The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dawn came early on the first of May. It was a cold, bright morning. Edward and I were standing in the courtyard ready to go. After a quick goodbye to his household we were clumping off for the valley of the Yvette. I wondered if I would ever get back there, and envied Edward. The forest was full of life and fresh leaves, all wet with the heavy dew. The beauty of the place made my heart sing, yet the thought of my mission filled me with unease—who to trust? The track was first flat then went down in steep zigzags, every footstep bringing me further, leading me to my fate: an unwanted adventure. We were soon walking past dilapidated houses, willingly taken over by tireless nature.

I couldn’t help thinking about The Virus and how it had all come to this. History told us that viruses were continually mutating and every so often a strain appeared that ran quickly through populations of humans and animals, jumping species as it went. As the population grew exponentially and international travel had become pervasive, the scope for viruses to develop and spread increased to the point where waves of pandemics regularly swept the globe. But there wasn’t much that could be done about it. The wake-up call came in 2020 with SARS-CoV-2. And when a new virus struck in 2024, there was a sense of inevitability and doom that resulted in fear and panic. The thing was that this virus was extremely infectious but had no symptoms for about a month, after which it suddenly struck and the majority of the population rapidly died. At the time, most people depended on vast networks of complex and interconnected life-support systems. Who could live in a city with no power, food, water, sanitation, police? The towns became death traps when the tipping point was reached. And those living with any degree of self-sufficiency were soon overwhelmed by desperate hordes that destroyed everything in a general free-for-all. It suddenly became clear to all that civilisation as it then stood could have no effective defence against such pandemics.

So how did life continue? In the end, what had to happen did happen: survival of the fittest. Most of the population died, and those who managed to survive did so in groups by ruthlessly defended isolation. And that mostly meant machine guns. Self-sufficient communities like Deva appeared and cut themselves off completely.

What Deva had was a key advantage: a cheap and dependable source of power. This was a fast-neutron sodium-cooled small modular reactor that had been under development by the French at Saclay who’d been readying it for commercial use. It was taken over by a group of refugees from England after it had been abandoned by the French. The group included a team of nuclear engineers who managed to get the reactor going again. The group also included military men who set up a defensive perimeter. A town wall and a glacis with interlocking fields of fire ensured that no one could enter. A vaccine was eventually found but much too late. And to ensure that there wouldn’t be another outbreak, movement between such islands of civilisation was strictly monitored. The general rule was that nobody could enter a township anywhere without a month of quarantine or unless accompanied by a local sponsor. The sponsor had to vouch for any visitors and would be expelled from the community in the event of infection—would become an outsider who could never return. This was a heavy responsibility. When we had gone to Britiniacum, Pete had been our sponsor. And the universal facial recognition system had identified us.

A lot of my work at Deva had to do with developing intelligent devices to keep our reactor going. We had got to the point where the entire system was self-supporting with smart operations oversight and total replacement-part fabrication capability. It was all managed better than any man ever could. All the available knowledge had been codified and was constantly being extended. And, luckily, it was a breeder reactor so there really was no immediate fuel problem.

Yet, having a ready and ample source of energy in Deva meant that life there was very different from life in other townships. In Britiniacum, the people looked healthy and energetic. In Deva there were just pasty-faced, dispirited drones and wary controllers and technicians. In Deva the common people had no role; in Britiniacum they had to work for their livings. In Britiniacum, their only source of energy, the vital ingredient for any civilised life, was just wood. The entire place was made of wood. Their whole life revolved round wood. Mind you, solar panel replacements that grew by themselves in the most ecological way were obviously worth having. Only acorns were needed. And luckily there was no longer anybody living round about, and the forest was there for the taking. An excellent situation. And no more pandemics. A hunter could wander through the wide woods and return with big game slung over his trusty pony while his hounds gambolled appreciatively round him, back to his charming wife and beautiful children. “Daddy’s coming. It’ll be boar pie again!” They clustered round admiringly as he strode into the house, in his home-knitted socks, a modest smile on his face, to receive a soppy kiss before the roaring open fire.

Edward was giving me a funny look.

Anyway, I had Anna’s brain and it was the best I could buy. But how was I going to manage getting another body for her? where would we go? and what would it be like? It might be bad luck to imagine too much in advance. I decided to focus on the Montafian hope for the time being.

Edward croaked, ‘Space out. One up the spout. Safety catch off.’

I scanned the empty window openings, ready for instant action. A shiver went down my spine.

Soon we were sneaking along the empty old streets. We came to the road bridge over the Yvette River. There were supposed to be some beavers, but none were visible. Maybe they’ll be everywhere before long. Really, humans spoil everything.

About a hundred metres ahead was the railway viaduct. A quick scramble up it took us to the track, and Edward paused. He looked up and down the line, now a vague path between bramble bushes and young trees.

‘Follow the tracks until you get to Paris itself, then use the street map, like I told you.’ Edward squinted towards the low early-morning sun. ‘That way’—he put his hand on my shoulder—‘take care.’ He was getting melodramatic and I was getting embarrassed. No French-style kiss, at least. Anyway, I thought I’d act up a bit too, so I gave him what I thought was a confident grin with a cocky wink and said, ‘I’ll be back.’ Then I nipped off before I spoiled the effect, wondering how convincing I had been, because I was actually feeling a bit emotional.

Still, it was a fine day, and it looked as if it would be warm later. I moved straggling brambles away and pushed past twiggy branches but managed to make good progress. It was going to be a long day’s walk. All round me was the wreck of human civilisation and the glory of returning nature: new green, birds making a racket, even a few rabbits. There was even a big rabbit that hopped out onto the path a short way ahead, had a cool look at me then moved away unconcerned and disappeared. I expect that the rabbits had lost some of their fear of people.

My high-tech boots kept my shanks dry and unscratched; well done Edward.

This was the old suburban line RER B that first ran eastward down the Yvette valley then gradually curved northwards to enter Paris from the south, passed right through the city and out the other side towards the main airport. My destination was just inside the southern edge of Paris, which was about twenty stations away. In the late twentieth century, early every morning trains carried hosts of commuters from their mortgaged suburban homes to their jobs in Paris, then home again in the evening to sit in front of the TV, tired out. This used to be a well-to-do area, full of trim little gardens where lawnmowers we heard and cars were washed on Sundays. That was all over now.

I made quite good time, reaching Orsay Station after about two hours of walking. The sun was high and it was starting to get warm. There was still no sign of life except for the rabbits, though I did see some pig droppings in the deserted station buildings. I sat down on the edge of the platform and drank a little water from my canteen. Edward had told me that the water in the Yvette was safe but that I would do better to boil it anyway, so I just had a little that I’d got from the Aigrefoin well. I sat until the solitude grew oppressive, picked up my gun and pack and went on.

At this point, the line crossed the Yvette on a high viaduct, then curved over to the right and entered a cutting. Here the trees had nearly joined up above, making a dim tunnel with sloshing leaves underfoot. Then the line led over the old motorway. It went on almost straight for a long way. And on and on to a station larger than most with a sign still visible marked “Massy”. It was all derelict buildings now, surrendering to nature. I didn’t care much for Massy, so I just kept straight on. Walking down bush-invaded track between the rails and trying not to stumble on any uncovered sleepers slowed me. My plan was to stop at Gentilly, bivouac there until about four in the morning, enter Paris in darkness using my night vision equipment, get to a building with a clear view of the entrance of Montafian’s hideout and keep it under surveillance until dawn. I planned to enter the place around nine thirty when I figured it would be active.

I stopped to eat something at a station called Bourg-la-Reine, glad to sit down for a bit. It was nearly one o’clock. I got out one of the sandwiches they had made for me. It tasted wonderful and homelike in that dreary, empty place. I also had a swig from a flask of Aigrefoin wine.

Suddenly, I had the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Somewhere behind and to one side there was a creak, a scratch. Alarm. Hand to well-sharpened knife in left sleeve. As Edward said, “At a distance below three metres, that rifle of yours is useless. You’ll never get it ready and up in time.” Adrenalin rush. Head slowly swivelled to the left. A bloody dog! Must have smelled my sandwiches. Relief. Annoyance.

It wasn’t a very big dog, and it had a black face with a white stripe down the front. I clicked my tongue gently. It grew more confident and came into full view. It was a clean-limbed, attractive-looking dog, and not too dirty. It looked friendly, submissive. I had the idea that it was a Border Collie or something like that. It was a female. Her eyes were fixed on my sandwich, her nose poked forward and sniffing. It was good to see a friendly face. Tactfully looking to one side and waving my half-eaten sandwich encouragingly, I let her approach. When she was nearly close enough to touch, I put the sandwich down gently and slid my hand back. She approached, hesitated and grabbed it. She backed off a bit and bolted it down. I held out my hand for her to sniff. After a bit she did, then licked it. We were making friends.

Of course the first problem was to find a name for her. The station where we were sitting was Bourg-la-Reine, and even I knew that reine meant “queen”. So, I decided to call her “Queenie”, a quick fix to dispel mind turmoil.

I got up and carried on walking to Gentilly. Queenie trotted along beside me with hopeful glances at my pack. At one point, she raced off into some bushes. After a bit of thrashing about, back she came with a young rabbit in her mouth and proceeded to lay it at my feet, anxious to find common ground I supposed. To show my appreciation, as Edwards has shown me, I tied it to a branch and skinned and gutted it. I gave the head, guts and feet back to her. I put the carcass in a bag to eat later, wiped my hands and knife on a tuft of grass and kept on going. Two hours or so later we reached Gentilly at the gates of Paris.

It was now mid-afternoon. Teatime. A good moment for barbecued rabbit. Then lie low until a bit before dawn.

Gentilly station is in a cutting with the passenger hall astride the tracks forming a sort of tunnel underneath. So off we went to the end of the platform, through the exit and up to the main building: cold, damp and dirty. Edward had a theory that night-time was when I had the advantage, as I could use my night-vision equipment. He had also told me to find somewhere to conceal my infrared signature at night, because you never knew whether someone else had the same kit. I was beginning to realise how difficult life in this ruined city was. Frankly, there were no resources to support human life. In a corner of the ticket hall, I made a small fire out of pieces of some old wooden furniture from one of the offices. I skewered the rabbit carcass on a coat-hanger and proceeded to grill it. Queenie watched my every move, giving a little whine from time to time. I was very glad that Edward had shown me how to butcher and cook rabbit. Actually, it wasn’t too bad but a bit dry, having almost no fat. Anyway, we enjoyed it, and I shared a bit of water with her. Having no water was the worst part of living in ruins.

The smell and smoke might have attracted unwelcome visitors, so I thought it might be better to hole up in a nearby building and wait until it was time to cross the ring road into Paris itself. Everywhere there were low-rise buildings. I walked up to the entrance of a nearby one that looked suitable. The door was ajar and a masonry staircase was visible. We slipped in. On the second floor, there was a door open. I looked inside: all untouched but musty, dirty, rotten. I couldn’t face it. Up we went to the top floor and found a way out onto the flat roof. I jammed the metal door closed with a piece of rusty reinforcing rod and had a look over the parapet. All seemed quiet in the afternoon sun. I unpacked my military modular sleep system and stretched out while Queenie eyed me approvingly, or possibly hopefully. Soon I was dozing off and daydreaming, checking my communicator for messages. Queenie’s presence reassured me. At the slightest sound her ears twitched, but it was only at the sounds of leaves in the wind.

The sun grew low and the shadows lengthened; there was soon a chilly dampness in the air. The sun set at around 7 pm. Getting seriously bored and increasingly jumpy, I set my communicator alarm for 4 am and slipped into my sleeping bag. Plans and worries rotated through my brain for what seemed a long time then, suddenly, I was woken up by Queenie barking and growling. There was something scratching and snorting at the door. Would it hold? What was there? I was out of my sleeping bag like a jack-in-a-box and fumbling to chamber a round in my rifle. Would more than one shot be needed? How quick could I fire? For good measure I got my knife ready. The darkness was nearly total so I rummaged for my night-vision goggles. I was in a spooky aquarium world with Queenie all lit up. But there were also flashes of light visible through some perforations in the door. Then whatever it was scuttled off. Queenie barked a few more times but more confidently. Then quiet. Now it was a stand-down and as-you-were situation. I took off the goggles and tried to get back to sleep.

My communicator alarm went off. It was still pitch black. Time to get up.

I managed to get my kit together the way Edward had taught me: smooth and easy. Gave Queenie a pat. Got the goggles on and un-jammed the door. Sneaked down the stairs and slipped out the entrance door with Queenie in close support. I walked down the street using the night-vision goggles in my low-infrared kit. A green world. The odd rat or whatever showed up clearly but nothing appeared in the thousand windows: good. We were marching on the roads now checking the route from time to time in the augmented-reality display. Soon we were on a bridge over the deserted multi-lane highway that ringed central Paris. Still no people showing up. We went straight on up to Boulevard Kellerman then left along it to the corner of Parc Montsouris. Grazing had made it park-like and relatively open, so we made good time. After a bit we reached a large pond, and Queenie had a drink. We had a biscuit each then, spotting a group of wild pigs, made a detour and crossed the railway lines. We were then on the last stretch up avenue René-Coty.

This must have been what happened to the Roman towns and roads when the Germanic invaders swept in. It would seem that the Roman Empire with its rule makers and tax collectors became so intolerable that the common people welcomed their new overlords. A city with no life support systems was a bad place to live or, more accurately, an impossible place to live. Paris was now a black hole in a smiling countryside full of life. What was this “Jean Montafian” doing here? Meanwhile, Queenie was scampering after a rat. It was amazing how she managed in the darkness.

With these musings circulating in my head, we soon reached a right fork into rue de la Tombe-Issoire, an old Roman main road leading into Paris, the plan being to circle round my destination from south to north and get into an observation position before dawn and thus try to avoid an ambush. Getting near our destination, we sneaked, stopped, watched, sneaked again and scrambled until we found a suitable place above a shopfront marked “Monceau Fleurs” with a window overlooking the Denfert-Rochereau junction. Here, from the side, I could see the strange little green wooden shack that marked the entrance to the Catacombs of Paris where Mr M was reportedly lurking.

I closed the door, then I clipped the spycam to the window frame and set my communicator to intelligent surveillance. So there we sat and dozed. After a while, the sun rose and a new day dawned over the mouldering remains of what had once been the vibrant city of Paris. I leant against the wall out of sight watching the communicator display, and Queenie rested her head on my leg. She gave me a meaningful glance or two, so I got out another two biscuits and we scoffed them.

About these biscuits, Edward—who was a nostalgic traditionalist about all things military—had insisted on making and giving me what he called “hard tack”. I had lots of them. They were small squares of something like pizza bread baked hard and wrapped in what I guessed was re-processed fly-cuticle film from Britiniacum. Queenie liked too.

Edward had been worried about my approach to Mr M’s den because it seemed he was somewhat paranoid and might well shoot before looking properly. Hence the elaborate precautions.

It was soon half past nine, which seemed a civilised hour for doing business. So we got up and stretched. I picked up and stowed my gear, and then it was down the stairway and out into the strong sunlight. Between us and the entrance to the destination was a gigantic statue of a lion on a square base. It seemed to me that we should not seem to be sneaking up behind it, so I moved until the path was clear. With rifle slung and hands apart I began to walk across the dirty roadway with its banks of leaves and tufts of grass growing in cracks. Queenie caught my mood and drooped her tail. I shouted, ‘Anybody there? John sent me.’ I noticed a spot of green light on the ground slightly ahead of me. The spot crept up my leg and onto my chest. Shit, a laser gunsight. Deep breath and keep on. Queenie whined. The word backup was obsessing me. I couldn’t help thinking that I had no backup and if I was shot now that would just be the end of me. And there was no way I could call for backup, like in the films. Maybe I should just back down or back off or back out. But as any kind of backing seemed unwise at that point. it just had to be forward march and get it over.

When I got a bit past the lion, which was about halfway across. A shout rang out, ‘Halt, who goes there? Advance one and be recognised.’ I looked at Queenie, and she looked at me. We both moved slowly forward. Then the voice shouted out, ‘What’s your business?’ and I gave the predetermined response: ‘Walters reporting for duty’. It was a proper old knock-knock routine, a farce, but blended with mortal danger.

We approached the entrance to the green wooden shack marked “Catacombes de Paris” in fading letters. This was once a big tourist attraction, a network of tunnels extending all through Paris and from which the characteristic pale stone was mined to construct the buildings above ground. Sometime around the French Revolution, the excavations were used to dispose of the bones from the overflowing cemeteries inside the walls of Paris.

The door stood open but no one was in sight. I peeped in, still nobody. So down the stairs we went, to a dim underground hallway illuminated with oil lamps hanging from nails here and there. There stood a big guy holding a sniper rifle. ‘Come this way, the boss is expecting you.’