. Her head throbs with pain. She’d give anything for just a couple aspirin...

At last, she pulls into the parking lot of Hartsfield-Jackson airport, feeling victorious for having managed to navigate the snarling traffic without killing anyone. She rolls her luggage towards the sliding doors, weary yet looking forward to her flight home, when the cell phone rings again.

She can never can a break today, can she?

“Hello?” She fishes it out of her pocket.

“Where were you this morning?“Her mother speaks in a voice of concern. “I looked everywhere for you but you weren’t there...”

“I’m at the airport, Mom.”

“Cutting the trip so soon?”

“Look, Mom, I got to go.”

“Anything you say, dear. Call me when you get back.”

Tracy sighs as she hangs up.

Two hours later, she collapses on the bed in her apartment, exhausted but happy to be back home. She drifts off to sleep, grateful for the rest.

Tracy nervously walks into the dimly lit garage, gripping her purse tightly. Every so often she looks over her shoulder, feeling insecure in the dead of night. She told Joanie she’d meet her for lunch. Not in an underground garage at Gods knows when. Her shoulders tense up as she searches for a familiar face in the middle of cars and concrete.

She wonders around aimlessly, not quite sure what to expect. As her eyes adjust to the faint lighting, her stomach churns. She darts her eyes, looking for anything out of place. Anyone could be around the corner. Maintenance, cranks...rapists. Suddenly, the idea of having a gun doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all.

As she rounds the corner, she catches sight of a pair of figures out of the corner of her eye. They appear to be a tall woman and a younger man of indeterminate age—it’s hard to tell from the back of his head. Tracy tells herself it’s nothing to be worked over about, probably just a couple of employees chatting amongst themselves. She pretends not to notice as she passes by, praying that she is just as invisible to them as they are to her.

She screams as a hand yanks her into the darkness.

“Shh.” Joanie whispers as she covers Tracy’s mouth.

“That isn’t funny.” Tracy pants. “You know how scared I was coming here? Christ.”

“Sorry. I had to make sure it was really you.”

“Of course it’s me. I’m the same person I’ve always been.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? They could make you the same but not the same, you know? I wish I could put it into words. You’ll see what I mean, soon enough.”

Tracy turns around to face a haggard woman wearing a cap. Dark circles hang over her wild eyes. Her sweater appears at least a size or two larger than her frame. She bears no relation to the happy go lucky girl she knew in high school. The Joanie of her youth would never allow herself to waste away like this.

Tracy doesn’t know whether to hug her or call the police.

“What happened to you?”

“That’s what I brought you down here for.” Joanie darts her eyes. “So I could tell you the truth.”

“What truth? You made me risk my safety just to tell me that you’ve lost weight?”

Joanie glances around furtively.

“You know that woman that disappeared the other day? The researcher?”

Tracy nods.

“Thing is, she didn’t really disappear, you follow me? They got her.”

“They, who’s they?”

“Divinex, you’ve heard of them?”

“Yeah, Jer—my fiancee used to work for them.”

“I heard it through the grapevine that she was going to tell Matt everything. The mind control, the harems...all that shit. Then just like that.” Joanie snaps her fingers. “Gone. Disappeared, never to be seen again.

“Matt...Who’s Matt?”

“I am.” The gentleman with the sandy hair introduces himself, pressing a business card into Tracy’s palm. “I’ve been working this story ever since Jill got in touch with me a few months ago.”

Tracy sizes him up. He’s the persona of the stereotypical reporter, a man with greasy black hair and a budding hinting at late nights sitting in front of a laptop eating fast food and chugging poison he could find. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that he lies in bed clutching his copy of All the President’s Men, dreaming of having his name mentioned in the same breath as Woodward and Bernstein. If this story pans out the way Joanie suggests it would, he wouldn’t need a publicist: he’d need a personal trainer.

“You two need professional help.” She rolls her eyes at the pair.

“I’m not joking.” Joanie’s voice is urgent. “It was supposed to be real top secret stuff, something about government being in the mind control business.”

“That’s crazy. Divinex is a reputable defense contractor.”

Joanie’s zones out, staring into space for an interminable period of time. Tracy’s knuckles grow white as her grip grows ever tighter. She barely conceals her fright as she looks on at her high school friend, unable to snap her out of her trance. She no longer doubts that something happened to her at the facility. Yet she can’t pull her eyes from the terrible sight.

Joanie drops to her knees. She continues to stare at the empty space, oblivious to Tracy and Matt’s existence. Her behavior troubles the both of them. They exchange nervous glances, not quite sure what they’re witnessing, but praying for it to end.

“That’s it.” Tracy fishes out her cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”

A flicker of fear appears in her eyes as she watches Joanie crawl slowly toward Matt, seemingly entranced by something in his khakis. She watches in horror as her former classmate unzips his pants, reaching for the hidden treasure inside. The look of shock on Matt’s face could do no justice describing the flux of emotions inside him—shock and disbelief, to say nothing of arousal.

Tracy wrestles Joanie away from him before she can continue further. She braves the spit and abuse hurled on her as her friend fights back. Joanie’s face is beet red, yet Tracy could care less.

“Is this what they did to you? Turned you into a nymphomaniac?”

“Yeah!” Joanie screams. “And I liked it!”

“You need help, Joanie.”

“Let go of me!”

“No!” Tracy pins her down. “Not until you admit you have a problem.”

The struggle continues until Joanie regains a sense of composure. Tracy relaxes her grip as Joanie calms down.

“I’m sorry.” She catches her breath. “I should’ve attacked you like that. It’s just every so often the programming...It makes me do things sometimes that I can’t remember. I’ve been trying all these pills to make it go away, but nothing’s worked. I’m at the end of my rope.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Four to six months, since I busted out of there. Every time I think I’m clean I find myself in a bar, doing God knows what or jilling off in my sleep. How I got out of there is beyond me.”

“Did you speak to Jill at all during this time?”

“No way.” Joanie shakes her head. “I never heard of her name until a few weeks ago...”

The squelching of tires interrupts their conversation as Tracy spies a black sedan drifting their way. The vehicle speeds towards them, heedless to the trio in the garage. Joanie pushes Tracy down as shots ring out, using her body as cover to protect them while Matt hides behind one of the many columns buttressing the underground facility. Tracy feels something warm and moist on the back of her hand. Crawling out from under her friend, her jaw drops in terror.

It is blood.

She returns to her apartment in a daze, wandering throughout the pad soaked in her friend’s blood. She catches a glance of the manila folder Jeremy gave her lying on the nightstand. Without thinking about it, she rips it open. A pile of memos and white papers tumble out bearing the diamond white and blue Divinex logo, along with a tape recorder. She struggles to make sense of the scientific jargon and diagrams as she sifts through the documents, describing in graphic detail the various experiments—sexual and otherwise—performed on the various college girls and working professionals who served as the participants. She presses the play button on the recorder, fearful of the tape’s contents.

“If you’re listening, Tracy,” Jeremy’s voice rises from the grave. “I’m sorry. I wish I was speaking to you under different circumstances. I can only imagine how shocked you are at the reports in front of you. The documents you have in front of you are the results of six months of late nights and painstaking investigations, the achiness of being away from you killed me. The only thing worse is the fact that I didn’t come forward sooner...”

“I love you Tracy, but this is the only way to put an end to the venality and corruption. My hands are just as dirty as theirs. Maybe you’re the one who will blow the lid off this, maybe not. But at last you know the truth at. Goodbye, Tracy. Goodby—”

The tape abruptly stops mid-speech. Tracy casts an eye at the tape and back towards the earrings on the nightstand. Her stomach burns with fire. Picking up the phone, she dials the number of an esteemed professor, white hot with anger.

“Professor Liles?” She barely restrains herself as she leaves a message on his voicemail. “This is Tracy Elgin. Psych 252? I was wondering if you know anything about job openings at Divinex. If you could please call me back at this number, I would appreciate it. Thanks!”

She balls her fists. Come hell or high water, Divinex will pay for what it’s done. Lord, it will pay.