The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Jordan! Jordan Floyd! Where are you, boy? Get your ass home this instant!”

The shrill voice of his mother cut through Jordy’s reverie, and he knew once again that he would be in his mother’s doghouse for not being home in time for supper.

Still, he lingered in the truck garden beside their apartment building, sitting quietly in space he had cleared for himself between the staked vines of the tomato plants. It felt good to come here; it was, for him, a place where he could imagine himself into any other part of the world. He could be Allen Quartermain, searching for the Lost City of Gold; he could be Will Robinson, stranded on some jungle planet, with only the robot to save him. Or...he could be himself, watching the sun fade behind the city skyline, to the orchestra of honking car horns and ringing bicycle bells and the occasional ice cream truck counter-melody. All in all, he would prefer to stay here all night, rather than in the close quarters of the one-bedroom apartment, four stories up from the sidewalk. Still, he found the energy to stand up, pick one of the nearly ripe tomatoes from its stalk, and make his way to the stoop leading up to the building’s door.

His father was gone again, 10 days this time. Jordy never knew where exactly his father went when he disappeared, only that him being gone was like a time of light after too many dark clouds. His mother occasionally smiled; his sister sometimes would laugh out loud; and he...well, he knew that he would be safe from being smacked around, from having his things strewn about in his father’s search for the little money Jordy got from selling fresh tomatoes to the people who lived in his building, and others on the street.

Each resident of his building was told when they moved in that a small parcel of the empty lot next door was reserved for their use to grow whatever they might want—flowers...vegetables...weeds. Except that few weeds grew here, as those that didn’t want to use their land often ceded it to one of their neighbors, either for a small cash fee, or a bit of the fresh produce that came flowing into the building once fall arrived. Before his family had moved in, their parcel had been used by the lady next door for growing snap peas and cucumbers, which she then canned herself. When he timidly knocked on her door and told her that, the next spring, he wanted to use their family parcel to grow something himself, she merely looked at him, for a moment angry and sullen. Then she asked, “What will you grow?” “Tomatoes,” he replied, having not, until that moment, decided exactly what he would farm. The old lady nodded gravely, still looking him over. Then, bidding him to stay in the hall for moment. When she returned, she placed in his hands a worn book the size of a magazine. On the cover it said “The Burpee Seed Company Guide to Growing Prize-Winning Tomatoes.” “Read that, young man, and perhaps something will come from this dream of growing tomatoes!” she said as she shut the door. He looked at the closed door for a moment with something akin to awe written in his face; then he ran home and read the book from cover-to-cover, devouring all manner of tips and tricks that he hoped would help him maximize the number of tomatoes he could grow.

The first year, his entire yield was about one bushel. He had hoped for three, but had misjudged nearly everything in his inexperience, and killed 75% of crop before midsummer. Still, what was left was so good, that those people to which he had given one of his tomatoes kept asking if there were any left...and would he grow them again next summer?

He gave six tomatoes to the lady next door, and she gave him 12 cans of fresh peas and six jars of pickles.

The next year, learning from experience, he had his entire crop in the ground once the last frost had passed. By late summer, he had ripe tomatoes the size of grapefruit hanging at the end of his vines. By his own estimation, it would be a total yield of about six bushels.

On August 15, he woke up to find that every ripe tomato on his vines had been stolen in the night, leaving him with only four or five plants that were yet to yield fruit.

His father raged; his mother cried. But Jordy kept his own counsel. He continued to nurture the plants that were left; at night he would wake silently and sit by the window overlooking the truck garden, watching to see if anyone or anything was moving near his plants. And he made a plan in his head as to what he would do when he did see something.

By the end of August, his last few plants were ready to harvest. But, instead of picking the fruit, Jordy left it on the vine, knowing it would be a tempting target. He knew he had three or four days before the fruit would start to get overripe; he hoped only that the thief who had taken him the first time would make another attempt by then.

And then he went next door and knocked on the old lady’s door.

That night, he snuck out of his apartment and into the shadows between the building and the garden. He stood guard for hours, armed only with youthful eyes...and a whistle. But no one came.

The next night he again snuck out, and again stood like a statue in the shadows, making no noise to alert whomever might want to prey on his plants. But again, nothing broke the silence.

Then, on the final night before he would pick his crop, he heard the rustle of feet walking on grass. He saw the movement of his vines and heard the ‘snap!’ of the fruit being removed from its stem. He moved quietly from his hiding place and stepped through the broken fence into the garden itself, placing the whistle between his lips as he did.

As he drew closer to the back of the person stealing his tomatoes, Jordy realized it was a girl, a fact that shocked him more than a little. He had presumed it was a man taking his fruit, and had made plans accordingly. Now, he wondered if that plan would be necessary at all.

And when the thief turned around and found Jordy standing there, she did the one thing he totally did not expect.

She began laughing.

“Figured it out, did you, squirt?” his sister said mockingly. “I wondered why you kept refusing to pick what was left of these things, especially after you lost the first lot. But hey, your loss is my gain...literally! Old Man Ferguson gave me 10 cents apiece for the last load, and these should get at least that much!”

Jordy still had not said a word, but then, he was used to such treachery, even from his own family. Looking at his sister like he might eye a particularly nasty form of garden pest, he stood like a statue for a moment...then looked up at the fourth floor window of his old lady neighbor.

The winter before, she had told Jordy that she kept a BB-gun by the radiator underneath the window that overlooked the garden, to shoot any vermin who might be troubling her vegetables. Since she had a hard time sleeping, she sometimes sat and watched the garden at night, though she rarely had needed to use the rifle.

Three days earlier, Jordy had called the old lady, and told her of his plans, and asked if he could borrow the BB-gun. Instead, she proposed to him that she would keep watch from her apartment, and, should he need it, she would be there with the gun loaded. Chuckling, she added, “All you have to do is whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you?”

Now, he could see her shadow on the blind, and knew she was aware that he was confronting someone in the garden. Though the BB couldn’t do much damage, he knew it would be enough to scare off the intruder; his plan had been to discover who it was, then get the police involved to recover whatever could be salvaged of the first crop, or at least get compensated for its theft.

But having his sister standing before him changed everything. To accuse her would bring him nothing but embarrassment; to have the old lady shoot her would bring him nothing but a beating from his father, no matter what the crime she had committed.

“Why?” was the only word that he could find to say.

“You and your stupid dreams! You go to school, you work in this garden, you read your books, and what do you know? Nothing, that what! Do you know what it costs to buy a party dress? Or makeup? To get someone to notice you? No, you don’t! All you care about is what goes on up here,” she shouted, pointing to her head, “not what goes on in real life!”

She opened her mouth to go on, but Jordy put up his hand to stop her flow of words. “You sold the tomatoes. Do you still have the money?”

She looked at him with contempt. “Of course not! Why do you think I’m out here tonight stealing more?”

He stood silently, considering her. She had taken what was rightfully his, used it on some whim of the moment, and now was attempting to steal from him again. In the second or two before he spoke again, he weighed all the options, considered carefully, then made concrete in his mind the plan he would put into action.

She would have to pay...one way, or the other.

“Put down the tomatoes, Sarah.”

“No! I’m going to sell these tomatoes and use the money to buy another dress!”

“Put them down now, Sarah. This is the last chance I’m going to give you.”

“Oh, yeah? Make me put them down, squirt!”

Perhaps she thought she could intimidate him simply because she was older. But Jordy had been working in the garden for nearly two years, and he was far from being helpless. Before Sarah could react, he had stepped up in front of her and grasped her wrists with one hand, pinning them together. She gave a short cry of pain at the force with which he gripped her wrists...then another as he pulled her arms away from her body, causing the tomatoes she had cradled in her arms to fall to the ground around her.

Acting quickly, Jordy pulled his sister forward, tripping her. As she sprawled to the ground, he took the twine he used to tie up his tomato vines down from its perch on a stake, and quickly sat on his sputtering sister’s back. As she struggled for breath due to his weight, he was able to pull her arms behind her, and quickly wrapped them with twine, knotting the ends together to keep them immobile. When she began kicking him with her flailing legs, he grabbed her feet and tied her ankles together, then pulled her legs up and webbed the twine so that her wrists and ankles were tied together, leaving her body slightly bowed. Having recovered her breath a bit, Sarah made what sounded like the beginnings of a scream. But, having opened her mouth wide, it was an easy thing for Jordy to stuff the kerchief she had planned to use the carry the tomatoes from the garden directly into her mouth. Surprised and afraid she would choke, Sarah bit back the scream, and Jordy quickly secured the improvised gag with tightly wrapped and knotted twine.

And so, Jordy had now made sure that his sister could not escape, but he knew he couldn’t let her go. It was a simple equation to him: she had stolen from him and could not give back what she took. So, until he felt she had paid her debt, she was going to be at his mercy. For however long that took.

But where could he keep her until her debt was fully paid? His eyes scanned the surroundings, hoping to find something secure, yet with limited access...’Of course,’ he thought, smiling to himself.

The shed.

Since beginning to use his plot almost two years ago, he had seen people take garden tools and other utensils from an old wooden room attached to the apartment building. The old woman next door told him that it was the easiest place to keep such equipment, and the gardeners had all gone in together to buy a lock for it, to keep others from stealing their things. Amazingly enough, the honor system had worked well enough to keep most everything that entered the closet in the closet, until its owner removed it. The building’s super unlocked the shed every weekday morning, leaving the last gardener in to lock it back. But on weekends and vacations, he gave Jordy the key, knowing that the boy would be tending his tomatoes while everyone else was just getting out of bed.

And the super was on vacation until Wednesday; if Jordy hung a note on the door of the apartment building saying he had misplaced the key and couldn’t open the shed until the super got back...that would give him a few days to figure out what to do.

He tried lifting his sister, to carry her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but she was simply too awkward to lift in her current position. So he grasped her under the arms and started dragging her toward the shed. Every few feet he would stop to catch his breath, and his sister would stop moaning from the pain of having her arms pulled painfully from behind, and from the pain of being dragged across the ground with her waist and knees scraping, first on the dirt and grass, then on the concrete and asphalt. She kept trying to break the twine on her wrists and ankles, to roll over to try to loosen her bonds, but each time Jordy would simply put a foot atop her writing form to keep her from being able to break free.

By the time they reached the shed, Jordy was gasping, his shoulders burning from the effort. But Sarah was in even worse shape; she lay like a discarded rag doll, tears and dirt and mucus mixed together on her face. Her eyes begged Jordy to please stop, to let her alone...but he knew it could never be that easy for her, that the lesson had to be completed if she was ever going to truly pay her account in full.

Thus, he unlocked the door to the shed, and dragged her inside. Finding a spot away from the door, he took a few 50 pound sacks of peat moss and made her a more comfortable, or at least softer, place to lay. He dragged her over to her temporary bed, and, grunting, lifted first her shoulders, then her waist, and finally her legs onto the sacks.

Then, he found a tarp and unfolded it, holding it in her hands as he looked down at her. Kneeling, he found himself whispering in the dark enclosure.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Make sure you think about what it is you’ve done, and what it is I’ve done to you. Try and think about what will have to be done before I think your theft will be repaid in full.”

With that, he tossed the tarp over her and left, locking the door securely behind him.

In the morning, the old lady awoke in her chair, still sitting beside the window where she had waited for Jordy to whistle for her help. ‘Poor child,’ she thought, ‘them tomatoes ain’t never comin’ back.’

Later, when she opened her front door in response to a knock, she found no one there...instead, a small bowl filled with slightly bruised tomatoes sat by itself, a gift of wordless thanks.

And, next door, Jordy lie sleeping on the couch as his father cursed his wanton daughter and her disrespect in staying out all night without so much as a note.