The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was dewy and cool at six o’clock on Sunday morning when I turned up in the courtyard with gun and kit, together with Queenie. Duplicarius Finney, a tall and thin man, had them standing in a line and was giving them their instructions. Sarah, in the row, standing straight with her arms to her sides, stuck her tits out a bit and gave me the eye.

I walked up behind Duplicarius Finney and waited for him to finish talking.

‘Duplicarius Finney, Nama Mithra! Duplicarius Walters reporting for duty.’

‘Oh? What’s this about?’

‘Here are my orders.’

‘Er, I see. Please stand by. Not a problem; there’s room on the boat.’

‘Very well, Duplicarius. Glad to join you. Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.’

Then, he leading, me behind and the team following, we marched down to the tunnels and were on our way. Suddenly we were in a roomy tunnel with railway tracks. Finney told me that this was an old Paris underground railway line that ran directly to the river. Port-Royal, Luxembourg, Saint-Michel—only three stations. The only thing was that now we had to drag along a railway truck with ropes. I realised that it was just an extension of the rail track that Edward has sent me off on. What a long time ago that seemed.

After quite a long haul in flickering lamplight, we finally went up some steps and onto a quay on the River Seine, misty in the coolness of the morning. Moored alongside was an open boat. It was rather wide and stubby with five oars to a side. We clambered in. This was looking good.

‘Duplicarius Walters, please join me in the stern. This box contains gold for payment, keep a close eye on it. Actually, if you don’t mind, maybe you could give the rowers a hand if they get tired out; it’s quite a long row.’

‘Of course. Glad to help.’

We settled into our places on the rather wobbly boat and pushed off. The rowers set a slow place, and soon we were passing under an ornate stone bridge. The current was weak and we went under bridge after bridge. The water was clear and waving fronds could be seen veiling miscellaneous rubbish on the riverbed.

I felt a bit sad at leaving and hoped that there wouldn’t be any trouble when they discovered that I’d done a runner. The oars dipped and pulled; the boat slid on. Finney and I were sitting in the stern and Sarah and the others were facing us, rowing away. She looked cheerful.

After a bit, the river forked and we took the right-hand branch.

There was something about a boat trip on a river like this: contact with nature. On a perfect late-spring morning like on that day it made my heart sing. The mild, musty smell of the river, the wary birds, darting fish and the regular creak of the oars combine to make it deep and satisfying experience. It was good to be out of that old prison building. The river was nature’s tongue, reaching out into the crumbling cityscape. I began wondering what it had been like to live there when it was still intact. It must have been a cold, hard, mineral place to spend a life.

We soon reached a lock. It was Alfortville lock, just outside Paris. Having been looked after by us, it was in good operating condition. The rowers were glad to have a short rest while the lock filled. Then on we went again.

The day wore on and grew hotter. The rowers were getting tired and complaining about their hands. I was dozing when Finney, who was keeping a close watch, shouted, ‘Action Stations! Action Stations! We’re under attack!’ A boat full of armed men had suddenly appeared from behind a metal hulk against the bank. And to me he added, ‘They’re after the gold; somebody must have tipped them off.’ Then he shouted, ‘Hand grenades ready! Stand by to throw!’ At this the rowers, who had already shipped their oars, all started fumbling in their packs. Each of them took out two grenades and unpinned one of them. Queenie started barking. When the approaching boat was still quite a distance away, Finney gave the order to throw. All the rowers stood up together and threw one of their grenades, then ducked. They arced through the air and came down in a salvo on the enemy, who gave a shout of dismay. After a slight delay, which was time enough for me to wonder if something was wrong, the grenades began to explode. Some that had hit the water and sunk sent up heaving mounds of water but there were at least three that exploded in the boat, sending the attackers flying, and holing their boat. Fragments spattered the water, I wished I had been trained to duck too. Some yelled as their boat filled and sank, others were past yelling.

Finney turned to me. ‘Duplicarius Walters, time to use that long gun of yours. It’s target practice time, hehe.’

I felt I ought to do my bit but found it a bit too much for me. I made a great show of getting my rifle out and loaded until the swimmers had time to get out of sight. I decided that I would only use the gun for self-defence, my conscience could cope with that. Actually, my initial fear had turned to revengeful anger I had been very templed to shoot them.

Finney looked pleased. ‘See that? Proper training gave us the edge. The Old Man is a great believer in hand grenades. Has them practice every day. He says a good thrower is worth his weight in gold, hehe. Those idiots won’t be trying that again. We should be safe on the way back.’

Within a few minutes, the river had covered up or carried away all signs of the incident, and was showing its charming face again—the hypocrite. There would be food for the crayfish today.

Still, it spoiled the atmosphere. Sarah was upset and trembling, so I clambered over and took her oar. She gave me a rueful grin and replaced me in the stern, stroking Queenie pensively.

It was still a way to go and we continued in watchful silence while my hands started to develop blisters. It was still the same beautiful river but now a threatening place. The sun rose higher and the insects hummed, the fish created secret ripples on the surface and birds sneaked about and splashed at the water’s edge. I quietly sent a pick-up message to agent John. Around mid-day when we reached another lock. This was our destination. We rowers were most relieved. The boat was headed over towards the bank on the starboard side where a guard waved us in. The bank wasn’t high and we all clambered out of the boat and moored. Finney had a few words with the guard, detailed two rowers to guard the boat and the rest of us set off up a track to collect the produce, between walls of rank vegetation bright with the colours of spring. We were all a bit out of breath and hot when we reached the perimeter post of the old Orly airport clearing. It was now a wide, open plain with crops in regular strips. Finney told me that they liked to call it “Orly Farm” on the basis that those who work the soil own it. He added that we should use that name for the place and call them “the Orly farmers” to avoid making them sulky and difficult. He also told me that they were exceedingly edgy and were probably afraid that our lot would take the whole place over, given half a chance. Accordingly, they led us to an open area near a blockhouse where a pile of produce lay ready to load, mainly in big wicker baskets. There was also a pony and cart.

Next came the weird, silent exchange ceremony. A bunch of farmers were loitering near the pile, and an old chap with a long grey beard stood forth and gestured towards the pile. Finney walked over to it and began inspecting it. After he’d had a good look, Finney nodded. Then he went back for a little chest. He opened it, tipped the coins it contained into a pan of vinegar lying ready on the ground then stepped back. The beardy, with an avaricious scowl, came up, plunged his hands in and began counting the gold coins. Finally, reluctant but satisfied, he nodded and held out a hand as if to say “Go ahead”. Finney said, ‘Okay, lads. First we eat, then we move all this to the boat. Lunch will be half an hour.’

They all sat down and took out their canteens and packed lunches. I sat down next to Sarah and asked how her hands were. Actually, they were in better shape than mine because she’d had some practice with rowing before. She told me that it was okay rowing up here in the summer, but in the autumn and winter the river could be flowing swiftly and it made things hard. ‘You’ll see,’ she said. ‘You get used to it. But that was the first time we got attacked. We are all so good at throwing grenades after all the practice that we’ve had. Did you see how three of us got our grenades right in their boat from what must have been about thirty metres? That’ll teach ‘em.’

Then she started getting embarrassingly personal. She wiggled her shoulders in a “have you seen my tits?” sort of way and said, ‘Sometimes it can be a bit lonely here, don’t you think?’ But poor Sarah never got any further because I had just heard the most wonderful sound: the familiar buzzing, droning, humming of an Airtruck. I stood up. There was one coming in to land with wheels and flaps down. ‘Hang on a sec,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

I stepped over to Finney, who was sitting scoffing a meat pie, and said, ‘My mission is with that plane. Don’t wait for me.’ I walked towards the plane, which was quite a long way away. One of the farmers moved aside to let me pass and gave me a knowing nod. I went on walking and didn’t look back.

When I reached it, I was welcomed by the pilot. He was a small, tough-looking man with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Hello, solider,’ he quipped. ‘All aboard for the skylark?’ I sniggered with relief. The plane’s propellers were turning, the cargo of ploughs and stuff had been rolled off. Queenie and I got aboard and he gestured me to sit next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. He fiddled with the controls; the rear ramp closed. The engines roared even more loudly as the plane started to roll forwards, gathered speed and lifted off. And so did my heart. We were soon climbing over the river, boat and crew left far behind. The landing gear was retracted and the plane climbed. We were making a banked turn to fly back to Britiniacum. We were soon cruising through puffs of cumulus cloud with mild turbulence.

While we were on our way I sent a message to Montafian:

Dear Sir,

The project is now complete. Ask agent Marty to set a connected computer up for you and at the prompt, type in “geronimo”. This will activate the whole system. Please note that he does not know this password; don’t let him see it. If any simple maintenance is needed, he can help you. If anything else is needed (and I’m almost sure that it will not be), please don’t hesitate to contact me, and I will do the best I can.

I’ve taken the liberty of transferring to my name certificates for twenty kilos of gold, as agreed.

Please accept my apologies for leaving so abruptly, but I have other important things to do that cannot wait.

I will keep a fond memory of the time I spent at La Santé and hope, and trust, you will be successful with your endeavours.

Respectfully yours,

James Walters

I was just hoping that he wouldn’t set Fat Freddy on me. And of course, there would always be a worry in the back of his mind that I could put an end to the operation of the system remotely, or that it would stop if I didn’t make a routine check. (The first was true).

Britiniacum is an island in a rolling sea of unbroken forest. No other islands were visible from the cockpit. The forest formed a gigantic natural collector of energy: free and available. No wonder the Brits, as they liked to call themselves, were so smug. Really, they were in just as good a position as the snooty Devans with their (I had given up on “our”) modular nuclear reactor.

When you’re in a plane, the distance from Orly to Britiniacum is nothing at all, and soon we were lining up for the final approach. Creaking, rattling, roaring, down we came to the landing field, touched down like a feather and rolled gently to a stop opposite the airfield building.

We unbuckled and heaved ourselves out of our comfy seats. The pilot opened the rear door and we walked out together into the bright sunlight. Agent John appeared at the door of the airfield building and waved. We walked over the close-grazed grass to meet him. Grasshoppers were leaping off in all directions, Queenie too.

I immediately recognised the faint tarry smell of Britiniacum.