The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sitting in the darkness, small hands flash. Stringing together each precious moment, the shuttle glides. Warp held taut, spinning bobbins whirr their quiet appreciation. The weft, binding and shaping, a tapestry forming from her gentle ministration. Gazing blankly, head cocked, listening. Fingers move with elegant precision, but the threads still cut. Vorpal edges, where crimson stains spread and dye.

The future, so many possibilities. A different vision as her thoughts takes shape. Sensing and directing, seeking out the strands that hold significance. Weaving them into new patterns, altering probabilities. All, with a singular purpose. Change, chaos, entropy collapsing into ordered beauty. Untangling the knot, venting her frustration at the interloper. She has seen the path, and now must set the players upon it.

A flicker, the world slowing to a disconcerting 10 frames a second. I catch it in the corner of my eye, not quite recognising what it portends. Something has changed, is changing, but beyond that I am ignorant.

The line moves forward slowly and I have to resist the urge to up the tempo. Discretion, in all things, is the better part of valour, or so I’ve been told. In the end, valour is overrated, especially as so often it is only appreciated posthumously.

I’m supposed to be covert, to avoid drawing undue attention. My passport acknowledges that I work for the armed forces, but beyond that it is a work of pure fiction. Punning a phrase, “I am complicated”, and that is actually an understatement. Officially they call me a combat magician. That usually raises a laugh or two, especially for the boys I work with in Poole.

The laughter stops though, usually after I’ve coiled someone’s brain around my little finger, leaving their contemptible shell empty and hollow. That generally gets their attention, although it is really such a small thing. Another quote, “I have (indeed) done questionable things”. I’m not proud of them, not really. But they were all necessary, at least that is what I tell myself. At night, when the demons come.

At one time, nearly a dozen of the patients at Broadmoor Special Hospital must have felt my fingers lightly probing their deep, dark thoughts. I turn to Nietzsche when I consider what I’ve done, what I’ve been a party to. “If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you”. I squeeze down hard on my emotions; it is time to put on my game face. I’m about to break several international laws, and that should be more than enough to sharpen my mind.

I get pinged almost as soon as I step out of the terminal. Irritation flares, I know that I didn’t screw up, so who did? There are two of them, their tradecraft impressive enough. I get no hint that either of them are talented, which suggests that they are working with only limited information. I breathe a soft sigh of relief, glad of the reprieve. In my mind I tag them both as DST, all the while wondering if I should abort now or press on regardless.

Coquelles is the kind of place that I loathe. Born as a village, it was sleepy and probably, (in the past at least), tranquil. The Chunnel terminal has put paid to all that; hypermarkets, wine warehouses and bizarre hybrid pubs that are neither French nor English, somehow distilling the worst of both countries into their shabby interiors.

I pretend to consider my options, but I know that I have no choice in the matter. This is a job that I have to do. For Queen and Country? Perhaps, but it is personal as well. It’s a bad decision; I know that in my heart. Letting my emotions guide me, rather than the cool reassurance of logic and reason. None of that makes any difference; the knowledge only strengthens my resolve.

The briefing laid it all out. Crystal clarity, with no possibility of errors. The thought makes me chuckle. Imagine the arrogance, the sheer pomposity. Snatch and grab, pure and simple. Just another foreign national to remove from circulation. Another quote flashes through my mind, questioning me; “Am I an assassin, or a soldier? I’m neither. I’m an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill."

I’ve done wetwork, haven’t we all? Both kinds in fact, because I’m so very good at it. My special skill, my talent. It makes me so proud, when I can fight off the nausea. But, no killing today. At least that was the plan, and we know how well they survive contact with the enemy. I reach out, feeling the two agents, tasting their cool professionalism and I wonder if they have anyone at home who will miss them.

I can’t get to the target, not with these two trailing me. By the same token, if I just give them the slip, security is going to be strengthened even further. The solution is a simple as it is unpalatable. They have to be neutralised. I seek comfort in the clinical euphemism, despite knowing what I really mean. They cannot be allowed to get in my way and that makes them fair game. Collateral damage in someone else’s war.

I steel myself; wrap my heart in ice-cold metal. Push aside my emotions and begin to work magic. The warmth of the first one’s essence is almost enough to melt through my defences, but not quite. I’m just too good at this.

Sinking my talons into his mind, grasping the cortex, claws sinking between the gyri, deep into the sulci. There is a moment of resistance, instinctive, he pulls away without even knowing what he is fighting.

Then, just as suddenly, it is all over. My presence fills him, pushing him aside. He protests, frightened, hiding in a small corner. His thoughts are quiet, shrill and fading. I pause, swallowing hard, knowing what I have to do, but strangely reluctant. I don’t want this, I never wanted this. His struggles intensify, perhaps he senses my resolve faltering, but, paradoxically, that spells his doom.

I squeeze. Claws penetrating, thoughts leaking under my touch. I sup, ravenous, hungry, lapping at the spill. Knowledge, emotions, memories form a heady wine and I drink my fill. The ragged tatters of what I laughably still see as my conscience brush against my awareness, just as I see the truth. He never knew what was happening, hadn’t seen me, didn’t recognise me. There was no leak, it’s all just paranoia.

Flashback. It’s happening again. Five years ago, when I was younger and still none the wiser. The Bogside, Derry. The same shitty little house as always. It stinks of smoke, rotten food and something else. Something dark and sweet. It is a charnel house, spattered, soaked. Most of it was here when I arrived, but not all.

The quivering wreck of what used to be a man huddles, cowering at my feet. There is nothing human left here, not him, not me. I am an avatar of destruction, Shiva given flesh. My voice is cold, not dispassionate, but dripping with fatal certainty.

“You’re going to die screaming.” I announce. “Am I lying?”

The claws engulf his brain, crushing the softness into nothing. He screams, proving that in this at least I am honest. I rifle through his dying moments, searching, hoping and hating. I’m going to kill every Provo bastard that I find, until one of them tells me what I want to know. Where is she? What have they done with her?

I know that I have gone off the reservation, but this is personal. This is more important that anything. The Det, family, friends, even myself, all secondary. I have to find her, even if it’s just to prove that she’s really dead. Nothing else matters, not now.

I let the empty husk drop to the floor, disgust filling me, but for whom I’m not quite sure. We are fragile, easily broken, limited, and finite. It is such an easy thing to end a life, nothing to be proud of, just simple and sometimes necessary. I look around me, seeing the room as if for the first time. Was this necessary? I don’t know, but instinctively, I understand that I will do it again.

Back in the now. Looking down, with painful déjà vu. Carefully, almost tenderly, I let myself slip back into his mind. Sorrow tugs at me, stirring long-forgotten feelings. What have I become?

The damage is irreparable, a gaping wound pulses away his essence and there is little to be done. I taste the salt and realise that someone is crying. Gently I press, dampening his pain. A little energy suffuses his mind, sparking tiny bursts of pleasure. I take away his awareness, piece by broken piece, leaving him alone. Clinging on as long as I am able, I feel him pass and for the first time I can remember, I care.

But there is no time for this. His partner next, in for a penny, in for a pound. I’m sure that by now he must’ve sensed that something is wrong. But I cannot give him enough time to act. Everything happens so quickly then. The body drops to the ground, a puppet without strings. The other agent starts and stares, while I reach almost casually into my pocket and grasp the knife.

One swift jerk, no pain, just sudden heat. My blood oozes and I take it, use it and step. Darkness surrounds me for a moment, disorientating and terrifying. Then the step ends and I am behind my victim. With no time for regrets, I slash upwards. The blade sinks deep, ending his startled cry in a gurgling gasp. I step again, longer this time, leaving me drained and dizzy. Things are going to rats and there is nothing I can do about it.

The shadows swirl and expand, moving as smoke even in the still air. She pauses to admire her work, dark sockets seem to regard the threads and a soft smile crosses her features. The shuttle begins to flick back and forth again, weft slowly smothered by the warp. The tapestry flows, changing context and content. The stain spreads, ensanguinating the cloth.

Clever, deft, moving with rapid certainty, she plucks the threads. Weaving liquid uncertainty into crystalline predictions. Everything revolves around the axis, a fulcrum sturdy enough to move the earth, had she but a place to stand. Dark thoughts solidify into black yarn, adding darker notes than she intended. Still she smiles, pain fuelling her thaumaturgy.

My perception jitters again, strobe freeze-frames that only add to my confusion. Someone is playing fast and loose with reality. Another shift, so soon after the first. It speaks of power and control, not to be taken lightly. Ripples fade around me as the world settles into its new shape. I ground myself, allowing the energy to soak up from the earth. It tastes different, less rich than home, but still energising. I open myself to France and she does not disappoint me.

The target is close now and that is a relief. My earlier antics are sure to have drawn attention, if not from the locals then perhaps others from more exotic climes. I have to keep moving, something is coming. My body shivers with the knowledge, pushing me into an even higher gear.

The safehouse is only a few yards away. It looks exactly as it did during the briefing and for that I am grateful. Speed is of the essence, but there is a place for caution too. I step once more, third time’s the charm. A quick detour and I emerge in the lobby, shaking off my disorientation instantly while security is caught with their pants around their ankles.

The Browning coughs twice, double tap, dropping the guard before he has even realised what is happening. I sweep forward, moving room by room, clearing as I go. The air around me blurs and shifts, cloaking and protecting me. My zephyr running interference as I search for my prey.

For a moment I find myself back in that house, trying to ignore the evidence of torture as I search for my love. My mind screams out, channelling, calling out her name. Begging her to be okay. I know, deep down, that it is over. But I cannot let myself believe it. There is a chance, however small. If I can just get there in time. I can still save her.

She has two bodyguards with her, I can feel them. All steroids and egos, puffed up with their own bravado. Hatred fills me, lending me its strength. I reach through the door, sending a serpentine tendril searching. It slips into the nearest man, caressing his mind softly, tickling at barely suppressed memories. I almost gag, feeling myself inside him, invasive and intimate and yet I still feel like the victim.

It doesn’t require much, just the lightest of pushes. He has been watching her since she got here. Wanting her, fantasising about her, thoughts bubbling from the fetid sewer he calls his mind. Just a tap really, hardly anything. He sees her then, stripping her bare with his limited imagination. Breasts enlarged, her sex exposed, swollen and impossible. His pulse quickens, as he suddenly grows hard.

I let him slip away, no longer able to stomach it. But I’ve done enough to overcome his inertia and send him plummeting headlong. I seek out his partner, trying to grapple with his surprised reaction. No time to be gentle here, I just roll through his mind with the subtly and finesse of a freight train. He doesn’t even manage to gasp before I overwhelm him.

Split screen, I kick through the door as my puppet draws down on his colleague. Everything happens very quickly, the woman’s scream, the sharp report of the bodyguard’s pistol and the soft “pfft” as I answer with my own shots. The next moment, two men lie dead and my eyes meet those of my target.

“Come with me, if you want to live”, I can’t help myself, the quote tumbles from my rictus grin.

The barrel swings up towards me, impossibly wide. My shit-eating grin disappears, eyes locked on hers. Mage! My senses are screaming. I see her knuckles whiten, realise in that fraction of a second that I will never get my own shot off in time. I start to swing my weapon into line anyway.

“Emily,” I scream into the void, “I’m coming!”

The fingers falter for an instant, the thread spooling away, out of control. The tapestry loses its cohesion, fraying and failing. Hands move in desperate abandon, cutting skin to ribbons, flensing themselves to the bone. She cries out in pain and frustration. Too slowly the image regains its shape.

She fights it. The world rails against her, hating its leash. She struggles to tame it, feeling how it bucks and kicks. But she still cannot contain the stain as it spreads outwards in widening circles. It colours everything, leaving nothing untouched. She screams, no words, just her primal agony.

“Emily!” I remember, not understanding how I could forget.

“Derry … shit; I’m still only in Derry …”

It all comes back to that last room. The attic, the showdown. Betrayal. The two of us. Me, fuelled by righteous indignation, her by religious zeal. Not kidnapped, not tortured, not my Emily. A mole, a traitor, base deceiver. I loved her, I still love her. She stands there, crying crocodile tears, begging me to understand.

Face-off, flickering forwards and back. I had the drop on her, but now the roles are reversed. I took her eyes! Burnt them out with ebon fire. Consumed her, destroyed her, ashes to ashes, like the witch she was. But, I didn’t mean, I didn’t want. How could we do that to each other? How could I do that to her, to my own love?

Two shots sound as one. I grasp the power and fling it, tugging on the strings of fate. Something hammers into my chest, knocking the wind out of me and leaving me gasping. Warmth spreads over my stomach, dampening my trousers, as my legs begin to weaken and buckle. I manage one step and then they collapse. Two hollow thuds sound in quick succession and I am relieved that my attacker had the grace to fall first.

Magic bullet, Em’s old theory. JFK, the grassy knoll, conspiracy theorist that she was. The girl was always looking to solve life’s great and not so great mysteries. Bending a bullet’s path in flight was possible I now knew. Too bad I’d never get to tell anyone.

Strength seems to drain out of me, the room slowly becoming colder. I gaze into the face of my unknown assassin. Ignoring the third eye, which sheds a single crimson tear at her passing, she was quite beautiful. Just my type really. Evil, heartless and entirely without moral compunctions. Too bad I had to kill the bitch.

I can barely find the strength to shiver now, everything was beginning to dim.

Flashback to happier times. Is this my life as it passes before my eyes? The pair of us, lying together. Sharing our warmth, basking in the fading heat. We stare into each other’s eyes, smiling softly, unwilling to be the first to look away. The sex was hot, sweaty and overly exuberant. Two people celebrating the fact that they had somehow made it through the week alive.

We both reach out, our powers resonating as sympathetic vibrations. Synergy, talents melding together. The boundaries fade, becoming porous. Energy flows between us, into us and through us. We gasp, moving and feeling as one. A soft moan. Too soon after the frenzied fumbling? Harmonic shudders, we merge, selves melting into something better.

I remember. There were no, could never be any, secrets. We had known each other before, but not like this. After that, after sharing everything, it would never be the same. I knew, totally, undeniably, that she loved me. No doubts, no questions. That realisation stopped me. It hurt me, even more deeply than this fatal wound.

I wanted to howl, needed to scream, but even the thought of Emily seemed to have taken my breath away. I could only moan, sadness threatening to overwhelm me. I was going to die and all that I could think about was the woman whose life I had taken.

“Em’s,” I hissed, “I’m so sorry, wherever you are, you must know, I did love you …”

Too late. She curses her own frailty, beating her tiny fists against the pattern. The picture shows two women, lying together in a spreading pool of blood. Neither stirs, but she can just convince herself that one is still alive. Her hands bleed freely, expanding the pool still further. Tears run, saline droplets falling, diluting. She sobs quietly, murmuring a name.

“Sarah,” she whispers, so much energy contained within that soft breath.

It’s raining. Warm water falling onto me, washing away the blood. I blink against the downpour, tasting salt on my lips. I’m going mad and just in time to die. How perfect. A voice breathes my name and I know that my end is near.

But then, something impossible happens. I feel the flow reverse, strength flows back into me, replacing and refreshing. I groan as numbness gives way to pain. I hurt, but that’s good, it means I’m alive. Better than that, it means that she is still alive.

I reach out, I search, grasping at shadows. Then, we touch, linking together, her strength tugging at me. I step, longer than I have ever tried before. Darkness. I’m blind, helpless, lost. Only she keeps me safe, draws me ever closer. An eternity of waiting, passing in a moment. I step, stumbling into her arms.

Embracing, blood mingling with blood, tears flowing into tears. We kiss, questioning, needing. Two bodies pressed together, murmured words lacking any substance. Two soldiers, scarred, bloodied but still alive, somehow, still alive.