The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I see the red haired young man again as if at a distance.

There is a beautiful woman standing on the corner. I watch as the red-headed young man saunters up to her. He stands, grinning. I hold my anger in, for now.

He waves a hand in front of her face. She doesn’t seem to react at all. He leans to her and whispers something in her ear. She does not react. He walks behind her, unzips her light summer dress, and it falls in a pool around her feet. He undoes her bra, and slips it off. With a pair of scissors he snips away her panties. He gathers her things and steps back, admiring his handiwork.

There is a beautiful woman standing on the corner, suddenly completely naked except for her heels. I look closely, and see her eyes are widening, very slowly, in shock and realisation.

The young man laughs, and turns away in search of another. I follow him, moving through a world of statues.

I catch up with the redhead at the next corner. I grab him by the shoulder, and he spins round, startled. He is older than he looks from a distance; perhaps twenty-eight or so. My own age, before this happened. I am not sure what ‘age’ means now.

“What’s going on?” I yell at him. “What do you think you’re playing at, messing with people like that?”

He recovers his composure fast. “So you’re one of us too. People, you say? Are they people, the slowcoaches, these living statues?” he replies with a grin. “We’re better than them, right?”

“Better?” It’s all I can think of to say.

“Better. Faster. Different. Quick,” he continues. “We can do anything we want, now. We’re the special ones. We’re the only real people in the world.”

I let go of him, aghast. He dusts off his lapels, fastidiously straightens his jacket, and then ludicrously sticks his tongue out at me. In spite of myself, I can’t help laughing. “You’ll see,” he says. “Come on! There’s a meeting.”

He turns and runs off down the street. I guess his RPT must be slightly faster than mine, but not by much now. Not knowing what else to do, I follow, weaving through the dreamlike sculpture garden of the city.

I am standing at the edge of a small crowd of people in the park. They are listening, rapt, in thrall to the tall dark man on the soapbox, who is evidently just finishing up a speech. The late afternoon sky is a darkening blue, and aeroplanes are frozen overhead, glinting in the setting sun.

“We are the long tail,” he shouts. “We can do whatever we want. Who will stop us?”

There must be about thirty people here, an equal mix of men and women. They seem to like what he is telling them. A couple are sitting on a bench nearby, but they are not part of the group. The man has his mouth open, the sandwich in his hand gradually ascending toward its goal. I wonder if they can see us at all.

“The slowcoaches will be our slaves, our cattle. We will be like gods amongst them!”

The crowd murmurs its assent.

“We are the quick. And this is our time!”

There is applause from the audience. Where has this come from, I wonder? How did it all happen so fast?

“This man,” I whisper to the red-haired man, “the speaker. Who is he?”

He shrugs. “He calls himself Raskeste. The quickest. RPT less than 0.01: one in a million, perhaps more. Makes even me look slow, when he wants to. Watch.”

I turn my eyes back to the speaker. He’s scowling out at the crowd now, willing them to agree with him. He lowers his voice, and the crowd strains to hear. He raises one finger for emphasis.

“Remember: quick, quicker, quickest.” Suddenly, he’s not there anymore. I look around, straining to find him; twenty feet away the man on the bench goes down, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead.

The speaker is standing over him. He raises his head. “See how easy it is? If the slowcoaches disobey, deal with them with pain and punishment, swift and sure! They will never see us coming. Who will stop us? Who will stop me?” the speaker cries, and then vanishes in a blur.

Instantly, he is standing right in front of me, his eyes on mine. They are blue with gold flecks, incongruous against his tanned skin. An electric beat of silence. He raises his hand, strokes my cheek. I am paralysed with fear, a rabbit in headlights. I sense he knows this; that he revels in it. I feel his cruelty like radiation against my skin.

“You look nice,” he whispers. He leans close and I feel his breath against my ear. There is a fleeting high pitched buzz. “Will you stop me? Mmm,” and he licks my ear, “tasty. I do hope you’ll try.”

My heart pounds in terror. “How can I?” I manage to say. “You’re the one in a million. The quickest.”

The tall blue-eyed man grins again. “So I am. There is nobody faster. See you around, missy. Maybe we can get together some time, make sweet music. We need a lot more like us.” He laughs, a chilling sound, wind in trees, and then he’s gone.

I shudder in relief. For some reason I feel an urge to listen to him, follow him, hear his words, think about what he said, up there on his soapbox, believe. It’s like a distant yearning, an almost physical ache. I force it away. No, I think. There’s nothing I can do to stop you. You’re the quickest. There is nobody faster.

But this time I perceive a dark blur, moving fast through the crowd, who all seem to have slowed down just a little to my eyes. I check my watch, count the subjective seconds. RPT 0.04 and falling. I wonder where it will end; if it will end.

At the close of the meeting, one of the quick people hands out a neatly printed pamphlet. As the small crowd disperses, I sit down on a park bench and read it, and all the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF THE QUICK.

We are the future.

The slowcoaches are slugs before the quick.

They are destined to be our slaves.

We will take them; use them; control them however we wish.

Remember: a slowcoach is not a person. It is barely alive at all. But they will have their uses, especially the women.

You may ask: how do you control the thoughts and actions of something so pathetically slow?

The answer is ridiculously simple; just talk to them.

What’s that you say? They won’t be able to hear you? Too fast, too high-pitched, out of range, a dog-whistle to their slowcoach ears? Yes! And that’s the whole point!

Because they WILL hear you; they just won’t notice. But their subconscious will notice, and it will respond. Ever heard of subliminal messaging? It works. The mind hears what the ear does not. The slowcoach mind will absorb the message, make it part of itself, without them ever knowing.

Then, just to be sure, leave them a note. Send them an email. Let them read their orders in their own stupid time, leaving you free to get on with other things. The message will reinforce the subliminal. The subliminal will reinforce the message. It’s simple.

If for some reason they do not follow their orders, simply return and speak to them again, tell them what they need to do, and if necessary hurt them.

Repeat as necessary until the desired outcome is achieved.

Instruct, reward, punish, reinforce, condition.

It will not take long for them to get the message.

His warm breath against my ear. A fleeting high-pitched buzz, at the farthest edges of hearing. Listen. Believe. I can still feel the lick of his tongue.