The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

John could not do it. It was Saturday. It was bad enough that he knew that which he did. He didn’t want to drop the same depressing bombshell on Christie to think about and dwell upon for the rest of her natural life. Once she knew, she couldn’t unknow, either, and, although he didn’t like admitting it to himself, he was rapidly becoming fond of her.

In fact, his growing feelings for her were more than that and he knew it. It was the last thing he had planned on happening in his life, but there was just something about her. He had never been so overwhelmed and depressed in all his life.

‘Hi!’ She said as she came walking up to him. ‘Nice day for it?’

He had asked her to meet him at the pier on the beach so they could go for a walk and could talk.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Beautiful.’

‘You are not convincing me,’ she grinned. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Let’s walk,’ he said, stepping down the two concrete steps and onto the beach. She followed him down to where he waited.

‘Take them off,’ he said, pointing to her shoes. ‘It’s hard enough going in bare feet, let alone with shoes on, especially those.’

She grinned and slipped both shoes from her feet, then picked them up with her right hand. They began to walk.

‘Does your problem have anything to do with your contact and that letter you won’t tell me any more about?’ She asked, changing direction slightly to walk closer to the water’s edge.

He sighed, wishing he had not come up with the idea he had.

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘and you.’

Christie turned to look at him, but continued to walk backward through the ankle-deep frothing water, looking at him.

‘Let’s start with that which you won’t tell me,’ she grinned.

He loved the refreshing honesty about her. It reminded him of the flaws in his own personality.

‘Not, won’t tell you,’ he said. ‘Will not tell you. So don’t try to get me to change my mind. Some things you just don’t want to know.’

‘It can’t be that bad,’ she laughed, kicking the foaming water back at him.

He jumped to one side, but was too late. She wet him from the chest to the crotch. He laughed and so did she.

‘It is,’ he replied, ‘believe me. You don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know now, but I do and now I can’t unknow it.’

‘You didn’t have to know it,’ she said, suddenly serious. ‘You chose to, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I did, and now I have to do something about it. It’s dangerous if you know about it. That’s why I don’t want you to know.’

She stopped walking backward through the water and just stood in it, waiting for him to catch up the few paces that separated them. The closer he got to her, the deeper her blue eyes seemed to become. By the time he paused beside her, he felt as if he were drowning in them and not the surf that crashed within a few metres of where they both stood.

‘I’m a big girl,’ she said seriously.

‘And what a handsome girl you are,’ he responded, grinning.

Then his smile faded. Her brow frowned and she waited. He knew she waited.

‘Christie,’ he began, searching her eyes for an understanding in him he couldn’t expect her to have, after knowing him for such a brief time only, ‘I think it’s best if we don’t see each other socially anymore.’

Her eyes shined instantly as his guilt trip deepened at hurting her. He didn’t know what else to say. Breaking off any budding relationship with her was the last thing he wanted to do. Then strangely, she smiled, and, it was a genuine smile.

‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,’ she grinned. ‘I wonder what the waves have learned in their race from the tides?’

Surprising him, she then turned and began walking and splashing through the water once again, stepping out a few paces ahead of him. As he followed, he puzzled over her last statement and shook his head in his admiration of her nature and her understanding.

They walked slowly along the beach for about a half an hour, stopping every now and then, just to look at one another, before moving slowly on again. He kicked the sand every now and then if a thought he had, happened to be a frustrating or depressing one.

Standing in the cool, refreshing wash of the waves as they broke around and over his bare feet and ankles was soothing for his troubled mind. He wished he could tell her the reasons for his decision; how he really felt about her and, that it had nothing to do with her personally. He noted then that she had not asked him why she was being dumped.

He always found it very relaxing and calming to stand in the breakwater. His gaze never left Christie or the far-off horizon as he walked, just allowing his thoughts to travel wherever they wished. That way, the distance involved in the walk never seemed very far to him. His mind always seemed elsewhere while his body did the walking.

Glancing down at the watch on his right hand, the face of it turned inward on the inside of his wrist for easier glancing without twisting his arm, he saw that it was just after ten-thirty. The heat was just coming into the morning and it was nice with the gentle sea breeze on his face. He stopped walking and just stood in the swirling seawater up to his ankles. It was time to go back.

‘Christie!’ He called to her.

She stopped splashing through the water like a big kid on her very first time at the beach and turned, grinning at him like a Cheshire cat.

He turned slowly, dropping his gaze from her smiling face to the distant relaxing horizon and then to the frothy water and bubbles seething around his ankles. Another small wave broke over them. His thoughts sank down into the turmoil of the water around his legs. It seemed a picture as confused as his chaotic mind. Then suddenly, she flashed by him running very fast and splashed him well and truly.

Shaking and wiping himself of with a laugh and a quiet curse at her juvenile antics, he began the long, slow walk back. He had only taken about a dozen steps through the swirling cool water when he suddenly became aware of someone standing directly in front of him. He had been so deep in thought he stopped abruptly.

His head and eyes rose quickly in slight shock with his thoughts being so far away, deep down in the white froth and tumbling water around his feet then to be wrenched back to the here and now, so quickly.

It was Christie. She just stood looking at him, with a lost child, wistful look on her face. Her usually smiling mouth and lips seemed a little down-turned at the corners. His eyes hardened a little at the hurt he’d given her, but then he shrugged.

‘Have you always been such a deep thinker?’ She asked quietly, the distance between them being only a few feet.

‘Seems that way,’ he replied evenly, not venturing any more conversation than that.

‘Mind if I hold your hand for the last time on the walk back with you?’ She asked further.

His eyes shined again and he looked away from her with his answer.

‘Nope,’ he said.

They began to walk through the small breaking waves together, just like a couple out for an early morning stroll that might be talking about or planning their future together. That thought depressed him even more so. He held her hand and kicked the sand lightly beneath the water.

‘There’s a definite pattern to your walking,’ she said, as if talking out loud to herself.

He didn’t answer. What was there to say? She was right, so it didn’t need talking about. They continued slowly through the swirling water, each seemingly deep in their own thoughts, and with him wondering what hers might be.

‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly from beside him.

He was the furthest down into the swirling water as well as the depths of his depression, but he kept his gaze on his ankles. Then he began to move slowly forward again. What could he possibly say to that? It had been her thought. If she had wanted to elaborate, she would have, he figured.

Then she released his hand from hers and began to walk slightly ahead of him, until she was about six feet in front, splashing lightly through the small breaking waves with her feet, occasionally kicking the sand with her right foot.

She wore a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, not tucked in, and tied around the waist in a knot. It was unbuttoned to just the beginning of her cleavage. About one or two inches of bare skin showed before the waistband of her shorts, which were also white and of thin material-the outline of her brief underwear being clearly visible beneath.

She had a nice figure. He had to give her that, firm and tight in all the right places for someone her age. She stopped abruptly, and then continued, her head moving slowly to either side, as if she were shaking it slowly in thought. He wondered really why she was still there with him. He had no intention of changing his decision.

He had closed the distance between them to only a few steps when she stopped. Then he began again. He walked slowly, only a few feet from her, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on the swirling water any more.

His gaze travelled between the sand at her feet and the gentle swaying movement of her firm buttocks as she walked. Then she changed her direction slightly, walking more deeply into the water and the waves, until they rolled gently around her hips. She continued on in that depth for a dozen or so steps before once again changing direction and moving back to the shore, until the water moved gently around her feet and ankles once again.

Now his gaze had to contend with her wet white shorts being gripped between her buttocks as she walked, accentuating clearly the firm shape of her figure. Her underwear, he could see now were of the g-string variety, which left her firm buttocks free and unfettered as they moved within the loose, clinging confines of the wet material of her shorts.

He smiled; knowing the sight of her really didn’t need that much contending with, after all. Then he realised that he’d smiled for the first time he could remember, since leaving his apartment. He shook his head slowly.

Where the hell is it all going?

He didn’t know, and, he didn’t care-not really. He couldn’t, for her sake. Her two-word statement ran around in his mind suddenly. “It’s okay.”

Is this how she takes bad news? Giving him a wet-shorts exhibition?

He smiled. It was certainly creative, and, entertaining, most entertaining indeed.

Finally, they left the water’s edge and walked slowly back up to the paved walkway, which led to the car park. She never left his side. They reached the car park and stopped beside her vehicle. He turned to look at her, only to find she was staring directly at him. She must have been waiting for him to turn, he figured

‘I guess it’s good bye, ’ he said with a sad sigh and a thin smile of politeness.

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she answered softly, looking deeply into his eyes.

He refused to let his gaze have its way and travel down to the still-wet fork of her shorts. His loss, he decided, but who cared?

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘It does.’

His heart and his hormones were both beginning to give him trouble as he continued to wrestle mentally with his gaze and its very strong wishes. It’s all about chemistry, he thought, as he won the battle for the moment and held her blue-eyed blonde gaze in his.

Then, as he watched her eyes, they twinkled and sparkled. The corners of her mouth turned cheekily upward into a grin he’d expect to see on a fifteen-year-old who’d just had a secretive thought.

‘I was hoping, maybe, that we could say goodbye, privately, if we must,’ she said softly.

He took a deep breath and sighed loudly. He didn’t need this shit. It was hard enough to accept everything that had happened without making it worse.

‘Christie,’ he began wearily, ‘I’m not changing my mind. You’ll have to accept it. I’ve already done so. This—’ and then his gaze won its battle finally and travelled quickly down to the wet, clinging material of her shorts, which outlined her very shapely centre, and, with very clear definition indeed. Then, he immediately regained control again. It wasn’t easy.

‘This isn’t going to work,’ he sighed, then turned slowly and walked anyway, back down toward the beach. He needed to run. He did not look back as the depression of his task with the book and his loss and sadness over letting her go swamped him from head to toe.

As he walked, he imagined her saying again that it was okay, that she understood. He shook his head when he reached the sand and turned to look back. She had gone. A stronger wave of depression bathed him as he began to run, but the salt spray felt good on his face. The cool ocean water felt even better. It splashed up around his legs and chest.

The wet sand shifted solidly beneath his pounding bare feet as they sprang his weight above them forward along the beach and through the breaking waves that crashed white, foamy froth onto his legs and the sandy shores of his deeply troubled mind.

He needed to be, to make sense of everything. He needed to be. He’d had a life, once, without her, but didn’t have one, or, couldn’t remember it, or had chosen not to remember it. He just needed to be. He needed self-discipline right then.

The wet ocean and the ripples created by the urge to merge of the waves and the sand seemed to be giving him exactly what he needed as he ran. He had faith in the universal law that said for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction, whereby, having thrown a pebble into a pool of water, it was impossible not to create ripples. And when the ripples encountered something in their path, they came back, of course-maybe directly, or from another unexpected direction, and maybe in a different shape or form, but they always come back, eventually.

Were the ripples that which he was going to create with his book? He wondered-insignificant ripples that brought nothing but bad news?

As his pumping thighs carried him faster and faster, the ripples just beyond the wave-breaks had captured his full and focused attention. His feet seemed to know where they were going and he now didn’t seem to care. They had him and were trying to teach him something, he was sure.

Any action taken by anybody or anything, like the currents or the tides or the fish in the sea, will always create ripples that eventually come back, and, when they do, it’s always nice when those ripples bring good news with them and not bad.

With his book, he hoped that the type of news that would be brought back with the ripples from it would be determined by the original action that created them in the first place. And that action would have been taken and created as a result of a need being seen and then met for that action to suit the particular situation, even if the action deemed to be correct at the time, was inaction.

As he ran, the ripples reinforced in his conscious mind that his self-discipline was the immediate result of his controlled attitude for the present given situation, which had been decided by a feeling of right at the time, and then had been forthcoming.

He would write the book. He had now ended any chance of happiness with Christie by walking away from her. His action, instead, had been to run along the beach and through the cool water, just to remind his mind of who was in control right then, and who needed to be. He knew that his understanding of that simple fact would determine whether or not he was a disciplined person and keep her out of the things he could now not unknow himself.

He ran without thinking, simply being aware of whatever the ripples told him as they came down in ever-changing shapes and sizes around his ankles thrashing in and out of the wet shifting sand as he ran.

They spoke quietly, but loudly to him as he raced through their arrival inside his choiceless awareness. The salt spray filled his lungs, invigorating and energising the efforts of his thighs and legs. They spoke to who he really was, of him, his conscious mind that always overreacted to emotion as a general rule, which then stimulated himself and his subconscious mind to remember past emotional imprints and behavioural patterns that had never worked for him. And that part of his overall mind would then act on its perceived reality by then re-stimulating his conscious mind to further action or inaction once again, that were usually not always in his own best interests.

The ripples also spoke to another part of him who knew who he really was; who had always acted on the reality of the happening moment of now in a way that had always felt right. He needed to guide the rest of himself along whatever paths of action or inaction that would hopefully prevent the overall him from getting into more trouble than he could handle at any given point in time.

And in that sense, then, he’d hopefully be balanced, which would cause any action he felt like taking to make use of the natural teamwork of his power of one. And when that happened, anything was possible. He knew that, even regaining his sanity.

Passers-by flashed past him quickly. He didn’t even notice whether they were male or female, man or woman, dog or cat-just as his former life without her also flashed passed him without him noticing that either, or even remembering it, for that matter.

All that seemed solid and real to him, as his legs carried him faster and faster through the crashing surf and shifting sands beneath his feet, were the principles of being a proper, natural human being for once in his life.

Principles were what he thought he had always believed in, not because they, in themselves, were infallible, but because of the principle of those principles. He believed in them. They were correct and had integrity. They didn’t move. They were like a lighthouse to him, signalling in some way that they were natural laws, which could not be broken. They could be bent; he could break himself against them, but they could not be broken, because they simply were. They were a guiding light to him, every single moment of every single day and he knew he needed them now as never before.

It seemed important for him to believe right then that he should be grateful for them being in his life, as he’d accrued them over whatever life it had been that he couldn’t remember having without her. He somehow felt that if he did believe in their existence right then, they would empower him through basic common sense and help him with his present dilemma of the Alien situation and with Christie.

Anything that made good common sense could and should be easy to make good common practice. That had always been his theory, anyway, he reflected, although, at that point in time, he had absolutely no idea even how long “always” actually had been, in terms of however many years of his other life without her had gone by without his conscious knowing.

He was having a moment. He knew that as he ran faster and faster, revelling in the freshness, the sheer naturalness of cool as the salt water. It splashed up from around his pounding feet and wet him from head to toe. His body was running, but, in his mind, he sat down to plan his next move. There didn’t seem to be one, however. He felt that since this was the case, he might just as well co-operate with the inevitable and made a conscious thought right then to keep his thinking and his attitude calm and cheerful, at least, and maybe try to lighten his situation with a bit of wry humour, which had always helped him in the past, especially during his divorce.

He needed to avoid running whatever misfortune in losing Christie and knowing things that he now could not unknow, through his mind like a tape recorder. He needed to somehow turn defeat into victory with the book, or even if it was only a moral victory of each moment of now that threatened to consume him with images of a life and love, lived and lost without her.

Through choiceless awareness, he allowed the ripples to teach him whatever they wanted to as people and jeeps and dogs and leashes flashed by him without intrusion. He needed the ripples to teach him to stay calm and produce any healthy emotion that would help him feel that there was always hope for any situation; that there was always providence. And, that there was always the ripple effect on the lake of whatever life he would now have without her, and before knowing about the world Alien situation that he seemingly couldn’t recall.

He needed the ripples to teach him right then and there that he could cope and accept the situation of the Aliens and of a life without Christie Summers gracefully, then simply co-operate with the inevitable and write the damn book, as they wanted him to.

He needed the ripples to tell him that he could take all of this and a hell of a lot more, if he had to, and that someone, somewhere, was bound to be worse off than he.

He needed badly to be taught by someone, anyone, that he could somehow turn defeat in a final victory, right then. In his mind, as he sat there desperately trying to plan, while his body ran as if in the final hundred yards of an Olympic sprint, he knew that mentally he was down, but he was still breathing, so he wasn’t out.

He knew that his misfortune wasn’t anybody’s fault. He sensed somehow, that there were still a lot of nice people out there who would one day receive his help from the book he knew now he would write and write well. He had a date with those people and he intended to keep that date.

At his desk, in his mind, he decided also that maybe the only practical solution to his problem right then was to stop thinking about it, so he did. He simply committed himself wholly to running the race, to writing the book and to feeling in every essence of his being that he was running the race of his life, for his life to come, whatever it was and whatever it happened to be, from that moment onward.

For no reason then, he suddenly turned at breakneck speed and plunged, then fell in a tumbling ball of arms and legs into the white foam and crashing waves. The wet sand found its way into every crevice of his body. The pull beneath him of the current strength, outward and away from the shore, back into the deeper waves grabbed his attention as well as his body. The watery surf covered his ears and head and he let it, allowed it.

It was another world, quiet, tranquil, devoid of any and all inner dialogue that had been insistent on telling him that he had somehow given up one life to have another one instead, for some reason, yet unknown to him.

Floating like a corpse, he allowed the waves take him in whichever way they wanted to, any which way, but loose, and just floated on that ever-changing line where ocean met beach, where mind met body, where questioning thoughts met with no answers whatsoever and didn’t seem to care right then. It was quiet and it was cool. It was simple and uncomplicated, and, he liked it a lot.

The choice was his. He knew that-past choices and future choices. It had always been that way, only he didn’t remember making any for a past he couldn’t remember. He’d thought he’d had a blueprint for happiness in life since separating from his wife-that whenever he caught himself starting a thought that would produce a stressing emotion, like worry, anxiety, fear or the like-he’d simply stop it and substitute a healthy emotion, like equanimity, resignation, courage, determination or cheerfulness. That had always been the plan, the blueprint, at any rate.

He thought then that his blueprint for happiness had and would always keep certain things in mind, certain principles, that he would sense, from that moment onward, to always keep his attitude and thinking calm and cheerful, right then, whatever the situation.

And that would be the basis for all of his focus, which would be needed to write the book and live on without Christie in his life. And that when the going was good-to tell himself that life was in fact, good, and then allow himself the feeling of simply being happy. And when the going got rough, well, to always stay outwardly, at least, as cheerful and as pleasant as he possibly could be and avoid self-pitying at all costs.

He opened his eyes into the salt water and looked up. They stung only for a second. He wanted to see the life he had now through a different perspective-one he wasn’t used to seeing from. But he also wanted to see the life he had then, whenever “then” had been.

Had it been a life that had kept itself simple? He wondered, seeing the light rays from the sun reaching down to him through the shimmering surface, just above his face. Had it been one where he had avoided watching for disasters to happen that might never happen? Had he liked his work, whatever it had been? Had he a hobby and had he been satisfied with that life?

Obviously not, came an answer on a ray of sunlight that seemed to warm him as it entered his face, after passing through the swirling water.

The waves crashed around his floating, tumbling body just beneath the surface. He rested momentarily, in another world, a quiet world, a silent world; but one that he could touch and feel right now; one that he knew was real because he could feel it touching him now, everywhere at once.

He wondered, while his body rolled over with the momentum of another crashing wave above him-if his other life, his former life without Christie Summers, without knowing about Aliens and hybrids and crossbreeding and human abductions, had ever had simplicity in its being lived each day?

Then his eyes saw the sandy bottom in the far, yet near distance. It was changing shape constantly with the wash of the undercurrent and the waves, but it was always there, still living in its shifting, still enjoying its existence or it wouldn’t be there. It would simply go to somewhere where it could enjoy its existence.

Had his other life had a family enterprise? Did it have the idea that the family was a part of the human enterprise? Had it had an atmosphere of affection, of mutual respect and regard? Had it been an atmosphere of enjoyment that the sandy bottom beneath his gaze was now appreciating in every way, simply because it could, for as long as it chose to remain there?

His stinging eyes then searched that sandy life deeply, invasively; it searched that sandy bottom for whatever it had to teach him. Suddenly, he felt a pressure in his body, a straining, and a yearning desperately for something more in his life right then; something needed, something good. It searched for love between the tiny shells that tumbled and rolled with each undercurrent’s shift. It searched for the giving of love and affection first, before it could ever be received. It searched for giving more than his share and that was okay because he was going to write the book they wanted him to write, even at the cost of his own human life. And it searched for independence and for self-esteem.

And now, it found only tiny shells and shifting sands that somehow knew they were just as good as any, knowing they just might be the inspiration to look for and to look at when he saw lives closely enough. They knew they weren’t going to limp through, year after year of anxious, troubled misery; worrying about the tides and the currents, because that would be an interminable hell on earth for them. No. They knew that, somehow, and now, so did he, somehow.

As he looked and he searched and he found, he somehow sensed that the human race would continue to rock and roll with the tides and the currents and the punches. Their eyes would always be calm with equanimity. Their chests would always be thrust forward with pride and with courage, and with a pleasant word for their fellow travellers.

And the tiny shells, or the shifting sands, or the fish that lived their lives with them, yet separate, in another world of their own, inside their world-not his, the world they all shared together as one, right now, except, he didn’t belong there.

Not yet. Not yet. He had to go back. Go back. Go back.

Suddenly, a pressing and a fear of falling engulfed him completely. He felt closed in and wanted to get out; of having no control and of being vulnerable; of being at the mercy of something and of crashing, falling from a great height, crushed and hurt, and with an unknown destiny in a frightening situation, and, of being killed-of dying. And a pressing outward, a yearning for something more, something needed, something desperately needed.

Desperately. Desperately.

His eyes slammed shut, like spring-loaded, underwater shark grates as his body twisted violently .His feet searched frantically and instantly for solidity of any kind and found it in the firm, welcoming sands of the shifting bottom and the tiny shells, which crunched beneath the force of so much instant and downward power from his thighs.

His body launched vertically upward from beneath the tumbling waves where he had been lying and holding his breath in another life he had been visiting while looking for answers, while learning and taking teachings.

He blasted out of the surf like a shot out of a cannon, lungs screaming for air, bursting for oxygen, longing, yearning for life-any sort of life. He gasped and he spluttered as his body reached its uppermost airborne travel, like a dolphin on its highest turn, gathered from its own momentum when launched from the sandy bottom.

Then he fell quickly back into the tumultuous surf and rolling waves. Feet welcomed home to the sandy bottom, then sent on their way once more by the solid shifting life of the sand that cared in not knowing who he was, what he was, where he had been, or where he was going. He just didn’t belong there, and both knew that now.

Once more, he breached the surface, like a humpback whale playing and entertaining the tourists and the people watching from the beach, and those swimming rapidly out toward him.

Again, he crashed downward into the frothing surf and huge rolling waves, flapping and floundering, but finally managed to hold his own, as well as his head above water.

The first swimmer came up to him and locked a powerful forearm around his throat from behind. He choked and struggled violently. Then the strong arm shifted position to hold him by the chin.

Only then, did he stop struggling and simply breathe, allowing whatever wanted to happen to happen, caring, but not caring-interested, but not interested-other than in passing fancy while he looked at the sky and gasped, breathing deeply again, and again, and again.

Jesus, it feels so good, he thought.

He felt so good; life felt so good; any life felt so good, even the life he had been leading for as long as he could remember, without the Alien knowledge and without the awareness of Christy Summers’ existence.

On the beach, they had forced up from his body with what felt like a gallon of pure sea water that he’d emptied onto the friendly sands, after his rescuers had swum back in, dragging their hapless lot of him in tow behind them.

Now, as he walked shakily back along the beach toward his car, he wondered calmly about everything-the Aliens and Christie, too. Either way, he felt better-not great, but definitely better. He just accepted now that everything would work out, somehow. He didn’t know how or why, but he felt it would.