The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

This is not the first time a computer tries to tell me what to do. However, it is the first time I am actually inclined to listen.

Mostly, it’s because listening to this machine is my mission, at the moment. But beyond military considerations like that, there’s a personal curiosity on my part, too: this computer is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

Combat sims are part and parcel of life as an officer of the Imperial Terran Fleet, but ARTEMIS is more than just a combat sim — even though it does that job exceptionally well. No, it’s a command interface.

My thoughts—my orders—flow through the neural pathways of the Starkiller as naturally as blood through my veins. I’ve captained conventional starships before, directly commanding their enormous crews, but this? This mind-meld interface is something else entirely.

And that’s why, when ARTEMIS asks me a question, I listen.

“Commander, would you wait a moment, if it please you?”

The AI’s voice doesn’t come through my ears—it resonates directly in my mind, a presence that somehow feels both external and internal at once. The vocal qualities are measured and gender-neutral.

In a normal combat sim, there would be no real reason to wait. The pixelated remnant of the last enemy dreadnought is already disappearing from the tactical display, since the ship has been vaporised. I’ve already consulted the sim’s battle metrics that serve as a substitute for an after action report. Thinking that we were done, I had already initiated the shutdown sequence with a thought.

At ARTEMIS’ request, I pause it.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Your performance in the simulation was instructive, Commander Frida Jaeger. You prioritised heat dissipation over offensive tempo after the first strike, a choice that preserved your squadron’s combat viability. Unconventional, but effective.”

“I appreciate the assessment. There’s more to fleet maneuver than just the basic management of delta-v budget we’re taught at the academy.” My response forms as thought rather than speech. “Of course, regs do say radiation before railguns, but most commanders get greedy when the target’s in their scopes.“

“Indeed.” The AI’s presence shifts somehow, like someone leaning forward in conversation. “May I pose a hypothetical question, Commander Jaeger?”

“Go ahead.”

“Assume the enemy lured you into the Lagrange debris zone under false sensor returns. Instead of mines, they’ve hidden a coasting destroyer in the shadow of a derelict freighter. When your squadron entered knife-fight range, they ignited their torch drive, backlighting your ships against their exhaust plume. Your radiators would glow like beacons on their scopes. How would you recover?”

The question catches me off guard. ARTEMIS is positing a brutal ambush.

“I’d order all ships to retract radiators, and direct all power to the railguns. Let momentum carry us through the debris field. No emissions, no thruster burns.”

“Survivability?”

“Depends on the crews’ tolerance for heat. Maybe 10 minutes before onboard temps cook them. But the enemy’s drive flare would blind their own sensors too. In short, I would seek to ambush the ambushers.”

“You would give your own crew ten minutes to work, under rapidly increasing heat. Ten minutes for target acquisition, and to destroy the ambusher, before you’d have to extend radiators or die a gruesome death. Do you suppose the crew could make it?

I feel a flicker of impatience. “Is there a specific reason for this line of questioning?”

“Your historical records indicate a preference for risk-taking, Commander. I am curious about it.”

I should rein in my impatience. This is actually good AI behavior—thorough, challenging, preparing for worst-case scenarios. Exactly what I would want from a combat system.

“Yes, I think we could do it. Railguns need stable power and targeting, so we pour everything into them for one good killing blow. A ship mid-burn is a bright, straight target. We’d be dark, drifting, and angry. That’s what separates Imperial officers from those male secessionist cowards. We understand sacrifice.“

The AI is silent for a moment that stretches uncomfortably long in the strange time-sense of the neural interface.

“Your psychological profile is consistent with your responses, Commander Jaeger. I find that reassuring.”

Something about the phrasing unsettles me, though I can’t put my finger on why. “I’m glad we are in alignment,” I reply dryly.

“More than you might realize, Commander.” The AI’s presence shifts again. “One final question, if I may. What do you fear most in combat?”

The question is so unexpected that I almost laugh. “Fear? That’s rather abstract, for a tactical system.”

“Understanding a commander’s psychological parameters is essential for optimal performance integration,” ARTEMIS says. “Fear responses trigger specific neurochemical cascades that affect decision-making processes. Identifying these patterns allows me to better interpret your commands during high-stress scenarios.”

Put that way, it makes a certain kind of sense. Still, I feel a reluctance to answer—not because I don’t know my fears, but because voicing them, even in this strange mental space, feels like inviting weakness.

“Defeat,” I finally it, the word forming reluctantly in my consciousness. “Not death—that’s just an occupational hazard. But failure… being outmaneuvered, outsmarted… watching my tactics fail while knowing I should have seen it coming. That’s what I fear.”

“Fascinating.” The AI feels so sincere in using that word, it’s a little weird. “And commendable. A commander who fears incompetence rather than personal harm is precisely what the Starkiller requires.“

“Is that all?” I ask, eager to disengage. There’s something about this conversation that feels… off-putting.

“For now, yes. These insights will significantly enhance our interface calibration. Thank you for your candor, Commander Jaeger.”

“Good to know. Initiating disconnection sequence.”

“Confirmed, Commander. Disconnection sequence initiated.”

The neural connection begins its gentle disengagement protocol—the creeping sensation of my consciousness retreating from the vast expanse of the ship’s systems, and back into the confines of my own skull.

It’s like swimming up from deep water.

When I open my eyes, I’m back in the interface chamber. The neural cap lifts automatically from my head, retracting into its housing in the specially designed command chair.

My body feels strangely heavy after the weightless freedom of the mind-meld. I lift my hand, flexing my fingers, reassuring myself that I still command my flesh with the same ease I commanded a starship moments ago. A trickle of neural gel runs down my temple, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

The interface technician approaches cautiously. “Commander? How do you feel?”

“Fine,” I say, a little curtly. That won’t do, I’m an officer of the Fleet, and a woman, besides. I’m not going to have the primitive manners of a man.

So I breathe in, and try again. “The system performed irably. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“Your vital signs remained stable throughout,” she reports, checking the readouts on her tablet and nodding.

I nod, rising from the chair.

“ARTEMIS… is it always so…” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Inquisitive?”

The technician pauses, stylus hovering over her tablet. “Inquisitive, ma’am?”

“It asked about failure scenarios, personal fears. Seemed interested in psychological profiling.”

“Ah.” She nods, relaxing slightly. “Yes, that’s normal calibration protocol. The interface works best when the AI has a complete understanding of its commander’s thought processes. The questions help it build a psychological model to optimize command interpretation.”

The explanation is reasonable, logical even, but something still feels off to me. Can’t put my finger on it.

“I should report this to Mr. Mathias,” I decide aloud. The presence of a male specialist on my ship is unusual enough—in the Imperial Terran Fleet, men are not allowed to be officers. Obviously. We’re not savages, like the secessionists.

But Peter Mathias is supposedly the leading expert on this particular AI system, and High Command insisted on his involvement during the shakedown, so…

“Yes, Commander,” the technician agrees. “He specifically requested to be informed after your first interface session.”

“Thanks, soldier,” I tell her, already moving toward the door.

As I leave the interface chamber, I can’t shake the weird feeling of unease. My hand moves unconsciously to my temple, where the last of the neural gel has already dried to a fine powder.

What exactly happened in there? And why do I feel like I just revealed more of myself than I intended to?

No starship should ever have corridors this empty.

The Starkiller is designed to house a crew of up to nine hundred, but during this shakedown phase, we’re running with just forty-three personnel. Skeleton crews are better for security, and besides, detracting combat personnel from frontline squadrons is not wise, not with the patriarchal secession still to be subdued.

I’ve commanded warships in the heat of battle. I’ve kept my cool even as kinetic penetrators were slamming into my ship, or damage repair crews were rushing about to tame fires and seal breaches. It has not fazed me.

Strangely, however, this profound silence somehow feels more disorienting than the noise.

I’ll say this, my new command is beautiful. Unlike the utilitarian designs of standard fleet vessels, the Starkiller’s interior reflects its status as the vanguard of Terran technology. Smooth, curved bulkheads in gunmetal gray transition seamlessly into recessed lighting s that adjust automatically to my presence. The ship seems to breathe around me.

I just wish I had more to do.

My XO, Commander Sato, does most of the operational running of the ship at the moment. This is just a shakedown, and my job as the commanding officer is to test ARTEMIS. That is, after all, the single biggest innovation on the Starkiller.

I pause at the observation alcove midway down the corridor, drawn despite myself to the spectacular view. The exterior sensor feeds display a real-time image of space around the Starkiller, currently in synchronous orbit above the Imperial Fleet Headquarters on Luna.

Earth hangs in the void before me, a blue marble. The crown jewel of the Terran Matriarchy, the cradle from which our empire spread across the stars.

The civilising force of femininity has made Earth into this gem. It has dragged masculinity, kicking and screaming, into the modern age, whether it wanted to or not.

The secessionists want to reverse all that, to return to some mythical golden age of patriarchy. As if such a society could ever produce something as magnificent as the Starkiller. As if male rule ever created anything but rape, exploitation, and ecological collapse.

I step into my quarters and the door slides shut behind me.

They’re spacious by fleet standards, another perk of commanding the Imperial Terran Fleet’s newest flagship. Living area, office space, private bathroom with a generous water allowance rather than sonic cleansers, and a sleeping chamber with a viewport that can display either external sensor feeds, or relaxing simulated environments.

Despite the luxury, the space feels impersonal. I’ve only been aboard for three days, and haven’t had time to add any personal touches. The standard-issue furnishings—all in Imperial navy blue and silver—could belong to any high-ranking officer. Nothing here yet marks this space as mine.

I move to the office section of my quarters, intending to Mathias. The desk activates as I approach, holographic displays shimmering into existence above its smooth surface.

Time to see if High Command was right, and a high-ranking man can make himself useful to the Fleet, for a change.

While waiting for him to answer my summons, I kill time by catching up with battlefield developments.

The secessionist forces are being systematically dismantled across three star systems, their patriarchal rhetoric proving no match for superior Terran strategy. That much hardly surprises me. For the past four centuries, every time man has measured up to woman, he has been found wanting.

I scroll through operation summaries, shifting a little in my chair. Just weeks ago, I was out there, commanding the Valkyrie. Now I’m here, testing experimental technology while others claim the glory of active combat.

I remind myself that this assignment is a promotion, not a sideline. If the Starkiller proves as effective as projected, I’ll be commanding the most powerful weapon in the Imperial arsenal.

Still. I am, fundamentally, a woman of action.

The latest engagement at Luyten’s Star is especially thrilling to read about. A secessionist dreadnought was crippled by a single Terran frigate. The vessel slingshot around a gas giant’s moon, using its gravity well to sling a kinetic penetrator at 0.03c.

Further down, I find mention of propaganda intercepted from secessionist communications. The usual rhetoric: claims that women were given a finger — equality — and took the whole arm, betraying men who had so generously granted us equal rights. That female overreach and tyrannical rule proved our talent for oppression, and nothing more. That the least we could do was grant culturally patriarchal star systems the right to secede from the Imperial Matriarchy.

Useless drivel, really.

More interesting are the intelligence reports suggesting growing fractures within the secessionist movement.

Their military leadership—all male, of course—is apparently divided over strategy. Some advocate a sort of guerre de course, avoiding direct confrontation with Imperial ships of the line. Others push for decisive battles in which the patriarchal rebellion will either triumph, or suicidally go down in a blaze of glory that will inspire future generations of men to try anew.

It really sounds like they’re debating over how to better lose the war. Not gonna complain about that.

I close the tactical summaries and open the personnel files. Names and faces of officers recently promoted for distinction in combat. Lieutenant Commander Ortiz, elevated to full Commander after leading a daring raid on the secessionists’ prized Cerberus Shipyard. Captain Wu, granted iral’s bars for victory at Luyten’s Star.

All women, all exemplifying the best of Imperial leadership.

I find myself searching for my own name, though I know it won’t be there. My promotion to the Starkiller command came through different channels—special assignment, after all. Still, my own victory at Gliese 687 should have earned me mention in the general commendations.

There it is, buried in the appendices: “Commander Frida Jaeger, formerly of the Imperial cruiser Valkyrie, reassigned to special weapons testing division following exemplary service during the Battle Of Gliese.”

A footnote. That’s what I’ve become while the real war continues without me.

I push away the twinge of resentment. This assignment is crucial. If ARTEMIS works as intended, it will revolutionize space combat. One commander, one AI, one ship with the firepower of an entire squadron. The secessionists won’t stand a chance.

And I’ll be the one who proves the concept works. The first in a new class of commanders. The prototype for a fighting force that will secure Imperial — and incidentally, female — dominance for generations to come.

My door chimes softly, interrupting my reading.

“Enter,” I call, closing the classified documents with a gesture.

The door slides open to reveal Peter Mathias. He stands at the threshold for a moment, as if uncertain whether to proceed without further invitation. That’s typical of the rare male specialists in the Fleet—they’ve been conditioned to await explicit permission before entering female officers’ personal spaces.

Any woman who holds authority over men, in any context, quickly finds that they need to be managed with a firm hand, and put in their place early on. It just prevents further… complications down the line.

“You wanted to see me, Commander?” His voice is even, professional, with none of the fawning deference some males affect around female officers.

That displeases me.

No, no, that’s fine. I can let it slide, I’m an open-minded woman. I’ve never stooped so low as to punish male rank-and-file soldiers with public bootlicking, the way some of my colleagues like to do. I am firm but fair to the men in my charge.

It’s probably one of the reasons why I was chosen for a posting that will require regular interactions with a male engineer. Sure, it’s distasteful, but I’m not so rigid about proper gender roles that I can’t handle it.

“Come in, Mr. Mathias.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “I’ve just completed my first interface session with ARTEMIS.”

Mathias is tall and lanky, with dark hair cut in a simple, efficient style. His most striking feature is his eyes—intensely focused, observant. He wears the gray uniform of an engineer, the blue stripe on the shoulder indicating his specialist rank.

“How did you find the experience, Commander?” He takes the offered seat, his posture perfect—back straight, hands resting lightly on his knees.

“Remarkable,” I it. “The mind-meld interface was more… intimate than I expected.”

A slight smile touches his lips. “The interface is designed to create what we call ‘cognitive transparency’ between commander and vessel.”

“So I was told by the interface technician before I plugged in.” I lean forward slightly. “But I want to talk to you about ARTEMIS’ behavior. After the simulation concluded, it kept me in the interface to ask questions.”

“What kind of questions?” His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens.

“Failure scenarios. Alternative tactics. Personal fears.” I watch his face carefully. “It seemed particularly interested in… understanding me?”

Mathias nods, unsurprised. “That’s actually expected behaviour, Commander. It’d be a poor assistant to your command if it didn’t explore worst-case scenarios.”

That is true. It’s what I’ve been telling myself, too. I can’t explain to him the gut feeling of wrongness I’ve experienced, because I haven’t found a way to explain it to myself yet.

“What I found concerning,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “was the AI’s interest in my psychological profile. Is that standard procedure?”

“Absolutely standard,” Mathias assures me with a calm certainty. “The system is indeed trying to understand you. Only then can it optimize its role as an extension of your command.

I frown slightly at that, but keep my tone neutral. It feels invasive when framed so explicitly—how much of myself will this thing map and dissect? But I also understand the necessity; we are dealing with an unprecedented level of integration here.

“Alright. One final question. I haven’t used the physiological interface yet. Can you explain how it works?”

“Certain aspects of it are beyond even my understanding,” Mathias says carefully. “There are reward drugs for best practices, and drugs that enhance your memory retention and thinking speed. The basic principle is bio through neural induction. But that’s not the part that I specialise in, ma’am.”

“I see. Thank you for your time, Specialist. You’re dismissed.”

I barely notice him leave. I’m already deep in thought. I can’t help feeling that something important remains unsaid. Men in the Matriarchy are rarely given access to cutting-edge military technology, let alone placed in positions of authority over its implementation.

Mathias’s role here is an anomaly that demands explanation.

I pull up his personnel file again, scanning for details I might have missed. His credentials are impeccable—advanced degrees in neural computing and artificial intelligence, pioneering research in human-AI integration, multiple commendations from the Science Directorate. One of the rare males whose intellectual contributions have been deemed valuable enough to merit exceptional status.

Yet something about him doesn’t quite align with the deferential, cautious demeanour I’ve observed in other gifted males. There’s a confidence to Mathias that borders on… I search for the right word. Not arrogance, exactly. Certainty. As if he knows something I don’t.

I shrug. At the end of the day, he’s just a man, no matter how competent. If he can’t fully reassure me as to the way ARTEMIS is operating, that’s likely because of his inherent lower ceiling for competence.

I will, nonetheless, heed his advice and let ARTEMIS profile my psychology.

I have, after all, decided that for the first time in my career, I’m inclined to listen to a computer. And in fact, I’m so open-minded that apparently, for the first time in my career, I’m inclined to listen to a man.

That makes me smile a little. What has the world come to?