The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Deputy Chris Miller scraped his boot against the cracked linoleum of Black Mesa’s police station: a converted feed store that still smelled faintly of molasses and old burlap. The radio crackled with static no matter how he adjusted the dials while, outside, the little town’s lone streetlight flickered like a dying firefly.

Sergeant Anita Wenger slammed the landline receiver down hard enough to rattle the dented filing cabinet. “Still dead.” She rubbed her forehead, leaving a smudge of ink above her eyebrow. “Every damn line. Even the county emergency channel’s just…” She mimicked the radio’s garbled hiss.

Chris peered through the dusty blinds. Down the road, Old Man Fralick’s hound dogs howled at nothing. “This is the third night in a row.”

Anita didn’t look up from her scribbled log. “Three missing now. All women. All—”

“Blondes. Yeah.” Chris thumbed the safety on his shotgun. “Like somebody’s… collecting ’em.”

The Sheriff had promised reinforcements yesterday but nothing... Just eerie silence and the northern horizon glowing with a succession of unnatural auroras. Anita’s teenage daughter had taken to sleeping with a kitchen knife under her pillow.

A sudden metallic groan made them both freeze. The roof creaked like something heavy had landed, it skittered toward the chimney. Anita’s hand flew to her sidearm.

Chris barely breathed. “Raccoon?”

The answering sound was no animal. Too heavy. Too deliberate.

Tap. Tap. Taaaaap.

Like claws testing the metal vent.

Anita mouthed, “I’m gonna get my kids”, as she crept toward the back door where the patrol car sat parked. Chris grabbed the fire ax off the wall. The tapping stopped abruptly.

Outside, the streetlight went out with a pop. Darkness swallowed Main Street whole: not that there was a whole lot of Main Street to swallow.

A sparkle of lights rippled from the blackness near Mr Fralick’s fence and something too tall stepped out of the shadow and, with liquid precision, moved toward the station. The hound dogs howled again.

Anita’s hand trembled on the backdoor door latch. “Chris?”

The ax handle firm in his grip. “Yeah?”

“Don’t move, there’s somebody outside the front door.” Anita said very quietly.

Chris hefted the ax. “We ain’t gonna get backup, are we?”

The shadows reached the porch. The doorknob began to turn on its own.

“Nope.” Muttered Anita. “Just you’n me, kid.”

“Why is it us?” The young deputy asked.

“Because we’re here lad.” Anita said quietly. “Because we’re here.”

The doorknob stopped mid-turn. A humming vibration pulsed through the floorboards, not mechanical, but organic, like a rattlesnake’s warning. The shadows on the porch shifted, elongated, then split into impossible angles.

Anita’s Glock cleared leather before a window shattered and something came through Chris swung the ax instinctively: steel met something yielding yet unyielding, like cutting into frozen honey. A rasping hiss filled the room as the blade stuck fast in a translucent tentacle.

“Chris?” Anita’s voice was taut. She blinked rapidly, holstering her weapon to rub her eyes. “That… that ain’t possible.” The appendage was fading, dissolving into a misty rainbow around the embedded ax.

The air tasted of burnt copper. Chris tugged at the ax handle, finding it embedded deep in the floorboards. “What the hell?”

Anita glanced at the window... It wasn’t broken. “They’re controllin’ our minds... Makin’ us see things...” Her voice trailed off as she wondered if they could trust anything they saw or heard.

Suddenly the front door crashed open and a silhouette filled the doorway. Seven feet tall, if she was an inch, her platinum hair brushing the door frame. Arctic blue eyes regarded them with detached amusement.

“Predictable.” She murmured, stepping forward with inhuman grace. Anita gasped. the alien hadn’t spoken so much as projected the word directly into their skulls.

“I like you, Anita, sweetie... Your daughter too... You’ll both be such fun to train.” The Alien hissed contemptuously. Suddenly she froze...

A shotgun’s pump-action clack echoed like a gunshot. A gnarled hand shoved the barrel against the Nordic’s spine. “Git down on your knees, bitch!”

The alien dropped instantly, palms upturned in surrender. Behind her stood a stooped figure in an old-style sheriff’s department khaki shirt, but without a badge, his face a roap of wrinkles under a sweat-stained issue Stetson.

“Chris,” Anita exhaled, holstering her weapon, “meet Deputy Carl Moffitt, as was.” She blinked at the old lawman. “He retired about the time I first pinned on a badge.”

Moffitt spat tobacco juice near the captive’s knee. “Thought y’all might need a hand.” His shotgun never wavered, despite his trembling hands. The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, this one’s playin’ possum. Ain’tcha, darlin’?”

The alien’s pupils dilated: black swallowing blue as the floorboards groaned. Chris yanked the ax free with a shower of splinters.

“They’re making us see things, makin’ us doubt ourselves.” Anita said out loud as she watched the Nordic’s form flicker between towering beautiful woman and something far leaner, hungrier, out worldlier.

Moffitt chuckled darkly. “Bullseye. These space whores been gaslightin’ the whole damn county.” He pressed the shotgun harder into the captive’s neck. “But ol’ Carl here re Roswell. Knows their tricks... they’re mind controllers.” His free hand caught the star that Anita tossed to him.

“Reckon that means I’m deputized again.” He chuckled.

Outside, a distant wail like a siren cut through the unnatural stillness. The Nordic’s head snapped toward the sound, nostrils flaring. Anita caught the scent too, something like burnt almonds and machine oil. The alien began to laugh, a sound like shattering crystal.

“Quiet!” Moffitt snapped and jammed the shotgun firmly into her neck once more. The laugh choked off as abruptly as it began. The old man’s rheumy eyes met Anita’s: he jerked his chin at the trembling alien. “Reckon this one’s a scout.”

Chris hefted the ax. “Then we’d better move.”

“Where too?” Anita demanded.

Chris shrugged. “Away from here!”

“There ain’t no ‘away from here’, boy!” The old man said. “Not when you’re a cop!”

The lad looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” he muttered, “I haven’t bin a deputy for too long.” He looked at Anita and seemed to pull himself together. “What do you want me to do, Sergeant?”

She gestured for him to get moving. “Try’n raise Sheriff Detwhiler on the radio... Tell her we got us a live one an’ that ol’ Carl’s back on the job.”

Deputy Chris Miller nodded and hurried off, his boots scuffing the lino as he went. Anita watched him go, then turned her attention back to the Nordic alien kneeling on the floor. Carl had his shotgun pressed against her spine, his gnarled fingers now steady despite his age.

The alien’s lips curled into a smirk as Anita approached. “You’re wasting your time, human.” Only this time she spoke in words. “Your radios won’t work. Not tonight.”

“Or maybe they’re working perfectly an’ you are makin’ us believe they ain’t.” Anita mused

The Nordic woman hissed at her. “You humans should be grateful that we are here as friends... here to help you.”

Once more, Carl spat tobacco juice onto the floor but in front of her this time. “Shut yer pie-hole, space tramp.” He glanced up at Anita. “Hadn’t we better search her, Sarg?”

Anita hesitated, then reached for the alien’s slender arms. The moment her fingers made , a jolt of static electricity raced up her arm. The Nordic’s skin was icy to the touch, smooth as polished marble. “Jesus,” Anita muttered, patting her down. The alien wore a form-fitting silver suit that seemed to shift and shimmer under the station’s flickering lights as she ran hands over the slender yet shapely body.

“Nothin’,” Anita said at last, stepping back. “No weapons, no... anythin’.” She wiped her hands on her pants, trying to rid herself of the unnatural chill. Or is she makin’ me think there’s nothin’? She wondered.

Carl grunted. “Ain’t nothin’ normal about this bitch.” He nudged the alien with his shotgun. “Get up. You’re goin’ in the cell.”

The alien rose gracefully, her movements liquid and effortless. As she stood, her head tilted slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear. Anita caught the faintest flicker of fear in those arctic blue eyes before it vanished.

Outside, the distant wailing grew louder. The alien’s nostrils flared. “They’re coming,” she whispered, her voice like wind through dry leaves. “And they won’t be as gentle as me.”

Suddenly Anita spotted the ghost of something shimmering around the alien’s left wrist and saw the creature’s other hand creeping towards it. She drew her Glock and jammed the barrel against the alien’s forearm. “If I pull the trigger I reckon that the discharge will shatter whatever you have that es for arm bones: now show me what you got on your wrist or I swear I’ll pull the trigger.”

The alien hesitated, then slowly raised her hand, fingers splayed. Around her wrist was a thin metallic band, pulsing with a faint blue light. Anita didn’t recognize the technology, but the alien’s panicked reaction told her all she needed to know.

Carl’s shotgun pressed harder into the Nordic’s neck. “Looks like we found her panic button.” His chuckle sounded like gravel in a tin can. “Best we take that off her, Sergeant.”

Anita reached for the bracelet, but the moment her fingers brushed it, sparks erupted... not electricity but something thicker, clinging to her skin like liquid fire. The alien seized the moment, twisting violently against the old man. Carl’s shotgun discharged into the ceiling as the Nordic’s knee connected with Anita’s ribs.

The station plunged into chaos. dry plaster and fragments of lath and roof shingle rained down as Chris came sprinting back, radio crackling with voices garbled by static. The alien was halfway to the window when Moffitt’s gnarled hand snagged her ankle. She went down hard, silver hair whipping across her face.

“Told ya she was playin’ possum!” Carl wheezed, rolling the alien onto her stomach with surprising strength and pressing his foot against the back of her knee before she could react. Anita aimed her sidearm at the creature’s head while Chris secured her wrists with flex-cuffs.

The alien’s breathing came fast now, real panic, not the theatrics from before. “I am your friend! " She whispered, struggling against the restraints. “You don’t understand... The cats... They’ll burn this town to ash to take me.”

Anita yanked the device off the creature’s forearm and immediately, outside, the wailing ceased with a rattle reminiscent of a dying animal and the town’s solitary street lamp came back on. And there. on the floor beside her, the Nordic woman began to weep: but not only that... Her cold beauty seemed to fade into something harsher, more angular as her shimmering silver gown faded to a dull gray.

Suddenly, over by the desk, the radio static ended as if someone had thrown a switch. But not only that, the landline phone was ringing.

Up North in Wide-Awake Rachel held the tracking device up between the colonel and herself, the blinking red light casting jagged shadows across Atkinson’s smooth features. “What in hell is this?” She demanded, fingers tightening around the plastic casing until it creaked.

The colonel’s gaze slid past her toward the dazed sergeant being frogmarched toward the cells by Kaywaykla as she attempted to ignore the question entirely.

“Release my sergeant immediately.” Atkinson ordered, her voice filled with the authority that no longer held any real weight in the room.

Rachel stepped into her space, close enough to smell the woman’s perfume. “Answer me, damn you.” She punctuated each word by tapping the device on the table.

A tremor ran through the floorboards and the lights dimmed. Mari-belle whimpered as the station’s backup generator kicked in, bathing them in emergency lighting that made everyone look like corpses.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to explain these trackers.” Rachel hissed, jabbing the device into Atkinson’s sternum hard enough to leave a mark. “Other wise you’re gonna be charged with obstructing a police investigation!”

The colonel’s perfect composure cracked, just for an instant, before she straightened her jacket with exaggerated calm. “I’m an Air Force officer...”

“Somehow I doubt your superiors will be happy with your performance so far.” The Sheriff said quietly

“...here to help,” Atkinson continued through gritted teeth. “You’re facing God knows what. The trackers allow me to respond to your needs... to know where your deputies are in case they get into trouble!”

Rachel’s laughter was sharp enough to draw blood. “Then congratulations! You just made my job ten times more difficult by advertisin’ the location of every mobile unit. Don’tcha think that if you can follow the signal then our adversaries can too?”

The Colonel tried to explain that the trackers were highly sophisticated and quantum encrypted and that they were highly advanced American technology.

Rachel cut her short. “The damned aliens have tech that makes these look about as sophisticated as smoke signals.”

Atkinson’s jaw tightened. “Aliens? No, not aliens... foreign agents... Probably the Chinese.” The Colonel said smoothly, adjusting her collar with practiced calm. Her fingertips lingered near the hollow of her throat.

A burst of static erupted from the radio, followed by Deputy Binning’s distorted voice: “...Sheriff! Got multiple unknowns converging on...” The transmission dissolved into white noise.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Atkinson: I’ve got a lot of frightened people out there... A lot of missing women... An’ you’ve got the gall to tell me it’s the Chinese?” The Sheriff demanded.

“Probably in conjunction with the Russians.” The Air Force officer added blithely.

Rachel let the silence stretch until Atkinson’s fingers twitched toward her collar again. “You’re lying,” she said softly, watching the colonel’s pupils dilate. “And bad liars always fiddle with their clothes.”

The station’s windows rattled as something massive ed slowly overhead: not a helicopter, nothing with rotors. Mari-bele’s whimper turned into a full sob as one of the the fluorescent tubes flared up and exploded in a rain of glass.

Rachel strode to the window, yanking the blinds up with enough force to snap a slat. Outside, the night sky pulsed with impossible geometries: amber disks darting between crimson spheres, sapphire threads weaving through formations that defied aerodynamics. Their movements weren’t flight but a choreographed ballet, each maneuver synchronized yet unpredictable.

Atkinson materialized beside her, posture rigid. Rachel didn’t glance away from the spectacle. “I suppose I’m imagining them?” Her thumb tapped the tracker still clenched in her fist, its red light blinking in time with the largest orb’s oscillations.

The colonel exhaled sharply through her nose. “Weather balloons!” She said automatically, then amended her explanation when a formation inverted midair without losing velocity: “Flares from an exercise around Nellis. The wind’s carrying them off-course.”

A cyan-coloured disk detached from the swarm, descending toward Main Street. Rachel’s skin prickled as ozone saturated the air. “Bullshit.” She grabbed the colonel’s wrist, hauling her toward the exit. “Show me which aircraft drop flares that hover. and how come the wind that’s blowin’ them off course is blowin’ them in opposite directions?”

Outside, the desert cold hit like a slap. The descending disk pulsed once, Rachel’s fillings vibrated, before the thing separated into a dozen smaller orbs that scattered across the rooftops. One streaked past close enough for Mari-belle’s hair to lift statically from her shoulders.

Atkinson’s perfect hair remained undisturbed.

“Still think this is China?” Rachel jerked her chin toward where Deputy Kaywaykla stood transfixed, his long hair floating as if underwater. Her own revolver levitated three inches from its holster before clattering back into place.

The colonel reached mechanically for her collar again, fingers brushing something beneath the fabric, a pendant or dog tags? Her pupils contracted to pinpricks. “Hostile drone swarm...” She recited. “Advanced ECM creating... optical distortions.”

“I’ve been inside one of their craft... Or at least one of the Cat-Women’s craft...” Rachel said quietly, her breath frosting in the unnatural chill. “Deputy Kaywaykla ’n me rescued women they were holdin’ prisoner.” Her fingers twitched toward the healing wound along her rib cage,a souvenir from Ssstha’rel’s claws. “Walls pulsed like living tissue. Lights didn’t cast shadows so much as... avoid ’em.” She watched Atkinson’s throat bob as she swallowed. “Funny thing? Their tech stank like burned copper ’n wet fur.”

The colonel’s manicured nails dug into her palms. “Hallucinogens in the ventilation systems.” She countered, too quickly. “Engineered pheromones triggering primitive fear responses...”

“I’ve seen the cat-women... I’ve spoke to ’em!” Rachel said in an exasperated voice, shaking the tracker like a rattlesnake’s tail under Atkinson’s nose. The colonel’s pupils dilated just a fraction at her words, but Rachel caught it. “One of ’em licked my goddamn face while her buddies tried to turn Nolan into their personal fucktoy. You tellin’ me that was the Chinese too?”

The Colonel smiled. “A puma out in the desert at night, no doubt it looked like a cat standing on its hind legs... Or a group of Horned Owls, they can look very catlike in silhouette especially to those not used to seeing wild life!” Her voice carried the practiced calm of someone reciting a script.

Rachel’s laugh came out as a sharp bark. “Get much wildlife in your air-conditioned office up at Nellis, do you?” She pulled her phone from her belt pouch, flipping through photos with deliberate slowness. “What about these tracks we saw? Owls sure as hell don’t wear little boots.” The screen displayed a series of photos then froze at the one showing the Cat-Woman’s boot prints.

Atkinson’s gaze flickered toward the images before snapping away, but not before Rachel caught the tightening around her eyes.

The colonel gestured sharply toward a clean-cut airman loitering near the MPs. “Corporal Tau-gu is,” she announced with brittle authority, " a Paiute tracker. Let’s see what an actual expert thinks of your...” Her lips curled around the word. “’Evidence.’”

The airman stepped forward, his uniform crisper than regulation required. He barely glanced at Rachel’s phone before nodding. “Coyote tracks, Ma’am.” He declared. “No doubt about it.”

Rachel’s grip tightened on her phone. She didn’t turn when Deputy Kaywaykla’s boots crunched behind her. “Waya?” she said quietly.

Kaywaykla didn’t bother looking at the screen. His dark eyes locked onto Tau-gu instead. “If that’s a coyote,” he drawled, “it’s standing on its hind legs... and somebody’s chopped all its toes clean off.” His teeth flashed white against weathered skin. “Unless Paiute trackers think coyotes wear Vibram soles now?”

Atkinson’s nostrils flared. “Corporal Tau-gu is a decorated...”

“...bullshit artist,” Kaywaykla finished, stepping closer to the corporal. “A real Paiute tracker wouldn’t mistake boot prints for paw pads.” He sniffed once. “And he smells of aftershave, not sage. What’s your job in the Air Force, son?”

Corporal Tau-gu’s posture stiffened. “I’m the colonel’s driver.” He answered.

“Any good at it?” The Apache asked quietly.

“Yes, Sir!” The man said proudly.

The Apache smiled a sad little smile. “Then I suggest you stick to driving because you couldn’t track a hog in a mud wallow.”

Suddenly Deputy Steve Vernon stuck his head out of the door and interrupted. “Rachel, Deputy Miller’s on the radio from Black Mesa... Seems like they’ve captured a live one.”

Atkinson’s head snapped up, her previously composed face alight with something almost predatory. “What is it? Cat-woman? Grey? Reptiloid? Nordic?” She demanded, her voice hopeful as she rattled off a catalog of Aliens that she had refused to it existed only minutes before.

Vernon rubbed his stubble, glancing between Rachel and the colonel with mild amusement. “Sounds like a Nordic woman, ma’am... seven foot tall and blonde. Got some of their tech, too.”

“Yes!” The colonel shouted, punching the air with a fist before catching herself and smoothing her uniform.

Rachel couldn’t help but grin at the sudden conversion. “Over to you, I think,” she drawled, “unless of course you believe they’re hallucinating.”

Atkinson’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she grabbed her phone and when she got through launched into a conversation made nonsensical by code-words and phrases.

Rachel watched her for a few seconds before she turned to Vernon. “Tell Miller to keep that blonde bitch secured, double cuffs, leg irons, the works. And have someone take pictures of her and the tech before the Air Force ‘accidentally’ loses everything. Oh and tell them not to give ’em the prisoner without getting’ a receipt.” She glanced back at Atkinson, now pacing outside the police station like a caged animal. “Where’s Miller keepin’ her?”

“Old storm cellar behind the their station: more secure than the holding cell.” Vernon said, scratching his neck. “Figured concrete and steel might scramble whatever voodoo they use to talk to each other.”

The colonel suddenly appeared at Rachel’s elbow . “Choppers are on the way, Sheriff,” she said breathlessly. “Could you instruct your people to hand her over?” Her fingers twitched toward Rachel’s sleeve before thinking better of it.

Rachel stared at her. “Five minutes ago you were ready to section us all for seein’ things.”

Atkinson looked hurt. “New intelligence,..” she said mumbled, “...need-to-know basis.”