The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was unnerving, the way that lioness kept staring at me.

Not like it wanted to eat me. Or chase me away, or hump my leg. It was just like it... look, there was this tiger one time, up in Nepal. I was in the brush and I heard it coming from behind me. I didn’t know it was a tiger, I just knew that there was suddenly something big coming at me very fast. Before I knew what I was doing my hand had pulled out the .44 and fired a shot into the ground. A gut reaction, I didn’t even lift my arm, just shot right down my leg, and I felt the breeze from the bullet tickle my leg hair. It felt like when the school nurse would blow on your knee after you’d skinned it (which, by the way, they’re not supposed to do anymore—spreads germs).

It stopped the thing, and I turned around, and there it was, about 600 pounds of it waiting to snap me in half. Staring at me. We had a long moment, me and him, then I fired into the dirt again and it took off. Piece of metal in my hand that happened to make a loud boom was the only thing that stopped it from having me for dinner, and might not have stopped it if it had been really hungry.

So that was scary, but it wasn’t unnerving. This lioness, she was unnerving.

She followed us back from the hunt, not even trying to hide herself. She trotted along and kept pace with the caravan like it was nothing. Big, huge. I kept wanting to speed up but the road was too rough. If we could have gotten up to cruising speed for just a few minutes we would have lost her.

We’d been out hunting lions; that’s how she picked up on us. Bagged a nice one, also female, but smaller. She’s in the back of the plane right now, sleeping off the rest of the tranquilizer. She acted weird too. When I shot her, she didn’t run away. She turned, looked around until she saw us, then ran right at us. We all scrambled for the fucking trees. That’s not so unusual, for them to run right at you, but what is unusual is for them to run right at you, jump up on the hood of the truck, crack the windshield and one of the windows, and almost tear Pedro’s arm off (he’s ok, but I don’t think he’ll ever play baseball again) before finally succumbing to the tranquilizer. That’s less than normal. But, you never know what an animal will do when it’s spooked. That’s why I love ‘em.

We were halfway back before I realized some had followed us. I was beat and feeling the adrenaline rush go, kind of a slight buzzing in the ears, and I suppose everyone else was too, and no one bothered to look in the rear view mirrors. The only sign I had that anything was wrong was the native workers; they were nervous, gibbering to each other in heathen-talk the whole time, and they wouldn’t shut up even on the ride back. The guide translated for me:

“They are anxious to get back.”

That was all I could get out of them the whole day. They didn’t have a reason, they just wanted to go. Fucking useless. The next time I have to hire niggers I’m importing some from the States; at least I know they won’t get jittery around guns.

At first it was kind of a novelty—hey look, the lions are following us. I thought it was cute in a sad way, and I almost wished the airstrip was farther away, because once we got there the lights and the sounds of the engines would scare them off and the game would be over.

They didn’t scare her, though.

By the time we made it back most of them had gone back to whatever lives they have, or gotten tired, but she hadn’t. She followed us right up the the border of the field then vanished. I was a little disappointed, because that one in particular, I’d gotten the sense that she wasn’t just following the trucks—whenever I looked back, it seemed like she was looking at the rear mirror too, trying to get a better look at me.

We unpacked everything and the workers began hauling it to the plane. The lion, the one we’d bagged, was dragged into a cage, then the cage (it took six of them) into the plane. I sat on the rear bumper of the truck smoking a cigar.

The workers were looking over their shoulders and casting nervous glances at the brush. Like they thought something was going to come out of it—under those lights, with all of those people around, with all those guns—and carry them off. Fucking natives. Can’t beat the price, though. For about fifty cents they’ll work for a month.

I didn’t hear her.

Wasn’t ever a hint.

It wasn’t until I went to take a pull of whiskey and dropped the canteen, then twisted to pick it up out of the grass, that I saw her.

Her eyes were as big as stop lights and she was three feet away.

Not stalking me or about to pounce or anything, just looking at me. She’d been there the whole time, quiet as a mouse, I was suddenly sure. Her paws were as big as my head, sunk into the grass, and her head was as big as my chest, and I’m as positive as I’ve ever been of anything that she could have killed me before I could have processed the thought I’m being eaten. But she didn’t.

I reached for my gun, very slowly (you’ve got to resist the urge to run or make jerky movements, it’s like throwing a match on gunpowder), and her eyes flicked to my hand as I did. So I stopped. And her eyes flicked back up to my face. That’s not so strange, either. They’re smart. Some of them know what guns are, know what they can do.

The workers were a good 25 yards away and they hadn’t even noticed. I was in the glare of the flood lamps and the lioness was in the shadow of the truck; she would be practically invisible to them. No help from any of them. I decided that I’d had a good run at life, and I hoped she’d get me in the neck and make it fast. We’ve all got to die, and once you do nothing before matters, so I might as well go out like that—it’d at least make a good story, right? Didn’t happen though.

Instead, she cocked her head and looked at the truck. There was lettering on the side that said HERON in big white letters, same as the plane. It’s my company. She looked at those letters for a good long while, then at the plane, and if I didn’t know any better I’d have sworn she was reading them. It’s cute, the things animals do. I took the opportunity to relieve my gun of its holster.

She saw me—made a calm, sideways movement with her eyes just as I was making a jerky, panicky movement to pull it out—and ignored it. Went back to staring at me. Cool as a cucumber.

I pointed it at her.

“It seems like you know what this is,” I said. That was partly the whiskey, partly the adrenaline of death, partly my romantic dreams of being killed by a lion and becoming a family legend. It was kind of unreal and that kind of unreal makes you say things.

“Why not run along, now. Or you take a nap like your friend in the plane, except you don’t wake up.”

She flicked her tail.

I was bluffing, really. If she decided to strike I’d have about a split second to get the shot off and I’d have to hit her right between the eyes to do any good. And her a moving target, a target moving very fast. They’re like lightning in the moment of the strike. You’ve got to see it to believe it.

And then—I ran out of funny things to say. My hands got clammy like they’d never been, even with that tiger in Nepal—even with that cocaine wholesaler down in Uruguay, and that’s a good story too—and I froze. I was bluffing, she knew I was bluffing, and I just had to hope she wasn’t too angry or hungry to end me.

The workers saved—well, they were what scared her away. They finally noticed, the dizzy fucking idiots, and came running, four of them and their shotguns loaded with double-ought. She didn’t even flinch. She just took one last, long look at me, with those eyes that were like green cats-eye marbles four times too big, then turned and walked off.

Beautiful. She was beautiful.

I’m coming back for her.

Not for the private zoo; I would never dream of putting a creature like that in a cage. No. Her head will go on the wall. In the foyer, I think.