The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Pair-Bonded (an Institute story)

by Wrestlr

1.

When the police hit their revolving lights, the four of you drop your spray cans and bolt. You’ve been through this routine before—you know what to do. First, you run.

Darvenek is a clan city, though you think calling it a city may be generous. This part of it is a sprawling, run-down slum even by Darven standards. No one lives in this area except for squatters and people who have reason to stay out of sight. People like you and Don. You like to hang out down here with friends among the dark alleys and empty streets late at night. There’s nothing around here except decrepit buildings, mostly ancient warehouses and abandoned factories. This area is not on any of the tourist maps, has been pretty much deserted since the economic downturns forced the tourism and shops to move north, so nobody’s ever around to bother you—nobody except the police, that is. This is part of the game for you: The police act like graffiti and trespassing are important crimes, and in return you and your friends act like the police are a real threat. Oh, sure, this is serious stuff; there’s that adrenaline rush when the lights kick on and the chase begins, but you know this area too well and they’ve never managed to nab you. High stakes, but a game nonetheless. Plus, you and Don have your Talents, and after four years on the run you know how to use them.

The police can only arrest you if they catch you. The close alley means they can’t use their car to pursue you quickly, which lets you and your friends get a head-start. The alley opens into a street, and a quick right takes you into an abandoned parking deck. “Split up!” Don yells; he veers hard right. Your other two friends, locals practically indistinguishable in the dark from any other Darven-clan, go left. You turn right, following Don.

You and Don obviously aren’t Darven-clan. In a country built around eugenics, where selective breeding has resulted in a population with a standardized look—curly blond hair, two allowed facial types, five body types—out-clan people are regarded with suspicion, unless they’re money-wielding tourists in the markets or at the beachfront resorts a few miles to the north. You and Don obviously aren’t tourists.

The police car turns in and tracks you, faster now in the open area and closing.

You’re getting winded. Don’s edging farther ahead. You round the corner after him, into another alley. “In here,” he hisses, pulling the bottom of an old loose board away from the wooden fence, an opening large enough for you to barely squeeze through. He follows. Car doors slam: the police are coming after you on foot.

Your latest safe house is ten blocks to the west—you never play this game close to home because you have too much to lose if you’re ever caught. Nor do you head directly back. You have to lose the police first. You can’t be followed.

You turn the corner. The police are getting smart—they’ve called in reinforcements, and they’ve already blocked off the other end of this alley, cutting off your usual escape route. “C’mon!” Don growls, and runs back the other way.

Two officers are coming up from behind you. You think you can dodge by them, but one grabs your arm and holds on tight. He’s typical Darven-clan—curls, blond, lithe—but he’s strong. You can’t shrug him off. Don has seen and is coming back for you. The officer’s partner is closing from the opposite direction.

Plan B: You slam your other hand onto the policeman’s arm and push your Talent into his skin. He shrieks in pain and surprise, but he lets go. A pile of trash nearby bursts into flames—Don’s doing—which distracts the other officer, who stumbles, trying to decide whether catching you or stopping the fire takes priority. You and Don tear out as fast as you can run.

Pick a different direction. Your Talent isn’t telepathy, not exactly, but the connection between you and Don is strong. You can’t tell exactly what he’s thinking, but you get the general idea. He’s thinking the police know too much—they know your route, and the two of you need to throw them off by going elsewhere. You know he’s right because he has a good head for strategy, and you follow his lead as he zigzags through more alleys and side streets. In the four years you two have been on your own, Don’s left being a suburban high-school jock behind; he’s gotten street-smart. You wouldn’t have lasted this long without him.

You’re tiring. You can’t run much farther. Stop and pant a moment. This is a fenced, vacant lot. Don scurries diagonally across it. Maybe he knows where he’s going, but you don’t—you suspect he doesn’t either. You haven’t investigated any buildings in this area for use as a safe house. The two of you are on your own. You tear out after him.

Down another alley, across the connecting street, down another alley. You hear the police yelling to one another behind you. There are more of them and they have vehicles. They’re less winded and you can’t outrun them—you need a place to hide.

You whistle, quick and low, to get Don’s attention. In here, you motion in the silent sign language you and he worked out long ago. You point to the building to your left. Your Talent tells you it’s empty—no minds, no people inside. He nods, trusting you. Don slams his shoulder into the generic door into the generic building, and it bursts open. You run in after him and press the door shut. Listen closely. Quiet the sound of your panting as much as you can. You hear the police’ footsteps rush past in the alley and fade down the street. You look at Don in the near-darkness and grin. You’re safe, for a while.

You both nod in relief and grin at each another. You both know the routine without having to say it: stay put until the police give up, and don’t make any unnecessary noise; that means no talking.

You and Don don’t barricade the door. You both learned long ago that what keeps the outside out also might keep you two trapped inside if you have to run again. While your Talent revealed no minds here when you broke into this building, someone might show up later.

Look around. This is a storeroom of some sort, abandoned when this area went to seed. The previous tenants left tables and shelves of junk lying around, as though they intended to come back for it, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. On a set of metal shelves, you find some cans of spray paint. In the dark, illuminated by a flickering streetlight through a grimy window, you can’t tell what colors they are, but they feel at least half-full when you shake them softly. You stash all of them except one into your pack.

Don’s looking around at some old tools and stuff on a table, probably assessing whether he can sell it for scrap. You aim for the nearest wall and test the remaining spray paint can. The police will never hear the quiet hiss it makes. The night is too dark for you to identify the color, but you think it’s black or brown or dark red maybe. Somebody’s been here before you—other tracks of graffiti mar the wall, one spiraling off through an open door into the dark beyond—but not for some time. The layer of dust has been undisturbed a long while.

Don’s still nosing around. He makes a circuit of the room, then sticks his head through the back doorway, peering into the black. Two steps through, and he’s swallowed in shadow.

Old paint clogs the nozzle. You stop and set the useless can down softly. That’s when you realize how quiet everything is. You should be hearing Don bump into stuff in the dark, or at least the sound of him moving around. But there’s nothing. You whisper, “Don?”

Nothing.

Take a step through the door. Concentrate. You can feel him in there. No matter where he is, you can always feel him. He’s too far away for you to sense what he’s thinking—that fades over distance, but even at this range you should pick up on what he’s feeling through the bond. All you’re getting is a vague edginess. That’s not helpful; you’re on edge too. Maybe he’s distracted by something. Whisper again: “Don?”

Still nothing.

You follow him into the darkness.

It’s not like Don to not answer. Life on the streets for the last four years since you escaped has made him too serious; he doesn’t joke this way. Your eyes are adjusting—it’s not as lightless as you imagined. The room opens and the wall curves away to your right, into a flight of stairs. You climb them. Don’s not to the left, but you feel him ahead and to your right, so you follow the wall’s arc. “Don?”

You can’t tell what this building once was. The broad sweeping turn of the wall carries you around gradually into pitch black.

“Don?”

You can feel him. You can feel his thoughts, the nervousness—which might be leftover adrenaline from avoiding the police. Your Talent is good at detecting minds, but you’ve never been very good at reading specific thoughts. You know generally where he is in the dark, closer now, nearby. You don’t know what he’s doing or why he doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s just being overly cautious. Your anxiety feels like a slow electrocution.

Someone touches your left arm—doesn’t grab it, simply grips it firmly. You jump anyway and try to pull away. You hiss, “Don, you asshole ... You scared the shit out of me!”

Still no answer. He pulls you into an adjoining room. There’s more light here, moonlight, streetlight, through a grimy window. You discern why he brought you here: There’s a mattress on the floor next to one wall. How long has it been since you slept on a real mattress?

He looks at you, motions a hand-sign: Check. You nod a confirmation. You know what he wants; you always know what he wants. This close, you can partially read his thoughts—he’s the only one you can. He waits you to do your thing.

Concentrate. Close your eyes. Imagine your mind is like those sonar displays you used to see in movies, back when you went to theatres like any other suburban kid. Reach out for other minds. Try to sense their positions and distances, like blips on a sonar screen. You make the boop ... boop sound in your head but don’t smile, because you want Don to know you take this seriously. You’re an adult now, just like him.

After four years on the run, you and Don have developed several nonverbal signals, because sometimes communication must be silent. Two, you indicate, and point in the direction.

He nods and indicates Stay here, then moves off into the hallway and the darkness beyond. You know not to argue or follow.

You can track Don the same way you track the other two minds. You can feel through the connection that he’s tense, the anger in him raging particularly hot, demanding to be let out.

Don advances only so far though, then stops. He isn’t going to confront the two people you detected, only to reconnoiter. He wants to make sure. After a while, he returns to tell you what you’ve already sensed: “They’re gone.”

You build a quick barricade at the foot of the stairs. If anyone enters this building, they won’t come this way without making noise, enough to warn you. A warning is all you’ll need.

Now you can relax, though Don remains on edge, wary, like always when you have a brush with the police. You fish through your pack. You still have some of the venison jerky you swiped from that street vendor two days ago, and you still have the second hard bun you stole today. You’re an excellent thief. Your Talent tells you which tourists at the street markets are loaded with cash they want to spend, that certain eagerness in their heads, or when the vendors are distracted. And sometimes the little fires Don can start with his Talent help with the distraction. Ma’m Mar’shon, who runs the barbecue kiosk, swore to everyone who would listen that her grill was haunted after the sudden roaring flare-up that kept everyone from noticing you as you swiped a pair of buns from the baker’s booth nearby. You and Don ate one for lunch. You wrapped the other in cloth for later. Now you unwrap it and tear it into fist-sized halves and hand him one, along with half of the jerky.

You have food to eat tonight. You don’t every night.

You’ve shaken the police, but they’ll be watching the streets for you tonight, especially after what you did to the officer’s arm. You only gave him a light dose—no permanent damage. He’ll recover the use of his hand, you’re sure. You and Don have done this before and, unspoken, you know what you’ll do now: Stay here, wait until daylight, then slip away back to your safe house.

You call the places you squat safe houses, after something you saw in a movie once, as if you and Don are merely hiding out in some undercover protection program until you can safely resume your old life. Don indulges you by calling them safe houses too, though you know the safety such places provide is fleeting at best.

There’s nothing to do now but wait. You could pull out your music player and ear buds, the only thing you have left from your life before, but that seems too solitary. Don wants something else. He’s looking at the mattress, the reason he brought you to this room, the reason you stayed in this building.

He takes hold of one side of the mattress, and you grab the other. Lift it; turn it over, slowly, to not kick up the layer of dust that coats the top of it. Don sits on it, pulls off his shirt and boots. You find a stack of cloth tarps, probably meant for use in packing before the owners abandoned this place. You pull one out of the middle of the pile, thinking it will be less dusty. It will do as a sheet to cover you. A carryover from your life before: The idea that a real bed requires a real sheet.

Don stretches out on the mattress and smiles. You and he have slept in the same space ever since that night, but the nights you’ve slept on a mattress have been few and far between. Tonight will be a luxury.

You pull off your boots and shirt too. Keep your pants on. You’ve learned you may have to wake up and run with little warning.

You spread the tarp over the bottom half of the mattress, covering Don’s legs, then slip under it yourself.

The mattress is soft, a luxurious comfort under you, much better than the makeshift bedding at your current safe house. The mattress smells musty, like the rest of this building, but no paradise is perfect.

Lying on your sides, face to face, you and Don are inches apart. He likes women; you accept that. But he knows your needs are different. He knows you like men and that you’re in love with him. You’ve been in love with him since that first day. Because of the bond, you need each other, and sometimes he is willing to share himself with you. You wonder if tonight will be one of those times.

He smiles and nudges your forehead with his. The bond was forced upon you four years past, but you long ago decided it has been a good thing. Without it, you wouldn’t have Don; he would have left you, slipped away to survive on his own. But too, Don wouldn’t have you; he wouldn’t have you to help control the rage inside him.

Don tweaks one of your nipples playfully and snorts a soft chuckle. Brush his hand away and whisper, “Stop that.” But you’re grinning too. The mattress moves gently under you as your weight shifts.

This close, the bond fills your mind. He looks you in the eye, and you look back. You reach gently into his thoughts. Your Talent isn’t telepathy, not exactly, but this close, with Don, the bond allows you to imitate telepathy. You slide gently into his thoughts until you find what you’re looking for: the place where his anger coils around his Talent. Don is a pyrokinetic—he can start fires with his mind. The anger inside him is a separate fire, but to him they feel conjoined, like two burning snakes coiling into a ball around each other, one fueling the other. He feels the constant risk of loss of control, of one or the other getting loose, anger or fire, raging uncontrollably.

You can separate them for him, ease the anger from his Talent. You can soothe the parts of his mind from which the anger grows. The anger tries to coil around you, tightens, a reflex, but you stroke it, soothe it, coax it gently toward stillness. You can push it temporarily into sleep.

Don hums a little note of gratitude softly into the air between you. What you’re doing makes him groggy. Without his anger to give him an edge, he gives in to his exhaustion at the end of the day. He pushes his hips toward you, a gentle urging. Yes, tonight will be one of those times.

He takes hold of your wrist, guides your hand down his abs to his fly. You can feel his erection waiting there. He hasn’t been with a woman in a while—you’d have felt it through the bond if he had. He needs this. You need this.

You don’t have much time. The sleepiness you set off in his brain will spread.

You fumble with the fastening to his pants, unzip his fly. His hard cock wobbles out into the air between you. Wrap your hand around it. The head and an inch of shaft sticks out of your fist. Stroke it, slowly, gently, with long strokes and a firm grip, the way he likes. Stroke, stroke, stroke.

“Mmm ...” he hums again, and his cum spurts out into your fingers, across your wrist. “Mm-nngh ...”

You roll away from him for just a moment, search over the edge of the mattress for the cloth you’d left there after you unwrapped the bun. Roll back toward him. Wipe his cum from your hand and forearm. Gently clean the cum from the head of his sensitive, softening dick. Don breathes deeply, already asleep.

You don’t have much time. The sleep that has shut down most of his brain will spread through the bond into yours soon too. You’re too exhausted to resist once that happens.

Open your own pants. Your cock needs attention, and badly. You yawn, already feeling the drowsiness, but you need this. You need to take your cock in hand. You need to stroke it urgently. You need to push your hips forward and bite your lower lip and try hard not to make a sound as you ejaculate, spurt after spurt, into the cloth, your cum alongside Don’s.

Toss the rag over the side of the mattress. Your hands feel leaden. You don’t have much time. You can feel sleep overwhelming you. Tuck away Don’s cock and fasten his pants. Do the same for yours. Nuzzle your head into the hollow between his chin and chest. Sleep.