The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cynthia can’t stop crying. Ever since it happened, it seems like everything she does day and night is dampened by her tears.

She has brief interludes where she smiles and seems to want nostalgic reminiscing more than anything else, but talking about anything leads right back around to the reason she’s been crying in the first place.

At least I’ve been trying to make sure she gets plenty of water, even if she’ll only take it because she doesn’t feel worthy of anything else. It’s not true, but it’s keeping her healthy.

That’s what matters most to me right now.

She and I are very, very close roommates . . . but, since the accident, I’ve felt a lot more like her mother. If it wasn’t for me she would have starved to death in those first few weeks when she wouldn’t even leave her room. Luckily for her, my job is family-based and my mother was more than happy to give me some time off.

She’s always telling me I work too hard, so I’m sure she welcomed the excuse to finally make me use some of my vacation time. Well, that’s when she’s not telling me that I’m not working hard enough, but mothers are like that. She earned that right with the pain of childbirth . . . or so she says.

After the accident, Cynthia . . . broke. The special part inside of her that always helped her grow past her pain and adapt snapped as if it had decided nothing was worthwhile anymore. Anything that should have made her happy only made her feel worse. The fact that Kendra’s parents were willing to let Cynthia take all the time she needed to look through Kendra’s things for anything special elicited sobs that should have only come from the knowledge that Kendra’s parents had burned down her room with her still in it.

I wish I could say that it shocks me, but it doesn’t. Kendra had been the focal point of Cynthia’s life, and Cynthia of hers. Pulling them apart was the equivalent of pulling apart the colors in a plaid shirt. Once you’re done, it’s just not much of a shirt anymore.

That shirt had been a life, once: not one, but three. Saying how Kendra’s death affected Cynthia without mentioning how it affected and is still affecting me would be a monumental overlooking.

I was the third color in that shirt. That doesn’t lessen the pain; if anything, it just makes it worse. Precious time from the last month of Kendra’s life was wasted by an interloper.

So much of me wants Cynthia to hate me, but she doesn’t. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only thing she doesn’t hate. She’ll cling to me when she’s too faint to walk from sobbing. With enough prompting she’ll even let me cram applesauce down her throat when she’s too tired to chew but desperately needs to eat.

It’s funny only in the slightest of ways to look back at who the two of us used to be and think that I was the unstable one.

No one knew when I first slipped into Kendra and Cynthia’s bed. I hadn’t wanted anyone to know. I was feeling guilty for joining the perfect relationship, even if I had loved Kendra longer and more than anyone I’d ever loved, and Cynthia meant more to me than the stars.

Coming out of the closet was easy, but being “poly”?

No such luck. That was a sin even I wasn’t immune to feeling guilty for.

It’s the second month now, about halfway through, and I’m finally going to leave Cynthia alone for the first time since it happened. I’ve barely even left her side, doing everything that I can to help her heal and only allowing my own tears when her eyes scream just how badly she needs someone to cry with her. She needed to know that the loss of Kendra wasn’t an illusion and wasn’t happening only to her.

I knew it wasn’t, I’d done the I.D. She’d looked so pale; she hadn’t had much blood left. At least I can hope that made her embalming a little easier.

Kendra always was as helpful as could be.

I’m not leaving Cynthia alone only for her good or mine. It’s not quite so simple. No, I’m leaving her alone so that I can get to work on solving our mutual situation. My heart was broken just as much as hers. It’s so hard to be strong, but I have to hold back the tears.

Wires and circuitry dislike saltwater.

That’s what I do for a living. I build robots. They’re really androids and gynoids, but those words are way too long (and ‘droid’ borders on copyright infringement). Normally the bots my company builds are fairly simple: gardeners, cooks, and even the occasional lawyer. My specialties, on the other hand, are the rare requests for delights such as painters, pianists, and porn stars.

I never noticed before how they all start with a P. I might have to take on the nickname of the three-P wonder.

Building an android isn’t exactly something that anyone does from scratch. That would take ages—and it used to before Doctor Winchcomb’s extensive work at streamlining the process. Any roboticist worth anything thanks her every time they cash a paycheck.

Even though much of the work is automated, I do a lot of special work with some of the various chips, very fine work that the computers always seem to botch. It’s not that they lack the perfection mathematics brings, it’s that they don’t. If there’s not a flawed sense of humanity in there somewhere then it’s just a walking list of algorithms in a pretty shell. Some of my own finished products could do it, but that seems wasteful.

Anyway, today more than ever I need to be kept busy by the fine details. Less of the process will be automated, which oddly tends to make it feel less personal, more cold and dispassionate. Remembering every calculation, every proportion, and every last “don’t” are all ways to stop from crying out Kendra’s name.

I’m not sure what Mom would do if she found out about this. She surely wouldn’t approve. I don’t think I would care – it just makes me be more careful not to get caught.

Chips, wires, essential programming, ELS (Emotion-Logic System for you non-techies in the audience), and even a little bit of coding will make today go by faster. More than just a bit of coding is necessary to make all of the parts interact and function properly. A lot of what I’m using isn’t exactly standard issue, or legal. Bots aren’t supposed to be able to cry – at least if they do it’s not supposed to mean anything.

But a phony, half-upset bot won’t cheer up Cynthia, or me. We don’t need a drone. We need our Kendra back.

What makes my particular skills so sought after for the three Ps isn’t that I am especially good with hands, though that would make sense. After all, who wants a porn star that doesn’t make you scream like one? Sadly, I’m no Rodin. My secret is that I test each product (I rarely ever tell that to the buyer). If the bot doesn’t make me a screamer, I start over.

I’m also well known in the industry for taking an image and making the lifeless doll-flesh match identically. A very famous woman, Yummy Yazmine I think she’d called herself on stage, had bought a sexbot from me once and insisted that she couldn’t tell the difference between her own pussy and the synthetic one she claimed she would be enjoying on a regular basis.

I enjoyed it once, and I can see how that model wouldn’t get old any time soon.

Normally when I’m sculpting doll-flesh I’ll have one window off to the side with an image I can rotate to see every angle of whoever I’m creating. It’s the same even when the bot is original and not a mechanical clone.

I don’t need that to make Kendra’s robotic double. I can remember each little freckle, every dip, each little imperfection of her skin in detail that makes me break down and cry more than once. A very deep part of me wishes someone had finally perfected how to give doll-flesh’s sex skin a taste that perfectly matches a memory, but that’s still way too sophisticated.

Soon it won’t matter. Cynthia and I won’t be able to remember ever knowing the difference, and neither would our Kendra.

Crying harder, I finish up my day’s work and go home.

“Lyssandra?” Cynthia’s voice worriedly calling out to me is the first sound I hear after the apartment door’s mechanical whirr shuts it behind me. “It’s almost midnight . . . I ate a little something around five, just like you made me promise but I . . . I missed you Lyssa . . .”

Following the siren call of her voice I find her waiting one room away in the dining room. The temperature outside is controlled just as much as the temperature inside, but it still feels warmer to be inside because that means I’m closer to Cynthia. My body already aches realizing that she hasn’t been clinging to me all day.

I haven’t cried in her arms, but I’ve felt my own brand of relief from holding her all the same.

For Cynthia’s sake, I swallow the real reason I’ve been gone all day—along with the pain that still screams inside of me like a leashed banshee—and step into the dining room. The wide white box feels heavier in my hands than it should, but it can give me a pretend reason for being home so late. “Sorry . . . I got pizza! Mom needed some help on a fifteen fingered pianist. You know she can never make it look natural.” As if a human with fifteen fingers could ever look natural. It was a lie, but I’ve done it enough times before . . . I’d said that the night of the accident.

Cynthia looks up into my eyes, hers hold a starved look that screams for something much different than food. The need for my warmth is there, but more surprising—and immediate—the need for lust lays only just behind that. I know I haven’t touched her since it happened, but . . .

“Oh . . . I missed you, that’s all . . . Kendra’s mother called. She said that she really will give me all the time in the world, but it can’t be healthy to put it off . . .” She pauses, and stares down at the kitchen table in all of its green, pearlescent glory. Kendra was always said its color was the same as my eyes and that the first time she’d fucked Cynthia on that table she’d imagined she was fucking her in one of my eyes.

It is so hard not to break into tears when I can hear her whispering that into my ear and feel her hand sliding up along my thigh.

“You should come too. You don’t even have to say why. You were always close friends; she wouldn’t think anything of it . . .” Cynthia’s words cut deeper than I want to admit, but I manage to only just visibly flinch.

My whole body stiffens as I try not to drop the pizza. Kendra’s room . . . We were best friends for as long as I can remember. She always loved changing in front of me when we were teenagers. She knew the effect her body had on me, even if she didn’t know the effect her eyes had on my heart.

She’d never been one to decorate, so the only difference her room in that house had was in accumulated knick knacks. Kendra had mostly lived here, in the room the three of us had shared. There were things she kept over there though because sometimes she needed a night alone. The two of us never minded, and Cynthia and I had our own beds anyway. Still, seeing that body-length mirror again, or the mental images of the myriad of lacey bras that would always be messily strewn about . . .

Contrary to every feeling I want to have, my thighs flush hotly, and my fingers twitch just enough for me to feel. I can tell Cynthia sees when her lips part for the gasp she always makes, the gasp that means she’s reacting to my arousal. My eyes fall to her breasts like they always do after that gasp, to watch the twin diamonds proudly arch out against the tight fabric of her top. Her nipples always pop out like that, it’s so delicious.

Just the sight reminds me of her taste, and that makes my body clench cravingly in ways more tender than words can express. Sometimes just watching her get aroused is almost better than the sex following.

I drop the pizza box onto the floor.

Memories of Kendra flood into my mind, but only good ones. Her back arching as her passion crested, the way her fingers would grip my ass as her tongue slid along my folds . . . I wanted to make love to Cynthia in my own eye, just like Kendra had so many times before. She’d always said that table made things feel better, as if I were a part of it even when I wasn’t involved . . .

Maybe I can use it to channel Kendra.

My hands reach up to my top, grasping the zipper that rests below my cleavage. “Cynthia . . . I want you.” It’s almost more of a question than a declaration. If she says no, I’m willing to wait. I hope she can see that in my eyes. This isn’t only about me. This is just as much about her own needs.

Cynthia reaches behind her neck and the single strap that holds the tight violet cloth against her chest falls over her shoulders. Her top opens, leading to her nipples stiffening cutely as my eyes slide over them like a pair of tongues.

Her flesh is darker than mine in a way that always feels exotic to see, a color like hot cocoa with a few too many marshmallows, but her nipples always look coated in chocolate when she starts burning up. I don’t need to look up to her eyes to see the familiar glassing of desire, but I do anyway.

“And I want you, Lyssa . . .”

This is as much about ritual as it was about anything else. Nothing more needs to be said. More words would only get in the way.

I pull the zipper down, reveling in her own gaze. A moment later and my top becomes nothing more than the sound of it hitting the floor beside the almost forgotten food. I’m only faintly more endowed than Cynthia, but what she and Kendra always loved about my chest were my small nipples that were just the color of bubblegum.

Raven hair flows as Cynthia rises, dark lips parting in a whimper as I quickly move and pin her down against the table. It only takes half a moment for her eyes to change from shocked to melted, and her body wiggles up onto the table before her legs part.

I pull back for just a moment to look down at what Kendra had seen. Had she really thought that, or had it been a clever line to whisper into my ear as her fingers had pinched my nipples just enough to make my heart skip a beat? Cynthia pants, her chest lightly quivering with each labored breath. The surrounding table does look like my iris.

As I lean in to kiss my way up her belly, I let my mind’s eye imagine me as Kendra. Her lips trail up, tongue flicking into Cynthia’s navel for just a moment, then they continue on. Her hands slide along Cynthia’s sides, clawing along her ribs that are just visible enough, and then rake down hard but tender. Cynthia screams and arches sharply into her hands, and I can feel her crotch grow warmer and wetter against my body as I arch down against her.

When Kendra’s lips finally reach Cynthia’s breast, she kisses around the curve before following it inward, latching languidly onto the nipple. She’s missed Cynthia, after all. She’s missed Cynthia so much, and Cynthia thought she was dead . . . There was a silly thought, she was there, making love to her body just like she always did, in their third lover’s eye . . .

I worry if maybe this is too far, if I’m losing my mind’s fragile grip on reality, but when Cynthia moans louder and whimpers out my name reality’s return is all too swift. No, I’m not losing my mind, but for a moment I can let it go off on its own.

My eyes close, and Kendra’s hands trail down to tear off Cynthia’s pants.

Slick with sex and sweat we lie on the floor, and it couldn’t be in a more convenient location. After fucking for what felt like hours, we’d worked up quite the appetite. The pizza was within arm’s reach.

My dark-haired lover is half asleep, but I delight in slowly lowering the pizza slices to her waiting mouth before watching her nibble on each little piece. There’s a strange sort of joy in knowing Kendra would be happy we were staying together. I’m not ready for anyone else to know yet, but I wouldn’t leave Cynthia, not for all of the colonies dotted amongst the stars.

“Tonight was different, Lyssa . . . You’ve never been so . . . You’re always thinking, and that feels good, but this time it was . . . You were . . . Actually lost in the moment. It made me feel special, Lyssa . . . Like she used to make me feel . . .” Tears rise up in my eyes, but luckily I’m snuggled up against her back. She’ll never know if I let myself cry just a little. “And that doesn’t make me sad, I . . . as long as I have you . . .”

“And you’ll always have me . . .” She’ll have more. I’ll make sure of it. Kendra-bot is half-finished already, and she’ll be so easy to teach how to be just like the real Kendra . . .

After I’m done with us, I hope none of us are able to tell the difference.