The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Westbound over the Pacific Ocean

I’d started to wonder what I did to piss off the corporate travel office.

The distant city lights slid past the window as the pilot lined us up on approach to the artificial island that is Kansai International Airport in Osaka Bay. Who the hell routes someone through Osaka? Narita in Tokyo is much more of a “hub” airport for people coming to eastern Asia. For that matter, why was I in eastern Asia at all?

It had all started yesterday. Or was it two days ago? Three, maybe? The damned date-line had me all confused. It was Saturday morning in Michigan when it started. Someone decided that 8:30 in the morning was a good time to ring the doorbell—repeatedly. Pamela had groaned and pulled her pillow over her head to shut out the offending sound. I reluctantly rolled myself out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and padded downstairs to see who was stress testing my doorbell.

The autumn morning sunshine showed that it was a secure bonded courier. Not any ordinary deliveryman, this guy had a handgun holstered on his hip and one of the new biometric scanning clipboards in his hand. Beside him sat a cardboard box a little smaller than a two-shelf bookcase. The box was emblazoned with the name and logo of my employer: Harrison Global Technology. I opened the door.

“Benjamin Abraham Lincoln?” asked the courier.

“Yes.”

“I need you to place your right thumb on the scanner, sir.” He held the clipboard so I could do so. The scanner beeped and flashed a green light, confirming my identity.

“Thank you, sir. I need to physically put this inside your home,” he said, easily lifting the box. I held the door open and he set the box in my front hallway.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, then turned and walked back to his truck.

I closed the door and turned to look at the box. “OPEN IMMEDIATELY” was printed on the top in large red letters. I carried it to the kitchen. It couldn’t have weighed much more than ten or fifteen pounds. The idea of letting it sit without opening it wasn’t an option. There was a stunningly beautiful 24 year old girl waiting for me in my bed, but I was still going to open the box. I’m “Honest Abe,” after all. The nickname had been with me for most of my 31 years, and I was proud of it.

My parents had realized that I was an “exceptional” child before I was two years old, and they’d raised me as if my maturity level was commensurate with my intellectual development. We’d had frank, adult discussions about everything, including trust, honesty, and accountability. They’d explained that they truly believed that absolute honesty was the best way to live, even though they often found themselves falling short of that goal. At the age of seven I proved their assertion through logical induction, and then adopted it as my guiding principle. I reserved the right to not speak if I felt that telling the truth wasn’t a prudent move in a particular situation, but if I told you something, you could be sure that it was the truth to the best of my ability to discern the truth. And so “Honest Abe” was born.

I don’t recall exactly who gave me the nickname. I was still in school with children of my own age at the time, to ensure that my social development was keeping pace with everything else in my life. It might have been one of the other students or maybe one of the elementary school teachers. Maybe it was one of the college tutors who helped push my intellectual development when I returned home from elementary school each day.

Anyway, “Honest Abe” had signed a contract when he’d started work as at Harrison Global Technology, and that contract said that I’d be as responsive to my employer’s requests as I could, and they’d pay me an obscene amount of money in return. While I’d prefer that they’d waited a little later on a Saturday morning to deliver it, asking me to open a box wasn’t an unreasonable request. I carefully sliced the packing tape with a paring knife from the kitchen drawer.

Folding back the flaps of the box revealed an envelope on top of something wrapped in a plastic bag. I opened the envelope and extracted the papers within. It was a letter directed to me and signed by Clifford Harrison himself. Even though the HGT High Energy Physics Research Laboratory was only about 60 miles from HGT’s corporate headquarters, and I’d been to HQ several times, I’d never actually met Mr. Harrison. Pamela had met him several times, and he knew her by name, but that was mainly because she’d been brought in through HGT’s Graduate Stars program a couple of years ago. The program hadn’t existed when I’d started at HGT and I don’t know that a 22 year old with four earned PhD’s would have been a candidate anyway.

Mr. Harrison’s letter informed me that I would be in Rabat, Morocco for the next week, attending a conference he was hosting. The letter directed me to follow the accompanying instruction sheet precisely and completely. He closed the letter by saying that he looked forward to meeting me personally. It was hand-signed in pen.

The instruction sheet told me that the remaining contents of the box were a small suitcase and a briefcase. I was to pack the minimum I needed to travel in the suitcase; toiletries, other personal items, and minimal clothing. Additional clothing and anything else I needed would be supplied by HGT when I arrived in Morocco. The briefcase contained information about the conference. I was to use it as my carry-on bag, and keep it with me at all times during my journey to Morocco. I could also use it for any books, mp3 players, or other personal carry-on items I wanted to bring. The instructions ended with an airline confirmation code. I was to be at Detroit Wayne Airport at noon the next day and present my confirmation code at the first class check-in line for the airline. They would give me my itinerary to Morocco.

I extracted the suitcase from the box and removed the plastic bag protecting it. Inside was the briefcase mentioned in the instruction sheet. I closed up the suitcase and carried the box and plastic bag out into the garage to go out with the rubbish.

The instructions went into the briefcase, along with the other items already in the briefcase, and the briefcase went back inside the suitcase. I carried the suitcase upstairs and stowed it in the master bedroom’s walk-in closet. Closing the closet door, I turned and looked at the dozing beauty in my bed.

Physically Pamela McGuire is everything that I’m not. I’m as average-looking as you can get. I’m too skinny, with only 169 pounds spread across 6′1″ of height. My hair is an average brown. My eyes are an average blue. My face is average, I’m just plain average.

Pamela is not average; not by a long shot.

Even under the sheet and blanket you could tell she had a long, curvy form. She was a shade under 5′10″ tall, well above “average” for a female. Her hair lay in disarray, but I knew that one shake of her head would straighten it out and reveal it to be a beautiful auburn cascade that fell slightly longer than shoulder-length. A couple of passes with a brush, and it would shine like fine, deeply polished mahogany. Her eyes were deep green, intelligent and inquisitive, and amazingly big. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then Pamela had been gifted with beautiful panoramic picture windows. A dusting of light freckles accentuated her upper chest, spreading onto the tops of her high, firm breasts. Long legs, a flat stomach, a dazzling smile, and a backside that could inspire men to write poetry all added up to a girl that should be way out of my league, by my measure or anybody else’s.

What we had in common was our intellect. As stunning as her physical beauty was, her keen mind was even more overwhelming. Pamela’s genius lay in microwave solid-state design. She’d graduated at the top of her class almost two and a half years earlier. She and I each jokingly referred to each other’s alma maters as “that other technical school on the wrong coast.” Her’s was in California, mine was in Massachusetts.

She’d been an obvious candidate for Harrison Global Technology’s new Graduate Stars program. Clifford Harrison himself had come up with the idea of finding the best and brightest new college graduates and hiring them into a special 18 month program to encourage them to grow their talents while gradually transitioning into a corporate environment. After three months of being wined and dined and trained and coddled by the staff at HQ, 31 of the best and brightest new college graduates started a tour of HGT’s major facilities around the world with, you guessed it, a visit to the High Energy Physics lab just up the road.

At first I’d thought she was some kind of supermodel who’d been hired into the marketing, PR, or sales organizations. But as I herded the group around on a tour of the labs, I found her asking intelligent, detailed questions about the projects. It turned out that she was a sharp, talented RF circuits engineer. I found myself making eye contact with her more and more as the tour progressed. During lunch at the lab cafeteria she cornered me.

“I get the feeling that I’m not what you originally expected,” she said with a knowing smile.

I gave her my usual honest answer: “I confess, Ms. McGuire, that when I first saw you, I thought that the Graduate Stars program had hired a supermodel to be our new corporate spokesperson. Now I know that I misjudged you and you are also a very talented engineer.”

When the day was over, the group decided to go out to dinner together and they invited me along. As we congregated in lab parking lot to work out the transportation arrangements, Pamela made an announcement.

“The rest of you can do whatever you want, but I want a ride in THAT!” She was pointing at a silver SL580 parked in one of the reserved spots—MY silver SL580, parked in MY reserved spot.

So I admitted ownership and obliged her with a ride to the restaurant in my little two-seater luxury rocket. On the way to the restaurant she admitted that she figured that the car in the “Lab Director” spot must have been mine, but she did feel giddy about getting a ride in a $180,000 car. As we talked, she told me that she was taken by my complete honesty at lunch.

“Everyone tries to BS me and tell me that they didn’t notice me for anything other than my brain, or some crap like that,” she said. “I know what I look like, Dr. Lincoln, and I know that’s the first thing anyone’s going to notice. But you didn’t try to pretend that you didn’t notice. You were straightforward and honest, even though it had to be a bit uncomfortable for you.”

And so that was how it started. We kept in touch with frequent phone calls as she made her way around the world with the Graduate Stars group. We shared stories of our lives and got to know each other, even though we were separated by thousands of miles. When the group returned to HGT’s corporate headquarters in Michigan, Pamela and I began seeing each other.

I took quite a bit of ribbing from the guys at the lab. Much of it was wild speculation about how I must be hung like a horse to land a girl like her (like everything else about my body, I’m just average.) The truth was that my guiding principle of simply being honest was what hooked her. Now she was lying in my bed, wearing my ring, with the shared promise that we’d marry on June 24th, which was just over nine months away. I took off my sweatpants and slid back into bed.

“Who was it, Ben?” She rolled up on her side and addressed me with her beautiful green eyes and a pink nipple peeking out from under the covers.

“Courier with a package from work, hon. They need me in Morocco for a week, starting tomorrow. Some conference. I haven’t read through the materials yet, so I’m not exactly sure what it is. Clifford Harrison is hosting it, though.”

“Morocco? Like Morocco in Africa?”

“Yeah, that Morocco.”

“So,” she teased, with mock indignation, “HGT is flying my fiance to Morocco so he can be seduced away from me by exotic belly-dancers?”

It was a bit of a turnabout. Usually Pamela was the one flying all over the world to meet with customers. She only did electronic design work once in awhile. It had turned out that my “corporate spokesmodel” jibe hadn’t been too far off. Her combination of stunning beauty and engineering savvy led to her spending most of her time doing engineering presentations either at HQ or at customer sites. She still managed to get into the lab occasionally and apply her considerable talent to her electronic design projects, but mostly she was hobnobbing with execs and explaining our products to customers.

“Yup,” I replied, “I do believe that’s their plan. They can see how easy it would be to convince me to trade in my sexy redhead for some girl with a mustache and hips mounted on gimbals.”

“Oh dear! I better try to convince you to come back to me.” She slid over to me, then rolled her naked body on top of me, laying her entire curvy length against the front of my body. Her legs fell to the sides of mine and my erect cock was pressed tightly against her abdomen. She slid up a little, releasing my cock so that it rested against her shaved vagina. A kiss, then another, then a long, deeper kiss with passion, then she pressed downward and I felt her moist nether lips part as I slid into her warmth.

This was “our thing.” It was as much contact as we could get between us, with her lying prone atop me, my cock inside her, my arms holding her, and my hands on her ass, pulling her tight against me and feeling the rhythmic flexing of her firm ass muscles as she rocked her pelvis back and forth in a tiny thrusting motion on my cock. It was close and intimate. We’d lay like this and kiss and look into each other’s eyes. There was no hurry, no rush for orgasm, just closeness.

“You know,” I whispered, “I just may have to come back and marry you, Pamela McGuire.”

“You damned well better, Ben Lincoln…” She squeezed my cock inside her. “…or I’ll have to come find you and drag you back here to make an honest woman of me.”

We kissed and cuddled and stroked and laid together professing our never-ending love for each other. After awhile (it always seemed like we both instinctively knew when it was time) we clung together and rolled over so that I was on top of her, still inside her. I propped myself up and Pamela wrapped her legs around my waist as I began thrusting into her with purpose. After a couple of minutes of earnest thrusting, I pulled my knees up on either side of her hips and sat up so I could reach her vagina. I’m an average guy, not a porno star, so a little stimulation with my thumb on her clitoris is just the trick to make sure we both can share orgasms. Soon her thrusting became faster and more insistent, then she arched her back and pushed herself as deeply as she could onto me. The feeling of her vagina spasming around my cock set me off and I shot deep inside her.

When our breathing slowed, I leaned down and kissed her.

“Of course I’ll be back,” I told her. “You’re the love of my life and I’m going to marry you in nine months.”

“And I’ll be here, counting the moments until you return,” she replied. “And I’m going to marry you in June and be your wife forever. That’s a promise.”

That was yesterday morning. Or was it the day before yesterday? Damn date-line.

The bump of tires contacting tarmac announced our landing. After the requisite thrust reversal and braking, Cabin Crew Chief Melanie came over the PA to welcome us to Osaka and admonish us to remain in our seats until the aircraft had reached the terminal and the pilot had turned off the seatbelt light. I briefly wondered why they’d been called “captain” and “first officer” for the whole flight, but now that we’d landed they’d suddenly been demoted to “pilot.” I pulled the briefcase out from under the seat in front of me while we were taxiing, scuffing the leather noticeably as it scraped on the aluminum framework of the seat. This was going to be a fairly close 32 minute connection and I needed to hoof it from my arrival gate in area 3F Center to my departure gate in the 2F North Wing. I was sure I’d make it with time to spare, since the First Class cabin had its own departure door to the jetway. I tried buffing the scuff mark off the briefcase with a leftover napkin, but it didn’t work. I forgot about it as we reached the gate and were cleared to exit the aircraft.

Just about every connection on this crazy trip had involved a terminal change. The previous one in Honolulu hadn’t, but both Las Vegas and Dallas-Fort Worth before that had required that I change terminals. According to the itinerary, I’d be changing terminals in Singapore and again in Dubai before I finally made it to Rabat. I really must have upset someone in the travel office for them to send me the long way around to Morocco and make me change planes, airlines, and terminals so many times.

I made the connection. I also made my connections in Singapore and Dubai. On the flights in between, I looked through the conference material in the briefcase. There I found two surprises.

The first surprise was that the conference was not being hosted by Harrison Global Technology, but by Clifford Harrison himself, under the guise of a new company called Worldwide Hope Renewal. I knew that Mr. Harrison was, at the age of 63, a billionaire many times over, but I couldn’t see any reason why he would go to the expense to set up a whole new company for this conference, rather than just have it hosted by HGT.

The second was more of a shock. Clifford Harrison wanted me to give a twenty minute overview of Project Downstream. This project had been my primary focus for the past six years, and it was classified at the Violet-5 level, HGT’s highest level of secrecy classification. V5 had security protocols that went beyond even the most secretive levels of government security classification. It was very surprising that Mr. Harrison wanted to reveal that we’d created the Temporal Singularity at all.

The request appeared to be intentionally vague, stating that I was to give an overview of the “achieved result of Project Downstream and the physical characteristics of the effects created by that achieved result.” In short I was to give a fly-over that explained what a Temporal Singularity was, that we’d created them, and what went on in and around the stasis field of one. At least it was just an overview. There was no way that I could explain how it worked in twenty days, much less twenty minutes. Not that there were more than six people on the planet who could understand the 793 pages of equations and proofs I’d created to design the Singularity, of course. But still, even revealing that for two years we’d been experimenting with creating little time bubbles that suspended the passage of time for anything within the stasis field would be a bombshell announcement.