The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe the red-headed young man. He is standing in front of the couple on the bench. The blonde woman is very attractive, but I see her face is distorted in a slow-moving scream; she has just realised what has happened to her man.

I watch as he places a piece of paper in her lap. He whispers in her ear, squeezes her breasts, ruffles her blonde hair, laughs, and walks away. He spots me watching him, and turns towards me with a grin.

It’s weird; I can’t help smiling back. For whatever reason, whatever his appalling actions, I feel a sudden strange sense of kinship with the red-haired stranger; the kinship of being different, perhaps. The kinship of the quick. He walks over and sits beside me on the bench. I wave the pamphlet at him.

“Have you read this? What does it mean?”

“The fleet will inherit the earth,” he laughs. “Survival of the fastest. My name’s Richard, by the way, since you so rudely didn’t introduce yourself before, and since we’re such good friends now.”

“Friends?”

“Sure. Quicks got to stick together, right?”

“Mm hm. We’ll see about that. Anyway: Lela.” We shake hands.

“Welcome to your brave new world, Lela.”

“Really? The new master race? Is that what you want?”

He’s suddenly serious. I sense he’s far more intelligent than I thought; a quick thinker by definition.

“Not really. This quickness, it’s a blessing and a curse.” He moues ruefully. “I was one of the first to notice it, to see what it would mean.” He looks up at me appraisingly. “Think of all the things you can’t do any more. Driving a car? You may as well walk. Go out for dinner? No chance; you’d die of hunger waiting to be served. Talk to people? Sure, people like us, and how many of them are there? Falling in love? With who? Your options are suddenly narrowed. Who are your friends now? We’ll all end up sticking together, whether we like it or not.”

I begin to understand him. He’s right; everything is so slow. Boredom’s going to be a real problem for the quick. And with boredom comes casual cruelty, exploitation, the age-old pursuit of novelty, of new ways to entertain.

“You and me,” he continues. “We could go cuddle up somewhere, for the hell of it. De-stress a little. We’re both good-looking people.” He waves his hand at the woman on the other bench. Slowly, she is helping her man to his feet. “That one’s more my type to be honest, but who’s got the time, hmm?”

I demur with a smile. “Why Richard, how kind of you to ask. But we’ve only just met.”

But tickling somewhere is a worrying thought, about the eternal hierarchy of fundamental human needs. In the world of the fast long tail, it will be easy enough to find food, money, possessions; anything the quick want they can simply take. It will be easy to stay safe, all of those basic things. But what of friendship, belonging, love, sexual intimacy, self-expression? Where will I find these things, and with who?

And then there is the ‘entertainment problem,’ as I’ve now christened it. It’s already started, according to Richard.

The woman on the bench is now reading the piece of paper Richard left on her lap. Her face is creased in consternation.

“What was in that note you left her?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “She’s a slowcoach. Thought I’d take advantage of our brave leader’s demonstration.”

“How?” But I think I already know. I feel the shivering dismay of it.

“I spoke to her. I kept it simple. I said, ‘more than anything else in the world, you want to follow the instructions on the piece of paper on your lap; you need this’. So tonight, at ten o’clock, she needs to be in her bed, waiting for me, or else. She’ll be wanting to do it, anticipating it, probably picturing it with excitement, though she won’t know why… She’ll have to get herself nice and ready first, of course, or it’ll hurt. Foreplay’s a problem.”

For some reason I’m not even shocked. “You’ve done this before? The subliminals, the notes?”

“Sure. I’m pretty quick on the uptake. I started last week. With the lovely Jenny.”

He tells me all about Jenny, and there is nothing much I can think of to say. There is a long silence, before I finally ask him: “Isn’t that a little cruel? Is it all about sex, with you?”

Richard laughs, but it isn’t a happy sound. “Not really. But there’s only so many things you can do with some of the slowcoaches. And it does help pass the time. There’s another thing that’s on my mind,” he adds. “It’s a numbers game.”

“How do you mean?”

“There aren’t enough of us. So we’ll need to make more. Madison says it’s a random genetic combination, quickness. We need to adapt fast; a generational shift. You get the idea. Rakeste’s been talking about it a lot lately.”

“So he’s planning to do what—impregnate the slow?”

He nods. “Like the man said: a generational shift. They wouldn’t have a lot of say in the matter. How could they? Simple subliminals: I want to have this baby. I need to have this baby.”

I think about all this, and the ghastly ramifications. Raskeste’s warm breath against my ear. A fleeting high-pitched buzz, at the farthest edges of hearing. Listen. Believe. The lick of his tongue…

“The speaker—Rakeste—the quickest, who is he really?”

“Just your basic highly dangerous megalomaniac nutjob,” and he smiles. “He’s mental, and best avoided. But you can’t deny he thinks big. And it all helps keep life interesting, doesn’t it?”

The sun hangs stationary in the slowly darkening sky, the few clouds motionless. We talk for an hour, subjective time, while the day edges imperceptibly towards evening.

I walk back home through the city through the gradually lengthening evening shadows. Richard’s right; it’s much faster than driving. And I need time; I can’t get the story of Jenny out of my head.

What must it have been like for her?

Last Friday, Jenny was minding her own business; a perfectly normal, attractive young brunette, only marginally on the slow side, happily sitting in a coffee shop and contemplating her future. Perhaps she even vaguely sensed something, when he spoke to her, that subliminal twitter at frequencies beyond conscious comprehension. A note suddenly appeared on the table in front of her.

She looked around, confused; she saw nobody nearby. A gang of four girls like her, absorbed in their coffees and their gossip. A red-haired young man alone at a corner table on the opposite side of the room, idly looking out of the window. She read the note, and her pretty blue eyes widened.

Trembling, she surveyed the instructions again, felt the strange and surprising desire to follow them, registered the subtly implied threat of punishment for non-compliance.

Richard had snickered as he told me the story. “All those fantasies women have. All about to come true. Think Leda and the swan, hmm? And so many more like that. A visitation from a god!”

“A god? What the hell did you say to her?”

“Here’s what I said. ‘Your master is coming for you. The one you dream of. Follow his instructions. Be ready.’ And more; so much more.”

At ten o’clock that night Jenny was on her bed, as instructed, on all fours, readying herself. She’d lit some candles, as instructed, for the illusion of movement to Richard’s quick eyes. She heard the bedroom door open behind her, but as subliminally instructed, she couldn’t turn around. She parroted the words Richard had instructed her to say.

In an instant he was inside her, grasping her hips, and she stifled a squeal at the suddenness of it, the incredible speed of his thrusting rhythm. It would all have taken just a few breathless gasping seconds, from helpless Jenny’s point of view. From Richard’s it was no doubt an exquisitely drawn out experience, rich with sensual variety.

Afterwards, he whispered to her for long subjective Richard-minutes, although she would never know it. Then he presented her with another note, in which he asked her a simple question, and explained what he would do for her in return. He waited behind her until finally, slowly, she said ‘yes’, and after another drawn-out age, ‘please’, and then, eventually, ‘master’.

There were plenty of advantages for Jenny, said Richard. Money was the obvious one, and money was easy to come by for the quick; walk into any shop, slip behind the counter, pop the till, walk out with a few thousand dollars, easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Or just pickpocket one of the living statues. The other benefit was more subtle, he thought: protection, certainty; once taken by a quick—owned—she would be safe from the attentions of others—and who knew, they might be worse.

But how would slowcoach Jenny feel in the control of the imaginative and capricious Richard? How would she feel when these inexplicable subliminal urges rose as if from nowhere? How would she feel when she saw his next note, and his next, his casual whims, his surreal, ever-escalating demands? Probably she would simply feel excited, aroused; the subliminals would surely have her.

“I’m already getting a bit bored of that particular pet, to be honest. It’s all too easy. That’s the problem with being quick. I think I might make her something of a living canvas,” he told me in the park. “Change her. Make my mark on her. Y’know, an art project. A manifesto.”

“Oh, Richard. Please don’t do that. It’s cruel.” I paused, thinking. “Isn’t it?”

“Is it? I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve already started. ‘Private Property’, prominently displayed. She’s loving it, actually. She certainly isn’t keeping it hidden; she’s something of an exhibitionist now. All relevant subliminals firmly embedded. And I can hardly leave the rest of the canvas blank, can I?”

He shows me a few of his other ideas.

Would she feel humiliated under the needle, watching Richard’s words and sketches and god knows what else take indelible shape on her pristine body, changing her forever? Probably not. The subliminals will tell her it’s all her own idea, and she’s excited, anxious to please, she needs to please, without knowing why. That’s the subliminal way. As far as Jenny’s concerned, this is her own idea. And in any measurable sense, it is. So what’s the difference?

“Yeah, I might get another slowcoach involved as well, a guy. Or a girl. Or both. Whatever. Get them all together. Could just film it all in hi-def; speed it up, look at it later.”

Would Jenny feel lost, in the service of strangers? Would she resist? Would there be any point? Or would she just automatically do as she was told by then, all choices lost to the cast of the bargain, the implacable logic of the subliminals? It would be her desire, her idea, her craving, just an irresistible itch she had to scratch to please an invisible master.

Last Friday, Jenny was a perfectly normal, attractive young woman. But things change overnight, these days. Today, she is the irretrievable property of the quick.

And she’s never even seen his face.