The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Assignment: Futurist

by Wrestlr

2.

The Institute wanted more field teams. The higher-ups hauled the Colonel and me, one of the best teams, back to review a trio of candidates. We were to evaluate them, select one, then haul him around with us in the field to show him the ropes. Eventually, once the higher-ups thought he was ready and were confident he’d be a good little soldier, he’d be paired with a handler-partner of his own and they’d be sent out into the world. Standard familiarization procedure.

The Colonel and I agreed one candidate, a telekinetic, wasn’t ready. When we hauled him through the “killer robot” training scenario, he froze, multiple times. One time we could understand—lots of people freeze during an early mission before they learn to handle the stress, and they still go on to successful field careers. That’s the purpose of training missions, and that’s why we work in teams. But people who freeze more than once usually go into a body bag.

The Colonel was pushing for candidate number two, a pyrokinetic. The extra firepower, he argued—in this case, the power to start fires with just a thought—would come in handy in the field. I wasn’t so sure, and I pointed out that what we did often required a more ... surgical touch than just burn the whole place down. Flamethrowers are great weapons, but for only for specialized purposes.

That left candidate number three—Junior, Jase, whatever—the telepath. Of course, I called all the candidates Junior, since I wasn’t about to clutter up a brain cell remembering the names of people I might never see again. They’d have to earn some respect before I’d bother.

Junior the telepath had good scores and he did well on the first test against the simulated evil genius and his army of robots. Came pretty close to record time, actually—and I should know because I was the one who set that record. Of course, Junior didn’t know it was “simulation” until after it was over. What would be the point of telling him in advance? We told him he was accompanying us on a mission, something milquetoast, and we hauled him a couple of hours into the middle of fucking nowhere. The plan was, once we got underway, everything about the mission would suddenly seem to go tits-up—which happens more often in real life than one might expect. Our bullets were real. The robots were real. The “hostages,” thanks to a little telepathic illusion in advance, were convinced they were in immediate mortal danger. The “evil genius de jour’s” mind was partially shielded to keep Junior from reading anything but the surface thoughts that had been planted there. For us to learn how he operated under life-or-death pressure, Junior had to believe he was in a life-or-death situation.

The whole purpose of the simulation process was to take the candidates out of their comfort zones in several different ways. People with Talents tend to rely on their Talents. That’s understandable—that’s what the Institute trains them to do. The question was whether they could cope with situations where their Talents were not applicable or outright useless. Robots are great for that—since they don’t have minds, telepathy doesn’t work on them; they can be made fireproof enough to resist pyrokinesis; and they can be counterweighted against telekinesis or made just too damned heavy. Oh, and guns don’t scare them, either.

Back at the Institute, for the remainder of his assessment period, Junior got uprooted from his normal dorm room and assigned to bunk with me in the “guest quarters” used by field teams on the rare occasions when they had to be at the Institute. The accommodations weren’t fancy—even cheap hotels were nicer—but this was part of his evaluation. During his assessment, he would be treated as if he were a field agent. Everything that happened over the next few days would be an evaluation. This particular stage would determine whether he could stand to be in confined quarters for extended periods with nothing to do, the sort of thing that happened on the road when a team was sequestered in some fleabag hotel room, or got captured by one of those evil genius types. I was always amazed at the number of candidates who got cabin fever and flaked out.

Plus, sometimes two telepaths in a room was a recipe for trouble. No physical or mental privacy? Some people couldn’t handle it. Field agents needed to be versatile enough to handle just about anything.

I’d been back to the Institute only a handful of times in the last couple of years. The Colonel and I had been back once shortly after that time with Cowboy—Billy, whatever—and again shortly after Dion’s half-brother had been captured thanks to us. Cowboy. Dion. I still thought about them a lot, and sometimes I wondered what had ever happened to them, where they were now. And not just because they were each great sex. I’d sensed a connection to them, like maybe under different circumstances we could have been friends, or more. Assuming they didn’t want to kill me, that is.

Better push those thoughts away, I decided. Sometimes telepaths can pick up on impressions from each other without trying, and I didn’t want Junior picking up on my little erotic fantasy starring Cowboy and Dion right then.

I strolled out of the shower—if I could call that glorified cubbyhole with running water a “shower”—wearing nothing but a towel around my waist and another that I used to dry my hair. At least the hot water was plentiful. “Man, there’s nothing like a good hot shower at the end of a long day, is there?” I said, pretending casual conversation to put Junior at ease.

He was sprawled on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, on the opposite bed—if the narrow little mattress could be called a “bed.” Even though Junior pretended to be paging nonchalantly through some briefing materials on his tablet computer, he couldn’t hide his nervousness. The more he tried to act unconcerned, the more he looked tighter than a coiled spring. I didn’t need my telepathy; I could see it in the corners of his eyes, his fidgety hands. Junior was probably about twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. His years of training were nearly over, and the next few days would determine a lot about his future with the Institute and the types of assignments he would be given. He had no way of knowing what was a test, or when. All Junior knew was that he was bunking in a room with one of the top field agents—that would be me, since the Colonel made sure he never shared a room with a Talent if he could help it—and that field agent held his future in the palm of his hand. One slip-up and ...

Well, Junior knew what failure could mean. Not all of these tests were non-lethal.

I sat on the edge of my bed, against the opposite wall from his, though the cramped quarters didn’t keep us that far apart. I spread my knees a little as I worked the other towel down my neck and—

Did Junior just try to sneak a glimpse under my towel? Well, well. Junior and I might have more in common than I originally thought.

I decided to tease him a little—a different kind of test. I spread my knees just a bit wider, as if unintentionally, to see what he would do. He pretended to read the screen, but his head bobbed down a little, and his eyes flicked at my knees. Yep, definitely trying to steal a glimpse of my equipment.

I’m a good-looking man. I could understand why he’d want a peek.

I stood up and turned my back to him. I rummaged in my bag for fresh underwear. My plan was to drop my towel, give Junior a quick look at my ass as I pulled on my underwear, and then flop out on the bed to resume teasing him some more.

Junior shifted until he was sitting on the edge of his bed. He asked me some inane question about what to expect at the briefing tomorrow, which he knew I wouldn’t answer, an obvious distraction ploy.

I felt Junior’s telepathy reach out, jus a tendril, and probe ever so faintly against my mental defenses. Until now, he’d minded the no telepathy on the agents rule and hadn’t tried to push the boundaries. I was flattered he found me tempting enough to risk it.

Now, for most telepaths, there are things they learn on their own when they first manifest their Talents. Then, there’s more stuff they learn at the Institute, which makes them stronger and more finessed. But, then there’s stuff we field agents learn when we’re out in the world fighting for our lives day in and day out, and that makes our Talents hardcore. Most people who only had Institute training probably wouldn’t have even been aware of Junior’s probe. It slid over the back of my mind, looking for a weak point in my defenses where it could push inside undetected. He probably planned to influence me to drop my towel and turn around so he could get a good full-frontal look.

But where most Talents’ psi-defenses are a wall that’s thinner toward the “back” of their minds because all their cognitive workings are “up front,” Junior learned my defenses were a serious barrier. Three hundred and sixty degrees in three dimensions of battle-hardened psi-force. First, he seemed curious, then impressed, and then a little nervous because he was discovering I was in a whole different league from him, his instructors, and probably every other telepath he’d ever encountered before.

As I turned around, Junior discovered something else about my telepathy. While his was subtle, mine was a whole different league of covert. Before he realized what was happening, my telepathy ran back along his tendril, sneaking past his defenses and into his mind. My thoughts grabbed hold of that tendril, solidified it like a rope leashing his mind, and yanked.

Junior gasped, wide-eyed, as he suddenly found himself compelled forward off the mattress and onto his knees on the floor before me.

“Naughty boy. Not as sneaky as you thought you were, huh,” I scolded.

“How—?” he gasped. The expression on his face and the thoughts running through his head could be summarized as: Uh-oh! His mind was flailing but he couldn’t find anything inside his head that was me—anything that wasn’t him. In other words, he couldn’t find the source of my incursion or how I was doing this, which meant he had no idea how to fight it.

“Telepathic subversion,” I told him. “I corrupted your little probe, and now I’m using your own telepathy against you.” Which was accurate, but not informative enough to give him much to work with.

Then, thank heavens, he tried something else. I’d have been pissed if he’d just knelt there and accepted it. I was looking for fighters; I was looking for spirit.

He slammed the full force of his telepathy against me, aiming for one of the traditional weak points in mental defenses. It was a damned good strike too—sharp and fast as a scorpion’s strike. Unfortunately for him, it was as effective against my defenses as a child’s squirt gun against a battleship.

His expression and thoughts turned to: Oh, fuck!

“Nice try,” I said, trying not to sound too condescending because it really was a good try. “Don’t forget: No matter how strong you are, there’s always someone stronger.“

“Yes, sir,” he gasped, still struggling to find how I’d done this. Yeah, Junior had plenty of spirit. He was especially confused because his thoughts seemed unaffected; he was completely aware of what was going on and how much he wanted to break free. Junior had probably played lots of telepathic domination and submission games with his fellow trainees—the Institute likes to pretend nothing of the sort goes on, but what else would they expect when they pack a bunch of kids with mental Talents together in what’s basically a glorified boarding school? Junior, though, had never played a game where he didn’t know the rules. He was probably used to being the winner, or at least having a level playing field. He didn’t much like being checkmated after his first move, but at the same time he respected my skill. He looked up at me with eyes wide with surprise, aggression, and something very much like arousal.

Well, well. Apparently Junior and I really did have that something in common after all. Something very important.

His telepathy squiggled and squirmed, but I held his mind tightly leashed. “Stop that,” I scolded him. Time to use the leash to guide his thoughts, just like walking a dog. Time to see if I was right about that something we had in common. “Be a good boy and you might just get what you want after all. Understand?”

He didn’t—I could feel his confusion—but he did the right thing and agreed: “Yes, sir.”

“You started this little party. Now, you’re going to finish it.”

He blinked and gulped at the same time. “Ah ... Huh?” He looked at my crotch and the appendage rising underneath the towel, then back up at my eyes, trying desperately to read my thoughts, my expression, my tone of voice—anything to help him figure out what was going to happen next.

I decided to throw him a bone, and I allowed an impression to slip past my defenses so that Junior could pick up on it: Teasing rather than threatening.

I gave the mental leash a little tug to nudge him along. His thoughts were blazing with arousal. The boy was well-versed in games of telepathic submission, and he seemed to like it. Yeah, he was definitely willing, and definitely wanted this. He was so turned on he was about to cum right where he knelt, without even touching himself or me.

Then he reached for my towel, and the party was underway.

Were I prone to introspection, I might have said I was looking for that brief moment of dissolution during orgasm when things left undone, unsaid, and everything else disappeared and the world was nothing more than a bright splash of pleasure. Fortunately, I wasn’t the introspective type. I just liked to cum.

I won’t go into the mechanics. I’ll just say that Junior had a willing ass, a nice-sized dick, an effective repertoire of things to do with both, and a lot of enthusiasm for the doing thereof. Yeah, definitely a lot of enthusiasm. Stamina, too. That part of the game he played very well. So well, in fact, that we only got a couple of hours sleep that night.

The next morning, when we met the Colonel at God-awful o’clock for breakfast, he knew what my expression—equal parts bleary, smug, and satisfied—meant. And I don’t think he liked the way those expressions Junior was giving me had turned from respectful to full-on puppy crush. “Dammit,” the Colonel grumbled at me under his breath, “please tell me you do not plan on fucking each and every damned one of them?“

I checked to make sure Junior wasn’t eavesdropping. The Colonel and I, we’d had this conversation before, many times. I shrugged and grinned, like always. “Only the ones I like,” I said.