The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It is seven p.m. clock-time when I reach my old home, if indeed this is home, now. I open the door, and glance around the familiar kitchen. I drink in the comforting smell of it. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the big table.

Beside them, a note. My heart reflexively skips a beat. I pick it up, wondering what Connor has to tell me, part of me already sensing that whatever it is, it will be largely irrelevant.

But I see with alarm that the note is not addressed to me, but to Connor, and it is from one of the quick; a woman’s handwriting. Someone has been here. They’ve found him so fast—to be expected, I guess. I cannot bear to read it, but I can’t help register the last line: if you do not do this, then we will hurt you, and hurt you again until you obey.

I crumple the paper into a ball and stuff it into my pocket. Trembling with fear and rage, I force myself to sit down and wait for him.

While I wait, I write Connor a note of my own.

It takes him an age to get out of the shower and move to the kitchen to get a beer. I try to work it out, and I figure my time perception is now something like sixty or seventy times slower than Connor’s, and it’s diverging ever more rapidly. This might be our last chance to be together.

I slip out of my clothes and stand in front of him, naked, as still as I can, holding up my note, for what seems like a subjective half hour. I watch his beautiful eyes gradually widen, his mouth slowly twisting into that familiar smile. Another part of me is left cold by his slow stupidity. I push it to one side.

My note says: Darling Connor, I am still here. I love you.

That other part of my mind is not sure if it’s true. I ignore it. My hands are shaking, but I hold the paper as steady as I can. Slowly, slowly, he turns and reaches for the notepad on the kitchen table. A subjective fifteen minutes later, I have my answer: give me a minute to get ready. An hour after that, he has made it back upstairs, to bed.

I leave it half an hour Lela-time before following him upstairs. He looks ready enough to me by then. I straddle him, and lower myself onto him as gently as I can, staying as still as possible. His erection is like iron inside me; the feeling is tantrically intense. I well up at the thought of Connor, of everything we could have had together, all gone now. With exquisite gentleness I begin to move and slide, tiny millimetres at a time, the slowest ebb and flow I can manage.

To me, it is exquisitely, languidly teasing, and the tenderness of it almost brings me to tears again. To Connor, it must feel that I am riding him like a wild animal.

A subjective hour later, about a minute in his time frame, we finally finish.

As I lie there panting on top of him, I think for a fleeting moment that perhaps there might even still be a future for us together; some benefits to this strangeness after all.

But this is the last time. When I wake up, things have changed again, and I can perceive no movement at all. I look at my watch. It is eight p.m. exactly by clock time, and I count long subjective seconds; RPT under 0.02 now, at the far reaches of the long tail. I am getting quicker by the day.

I stay in our bedroom for a while, watching him sleep, sarcophagus-like, and I cry a little. He is a slowcoach now, and there is nothing I can do about it. There’s no point in dwelling on what might have been. I need to think about the future. And it isn’t difficult to see the future; the quick are it, and for whatever unknown reason, I am one of them.

What must it be like, now, in the world of the majority, the average, or what once had been normal? Looking around them they’ll occasionally glimpse the terrifying blur of the quick, they’ll see the creepy tree-like stillness of the slowcoaches, and somehow they’ll have to work out their own strange approximation of life in between. But the quick can do whatever they want. Who can stop them?

I think of unknown Jenny, and her queasily passive acceptance of the inevitability of chattelhood. I know with a sudden clear certainty that Richard will turn her into dice-girl tonight. He’s fast, and all it will take is a few subliminal words. Machine code, embedded forever.

Tomorrow, she’ll wake up and there will be two dice on her bedside table, and an instinct in her head that she just can’t fight. Is that cruel? Or is it just life?

I get dressed; I fish out the crumpled note from my jacket pocket and scan Connor’s ‘orders’ again, the stupid, humiliating things he is expected to do. It’s unbearable to imagine. Renewed anger boils. Whoever wrote the note is due here in five clock-minutes. Whoever comes tonight, or any other night, I won’t let them hurt my Connor.

The teenager’s folding knife is still there in my other pocket. I pull it out, hefting it in my right hand.

The knife is heavy. I open it up, turn the blade over, admiring the sharpness of its edge. By definition, whatever happens will be quick. It will all be over in milliseconds by clock-time, and Connor—poor slow Connor, lumbering and slumbering through his molasses dreamworld—will never know anything happened here.

I whisper my quick subliminal magic in Connor’s ear. Remember. Lela will never leave you. Lela will protect you. Lela will always be here. Remember.

He doesn’t stir. I think of red-haired Richard and his casual nihilism amidst the slow boredom of the world; all the attention span and moral compass of a frighteningly intelligent child, yet strangely, wickedly, unfathomably charming. Fully alive, and wide awake in the world. I know I’ll see him again. Idly, I wonder how he would be as a lover.

I think of the cruel wild-eyed man in the park—Raskeste, the quickest of all the tricksters—and his demented plans for the slow. A new and steely anger rises in me; but no, I think, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop you. There is nothing I can do. You are the quickest. You are one in a million, and there is nobody faster.

For now.