The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lost Opportunity

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Copyright © 2002-2004 by Le Duc de Kavaliere

Part Two

“Hello, Nikolai,” came a soft, familiar voice.

My head rose. Standing in the doorway was Colleen Harrison. She radiated glamour in her long dress of black lace, with a silvery shawl draped over her shoulders. Her clear green eyes were dazzling me. Straight and red, her hair flowed down smoothly to her waist.

“Zelasha!” I gaped. She just stood there, grinning impishly. “What are you doing here?” I finally managed after a moment.

“Is that the best you can do?” Zelasha smiled impishly, as she glided across the room to stand right in front of me, staring up into my eyes. “You are not a man to be lost for words.”

“Um . . .” I began. “How are you?”

“Perfect,” Zelasha cooed. “And you, my love slave?”

“I . . .” Her love slave. That seemed familiar, although I didn’t remember her ever calling me that before. “Excuse me, your love slave?!”

Zelasha fixed my eyes with her gentle green gaze. “Yes, you . . . are . . . my . . . love . . . slave.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you remember this?” Zelasha murmured. Her hands went around behind her head, and she unclasped something. Deftly, she removed a chain from around her neck, with a gold watch dangling at the end.

“Not offhand,” I said lamely.

“Look at it,” Zelasha murmured. “Can’t you remember?” Her green eyes gleaming, she started moving the watch back and forth in the classic way used to capture someone’s attention. “Remember . . . it . . . swaying . . .”

My eyes began to follow the watch’s movements. “I . . . am trying to remember . . .”

“Remember,” Zelasha murmured to me. “Swaying . . . swaying . . . swaying . . .”

“Swaying . . .” I echoed, as my eyes followed the pendant back and forth, back and forth.

“Swaying . . .” Zelasha continued, watching my eyes move in sync with the watch. Her mischievous smile widening, she swiftly caught the chain and spun it around her hand, pulling the watch into her palm and closing her fist around it. I stared at her, confused. Without missing a beat, Zelasha slipped her hands up to my cheeks, searching my eyes with her glittering green pools.

“Zelasha . . .” I began.

“Swaaying,” she murmured again, as she started to sway her body back and forth. Coaxed by the gentle pressure on my face, I continued to look back at her . . . her luscious lips, her smooth cheeks, her eyebrows, lashes, deep green eyes, swaying . . .

My body began to sway, exactly in time with Zelasha’s.

“Swaaaying,” Zelasha reminded me.

“Swaay . . .ing . . .” I repeated. Her beauty captivated me; my sight drank in her face, her body, her words, and her movements. I loved looking at her face, her breasts, her hips, as she swayed back and forth.

Zelasha’s hips began to brush against my own, and I felt my member stiffen as a result of that touch. “Swaying . . .” she was chanting. “Swaying . . . now sleep.”

Zelasha’s right hand moved away from my cheek, and she snapped her fingers. I suddenly felt disconnected, apart, like I was no longer in my body. I was lost in her shining green eyes.

“You remember being here,” she told me. “You love being here, hypnotized, with me.”

“Here with you,” I mumbled.

“You are in love with me,” Zelasha told me, the steel bonds she wove cloaked by her silky voice.

“I am in love with you.”

“I own you,” she murmured.

“You own me,” I echoed.

Grinning for all she was worth, Zelasha snapped her fingers, telling me to wake up. Suddenly, I was back in my body, and she was standing before me, our faces less than an inch apart.

Zelasha was a queen. Over the years I had indulged in fantasies, imagining what it would be like to feel her touch, smell her perfume, look into her face. Now she was here before me, dark green eyes glowing, straight coppery hair sliding down her back, delicious breasts and hips.

“Zelasha,” I breathed as I took her into my arms.

“My husband,” she murmured into my ear, her hands sliding down my chest, down, down, between my legs.

RING RING RING shouted the phone. I woke, and noted to my dissatisfaction that the world was still here.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“T-minus eight hours, Nick!” came Stewart’s voice. “You going to be ready?”

“Sure will,” I moaned. “If I get enough sleep, that is.”

Stewart laughed. “See you around three o’clock.”

I hung up the phone, stretched, and walked over to the computer. In a few minutes I booted up Netscape 8.1 — the best browser available since Apple bought the rights to Netscape from AOL — and loaded up the Erotic Eyed Spell Work home page. RC had been completely silent this month. With a sigh, I sent the browser to the Erotic Mind Control Story Archive. There was a good new story by Wiseguy, with a fresh angle. Feeling in need of a laugh, I read “Spell Checker” by Sara H once again. I wondered if this was the last time I would read it.

I made a quick stop by Miss Scarlett’s web site. There wasn’t a new MP3 posted, but, in the gallery, there was a recent, sexy photograph of the hypnotist during a stage show. It featured Miss Scarlett facing a crowd of volunteers. Her subjects looked relaxed; many of them had their eyes closed and were obviously in a trance. I noted that among the hypnotized volunteers were an attractive redhead and a good-looking petite blonde woman.

Finally, I loaded up the browser’s people-finder and did a white pages search for Colleen Harrison. No such person was found, not in South Dakota or anywhere else. There wasn’t a Zelasha on the internet, either. I’d tried looking for her several times since we lost touch, but I’d never had any luck.

In the next few hours, I tidied up my apartment, made sure all the bills were paid in full, canceled some credit cards I never used, and had a quick webconference with my lawyer to update my will. Heaven only knew if I’d be coming back from this one.

On a last impulse, I hopped over to a trading site and used my remaining savings to buy stock in Stewart’s microprocessor firm.

I made a quick run to the bank. The clerks all looked at me like I’d lost my mind when I withdrew a few thousand dollars in cash — closing my checking account — and had them sort through it fifty times until I had only bills that were minted in 1994 or before.

Then, feeling as if I’d just signed my life away, I drove off in the direction of his company’s laboratory. As I sped past the exit that would take me to the hypnofetish club in Santa Monica, I wondered if I’d ever see that place again, too. I’d spent too many hazy nights there, with strange memories — or none at all.

The process didn’t actually take that long. Stewart met me soon after I arrived in the lobby, and took me on a tour of the clean room. All his colleagues looked at me like I was a hero — one either extraordinarily brave, or, more likely, extraordinarily foolish. After descending through two basements, we finally reached the accelerator. The door had red lights on both sides — much like fire alarms — and led into a long, dark, cold hall. There was only just enough room to stand up, and the corridors quickly turned out of sight ahead of me and behind me.

“Nervous?” Stewart asked.

I swallowed hard, and told myself that my shivering was because of the temperature. “Yup.”

Stewart slapped me on the back and sat me down in an ordinary-looking plastic chair. He then clasped an oblong LED monitor in gray plastic to my wrist, using a watchband. The little red numbers read zero, and didn’t move.

“This is the temporal monitor?”

“Yup. When you get to the past, this display will count down how much time until your point of origin. How far back do you want to go?”

“Nine years,” I said, rubbing my arms. I told him the exact day in July 1995.

“Okay, sounds good. This button here will send a particle into my present as a signal to recall you. Wait around about an hour, then signal me to summon you back. It’ll probably be all right for you to walk around a bit, but try not to talk to anyone. There are no laws about this, of course. And whatever you do, don’t take this thing off, for pete’s sake.”

“Stew, one question I forgot: is this gonna hurt?”

“I don’t think so. The vet said all the animals came back fine.”

I nodded. “Okay, let’s get started.”

Stewart grinned, walked outside, and clasped the door shut. An alarm sounded, and instantaneously, after a sensation of nightmare falling, I collapsed onto a city sidewalk in broad daylight. I coughed, and then lost my breakfast onto the ground in front of me. I stayed in that position for a few minutes, recovering, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the light. I thought absently that H.G. Wells was right about time travel disorienting you.

A few people walked by as I knelt on the sidewalk, but this was downtown Los Angeles, and no one disturbed me. Once the queasiness had passed, I looked at the temporal monitor. It read: minus nine years. Well, so far so good.

I hailed a cab to the airport. I silently promised myself that I’d head to the bathroom and wash the foul taste out of my mouth as soon as I could.

Upon arriving at LAX, I booked the first round trip to New Orleans, and the attendants looked at me strangely when I paid in cash. They didn’t object, though, so at least that was all right. The departure and arrival monitors confirmed that I’d got the correct date, and a quick visit to a news stand confirmed that the year was, indeed, 1995.

Then I phoned my brother in Austin.

“Hello?” came his voice on the other end.

“Hallo, ees Nick zere?” I asked, giving my best approximation of a German accent.

“Just a moment,” my brother said. I waited on hold . . . And then the freakiest thing happened.

“Hey-lo?” my own voice asked. I had known this was going to happen, but no amount of preparation had made me ready to have a conversation with myself.

“Um, Nick?” I began. “You’re never going to believe this. I, um, need your help.”

“Um, who am I talking to?”

“That’s what you’re not going to believe,” I said, a funny feeling growing in my stomach. “I’m, um, well, you.”

Dead silence.

“You know I’m going to need some proof of that,” came the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, I understand. Would telling you something no one else would know work?”

“That would be essential, yes.”

“You — we — I — um, how to put this — you used to have fantasies about hypnotizing Tara Gibson.”

More dead silence. Tara Gibson was a ballet dancer I’d known. She had soft features, gray eyes, dressed like a queen, and had never spoken to me once in the eleven years we’d gone to school together. I first saw her in second grade and I’d adored her ever since. She’d never spared me a glance. I hadn’t seen her since I went to college, but every now and again I’d picture her eyes fixed on a watch I was swinging before her face, and then slowly closing.

“Okay, I believe you,” came the voice on the other end of the phone line. “What do you want?”

“I need the name of Zelasha’s hotel.”

“You’re kidding. Whatever for?”

“Tomorrow, Father is going to refuse to make a short detour into New Orleans so I — we — can meet her, and I’ve regretted that ever since. I’m here to have that date.”

“Dang,” my voice came across the wire. “I thought I could talk him into it.”

“We argued for four hours. He wouldn’t bend. He didn’t even give me a shift at the wheel until we were out of Louisiana.”

I heard my counterpart swear under his breath. “Ok, I’ll get you the hotel. Gimme a minute.” I heard him get up and walk around — oh yeah, my brother has a cordless phone — and ruffle through some papers. “The Alexis hotel. In the French quarter. Do you think I should try anyway?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I could have said — you could say — to make Father change his mind, but you can go ahead and try.” And spend four hours in a fruitless argument, I thought.

“And spend four hours in a fruitless argument?” my counterpart sighed. Dang, this was too much like ‘Sliders.’ “No, I guess I’ll give up after we pass the turnoff. Hey, Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Go for it, man,” my other self said.