The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The idea that gunshots were loud had always been something Owen knew, but had never experienced. Gunshots were loud. Gunshots were loud enough that a small cafe full of panicked and screaming women was only sometimes louder in a given moment. He pressed his cast against the weeping bloody hole in his previously uninjured arm.

He had dropped to his knees, out of shock, and to keep from twisting over and falling onto his back. Blood dripped down the blue of his shirt sleeve, overtaking it rather than mixing into a purple. He pressed harder. Everyone was running everywhere. Davy took the guns from Carlos who knelt down over Brett who gaped on the floor.

Thanks Brett, one silver well spent on that body. Owen thought and he thought it again and even one more time. If he had a few hours of repetition, perhaps he could believe it was a good thing.

Chaos. Opportunity. He was glad he had wedged two unused pieces of silver into the plaster of his cast. He could bend his fingers to his palm and hold them, but they really didn’t move around much. It was a simple plan. Give Maxim the silver, skin to skin. Not that it had mattered before, gloved hands had worked fine, but it wasn’t something he wanted to half-ass. Every slavegirl and her enemy... Slavegirl and Brett, rather, had taken the coin up in their hand. That had been the plan. Make the sale, shake on it, take Maxim’s fortunes.

Just like Grandpa Isaac had.

Plans had gone to shit. Even if there had been a plan B, guns had not factored into any of his prep work. He could yell for his girls to pin Maxim down. Even if Maxim could easily throw off his strongest slavegirl, could he do it to the whole army? Then what? Force it into Maxim’s hand? Would that work? What if it didn’t? Owen worried and suspected that dropping it into Maxim’s pocket would be enough.

Truth was, he also wanted to use the other secreted coin on Natasha. She was beautiful! Perhaps not as hippy as Darlene, busty as Tamara, or leggy as Elizabeth, but Natasha had a tall slender model beauty Owen liked, and didn’t currently possess. Natasha was most like Zera with six inches of height rather than two cup sizes. No, Natasha’s face was still more defined and sharper. The details hardly mattered; Owen liked what he saw. Her body would be an excellent trophy, and there would be no arguments about controlling Maxim’s fortune if he owned the father and the daughter.

Plans had fallen through. He was getting ahead of himself. He had to make a move.

“Don’t move!” Tamara said to him as she squatted down to check his wound.

“No one leaves,” Owen said. He tracked Natasha and Hafnan who were trying to snake their way to the front doors. He pointed, which was difficult with his casted hand but his other arm wasn’t moving right. “If anyone stops you, say the police are on their way and they have to stay for questions. Nobody leaves.”

There was a clock. The police. He had minutes if Wendy got her call off in time. She must’ve. How long did it take to press four times on a phone? The cops would be here in minutes, at worst. The police station was on the other side of Citadel Hill. With sirens, it was a thirty five second drive. He forced himself to smile and stand up without using his hands.

He pressed in harder. The one thing Owen wouldn’t do was waste a look at the hole in his arm. It was either something he could handle or it wasn’t. He wasn’t a doctor. It hurt worse than getting his hand caught in a slamming door did though.

He ground his teeth together as he surveyed the room from a standing position. Wendy watched nervously. Her hands shook while holding her phone. She was stunned and confused. Owen couldn’t cross the room to figure it out. Tamara had grabbed Janice and the twins zigzagged through the room to stop Hafnan and Natasha.

There was another option, Owen saw. Maybe just let Natasha go? She had the box, the last coin was in there—

He felt a piece of silver under the toe of his shoe. Or it wasn’t? Tamara had better stop the girl.

“Hold pressure down, I can’t do any more,” Carlos said, as Elizabeth took over staunching Brett’s blood flow. He stood up and looked Owen in the eye. “Let me see that. It’s bleeding very fast, but,” he looked around the back of Owen’s arm, “even though it doesn’t have an exit wound, there’re fewer lungs in your shoulder. You’re a safer fool than he is.”

“There’ll be paramedics here in a moment, I just need to—”

“You need to sit down and shut up. You bring me a chair,” he demanded of Katelyn. She rushed over and Carlos grabbed Owen by the neck and sat him down hard. “You’re as bad as any patient I ever had.”

“Cool, take care of Brett,” Owen said. “I’ll just—”

“Stop squirming! Idiot! I’m trying to help you and—”

Maxim whispered something to Giselle. Owen could see it. Yes, Giselle was his, but the room was chaos. He wasn’t even sure his voice would carry if he shouted over at them. Carlos growled at him again. Owen slammed back down an inch into a seat.

“Unbutton his shirt, I’ll—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Owen said. Grabbing for Carlos’s hand, he slapped his cast hard into the Phillipino man’s hand. The coin stayed stuck in his fingers.

“I can just let you bleed out,” Carlos said.

“It’s that bad?” Katelyn asked, worrying and hopeful at once.

“Fuck!” Owen swore, he managed to twist his fingers and dump a coin out onto Carlos’s hand. He scrambled and hooked his fingers back, catching the second. “Get out of my way. If you have to help: Brett’s not dead yet.”

Owen clambered to his feet. He pressed his cast back into his arm. Nothing had hurt as bad in his life but he really didn’t have time. Maxim and Giselle had looped the cash counter. Owen grabbed Janice.

“Is there a back door?”

“Obviously, just go through the employees only door, but you really shouldn’t run. You didn’t fuck up and that looks bad,” Janice said. “Hey, why aren’t you helping my cousin?”

“Fuck!” Davy swore, but Owen didn’t listen. “Prick!”

There were screams. Tamara held Natasha around the waist and they both tumbled loudly into the floor. Owen charged through the employees only door.

“Stop!” Owen yelled. Giselle did. She was holding the back door. Maxim rushed away. Owen jogged up but he slumped at the door. He couldn’t chase the man down as he bled out. “What did you do?”

“I did what I was supposed to do,” Giselle said. “He’s my boss!”

“Put the gun down!” Carlos’s voice was a crack through the chaos of the girls.

“What?” Owen said. He didn’t want to go back. He just knew he had to. He grit his teeth and inched back to the customer side of the cafe. Kirk had both guns in hand and their barrels forced his aggressors back. Owen pulled his head back from the doorway. Kirk was seeing red. It wouldn’t do to antagonize him. Owen dropped to the floor and crawled behind the counter. He had that Jacob guy. Brandy’s husband? Or the other twin’s? It didn’t matter. Kirk was crazed. If Brett wasn’t enough, Owen could Zapp Brannigan wave after wave of his women at the pawn shop owner until the fight was done. He had to get somewhere he could direct the fight.

He scrambled forward. To the edge of the counter. He looked around the corner and nearly put his nose into Hafnan’s ass. Natasha’s servant girl was covering her head with folded hands and squatting on her heels. She was hyperventilating with fear.

“Hey! It’s going to be over soon,” Owen said, quietly. Natasha was still dog-piled by Tamara, Zera, and another one of his girls. He didn’t think Hafnan heard him. He rubbed her hip. “Stay low, stay quiet… Les police est en route…” Damn, his French was garbage.

“Non! Non! Non!” Hafnan blubbered. “Pourquoi m’a-t-elle amené ici? Je ne veux pas être ici.”

Ici means here. Pourquoi: why. Owen was also certain he didn’t hear ‘Mattel’, the toy brand, that meant he must’ve heard something with an elle. A she. He felt certain there was only one she Hafnan would be whining about.

This was the plan anyway? Who else but your boss was your enemy? Owen grabbed Hafnan’s hand. She looked down at the cast, at the blood. She screamed, yanking her hand back in a rainbow of blood. But Owen had managed to slide the coin into her palm. He was smiling. Hafnan had called attention to his corner of the room.

Kirk turned his head and pulled the trigger. Carlos and Davy crashed into him trying to pin Kirk to the ground.

“Owen!” Janice screamed for a very short second.

Owen hurt and hurt and hurt. The shock of the gunshot and the agony left him screaming and bellowing madly. He writhed left and right on the floor. Blood wept from his arm.

“You do not look any worse,” Hafnan said. She touched his face and her voice quaked. “You didn’t get more hurt. But, you need to stop. Too many people are hurt and you’re still badly hurt too. Stop! Please, or you’re only going to be hurt even more.”

“I can’t stop,” Owen said, his breath came out like each press of his lungs worked by donkey kicks. Tamara was standing over Hafnan. Owen sat up. He frowned. He stood up.

“Carlos get over here!” Darlene shouted through tears. “No, don’t give me what I asked for you dumb cunt! No!”

“Where are the guns?” Owen asked, shaking. He had to blink a few times and bite the inside of his mouth to focus. It wasn’t working perfectly.

“They’re right there!” Wendy pointed. Her eyes were red, she had cried, in her fear.

“Then pick them up and keep them away from anyone who isn’t mine,” Owen said. Wendy picked up the revolver and Brandy picked up her husband’s handgun.

“What do you mean isn’t yours?” Paul asked.

“It means exactly what it means,” Kirk said into the floor. Carlos tagged out for Jacob. “Those fucking stupid coins…”

“Shit,” Owen said. He crossed the room and stood over Tamara. She pinned Natasha to the floor with help from Zera and Jewel. “Let her up. Natasha stand up.”

“Owen!” Frieda yanked the unlocked front door open and ran in. She kneed Tamara in the shoulder and would’ve faceplanted over her and into the brown tile floor if Owen hadn’t caught her. Catching the girl was a stupid decision. All he did was stagger back and scream in pain. If Paul hadn’t grabbed his shoulders he’d have been on the floor with Frieda. Kirk’s daughter got smeared in blood.

“Fuck!” Owen breathed.

“Daddy!” Frieda squealed as she saw her father pushed to the floor. “What are you doing to my dad!”

“Honey! Go!” Kirk said. “Run!”

“Oh my god! You’re bleeding! Oh my god! That’s so much blood!” Frieda sputtered. Owen reached across himself and winced as he grabbed Frieda’s winter jacket. She turned back to face him.

“Frieda, don’t let go of my hand,” Owen said. Frieda grabbed Owen’s limp uncasted fingers. Roxxi handed Frieda a quarter of her fistful of napkins.

“Get over here!” Carlos growled. “It’s a mess.”

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” Elizabeth was panicking. Owen kept looking forward, terrified to look at Brett finally bleed out. Owen felt cold, weak. In that state he didn’t want to maintain his pretense that he was OK with Brett dying for him. “Keep the pressure on!”

“Is this OK! Oh my god! Is it supposed to gulch like that?”

Keep it behind you! Owen told himself and shrugged forward. He felt like the room was getting even colder. Yet the cold wasn’t doing what it should. The pain wasn’t bothering to numb. That wasn’t fair. He gritted his teeth and looked at Natasha.

“What?” she asked. She scowled at Zera. Zera had taken the coin box. Natasha looked back at Owen. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“If I own you, kiss me,” Owen said.

She narrowed her eyes and scowled. Natasha stepped forward and grabbed Owen’s face. He smirked. His play with Hafnan worked... Natasha kissed him hard. He had to push her off.

“Zera, I need the untouched coin from the box,” Owen said.

Zera opened the box. “It’s not in here!”

Fuck! It was one of the ones on the floor. He needed that. It was his ploy to get Maxim. He heard the sirens. The red and blue flickers were filling the storefront windows. Owen turned around to find the coins on the floor quickly. He staggered, white-faced and collapsed onto his knee.

“Police!” The door was yanked open and the male officer yelled.

“Put the guns down!” shouted the female officer. Wendy was holding her gun by pinching it on the butt of the handle and dangling it away from herself. Brandy had hers laid out flatly on her crossed palms, like a Catholic asking for communion. “Put the guns on the table!”

Owen didn’t even hear the cops, let alone recognize them from when Brett had slugged him. Elizabeth’s eyes went wide.

“Officer Mulhaney!” Elizabeth shouted. “We need ambulances now! Please!”

Ambulances. His arm, Brett’s body, and Janny’s stomach.

Owen let out a gross and frightened wail. Janice looked at him, her lips swelling with bubbles of blood. Roxxi and Carlos were doing their best holding her abdomen closed.

“Fuck! I hate getting shot!” Janice forced a smile when she met Owen’s eyes. “How are you even on your feet? Christ!”

“The guns! Now!” Officer Isabel Keating shouted. Wendy and Brandy both looked at Owen, pleading. He didn’t see them. They were looking straight into the back of his head.

“Eyes over here ladies!” Keating said. “Lay the guns on the table and stand back!”

The girls stepped backwards and they did nothing to protect the guns from being taken. Wendy still held hers like it was radioactive. Brandy held hers far in front of her body.

“What the fuck are you doing? Listen to the cops!” Paul shouted. “You don’t have to have your gun out officer! Brandy, for fuck’s sake. Give the officer the gun! You too, whatever your name is.”

“But Owen said…” Wendy’s shoulders shook and her teeth chattered in fear.

“Oh god, that is a bad shot.” Officer Mulhaney had left the scared girls who were more scared of the guns in their hands than anything. He frowned looking down at Brett’s ashen face and Janice’s pale grimace. He recognized Elizabeth. He looked from her to Brett to Owen.

“Officer! That man fired both shots!” Carlos said, pointing with his foot towards Kirk. Kirk had stopped struggling underneath everyone. He laid down on the floor. Officer Mulhaney didn’t take his eyes off of Owen.

“You pick shit boyfriends,” he said, under his breath, directed at Elizabeth. He turned and squatted down in between Kirk and Carlos. He absently picked a piece of silver off the floor. And cursed. “Keating! Secure those firearms so we can bring the paramedics in here!”

Wendy stepped back again from Officer Keating.

“We’ll give the guns to your partner!” Brandy shouted. “He can take them!”

“Don’t negotiate! Just do whatever the cop says, idiots!” Paul shouted. “Goddammit Brandy! You’re not stupid! Stop being stupid!”

“Put the guns down!” Officer Keating held her weapon out but it was pointed down at the floor.

“Your partner! Please, we have to!” Wendy’s teeth chattered as she stared at Officer Keating’s gun.

“The guns girls! Now!” Keating shouted in her most commanding voice. The girls didn’t move. Mulhaney stood up. He cast a confused glance at Owen.

“That’s a hell of a wing,” Mulhaney said. “Alright, for fuck’s sake Keating!”

He walked forward, crossing over to Wendy and Brandy who eagerly handed him the gun.

“What in the fuck?” Keating said, swearing under her breath. “Shit, I don’t care.”

She reached for her shoulder radio and called an all-clear. “Three GSWs. A whole shit ton of witnesses and suspects.”

Officer Mulhaney walked over to his partner. Keating pulled plastic evidence bags from her utility belt and each gun was bagged.

“Fingerprints all over this,” Keating said.

“It’s a shit show.” Mulhaney lifted his feet and saw bloody prints on the floor. “Anyone who’s not injured, holding pressure on a wound, or pinning the main suspect to the floor, move quickly to the front window.”

He pointed to an area of the coffee shop that was out of the way of incoming traffic. Frieda pressed harder on Owen’s arm, no one was going to take her away from him.

“I shouldn’t have talked you out of pressing charges for that spat over the girl,” Keating said to Owen. “This might’ve not happened if we kept you two boys apart.”

“Because he took the bullet in the chest, I only got this piece in my arm.” Owen attempted to roll his shoulder, but his arm wasn’t moving. His tongue was also too dry. “Mulhaney!”

“What?” The other officer, directing traffic asked.

“Who do you got for an enemy?” Owen asked. He was pissed off. He’d lost Maxim for this cop. Well, he hoped he was going to get some big bad street tough guy he could use for something.

“Not really an enemies guy. You stop taking things to heart when you’ve been battered down by a wife like mine,” Mulhaney said. He turned back to the crowd he was controlling. “We’ll walk you all outside once the EMTs have their bodies.”

Owen looked over the different faces. Darlene and Wendy were nothing short of panicked. Natasha was livid. Hafnan kept her eyes on her shoes. Barbara and Brandy looked impatient. Tamara and Jewel were flushed with worry. Katelyn hoped Owen bled out and died. She smiled at the thought of this ending. Paul had his head in his hands, realizing the shit he was in for his part in this. His gun had been used to shoot that barista. In that moment, he might’ve shoved that gun into his mouth if he had it in his hands.

The police backup stayed at the door. Owen watched as the medics ran in. He wiggled Frieda aside.

“Janice first,” Owen pleaded as the first paramedics zeroed in on Brett.

Brett started nodding, or convulsing. His head was whipping towards Janice. It was easy to interpret it as “save her first, not me.” Elizabeth’s rictus fear mask shattered and she cried a waterfall.

“Brett! Brett! I love you so much!” She snapped her jaw shut and looked at Owen. “I’m so sorry!”

“I’m—” But Owen couldn’t say much. He just shook his head.

He didn’t remember much clearly past that. He didn’t pass out. If he had been on his feet and not his knees he’d have crashed to the floor. As it was, the third team of medics were able to take over from Frieda and lay him out on a stretcher. He remembered Frieda’s hand being taken from his.

“We need all of the room, you can’t ride along,” or something like that. The police weren’t letting anyone go with the ambulances either. Owen didn’t feel the prick of anything the medic stabbed into him. He seemed to remember the shaking of the ambulance.

He just remembered Janice’s face, blood on her lips, eyes open too wide. All the pain in his arm was gone before the pain of seeing her face like that. The morphine didn’t take pain from him but the drugs did take him into darkness.

Giselle shivered in the January chill. Halifax was icy more than it was snowy. It had snowed, rained, thawed, and frosted in the days she had been here. Snow would’ve been better. Flats would’ve been better. She grabbed Maxim to hold herself from falling.

“Keep up,” he said, in French. “The idiot. I was hoping to handle this civilly. I was hoping all of the stories of bloodshed and slavery were old tales. Fairy tales. The world has moved on.”

“I, of course,” Giselle said. “I won’t fall now.”

Giselle breathed in and out. The cold Canadian air stung her lungs. She pulled her arms tighter together. She was wearing a suit, her jacket was in the coffee shop. She only had her purse because Maxim had grabbed it on their rush out the door.

“Of course you won’t,” Maxim said. “Those aren’t your ankles to break.”

Giselle nodded. She had been told to handle Maxim. She would do so, the consummate support, until Owen called her back. Whatever happened, she hoped Maxim would succeed. She wanted to be free.

Maxim and Giselle stepped out onto Spring Garden Road as the sound of police sirens called out over the city. A block down, towards the harbor, the first patrol car turned up the street to the cafe. Maxim looked at his watch.

“He has Natasha,” Maxim told himself. “If not by now, he will in minutes.”

“Perhaps,” Giselle said. “You’ll get her back.”

“I’d lost her years ago,” Maxim said. He stepped to the curb and saw a taxi waiting a half block up the street. He excused himself as he ran up after it. Giselle did her best to keep up, she fell behind quickly.

“Sorry, don’t speak French,” the cab driver said. “Je peux… uh… téléphone un Français… uh taxi? Oui?”

“I’ll speak English,” Maxim countered. “The airport.”

“Right, I don’t usually go out that far. We’ve got specific drivers for that and—”

“Five hundred dollars will cover it,” Maxim declared. Enough money would solve anything. Besides, the cash he had didn’t matter. He figured there’d be no reason to have Canadian money on him by the time this day was over.

“Monsieur?”

“Sorry, girl, got a client,” the cab driver said.

“She’s with me,” Maxim said, opening the door for Giselle. Giselle climbed in.

“Alright, on our way. Buckle up,” the driver said. Maxim obeyed. Giselle had already affixed her belt.

Maxim was glad the driver didn’t speak French. He turned to Giselle and declared. “Call our gendarmes. I need a pilot and plane to take me out of the country, swiftly.”

“Of course,” Giselle said. She fished her phone from her purse.

Maxim looked at her. She’d have to be abandoned, but he had other people. He had simply preferred Giselle. She was scalpel precise. Precision wasn’t called for now. Inheritance was the best means. Sale through a broker, never handling the coins personally until all was finished, had proven too fraught with pitfalls, mistakes, and idiots. Maxim couldn’t imagine getting himself into Owen’s will. Spoils of war then. Maxim simply had to have Owen’s family and friends killed, leave no one to inherit to, the coins would be inert and collectible.

That had happened several times before. Wars, hell crusades, had been needed then. That had been before instant communication and sniper rifles. It would be expensive, bloody, and filled with its own costs. If Owen loved any of his girls… Maxim believed the boy had honest feelings for his cousin and the blonde. The others? No. No half-measures. Even Giselle would have to die.

Natasha.

Maxim frowned, his stomach twisted in a knot. It could be done. He wasn’t as blind as Kirk had been. A daughter was… He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A man could father another daughter. And he would. There were twelve coins, surely one would bring him a new wife worth breeding.

“This will work,” Maxim said.

“Provided we get to the airport in time to leave without the police grounding the plane,” Giselle said.

“I’m willing to try,” Maxim said. “And if I fail, neither you nor I had any connection to this beyond monetary. Kirk and those jealous men will be the ones they hang.”

“Canada doesn’t have capital punishment,” Giselle said.

Maxim frowned at her. It wasn’t like her to miss the metaphor. She was on the phone, assuring his plane, listening for him out of one ear. Even Giselle was imperfect. That warmed Maxim’s heart. Imperfect was replaceable.

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He frowned. He looked back over his shoulder, the rise of Citadel Hill blocked line of sight from the street Owen was on.

“Call off the plane,” Maxim said. He leaned forward and switched to English for the driver. “A change in direction, take us to the Lord Nelson.”

“That’s just back a few blocks,” the man said. He frowned. His cab stand had literally been a block and a half from the hotel. There goes his five hundred bucks.

“Monsieur,” Giselle asked, placing her hand over the phone as she asked him.

“I…” Maxim said, looking at Giselle. He felt a weight pulled off of his shoulders and then pressed down on his soul to grind it into dust. “I have considered your comment about the police. Call instead our lawyers.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Carre,” Giselle said. She went about her business. Maxim thought of Natasha.