The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

December is not tourist season in Vladivostok. Even evil slows down for the Russian winter.

Once inside Pasifik Hospital, Fryyk pulled off three layers of clothing and ditched the heavy boots. She grabbed a large fire extinguisher off the hallway wall. Checked the last charge date tag and smiled. The grimy tag understood her need, shrugged, and changed the date from five years ago to five days ago.

Fryyk yelled in Russian, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” She kicked the near classroom door open.

Every student nurse was already distracted by the black organic cables fixed to their heads. Diverted into their hot, lusty brains, they were deep learning how to become secret serial psychopaths. They would love betrayal. They would study maniacs as role models. They would drown in hot violence. But they all felt Very Good about learning to be Bad. They fought the learning cables because Bad was wrong. However, this was the third day of the second week, and ing grades were so hot and mandatory. So erotic and empowering.

The sudden arrival of Fryyk meant nothing to them. But the two Deceivers extending the toxic programming organs from their groins misunderstood this disruption of a tiny naked firefighter. It seemed so insignificant. They sensed no looming fire.

Fryyk aimed, arranged the extinguisher, and bit the valve off the end. The device rocketed away, bounced off two walls, and drilled through the groin hypnobrain of the nearest Deceiver. The Enemy imploded on its own . It screamed and collapsed.

Those connected nurses went into convulsions, and the seizures knocked them down. Safe enough.

The standing Deceiver disengaged its groin cables from the remaining nurses. It retracted them and opened fire on Fryyk with a crystal Gatling-horror-mouth.

The nurses slumped in confusion.

The crystal flechettes shattered as they hit lights, walls, and missed Fryyk, but the jangled EM vibrations blew out the power in the whole building. Blackness.

Frykk nudged the still-traveling extinguisher missile once more; it hit a complex ricochet and buried itself in the Deceiver’s skull. It died when the mouth weapon imploded.

Fryyk spat out the valve. “Lights.”

Elsewhere, the hospital generator started immediately. Lights flickered on. The room was filled with small moans of semi-conscious victims. All mortals were alive and surfacing from the dark.

Fryyk figured three minutes of slack time tops. Help would arrive. Fryyk went into triage mode. She kicked the Deceiver corpses into a faster void state. She found the youngest student and kissed her with the memory of her mother’s mouth. “Repeat. There, there. Momma will make it right.”

The woman was barely awake. “There. There. Momma will make it right.”

Fryyk moved to the next. Next. Next. Next. Soon, everyone kissed was saying it. Everyone smiled at warm memories. Comfort smouldered in the room.

‘There. There. Momma will make it right.’

Two minutes. The students were calm and helping each other. Everyone forgot all about being obsessed with murdering patients. Ridiculous. Nasty.

Perhaps a bad dream.

Fryyk left with a minute to spare. Hospital staff were showing up. Someone shouted, “Who let that feral dog in here?”

She trotted out of the building on all fours.

If you may not bear further answers of a Beatific, you might chat up a broken, traumatized Power to fill in the nagging info gaps. But you have to go to Hell to find such a failed Noble.

Because Hell loves everything beneath notice.

In Fryyk’s case, the location was a glam-poppy-rush den called ‘the Last Stand’.

Fryyk did not know the current staff, and so she stood in the common queue and waited with scores of glum souls and gutter imps. The bouncers rotated on shifts, and luck was with her. No demon or shard-maimed spirit gave her a lengthy groping at the entry door.

Fryyk entered without being interrogated or known.

Staff in the ‘Last Stand’ were always nude, tattooed with vulgarities or gutter talk, and seared with an owner’s mark. A copycat fashion had developed among the most depressed clientele to arrive clothed, then fully ditch the threads and show off fake owner’s marks and such.

Fryyk saw as many fashionable posers waiting tables as actual staff. Why not? Hellish tips were good anywhere else but Heaven. Here you could get hyperaroused, disgracing your own intentions, and walk out with some sweet cash. Submissives loved the gamble of drawing the wrong kind of study.

Fryyk smiled.

And there he was, the Prophet of Mathematics, slouching over a smoking lump of basilisk innards. Fryyk circled the interior once to make sure no Hell Powers were slumming here. Her plan did not involve being thrown out. Or not before she had one answer.

Fryyk slipped back towards her goal.

But Garrish had a customer. So Fryyk nabbed a staffer and ordered a dish of Broken Puppet.

Fryyk sniffed the saucer of blasted puppetry ash and waited.

Garrish whispered some answer to the tall fellow wearing the carcass of a gyrecat. That fellow stood abruptly and hurried out. Garrish didn’t even look up when Fryyk slid onto the vacated heavy floor pillow.

Garrish murmured, “Whatever you’ve heard, I don’t do futures.”

“Don’t startle. Do not say my name or they’ll throw you out with me.” Fryyk used rounded tones of gutter dialect.

Garrish twitched but looked up carefully, “They told me you were dead. A horde of 47 Mimics ate you? You amazing randy bitch.”

“They lied. Maybe they wanted you here fucking your brain up one nasty disgrace at a time?”

Garrish scowled. “Still trying to save all life as we know it? Not tired of being mind fucked? You should go away. Did you get demoted to messenger construct?”

Fryyk slid dripping blood rubies across to him under her palm. “Need a number.”

The Prophet failed to out-stare her. He took the gems. “Nothing that causes My Beatific to renew the Wild Hunt for me?“

Fryyk smiled. “Depends on the number, I guess. But hey, why should I want to help get an old drinking pal vaporized? So if the answer is that bad, keep the stones, and I’ll leave when I finish my ash.” She lifted the smoking brass saucer under her nose.

Ball in his court, Garrish said nothing for many breaths. His silence accentuated the slippery lies and whispers that percolated all about the two Nobles.

Garrish pushed the rubies back to her across the slate base beneath the floor pillows. “Keep it. I still owe you three miracles for past services. I honor my debts.”

Fryyk snorted. “And if I pay now—you still owe me.” She slow-shoveled the rubies back to him.

He wanted to hurt her for reminding him of his glory and better times. But then, he also felt better just chatting with her than he had in a very long time. Just her smile made the day better. He muttered under his breath, “Fucking fish stink Viking herm.”

Fryyk nodded. Smiled.

He asked. “What number dost thou need?” He stirred basilisk guts with his finger.

“What is the plus/minus value of Nobles in the War during the life of the Prophet Natan versus today?”

Garrish lightly touched his bloody finger to each nostril and sniffed. He coughed. “I wonder that you won’t be forced to me shortly in my sanctuary of Hell’s nightlife. That is a dangerous number. Two thousand and thirteen fewer.” He studied her dirty face. Such a simple face—covering a deep lake mind—above a live volcano will.

Fryyk took a long inhale of smoke.

He calculated: beg her to stay with him here? Pretend to a love quest between them? Pretend it was real? To share a safer path— two would live better than one here. Hidden. The number result: zero chance. Curses!!

The Prophet whispered, “Tell me how you still can care. This number tells you we’ve all been fools. We gave up our free will, and the Oath will end us all. Two thousand fewer defenders. We lose bits of Reality every year. I cannot bear to see our end. And if a Beatific or Noble asks the right question, you cannot lie. Our own side will put you down to hide this Truth.”

Fryyk did not look at him. “Return with me. I would find you a sanctuary with my Family. Leverage my Beatific to protect you. I don’t ask you to War again. But your skills and mine mesh. Together, we are worth any five Nobles. The Warmains would fear us.”

It was not the temptation he expected. He held his breath.

Fryyk warmed and aroused him. Almost, it ignited his heroic rage again. When Fryyk left, he would lose all these feelings of opportunity and victory as a tangible thing. Damn her. Damndamndamn.

He desired her volcanic will. But he feared it also. There was always wild heat to everything Fryyk set her mind to.

Garrish chilled his voice. “My heart and Oath are dead. Not even your promises can motivate me. Go in peace, die in glory, my friend.”

Fryyk took his bloody hand and kissed his fingers. “We shall meet again, inn máttki munr.”

She left. Discouraged.

The IT techs paid by Delilah Outrage considered themselves very damn lucky.

While they all had good-looking resumes, none had the kind of s that could get them a gig with the top-ranked, six-Grammy-winning singer and vulgar sensation of the year. This live video feed went out on ten private servers in about 17 minutes. The countdown ran on the digital board front and center.

HuTube was hacked in the last nine minutes to not delay or redact their feed. They’d get caught, but this cargo container studio was a throwaway because Delilah had the cash to burn. The crew were all set to bail as soon as the feed started. Delilah would be on her own. She had lawyers to spare.

This would be historic. The crew was jazzed.

The side door swung open, and Delilah strutted in nude but for her heels and a glitter dust layer. Her trademark makeup glowed and the hair extensions dragged the floor behind her despite the small attendant gal holding most of the weave off the floor. The makeup/hair girl closed the container door.

“Start it up, boys and girls. I want to see the laser projection one more time.” Delilah smiled pure sex at everyone.

A smile that made them eager to please.

A switch ticked over. The laser fired at the glistening blank white end of the cargo box interior. A high-end flyover of the Indonesian seas started moving seamlessly in mid-storm.

Delilah clapped her hands in rhythm with the tossing waters. She pushed the attendant away and faced the cameras. She started to play with her tits. Behind her, the colors shifted and swung through different ranges outside of human perception.

Smooth. Hot. Amazing.

She smiled and hummed in beat to the storm soundtrack. Now in tune with her tantalizing body movement and into the faces of the crew that found their groins heating up so fast, that necessary blood was drawn quickly down from their brains. The humans dropped whatever they were holding. The visuals were deeper and crisper than expected. More profound and tantalizing.

Delilah laughed. She changed the pace. Faster. She sang.

You hate the world—

So crazy

Your mind it rages—

So hazy

Watch me on stage—

So eazy

Slam your thoughts

Animals

Damn your thoughts

Animals

Who needs thoughts

Animals

Fuck your thoughts

Animals

Stroke your thoughts

Animals

Tear it up, wreck it down…

Surrender! Animals!

One of the crew, with no history of epilepsy, felt his brain dance into an erotic seizure. He slapped at his crotch and could not stop. The pain was so good. A gal was smarter, quicker; she could not look away from Delilah, but she used her hands blindly to feel along the floor and get to the door. But it was secured. She tugged and pounded the handle. Too horny. Her eyes hurt so bad, but she ripped her top off and started pulling her nipples.

Yesss.

A husband and wife pair in the crew tore at their clothes and started biting each other as foreplay. No one actually cared that they were whispering, “No. Don’t. Please. Help.”

Bodies grinding the floor. Thrashing. The gear.

The thick cables. Their fingers. Their phones.

Biting. Tearing. Lusting.

The feed was live. None of the crew got out. The destructive energy grew and went out to the world. The number of video hits multiplied and then doubled every three minutes, despite no advertising of the feed or any prior of the real Delilah Outrage PR team.

Warnings about the feed failed as people tuned in to see what the overwrought hoax was about. Clothing ripped. Animal heat. Melting groin. Animal instincts.

Phone panic waves commenced.

Delilah’s high-paid representation pushed hard to reach her and got the real singer, who knew nothing about the pirate video feed. Hollywood went to level eleven damage denial. News stations succumbed because they tuned in. Danced. Raged. Fucked.

While the feed unraveled hope; pounded out trauma to brains.

Online viewers drooled, slapped themselves, tore their clothes, fucked themselves, or just screamed Delilah’s name.

Delilah.

Delilah.

Delilah.

Outside the cargo container, the hired bodyguards reacted fast when a truck drove through the fenced gate and crashed into the generator cabled to the container equipment hub. Sparks flew. The generator smoked and stopped.

One guard ran to the truck and found no one inside. Another drew a handgun and assumed a defensive stance. This was some kinda crazy that no one expected. The plan was that no one knew they were here. Was the truck crash some weird accident?

Fryyk loped through the busted gate on all fours. The guards did not see the thin dog as a threat. Two minutes later, all five were unconscious and laid out carefully on the ground.

Fryyk tore the door of the cargo container off its hinges and tossed it over her shoulder carefully. She stepped into the mind-mayhem interior.

The Deceiver-Delilah did not stop dancing or singing. She had not prepared weapons; this attack was one of surprise. How could there be opposition? Who was this Noble? Was there now a Power of Dogs?

The Deceiver improvised by twisting its own cosmic nature to substitute the electrical power the gear needed to broadcast. The intensity of the programming laser show stuttered alive again and jumped fivefold. The gear crew screamed their inhuman heat. The Deceiver decided to kill everyone in the metal container with jolts of direct conduction through the walls and floor.

That last part failed.

Someone weeks ago !accidentally! painted the entire container with an insulated coating instead of industrial gloss paint.

Fryyk laughed at the Delilah-Deceiver. “As if video shock hasn’t been tried about two score times. Dumbass. Who is your Warmain boss? The Power of Awful TV Tropes?” Fryyk moved on the Deceiver.

The Enemy broke its shape cover, switched forearms into rotating razor steel knives, and breathed fire on the charging not-dog.

Missed.

Fryyk slid under the flames as if the floor was iced. She came up smooth, tackled the Deceiver, and ripped its head off. Fryyk punched-crushed its groin brain for good measure. The void collapse was quick and quiet. No carcass remained.

Sweating, bleeding, and groaning with pain, the human crew huffed and tried to get off the floor. They fumbled and whined, too horny to think straight. Sudden relief was sweet.

“Stay down. Second attack incoming.” Fryyk pushed a couple of people to the floor who were too dazed to respond to her words.

Now an added trap came into play. Kill the savior. Remove a Noble.

Fryyk felt the threat speeding downward from fifteen thousand feet away. A half-full 737 commercial flight was aimed right at the cargo container. But that strategy put the plane within her domain. Her power rose like a proud creature. She could feel the panic there, the glorious fear spikes, the crew struggled to understand the sudden autopilot failure and fix their jammed controls.

Fryyk mindfucked the 737’s computer. The plane’s complex software engaged an experimental performance reset (aha, yes, a beta mode mistakenly loaded on very few planes). The crew shouted in triumph as they pulled the yokes back and got the horizon in near-normal alignment. They missed the ground crash with 42 seconds to spare. Heroes.

Fryyk began triage relief of the victims in the container studio.

She examined the married couple who were already sobbing and checking each other’s wounds. Fryyk could not heal them, as the wounds were mortally inflicted, but she could push their bodies into shock that dampened panic. Fryyk relied on the First Rule: if it seemed impossible, then mortals would just ignore it. “Repeat. What a fucking story this will make. Glad I cashed that check first. I knew she was an imposter.”

The wife laughed. The husband smiled. They hit the words in unison. “What a fucking story this will fucking make. Glad I cashed the check first. I knew she was an imposter.”

Frykk moved on to the next victim. And next. Next. Next.

‘What a fucking story this will make.’

‘What a fucking story this will make.’

‘What a fucking story this will make.’

Nineteen minutes later, she trotted out of the damaged studio container on all fours.

Fryyk entered the underlit cozy gather place named ‘Shit Happens’ and sat at the bar. A different blue fellow was working the craft there. She ordered a ‘Smokey Sharp Stick in the Eye’.

The bartender asked, “Anything from the kitchen?”

“Can I get a salmon fillet charred rare?”

He smiled. “I’ll send the cook out. You tell him what that means. I’ve never heard of it.”

Fryyk nodded and sipped her drink. The eye pain arrived just as cutting as she liked it. She sized up the clientele. Finally realized after looking her over thrice where she’d met the white-haired gal with the tattooed numbers spiralled on both arms. Her outfit was Mycenaean classic but updated to a sharp Neo-Mongo sheer. Lots of jewelry. Dark honey skin tone.

Fryyk waited patiently for the lady to notice being stared at. She ate her salmon. It was pretty good. She wanted another one.

Maybe half an hour later, the slim gal sat down next to Fryyk. “I you always liked fish. Or pussy. Or fish pussy? Which was it?”

“Everything. All.”

“Are you dead now, Warrior? I thought they’d never kill you. You were a true Believer.” There was no sting to it. She smiled.

“Still alive. I’m sorry you aren’t. Do you want to talk about it? I don’t mind listening.”

“No,” said Kírkē the Wise. “The dead always want to talk about themselves. That’s how you lose your imagination. Recursive boredom, self-inflicted. Want to fuck? I won’t charge you. Seems like I owe you a favor or two. Hard to the details. Shall we sing poems to each other?”

“Yes. I’d like that. But if I pay you, then I can ask for something more theatrical, and you’ll still owe me. How’s that?”

Kírkē laughed. She slid a hand over onto Fryyk’s fingers. “Sure. You were always raw. Never tamed. What’s the fuck flavor of choice?”

“Something you’ve never done before.”

Kírkē smiled under half-lidded eyes. “I never reveal what I haven’t done before.”

“Ah, a challenge…”

“I did not mean to challenge a Power. I am called Wise.”

“And I am called foolish.”

“Then they are themselves vlákas.” Under the table, Kírkē slid a bare foot along Fryyk’s leg above the knee.

“You are yet Kírkē the Wise. Let us sing songs that will open us and inflame even the dead.”

“I like that idea. Pick the song.”

“You will not have heard this one. As I sing, learn it and sing with me. Let the tune accidentally worm into your ears and influence your lust.”

“So sing, Warrior.”

Fryyk sang:

And Fryyk-y Raccoon avoided her doom

Only to find Kírkē’s Wisdoms

Fryyk-y had come within her droll pun

To lick up the cunt of Wise doldrums

Her wet snatch, it seems, failed all of her dreams

By dying a death of great honor

Her name was Kírkē, she asked Fryyk-y to stay

To surely make death a pale goner**

Fryyk smiled. “A song you will not forget. There are more verses. Shall I hold you down and bend your brain? It involves you carrying an irrational fetish for fucking raccoons…any size or color. Doesn’t last unless you really have so much fun you me for another few thousand years. Everyone still talks about what you did to Odysseus and his crew. So poetic, yes?”

Kírkē made a fierce face. She swallowed. “Fuck. That is absurdly twisted. You’re more maniacal than I recalled. Sure. The dead require such cartloads of enticements. Also, a thousand gold drachma, and I get to bite your nipples. And this never happened, right? No myths are being made here…” She ran fingers through Fryyk’s blue hair.

Fryyk laughed lightly. “Right. Except there shall be much hot, delicious release. Joy to the world.”

Kírkē giggled, “And I shall scream your name, Fryyk-y.”

They touched glasses and drank to that.

Kírkē the Wise had her own place. It was located in a huge, rolling necropolis park that doubled as a cozy, smallish city of the dead. Shrines and smaller slabs formed streets and neighborhoods. Broad avenues accommodated two-way pedestrian traffic.

Under the tilt-up granite slab, descending into Kírkē’s private mausoleum, Fryyk delighted to observe that most of the walls were full of loaded bookshelves. There was no bed. But the deep piles of glossy pelts in one corner were inviting. Kírkē dragged Fryyk there by her forearm.

They flopped down and began exploring each other.

So many wet kisses shared that Fryyk could not help but think of the Aegean Sea. Little surprise. In another life, Kírkē had commandeered her own island, Aeaea. Kírkē’s mouth worked its way south to Fryyk’s groin.

Kírkē whispered, “Don’t mind me. You can begin your songs anytime. I’ll be—. Gods! You are a hermaphrodite. Delicious.” Kírkē’s tongue pledged extreme salty wet treats. Her teeth took liberties.

Fryyk giggled. “Ow! Glad you like diversity. This song will get inside you. Prepare.”

“Even dead, I am a sorceress. No fears. Do your bending.”

Fryyk sang verses to inspire. Verses to enthrall. She sang in highs and lows, mimicking the sea swells in rise and fall. She sang in a weird, unstoppable husk, as if she spoke for the seas of olde. For primal seas past— never trashed or oiled or probed with science. Ancient waters. Monstrous secrets.

Fryyk sang her heart. The tragedy of Fryyk-y Raccoon. All forty-two verses.

Kírkē’s mouth lapped it all down. Her ears inhaled. Her skin resonated with the radiant truth of Fryyk’s full attentions. She was no girl and fully wise to centuries of loneliness. She sucked cock. She heard the music ache and understood she attended secrets of things seldom shared. She knew this Power could be an otter, a raccoon, a weasel, or easily a wolf. She understood and placed in safekeeping that Fryyk was once a cripple boy, and yet was treated graciously by the Great War.

Was anyone ever treated well by War? Of course not! War was made to disfigure and rip lives apart, even if it was called a ‘Good Cause’. Kírkē the Wise was yet a sorceress, and all knowledge was torture and change. Truth.

Kírkē felt changed. It was dangerous. It was subtle. It was something very painful for the dead to accomplish. Kírkē loved it. Perhaps too much. Handfuls of fresh knowledge were sexy hot.

Fucking Fabulous Fryyk exceeded bedplay with Olympians.

Kírkē used her arts and wiles to find out why.

She used her mouth to suck up every change she could. Kírkē swallowed the cum. The fetish. The whimsy whole. She laughed as Fryyk came all over her face. She bit Fryyk’s pussy lips. She reached and tortured Fryyk’s nipples. “I adore raccoons. This is such a gift. You nasty, glorious snare. Now fuck my face. I want more.”

Fryyk rolled her over on her back. Fryyk mounted Kírkē’s chest, flattened her tits, and set her groin to that slick mouth. “The larger the raccoon, the better. Yes?”

Kírkē nodded carefully. She let her mouth tighten and realized she had not made the choice; the song was in her mouth, her jaw, her eyes, her fingers, and she wanted to scream Fryyk’s name, but that was impossible in the moment.

Fryyk was a typhoon and a sexual tempest. There was no depth and no holding back. How could she be so vulnerable and yet a warrior? How would anyone stand. No. They could only try to crawl beneath the awful power of the Fabulous and live to tell the story.

Kírkē became entirely, deliciously, Kírkē Fuckface the Raccoon Slut. She started cumming before Fryyk released.

And when the hot cum rushed, Kírkē squealed and arched for more. Suddenly, Fryyk became a five-foot-two blue raccoon with wiry muscles and tightening thighs. Fryyk’s pussy splashed and juiced between Kírkē’s tits, and Kírkē came hard enough to feel her ts crack.

cumcumcum

Later, there was singing and screaming of names.

Kírkē punched Fryyk awake. “You monster. You disaster. You’ve ruined me. I cannot stop thinking about fucking raccoons. Fuck me again.”

Fryyk rolled away and laughed. “Yes. Don’t forget me. It was marvelous. And, of course, I have to go. No, thanks necessary!”

Kírkē threw pottery as Fryyk dashed up the exit stairs. Escaped.

Kírkē laughed to herself. She’d long forgotten most of the various gods and moons and wise she’d slept with to add to her powers. But that inspiring, raw little maniac…

Ruined…

And Kírkē dreamed of seducing raccoons for a thousand and one days.