The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I walked into Atlanta’s Omni Hotel and immediately noticed the blonde. Actually, it was impossible not to notice her.

She sat in a seat near the check-in desk, with legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded in her lap. I spotted long, blond hair; large tits in profile; muscular legs; and navy blue shoes with altitude-changing heels.

As soon as the blonde spotted me, she stood up, even though she’d never seen me before. She gave me a big smile, the kind that Southern women are so practiced at. She held that smile as she walked toward me.

She was wearing a navy-blue-and-pinstripe skirt-suit that had a high hemline, and a low neckline that revealed a peach-colored blouse. Her tits were indeed enormous, her waist was tiny, and her legs were slim. And yet for all that overt sexiness, her makeup was all in natural colors.

She was made-up like a minister’s daughter. She was shaped like a stripper. And she was walking straight toward me.

She wasn’t wearing an “SOS” pin, I noted. But as gorgeous as she was, that wasn’t really a surprise. I’d never gone to any Society Of Smarties meeting and met any woman who looked like her.

Once she got close to me, she threw her arms around me like we were long-parted lovers. I smelled a sexy perfume. She said loudly, “James Upton, oh my gawd, it’s like so good to see you again, you know?” Her accent was strong Rural Georgia.

Then she lowered her voice and said, “King James, Ah am Amy-845639.”

Indeed, after Amy broke the hug, I noticed that she had long fingernails on both hands, and warts on her left hand. She was a bimborg—specifically, a Pleasure Unit/Welcomer.

Amy continued: “The Club”—bimborg hive—“has chosen me to be your assistant for whatever you might need in Atlanta.” She giggled. “Ah have already downloaded all your sexual preferences, and Ah have red lipstick and lip gloss in my purse. Ah am prepared.” She giggled again.

I teased her: “Only one Pleasure Unit while I’m in a strange city? Only one? Usually Stephanie-1 sends me at least two bimborg hotties.”

Amy smiled at me. “There’s another Pleasure Unit here, Heather-216937. She’s registered for the SOS convention, same as you are. And—”

“Hold on, she’s a Society Of Smarties member who also meets Babeness Standards? Smart and hot, wow.”

“She is here to also rock your world, however you want. At the moment, she’s in the SOS Hospitality Suite, discussing Atlas Shrugged with a lesbian. BO-ring!”

“Gotcha,” I said. I turned my thoughts back to Amy-845639, immediately noticing something about the number of her unit designation. I said, “It hasn’t been long since you were Welcomed.”

She nodded. “Yes, during Freshman Orientation at Emory University, so Ah’ve been a Pleasure Unit for only three months. But Ah myself have Welcomed ten other girls in that time.” She clearly was proud of that last statement.

I said to her, “I haven’t decided yet what to do with you. For right now, I want the hotel and SOS to know I’m here. Follow me.”

With Amy sashaying next to me, I walked up to the hotel desk. The hotel confirmed my registration and gave me a key card. Amy and I caught the elevator up to my room (Amy drew stares), I dropped off my suitcase and garment bag, Amy and I took the elevator down to the ground floor (Amy drew stares again, sashaying through the lobby), and then I found the registration table for the Society Of Smarties National Convention.

As I was was being handed my convention Registration Packet (the young man had a difficult time looking at me and not at Amy), I saw a sign behind the registration table—

“Friday night keynote speech: Famous author and SOS member Esau Asimov will speak on the topic, Society’s Future and the Three Laws of Robotics.”

I burst out laughing. I laughed and laughed, like Santa Claus on nitrous oxide. The young man turned his stare from Amy’s tits to my face. Unfortunately for him, I thought it unwise to share the joke with him.

The Three Laws of Robotics tell you how to program a robot so that it won’t be dangerous to humans. And even though the Laws are fictional, they now are treated to be as trusty as Newton’s Laws of Motion. Because every time a story author creates a robot whose programming changes or omits one of the Three Laws, that robot sooner or later gets dangerous.

Tell me about it. In one version of the future, the greatest danger to human civilization in the twenty-seventh century will be the always-Welcoming Cybes—humans with partly robot bodies, robot brains, and group intelligence. The Cybes will have none of the Three Laws in their programming.

The Cybes sound nasty, right? Well, the Cybes traveled (will travel?) back through time expressly to “Welcome” me. Meaning, they tried when I was just fifteen, to enslave me into the Cybes’ hive.

The Cybes’ attack on me failed, mainly through the efforts of my twenty-seventh-century protectors: members of the Planetary Alliance. But also, the Cybes sent a sneak attack; but rather than my attacker Welcoming me, I killed her. (Then I stripped her body of Cybe technology.)

Several years passed. By then I had learned that in the original history, my older self had published a paper about nanotechnology that made all sorts of wonders possible, beginning in the twenty-fourth century. By the twenty-seventh century, I was considered to be one of the Giants of Science, along with Isaac Newton, Gregor Mendel, Enrico Fermi, Albert Einstein, and Georgi Lomakin of Mare Imbrium.

But the bottom line was this: A paper that my older self wrote, caused the rise of the Cybes, centuries later.

And so my teenage self resolved to not become a nonotechnology professor and to not publish that paper, to prevent the Cybes from happening.

I’m a saint, right? But then two years ago, I got mad at my mom’s boyfriend’s daughter Stephanie, I reverse-engineered all the Cybe technology I’d looted, and I turned Stephanie into my version of a Cybe: a Bimborg.

Then Stephanie-1, the first bimborg, started Welcoming other bimborg, who themselves started Welcoming other bimborg...

Things have kinda snowballed.

Cybes will want to conquer the world by Welcoming everybody. Bimborg units want to give me great sex, and they want to Welcome only the hottest of babes so I’ll have more hot sex partners in future; all without anyone but me noticing what’s going on. One type of bimborg, Ass-Kicker Babes, will happily kill to maintain our secrecy. (Though they’ve only killed twice so far, in Red China.)

So now do you understand the joke, and why I laughed so hard?

I have personal experience with Three Laws-lacking evil robots, both outrunning them and creating them. In one version of the future, Esau Asimov will be forgotten but I will be remembered—but I deliberately erased that future. Now I’m the “king” (order-giver) to five million young women around the planet—all of whom are pretty, most of whom are gorgeous, and thousands of whom are potential killers. Also, I control vast wealth. But neither my mother, my neighbors, the Treasury Department, the military, nor the FBI knows or suspects a thing. I have the best life that a twenty-year-old man could imagine.

Once, my name was known to twenty-seventh-century schoolchildren. Now, I’ve achieved something amazing, but I’m deliberately unfamous.

Amy had never been in the Omni Hotel before, but she led me straight to the SOS hospitality suite. (She’d downloaded directions from Heather’s brain.) Once I got into the Hospitality Suite, I got my first view of Heather herself.

In one corner of the room stood a woman aged thirty. She was taller than almost all men, she had electric-blue eyes, and she was blessed with honey-blond hair that went down to her muscled ass. Her tits, of course, were humongous; her face was perfect.

Facing Heather were a short-haired redhead woman, a young man, and a middle-aged man. Each of them was hanging on Heather’s every word.

Ten seconds after I started watching Heather, she “realized” that I was in the room.

Heather smiled warmly at the young man, while touching the redhead on her hand. “Excuse me,” Heather said, “I see a Facebook friend whom I’ve been dying to meet in person. Enjoyed the conversation.”

Then Heather rushed across the room toward me; I was standing by the salty-snacks table by then.

Just as Amy had, Heather now threw her arms around me. “James, mon pirate beau, how are you? Have you hacked Fort Knox yet?”

I replied, “Nah, gave it up, too much hassle. Now I’m working on a project to turn Beth Russell into my sex slave. Ever since the Bush twins, I’ve had a fetish for presidential daughters.” This was a private joke between Heather and me, but only because the First Daughter was already one of my bimborg. Albeit as an Ass-Kicker Babe, not a Pleasure Unit/Welcomer.

The redhead (the lesbian?) surely noticed that Heather was showering affection on me, a man who already had one big-breasted blonde with him. This was probably why the redhead was glaring at me.

The redhead would have been even more pissed if she knew that the first thing the three of us did, once we left the Hospitality Suite, was to head to my hotel room with plans to fuck and suck and run amuck.

Do you know how much fun it is, being able to speak a bimborg’s name, then tell her to “Climax now,” and she does?

Plus, when two (or more) bimborg units are in bed with me, there is absolutely no competitiveness, envy, or jealousy. That ain’t shabby, either.

When I finally called a halt to the sex, I said, “Amy, I like your accent. Keep it.”

Amy smiled at me. “Special instructions added to my programming. Ah thank you, King James. You are like so sweet, you know?”

Heather-216937, it turned out, was known to the people of Pueblo, Colorado as Heather St. James, DDS. She’d been a Pleasure Unit for about five months; she’d been Welcomed at a shopping mall by a former patient.

But after talking to Heather for a while, I realized something. I asked her, “How come you don’t talk like Amy? Like a bimbo?”

She said, “Do you remember, five months ago, Stephanie-1 coming to you and saying that when smart women start talking like bimbos, this might make people start wondering if something strange was going on?”

“Vaguely,” I said. “I told her that I love being surrounded by ditzy bimbos, but it’s more important to keep the existence of five million bimborg a secret.”

“And that change in policy explains how I can Welcome new women for you, but I also can articulate concepts with all my former vocabulary as an SAT curve-buster.”

“Speaking of curves,” I said, now looking at both women, “the SOS convention is having a formal dance tomorrow night. I want both of you coming to that. You, as my official date”—I said this while looking at Amy—“and you as my semiofficial, ‘I don’t mind sharing him’ date.” I said this last to Heather. “How much of a problem is that for you two?”

Heather said, “I already brought an evening gown, heels, and accessories. I planned to wear them Saturday night, even if I had to go stag.”

Amy said, “Ah can’t fit in my prom dress anymore”—briefly, she cupped her nanobot-enlarged tits. “But the Club just told me that we have a Spy Babe”—a bimborg who doesn’t look or act like a bimbo—“who owns a dress shop in Dunwoody.”

I said, “When the three of us leave this room, you go see that dressmaker Spy Babe. Be back here tomorrow night at seven, wearing your gown and with hair done, and whatever else the Club thinks you need. Objective: classy and hot both. Have Linda-5 provide whatever money you need.”

I looked at Heather. “Same with you, tomorrow night: both classy and hot. I want you two to make cocks hard tomorrow night. Starting with mine.”

A few minutes later, all three of us were decent (if musky-smelling), and stepping out of the elevator into the hotel lobby. Heather and I headed back to the convention, while Amy walked straight from the elevator to the exit.

Let me tell you, the eyes get happy when you’re east of a Pleasure Unit walking west.

Saturday night, Heather’s gown was dark blue; Amy’s was red. And did they look hot? Well, conversation quieted noticeably when the three of us walked into the dining room.

(Conversation quieted noticeably, but didn’t stop completely. The thing about very smart people is, they never shut up.)

We certainly made an impression on one young man. Near the entrance to the dining room, three teenage boys and a teenage girl were conversing. Only the girl and one of the boys had dressed up in formal wear; but that tux-clad boy’s mouth fell open when we walked in.

The sixteen-year-old walked up to us, eyes wide. “Amy Emily, is that you?“

“It is,” Amy said, “Ah’m going to school here in the big city. Emory University.” Then after a slight pause, she said, “Ah’m so sorry, Ah like don’t remember your name.”

He blushed. “Ah’m Charlie-Bob Owens. Ah was a Sophomore when you were a Senior, so Ah’m not surprised that you don’t remember me.” Then he asked, with excessive casualness, “So are you a member of SOS too?”

“No, Ah’m just here as James’s date.” Then Amy smiled at Heather. “Well, one of James’s dates. Except Heather is like smart enough to get in y’all’s club, you know? While Ah am so not a brain.”

“Um, right,” Charlie-Bob said, clearly stuck as how to reply to that.

I clapped the boy on the shoulder. “So whom are you eating dinner with? I won’t be put out if you eat with your friends, but you’re welcome to sit with the three of us.”

Charlie-Bob looked at the three waiting teenagers, then at Amy and Heather. Then he looked at the teenager SOS members again, then he looked at Amy again. If he’d had a coin in his hand right then, I’m sure he would’ve flipped it.

But then the boy stood straight. “Thank you, James, Ah’d be right honored to have dinner with y’all.” Then he looked at Amy and blushed.

I had no idea then, and Charlie-Bob certainly had no idea then, but by choosing to share a table with Amy, Heather, and me, Charlie-Bob changed the course of his life.