The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

His hand was shaking. Why was it shaking? What was wrong with him? Why wouldn’t the child stop crying?

“Stop crying,” he screamed.

The kid was panting, his eyes bleary eyed, red, his cries subsided, but still he whimpered. He stood bent down low, in a corner, no place to go, his eyes staring up at him, staring up at that gun in his hand, so obviously frightened. The kid was so young, he couldn’t be more than seven or eight. What the hell was he thinking?

Stop that! Stop that shit now! He screamed at himself.

This was nothing. This was easy. He kept telling himself that. He just had to pull the trigger and the bullet would do the rest of the work for him. He just had to pull the trigger. One finger pulling back less than an inch on a small sliver of metal, that was it. He wasn’t going to kill him. He didn’t want to. But...

Stop it! Don’t be weak. This was your plan. Shoot the kid, make the father think he did it. Follow through for once. He raised you to be a real man, and all you’ve been is a disappointment. Why did that voice sound so familiar to him? Why was he so sure it wasn’t his?

His hand won’t stop shaking, his finger resting just over the trigger. The kid is so young. He’s not one of them. He doesn’t have a water parasite inside of him. And he won’t stop crying. He won’t stop looking at him. Those eyes. Those pleading eyes.

“Stop looking at me,” he screams.

The child pushes his head down towards the ground. He continues to whimper. He won’t stop whimpering.

His hand won’t stop shaking. The gun in his hand. What’s wrong with him? He’s freaking out. Why can’t he do it? Why is he so weak? He has to get control of himself. The people in the movies just pull the trigger. They don’t think about it. That’s it. He can’t think about it. But he can’t stop... that kid...it was his plan he has to follow through.

His father always hated him for that, for hesitating, for making excuses, for being so weak.

And then he feels that burning on the rims of his eyes. He’s crying, tears slipping slowly down his cheek. What’s wrong with him. Stop the crying! He screams at himself. You’re strong. Strong people don’t hesitate. They follow through. They aren’t afraid.

His body is weak. His body is shaking. He feels it collapsing slowly down towards the floor. Shame floods though him, horrible and unimaginable shame. He is weak. He is so terribly, pathetically weak. But he’s here and he has to do it.

Or someone else does.

His bleary eyes turn up beside, in the watery blur he can’t even recognize the slave that stands next to him. He raises the gun up to her, handle out.

“You...do it.”

The original plan had been that they’d stop about two blocks short of her house, Daniel would get out of his car, bid his fairwell to the two of them and then they’d go on their way. It was fairly simple and sound, offering Sharon the armor of the car to avoid unnecessary confrontations with the media.

But a forward glance up the street had given him a feeling of unease. There weren’t any cars or vans parked within light of the streetlamps. A scrutinizing gaze had told him that in fact no one was sitting in front of the house.

Their cars had edged closer, with almost a strange mechanical hesitation. One block gave way, the last one slowly disappearing as the cars closed in. The picture became clearer, ther initial observation slowly confirmed. He glanced over to the adjacent car, seeing the obvious worry in Sharon. Where was the media? Where were all of the people?

One person, a woman, stood outside the front door, and he didn’t know or recognize them. They weren’t a police officer, and they were running inside as if his presence would be cause for alarm. He felt that cold edge of fear running through his body, already guessing what his mind refused accept so readily.

Andrew.

That was when he heard the sound of gunfire.

“Oh God...” the words trailed out of his mouth.

Andrew stared wide eyed, his mouth gaping. The boy is screaming, rocking, his hands pushed hard against his abdomen. There’s so much blood. There’s so much blood. And the child is so small, how can he have so much blood?

The kid, his eyes running, frightened about the room, staring at his father, his facial expression a plead for help. But the father just stands there, his head turned away, his face a blank expression. The old man has no idea what has just happened.

Andrew’s body won’t stop shaking, his eyes running about the room, looking for an answer, looking for something. He doesn’t know. His attention falls on one of his slaves, the smoking gun still sitting in her hand, the arm still raised, dark skin, looking asian, or an islander, he can’t even remember her name. His head turns back towards the boy, he’s getting quieter now, he’s dying. She didn’t hesitate. It was his command and she did exactly as she was told.

His boy starts retching, the sensation of the hot acid/food cocktail rising up his throat. He pushed it back. It was supposed to be so easy. Why wasn’t it so easy?

The door behind him burst open, Andrew down on the ground, on his knees turns a weary head upward.

It’s one of his slaves, a new one, he can’t remember her name either.

“He’s here. I think he’s here!” she exclaims, a definite edge of excitement in her voice.

He’s fishing in his back seat for a weapon even as he watches Sharon bolt out of her car. He fights the urge to rush out and follow her. Him and Catherine means two people that can fight. Andrew plus his four slaves means that it’s two against five.

It doesn’t look good.

He ignores the thought of calling Azuma. She won’t make it in time. But the police might, and any help is better than none. He doesn’t have a choice.

911 Can I help you?

“Yes I’d like to report gunfire at 422 S. Cherry st, there’s good reason to believe somone might be hurt.”

He noticed a distinct pause on the other end There should be- we’re sending police and paramedics right away. Can I ask your name?

“Daniel Bates.”

He hangs up his phone. Now it’s time to stall.

Sharon’s standing just outside the house. Catherine stands close beside her, her attention turned towards the front door.There’s a lot of activity going on inside.

Daniel begins walking towards the house. He hefts the windshield brush in his hand with a grimace. It’s a pathetic weapon, but it’s all he has. And it’s better than nothing.

Sharon’s hectic, he can tell, she rocks her body, her head pacing back and forth between him and the house. “Daniel, come on!” she screams at him, he can already hear the tears in her voice.

He starts running forward across the lawn. He can feel his muscles growing. He can see the same thing going on with Catherine. She knows what’s going on. How else would there be no one around? Who else would attach Sharon’s family? He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. But he guesses that in a couple seconds he‘s about to confront it.

“Lets-“

And then the front door burst open in front of him.

Any and all police officers within the area of 422 S. Cherry St. We have reported gunfire and possible injury. Subject is potentially armed and dangerous. Proceed with caution. I repeat-

Shit. Detective Philip Bernake slams his fist hard against the dashboard, his eyes turning up towards the empty apartment complex, his head turning back the way he had come.Of course where he had been waiting hadn’t been the right place to be. His hand twists violently on the ignition. The car vibrates to life.

Andrew Smythe was there. He didn’t have to hear it over the police blotter to know it was true. He knew the address, who else would be compelled to be there? Who else would make that kind of trouble? And that might mean Daniel was there also.

He shifts his car into drive, pulling a hard U turn, and pressing his foot down against the gas. The tires screech on the pavement, catching and bolting forward. The sirens are on, his light flashing. His car speeds away down the street.

Bernake grunts. His hands hold tight against the steering wheel, the siren bleeting as he dodges traffic. Who got shot? And how bad was it? Thoughts racing through his head as the needle on his speedometer edged up towards 60 and beyond.

Five-six minutes, max.

Is was a barrage of people, so many people, eight, nine, he wasn’t sure, masses running through the front door. So many women enshrouded in the darkness of the night suburban street. Daniel felt the sinking feeling in his chest and he knew that he had practically no chance. Andrew had been busy in the last couple days.

Two against nine, he didn’t even think about Sharon. But what other choice did he have?

He needed to buy three, maybe five minutes.

He raised the windshield brush high over his head and charged forward at the people as they came out. Maybe he could get at Andrew. Maybe that could stall them.

Everything begins to run so slowly, his heart beats in his chest like a jackhammer. One woman running out the door, seeing him, turning her attention towards him and charging, big muscles, won’t be easy. Sharon and Catherine disappear in a world behind him. His attention and everything else is what exists in front. The woman’s feet pushing slowly off of the lawn grass, her teeth bared, her eyes scrunched.

He slams the brush down on her head. The plastic scraper snaps in his hands. The woman is stunned, but another one is coming right behind her. Daniel’s hands tighten around the remnants of the handle, a sharp point, a skewer.

He pushes the stunned woman aside and continues to run forward, waving the pointed edge in front of him. Two of them hesitate. He jabs the first the one in the arm. He doesn’t even wait to see if it draws blood. He feels the hand reaching up to grab at the plastic haft. The remnants of the weapon slip from his hand.

He can’t slow down. He can’t let them slow him down. Andrew is somewhere inside, and if he can’t get to him he doesn’t stand a chance.

His hands grapple against the shoulders of the two women, pushing away, tearing forward, two more women at the open doorway. He can see the light behind them. He can almost imagine the smell of Sharon’s house. Andrew is inside, he’s almost there.

And then he feels himself falling towards the ground, his foot caught in the hands of another, his head slams against the cold ground.

The wind knocked out of his stomach as Andrew’s slaves crowd around him and over him, grabbing at him.

He tries to fight back the pain.

He could barely walk. What was wrong with him? What had happened outside? He didn’t care. He didn’t want to be there. His head glances back at the scene in the bedroom behind him, stopping just as the edges of the child entered into his peripherary. The blood...

His head shoots back and away. He wants to puke. He can feel his stomach churning, even as he staggers forward.

It had to happen. How was he supposed to know Daniel would show up so damn close to everything? It was all just part of the plan. But he couldn’t believe that. Why couldn’t he believe that? Time. He just needs time. He’ll get better at it. Does he want to get better at it?

<What is going on? It does not understand.>

What was that! Where did that come from? His head jerks around about him, but sees nothing. He feels the quaking panic inside of him.

<It is here, inside of you.>

The water parasite?

<If that is its name.>

Too much. Too much. He has to go. He doesn’t care. He wants everything gone. He doesn’t want to think about anything. Oh God, that blood! That blood. The kid is so young. It was going to be so easy. It was supposed to be so easy.

The front lawn lays spread out before him. He sees the two masses of his slaves, gathered around and still struggling with something underneath them. Somewhere further back he sees a woman standing, staring forward blankfaced. He guesses its Sharon. He guesses its Daniel and someone else. It doesn’t matter.

He’s won. Yet why doesn’t he feel like he’s won? The blood...he still sees the blood. Oh God...His legs collapse underneath him. His stomach churns and wretches all over the concrete walkway. His arms barely able to save him, propping him up from the ground.

Why is he so weak? Why does he have to be so weak?

“Master?”

“Let’s go, lets just go.”

“But we have them master. We’ve won.”

“I said fucking leave them!”

“But-“

“I Don’t. Fucking. Care. I said fucking leave them!” He can hear the tears in his voice, even under the belting venomous sounds of his screams. He regrets. Daniel will know his weakness now. Like his father... no...no he can’t be weak.

But the argument now sounds like a whisper spoken into an abyss, lost. He doesn’t care. He feels exhausted. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t care.

He just doesn’t want to be there.

He feels the arms lifting them up and he doesn’t stop them. He catches the eyes of Daniel as his head lifts up to gaze into his. He sees surprise, confusion, and the whisper of something else... confliction? He doesn’t care enough to think any further.

<It doesn’t understand.>

Leave me alone.

He feels the arms laying him in the seat of his car, his slaves gathering up behind him in other vehicles. The engine vibrates to life, the transportation pulling away. His head leans against the window, his head turned back.

Two figures rising up slowly from the lawn, the open door and the light pouring out, everything else lost in shadowed darkness.

Daniel stood there out on the open lawn, his eyes staring after the disappearing cars, trying to make sense about what had just happened. He’d been beaten. In one move, one push Andrew could have had everything that he had wanted. Why did he just run away? And that voice. Were those tears?

He felt the light hand on his shoulder. His attention turned to Catherine, her worried eyes staring into his. “Daniel...inside.”

He turns his eyes over towards Sharon’s house. His mind comes back to the present. He remembers the gun shot. Who’s hurt? The fear creeps its way back into his chest. He’s running. “Look after Sharon until she comes out” he calls behind him not waiting to see how Catherine takes the command.

He’s through the open door, out past the the living room, turning his head down the main corridor. Which room? “Hello,” he calls out. He hears a faint sound, a cry, but he isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter, it’s something. The open door, the same room that Jose Arcadio, Sharon’s father, had been tied up in. He runs towards it.

He sees the blood and gasps. Immanuel, bleeding from an open wound in his side, his eyes weakly looking at him, a pathetic plea, a cry for help on his lips escaping in a whimper. Sharon’s father stands right inside the doorway, his eyes staring away blankly standing on rocking legs, the mind numbing chemical. The old man can’t have any idea what has just happened.

Daniel turns back towards Immanuel laying on the floor in front of him. He comes to the boy, digging in his memories on what to do, his mind coming up with movies, Unforgiven, gun shot wounds from fictional injuries. It’s better than nothing. The basic lesson coming out in two acts: pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, and keep the kid from going into shock.

He’s already on the ground, kneeling before Immanuel, pulling up at his shirt. He cringes at the sight of the wound, a glaringly large bloody hole surrounded by torn up flesh, and mounding upward. Daniel swallows hard, forcing back his feeling of revulsion. He has to keep the kid conscious. He has to talk to him. He can only imagine how much everything is hurting.

“What’s your name kid?”

“Immanuel Sanchez.”

“Okay Immanuel, listen to me, paramedics are on their way, so if you can just stay conscious with me for a little bit you’re going to be okay.”

Immanuel offered the slightest motion of a nod, his eyes slowly began to close.

Daniel tapped him on the side of the face,“So...ah,” he began, trying to sound upbeat, his hands ripping at a sheet on the bed as he continued to talk, “you have a favorite sport Immanuel?”

“Futbol,” he whispered.

Daniel pulled at the last of the rag, “You mean soccer, right?”

Immanuel shook his head,”Not called soccer, es futbol gringo” he whispered in a weak smile.

He chuckled, winding the torn cloth together and placing it before the wound. Daniel’s eyes fell squarely into him, his face going solemn, “Immanuel I need to stop the bleeding. I can only imagine how much this is going to hurt, but I have to do it. Are you ready?”

Faint nod.

Daniel pressed the cloth down on the open wound.

Immanuel’s last energy expelled in a whimpered cry.

Sharon’s eyes at last saw. She felt the all too familiar slight queesiness as the effects of the the chemical wore off. What had happened? She was out on the lawn in front of her house. There was no sight of Andrew or all of his slaves anywhere; just Catherine, her eyes staring at her plain as day worried. She wondered what that meant. Had Daniel somehow pulled it off? What else was wrong? The sound of gunfire ringing through her head.

Who was hurt? And why could she never do anything to stop it? Again that thought passing through her head, again that fear pushing it back before coming full view into her consciousness.

What happened?

Panic reverberated through her. Her eyes turned towards the open door of her house. Her family. Por Dios. Someone was shot. Who? She ran towards the door.

Catherine followed behind her, a quick backward glance seeing the first flashing lights, and hearing the sounds of sirens.

It came in a flurry of yelling and screaming. A father surprised, confused, despairing at what he saw before him. His gun on the ground. His only son bleeding to death in front of his eyes. Who was involved? Who could have done it? Why can’t he remember anything?

A daughter making a great effort to keep him off of her friend, to keep him off of his son. Her eyes are wet. She feels weak, but she keeps standing. She doesn’t want to see the scene behind her anymore. She expends great effort not to think about the little child behind her, her brother bleeding on the floor behind her.

“This is not your fault Pop! This is not his fault! Let him work.”

Crying and screaming behind the young man staring forward, ignoring the mess going on behind him. His mind runs the same thought through his head over and over again. Keep talking to the child. Keep talking...He does, and he is, but the boy is slipping away. He sees the flashing lights. He wonders with anger why the paramedics aren’t inside yet.

He’s not sure how much time there is left.

And then, if almost on cue they entered, first a police officer and then the paramedics. They gathered the boy on a stretcher, an oxygen mask placed over his face, hospital people taking over and beyond where he had been, talking to him, antiseptic, gauze and IV.

Carrying the boy out the door. He had a chance. The young man had to believe that the boy had a chance.

The media had come back, but this time there were enough police officers to regulate the slow gathering crowd. The sirens still echoed as emergency lights flashed.

Daniel stood out in the open doorway, watching the EMS truck pull away, Immanuel inside, the hospital ten minutes away. The boy was going to make it. He had to make it. He bowed his head, forcing himself to breath slowly, his thoughts scattered and uncertain. Somewhere between Andrew’s mysterious run and the horror at what had just happened.

Sharon stared from the window, her back to Daniel, watching with exhausted eyes as the ambulance disappeared in the distance. It was always her. Everything bad that happened always came back to her and her family. Her arms hung limply at her sides. Her throat felt dry. Quiet tears running down the sides of her face.

Daniel walked over to her, gazing upon her profile, “You should probably go. I see your dad throwing some stuff together.”

She nodded slowly,“Do you know what it feels like?”

He bowed his head,“No...I don’t think I can until it does. And I hope that never happens.”

Her eyes never left the window.“I can’t do anything Daniel” she coughed out in a harsh rasp, her voice cracking, “Andrew has attacked my family twice, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m just fucking human.”

Daniel came over beside her, laying an arm over her shoulder. His eyes follwed hers out the window, the flashing lights, the police cars and camera crews. He didn’t know what to say. He could only imagine the kind of torment that was running through her mind.

Her eyes turned up towards his, her raw rimmed eyes staring long into his face. She swallowed hard. “I’m going to go.”

Daniel nodded as Sharon lifted his arm away and headed into the back, her father’s car, her family’s sojourn to the hospital.

He watched her go, his feelings embodied in a heavy sigh, his eyes turning out towards the front, and his car sitting out there in the mess of people. He knew he couldn’t stay, but he didn’t want to go.

But what choice did he have?

Detective Philip Bernake watched Daniel Bates lurch slowly out from the front door, his shoulders hung low like a battered dog trying to force his head up, but still tired. He saw the effort that the boy put in not to have the obvious show in his face. He doubted that anyone missed it.

Bernake felt his anger and frustration dissipate. A strange sympathy tugged at his heart at the sight. These were tough times. He knew. All the more reason for why he had to get Daniel to tell him. And if he wouldn’t be open about it...than it was time to apply a little more pressure on what had to be an already heavy burden.

The boy was going to talk. Bernake had little doubt of that now.

“Mr. Bates,” he said walking towards him.

Daniel turned his head up to him, his eyes registering, but saying nothing.

“You’re going to have to come with me Mr. Bates.”

Bernake watched as Daniel’s mother came out behind him, her eyes paused on the detective, her head turning towards her son.

Daniel just stared back at her. She nodded slowly walking past him, out into the crowd, out towards the car.

“Are you ready Mr. Bates?”

Bernake watched as Daniel took in a deep breath, his eyes gazing out along the semi-circle of people, before slowly back towards him. The exhale. Daniel nodded, “Yeah...lets get this over with.”

The detective laid his hand over the boy’s shoulder, using the other arm to push against the crowds of people. Camera’s flashed and people pushed, jockeying for a sight of the beleagured; reporters with microphones and curious onlookers.

Daniel stepped into the backseat of the squad car, the door closing behind him. Bernake stepped into the driver seat, the door closed, the noise from outside subdued. His head turned up towards the rearview mirror, looking at Daniel curled up in the backseat.

“So Daniel, quite the mess you’ve stepped into.”

“Yeah,” with a drawn note of exhaustion.

Bernake shifted the car into drive, shifting on the squad lights and turning on the sirens. The crowd backed away.

The car pulled away, out into the street, out towards the station.