The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Have you cleaned the foyer yet, Jessica? You know I hate it when my guests come in and have no choice but to wipe their muddy feet on a muddy rug. I don’t care if you have to spend half a day cleaning it, I have very important guests coming tonight!” The doctor’s voice rings out through the halls. She’s on hold again, since she only shouts out things like this when she’s walking around with her cordless waiting for someone to get to her call.

With how much time she spends on hold I would think she could create a device to make hold music into good music. Maybe she likes muzac—it’s not as if I would dare ask her. “Jessica! If you can get that rug cleaned and finish your dusting before my guests get here, there’s a hundred in it for you!”

Maybe one hundred, two hundred, or three hundred years ago, tipping an extra hundred would be glorious for a maid. Ever since hyper inflation after the third World War, a hundred dollars isn’t really all that much. The dollar has gone the way of the yen. I would love to travel back in time if such a thing were possible (damned anti space-time travel legislation!) and teach the economists of the 21st century a lesson or two in resource and money management.

None of that is really important right now. Sigh . . . Now, I have to dust. I already cleaned the rug. She had guests last night, but I already cleaned up after that visit. The doctor really underestimates my ability to clean. “Jessica! The police called again! I want you to call them later and assure them that I don’t know what happened to Kristen, but if we find her body, we’ll be sure to let them know! But sound less guilty!”

“Of course Doctor! Is there anything else?” It’s so amusing that she wants me to be the one calling the police, but I let that fall away unused. Thinking too loudly is dangerous.

“Yes! Jessica. . .” She pauses for a long time and it’s far too long for my liking. “Get yourself a sense of humor! If I wanted a robotic maid, I would build one! And remember to remind me about that sale downtown! You know how distracted I can get when I’m working, and if I miss another sale, I’m going to kill myself, and you’ll be left withou- Why hello Ms Holloway! Oh, I’ve just heard so much . . . Get to work Jessica!”

Off in the distance, I hear a door slam shut. If she ever paid attention, she might know I’m already done with everything but the last of the dusting. If she ever paid more than passing attention to her maid, she might have figured out by now that I’m not really a maid. Well, the training courses I had to go through so I could go undercover more than qualify me for the title. I’d rather not go around calling myself a maid, at least not in honesty. If I were going to be a maid, I could surely work for a hell of a lot better tippers than Doctor O’Ferrall.

If I didn’t care about tips, I could work for a person with a far better disposition.

Doctor O’Ferrall insists that archaic technology got things cleaner, but I think she just likes to watch me going around with a feather duster so she can imagine me as a fetish maid. The feather duster in my hand brushes over another picture frame. Inside, the doctor and her once-colleagues dressed in lab coats stand around a table where a woman dressed up as if she were a robot is giving a peace sign. Maybe she’s trying to sign “victory,” though the doctors around her look far more victorious than she does.

Doctor O’Ferrall is a roboticist, one of the leading women in the field today. Though humanoid robots—android is the preferred term—are everywhere, the current work of the roboticists have been to provide a robot with true sentience. Androids may look, move, and be able to be programmed to think in human-like ways, but none of them have able to make a robot adept enough to create their own programming and upgrade it without intervention. Such an android would be perfect for anything, and lots of people don’t like the way that sounds. It’s bad enough that there are lots of humans out there with robotic parts augmenting their own, but the possibility of robots that could truly replace humanity is even worse.

It’s not racist to be less than thrilled with the idea of making a race of machines to make you obsolete.

Fuck, it’s like no one in the 20th century watched The Matrix.

Soon I’ve dusted the picture off and I move to fluttering about, dusting this and that. Maids have always been looked down upon. If you appear so unskilled and useless that all you can do is clean other people’s homes for a living, people automatically think you’re trash. That’s why being Doctor O’Ferrall’s maid is the perfect job to spy on her so I can get some evidence to put her away for good.

As far as the doctor knows, my name is Jessica Davitz—Jessica Davitz, the maid who flunked out of three community colleges with the dream of eventually becoming a teacher. This persona has a Social Security Number (though Social Security no longer exists, it would take far too much work to just change it to another name, like a Standard Identification Number, but maybe the government doesn’t want to be giving out SINs when they have enough of their own) and even the community college records. There are friends with no link to the government that can tell whole stories about Jessica even though she isn’t real. With criminals like O’Ferrall and modern crimes being what they are, one must be very careful.

My real name, though I try never to think it anywhere near the doctor just in case she hears a mental whisper of it, is Jaina Du Maurier. I’m a federal agent here to put an end to her real work, whatever it actually is.

Doctor O’Ferrall’s door creaks open just as my duster finishes the last surface. I swear that woman has only been able to evade suspicion for so long because of her strange timing. “Jessica! Get the door!” I blink. That was . . . awkward. The door hasn’t- just as I try to finish my thought, the doorbell rings. “Get the door already! Yeesh, Jessica! Just because you’re fond of the 21st century doesn’t mean you have to be slow as their modems!” The door slams shut again.

For the sake of realism, I had to keep at least some of my true interests in my new persona so I wouldn’t have to struggle so hard at being non-threatening with normal interests. Jessica Davitz could always have been a fan of neo trip-hop or reggae metal, but I’d have to pretend to like the latter, and I’d have to pretend I knew anything besides a few stray song titles of the former. So, the office decided to let me keep my fascination with the late 20th and early 21st century. The pure hypocrisy of the time period alone is enough to make me roll about with laughter, but it’s not really worth going in to detail about right now.

You probably don’t even know who the hell Led Zeppelin is . . .which is really your loss.

Clumsily, to make up for not being able to see into the future, I run to the door as quickly as I can. When I press the button to open up the door, a cutely short woman with long black hair is waiting outside. At first, I nearly scream and drop the duster. Her look is very much like one of those creepy little children from b-horror movies mixed with that of a porn star during the seduction “plot” of the movie. The twist is that she looks far more powerful, and somehow familiar. “You must be Jessica.” Her voice is cool, calm . . . firm. I generally don’t think of myself as a person who yields easily, but this is the sort of woman that if she pressed a gun to your head, you could forget years of self-defense training and just piss yourself, praying she shot to kill.

“Yes, I’m Jessica. . . Please, come in. You are. . .?” As she steps in, I close the door behind her with a quick button press before she sets herself to wiping off her shoes on the once-clean rug.

“You can call me Melisande, or Doctor Millet.” Melisande doesn’t have a French accent, but it wouldn’t be out of place. She’s looking about curiously after a moment in a way that makes it seem as if the color of the walls – a soft red – is as entertaining as she is. “Is Daphne in? I have an appointment, actually. This isn’t just a casual visit.” After looking at her for a couple more moments, I recognize her as one of the women from the picture I was just dusting.

I’ve been working here for a year trying to get Doctor O’Ferrall’s trust so I could stumble onto some sort of clue, but none of the women from that picture has ever visited before. It’s more than a bit unnerving. I don’t know why it is, but it is.

Nodding, I idly dust the keypad that I used to open the door to get a better glance over her. Melisande Millet is a name that doesn’t sound familiar but sounds like it should. “The doctor is in the lab, though she may be on the phone.”

Normally the doctor tells me when she has company due. She hadn’t told me this time, but she had told me to open the door. This might finally be my chance! Melisande has the look that if she can smile normally, and maybe wear her hair up, she could pull off being fresh out of college. As it is, with her hair down like it is, and her grin that can only be described as knowing, she looks like a well-aged mid thirty-something.

Melisande rolls her eyes with a frustrated sigh. “So much like Daphne. Thank you very much, Jessica. I’ll be sure the good doctor knows just how helpful you are.” Her small, pale hand moves from her waist to a jacket pocket, and she holds out a hundred dollar bill. She pauses a moment as if thinking the choice of holding it out until I grasp it a bad one, and instead leans forward to slide the bill down my collar.

Holding back an indignant gasp at something like that is not in my training. I’m not supposed to have to deal with this! “Excuse me?!” It’s not as if my neckline is especially low! There’s no cleavage to it, not that I have all that much to make cleavage with, anyway, and it’s not as if my skirt is that high. It’s not. It goes past my knees! Just because I’m the hired help doesn’t mean she can do things like that! “Just what do you think you’re. . .”

The indignation is lost on her. I would say something more, but the idea just doesn’t feel worth it. Melisande isn’t even paying attention.

She’s already started to walk away in the time it took me to shake off the shock. “Oh no, keep it Jessica, you’ve earned it!” Her hips sway vaguely as she walks. As she opens up the lab door I hear Doctor O’Ferrall call out in a happy voice, and then the door slams.

Even if this is what I’ve been waiting for, I can’t shake the feeling that this is not good.

The reason I’m here is that Doctor O’Ferrall’s public experiments suddenly stopped about three years ago when she withdrew from the university she was working for and moved her lab facilities to her home. Subsequently, many of her once numerous female assistants began to disappear. Some of them turned up dead with no injuries whatsoever.

A majority of them have been missing for so long that no one has any hope of finding them, at least alive.

The girl she mentioned earlier, Kristen, is the most recent disappearance. The last woman who saw her was Doctor O’Ferrall and there wasn’t enough evidence to hold her. There never is. I’ve been here for a year and there are never any changes in the doctor before a girl disappears. Some of them would drop by for a visits, but nothing suspicious happened and they left alone.

Maybe it’s not the doctor’s fault these girls have gone missing, but the office hasn’t ended my assignment so I’m not about to go AWOL. As much as I don’t love being a maid, I prefer being on this side of the law.

Some people thought the suspicious behavior had occurred before she pulled from the university, hell if I know. None of the background information I was given pointed to anything that I haven’t found yet. She’s rude and a little eccentric, yes, but that’s not even a weak case for murder.

With one last shelf dusted, my cleaning all done done, I’m left with nothing else to do but snoop. Generally, I try to do as little snooping as possible while the doctor is home since being a live-in maid means that I have an excuse to be here when she’s not. However, it also means I never get any off time from being undercover. I have been Jessica Davitz for over a year. It’s frustrating.

Passing by a mirror, I take just a moment to fix up my slightly frizzed curly brown hair. I’m probably one of the few women these days who doesn’t dye her hair some ridiculous color. Dye-sticks make it ridiculously easy, and who doesn’t love dark purple hair? The only thing that makes me stand out are green cat-eye contacts.

Melisande’s eyes had been green and so dark they were almost black. Some silly part of me keeps running Melisande over in my mind. I’d gotten small little things, and links to some of Daphne’s colleagues that had helped the department find more evidence, but, to be honest, I think I was stuck here as a “just in case there’s something to find, no one can say the department didn’t try” sort of thing.

There’s no way they could still be hoping for me to find anything after a year . . .

Honestly, it’s not as if I really had much to go back to: Jessica was almost an improvement . . . She just needs to stop letting her employer treat her so rudely. There’s the temptation to piss Doctor O’Ferrall off to maybe get kicked off this assignment . . . but then I would lose the only thing I have going for me—my job. That doesn’t sound very smart.

Over-dusting is not possible, so I dust my way to the Doctor O’Ferrall’s room. There may be some little treatlet of information, something, somewhere to explain this visit. I move into her room and flick on the light with the duster, and a rather unusual sight greets me. Sitting on the very center of her bed is a small black laptop.

Computer technology may have changed in the years since the Pentium chip went extinct, but the doctor agrees with me it didn’t become more conveniently shaped. She still uses a lot of new technology in the shell of the old.

The laptop is open and turned on. Even though she’s a person obsessed with computers to the point of programming humanoid ones, she still uses Windows 3K. She always tells me it’s easier, especially when she wants me to be able to use her computers to take care of things for her. Letting her know that I grew up obsessed with DOS wouldn’t be a good thing. No ordinary maid would be obsessed with DOS. I didn’t want to bring enough of Jaina with me to be suspicious.

Easily as a finger flicking an arrow key, the screen saver of kaleidoscopic colors and shapes flickers away and a text file pops up in its place. I’ve never gotten to see text files on any of the doctor’s computers. It’s really odd how she keeps records on paper while only having programs on her computers—never personal files. She never feels the need to hide the papers; in fact she often tells me where they are so I can remind her if she ever forgets. Nothing has ever made her look evil.

My suspicions would probably have faded by now, even if she hadn’t been such an absolute delight to work with this long year and however many months. It isn’t as if she’s been hiding her personal files, it’s more as if she doesn’t feel the need to keep them, so this really is new.

Even the file is new – it’s still named “Untitled.”

There’s not much to read, and a quick scan without actually reading doesn’t even make it seem like there are any big words. The red lines of typos and the green of improper grammar it give the feeling that these words were meant for her eyes only, but they’re sitting out on her bed. She doesn’t seem to pay enough attention to me to know I already cleaned her room.

Maybe she thinks that her own maid wouldn’t spy on her. I almost feel a little bit guilty. Doctor O’Ferrall is a bitch, and she must have at least some connection to the disappearances and deaths, but she has started to trust me. I think being a bitch is simply in her nature. If she weren’t such a bitch, she would be a wonderful employer. For being such an often maligned woman, she definitely hasn’t done anything remotely like what that dark haired woman did a few minutes ago.

Melisande has such dark hair, but skin like porcelain. I normally don’t think in such poetic terms, but I can’t help myself with a woman like that! Not that I would take liberties with her even if it wouldn’t threaten my assignment. She is like a living statue. Haunting beauty like that can take years off of a person’s life, or at the very least add years of fantasies well past the normal expiration date!

I keep making myself think off topic. This is bad. Either there’s something wrong with me, or I am a lot more worried about what I’m going to find than I’d like to think. How bad could it be? It’s not as if i didn’t come here expecting to find her a murderer.

Unable to find another reason to put off reading, I settle down my employer’s bed and read.

“i don’t know wht i’m going to do. She’s coming. She’s comming. She’s been there before every one of them disappeared . . . Every one of us. She makes it look like we were the smart ones but it was all her – it was always her! None of us even wanted to do this, wanted to make these programs, to make these . . . augmentations . . . but all we are now is what She told us to be! All we can do with our lives is continue what She’s told us to do!

i stopped, i stopped, i finally managed to stop working on it. She knew! When i didn’t update the Unit 9 conditioning right on schedule She somehow knew! i’ll be the next one, i’ll be dead or worse, and only Jessica. . . what will She do to Jessica with the way she looks at her? What will Meli Millet do. . . i don’t even know. . . i would tell Jessica but it would be horrible for her, it would be. . .Jessica must already know too much. . . i’m sloppy. . . i wish i had met her with myself still being a real woman. . . but i haven’t been for so long. . .

It’s been so long since she tore away the last of my humanity and reprogrammed me into Unit 0 . . . I just don’t know what

It stops there. She must have been planning to write more. What doesn’t she know?! I know that I don’t have surveillance cameras on her 24/7, but she’s hardly been in her room all day! She must have written this in the morning, I’m sure of it. Unit 0? What the hell? Unit 9? Augmentations? That’s a term generally used for cyborgs, but that’s well outside of her field. She doesn’t build implants—she makes programming. She hasn’t been doing anything with humans. . .

The door creaks, and I see that little temptress, Melisande. Her green eyes shining with what little color they actually have paralyze me all the way to my soul. She has the eyes of a vulture and of death herself as if she knows when her prey will die—or maybe as if she can will it so with a stray glance. It’s a look that says she’s a predator, and that the failings of others are how she gets her meals.

Nothing is quite adding up. I wasn’t told as much as I should have been. I suddenly feel very betrayed. Why did no one ever brief me on her? Melisande Millet . . . What I wouldn’t give to know more about her than I feel she’s about to reveal.

Whatever has been going on has not been the doctor’s fault: it’s been the fault of this woman. Suddenly it feels like everything is becoming perfectly clear, but I’m still missing vital pieces – pieces I would not, if I knew them, have the capacity to use as I would desire to use them now.

Melisande flings open the door with a powerful gesture and grins with meltedly hooded eyes. Her dark lips part, and her rich, husky voice is more commanding than any voice I’ve ever heard before. ”Unit 9, Jessica Davitz. Deactivate Jaina Du Maurier protocols and open your primary port. Prepare yourself for the next step in your programming. You will obey. There is no choice for a Unit, and that is all you are, a Unit. Unit 9. Comply and acknowledge.

All I can do is gasp, is shudder, is stiffen, and stare with eyes that feel like they belong to someone else – like they belong to her. I can feel the control melting away from me and being overridden, overpowered by something else. There’s no room for even the faintest of resistance, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I’m a Unit.

I can feel the other presence inside of my mind unfolding as so much of me is wrapped up and filed away. There is no Jaina to think or act for herself, only Unit 9 crawling further onto the bed, pulling a pillow in front of her only to bury her face against it.

My hands reach down to pull the hemline of my skirt well past my waist as I arch my posterior into the air. Soon after, I feel my panties sliding down along my thighs, but I lose all sensation of actually moving my hands. I can feel a pulsing warmth between my thighs that doesn’t feel like arousal. It feels so much more logical, so much more controlled. It’s not a lust that needs to be fulfilled by ravenous touching or any passion at all. This has a very specific need.

“Unit 9 acknowledges. Jaina Du Maurier protocols are deactivated.” I feel my fingers spreading open my port, and it makes me feel so well lubricated. There’s no need for euphemisms. I know this. Less than a person, more than a person, I’m just a Unit. Unit 9. “Port is open and ready to receive programming. Unit 9 is no more than a unit, and ready to comply. Unit 9 cannot choose whether or not to obey.”

“Very, very good. Now, it is time for such a very crucial step. Oh, Jaina. . . This is the price for suspecting a toy capable of independent play. Unit 9 will not allow the deactivated Jaina protocols to feel pleasure. There is no pleasure for a Unit. The need for release for Jaina will be allowed to escalate. Lock these into place, save them into your configuration files as always.” She steps closer, and I can’t hear it but I feel it burning inside of me.

Something hard and metallic and warm slides into my dripping port, and I can hear the clicks of buttons making it whirr to life. It starts to move, shuddering and squirming inside of me, and I can feel something deep inside of me responding to the lines of code as Jaina’s program processes just as my user desires.

Jaina would find this feeling satisfying, being used for my purpose, fulfilling all that I am designed to fulfill, but to me it simply is. Nothing else matters at all. “I’m afraid you won’t be doing a lot of thinking once we’re done with this session. Do you?”

My body shakes as protocols of pleasure activate different programs stored inside of my mind. I do feel a small glimmer of pride that none of the moans Jaina would have made reach my lips as I respond.

“Unit 9 does not think.”

“I didn’t think so.”