The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Synopsis: AH5 was developed as a study aid, but was never released due to side-effects. It was briefly available on the black market, however, under the name Concentration, before the CIA managed to suppress it.

Lindsay’s Story: Amphetylcholemine Hydropyrinase-5

Chapter 1: Boots

“Hi Sis!” Mitchell waved at me as I came in the door. That’s how long it took him to annoy me. Last semester at Brown, I’d almost talked myself into believing we could get along this summer, since he’s getting ready for college himself.

No such luck. He was sitting in his bathrobe, scarfing up about a dozen scrambled eggs, in serious danger of flashing his crotch at me from the table in the breakfast nook, which was covered with breakfast dishes and beer bottles. Since our parents were off in France for another week, the bottles obviously belong to him and his friends. (Not that our parents would leave beer bottles in the breakfast nook, even if they were home.)

And I hate being called “Sis,” which he knows. My name is Lindsay – two syllables – too much trouble to go to, I guess.

“Hi Mitchell,” I said, trying not to sound annoyed.

“We’re going to have a great time this summer!” he enthused. “Just the two of us. We can do whatever we want. Pretty cool, huh?” He tipped his chair back onto its two back legs, spreading his legs even further. I looked away.

“Great,” I said to the drapes. “But why do I get the feeling it’ll be more fun for you than for me?”

“Ha, ha,” he said. “Because you don’t know how to have fun? Because you’ll probably be busy studying? Because you don’t have any friends? LOL.” He pronounced it “Lole.”

“You jerk,” I said. “No, I mean, because you obviously expect me to clean up after you and your friends every night after you party with them every night. Because you have no intention of being respectful towards me, or even minimally polite. Because...oh, forget it. I was actually hoping we would get along, you know.”

“Oh, we’ll get along,” he said, waving his fork. “Don’t worry so much. I’ll keep the place decent.”

“Well...thank you. I’ll expect to find those bottles in the recycling before I get back from taking my shower, so I can use the breakfast nook myself. OK?”

“Sure, no sweat.”

Well, that could have been better, but it could have been worse.

He was right that I liked to read; but it was summertime. I had been reading economics, politics, and sociology the whole school year. It was time to relax. I could avoid Mitchell’s shoot—’em-up games – and his friends – by locking myself in my bedroom with a romance novel or a romcom. (I should have know better than to read romances; thankfully, Mitchell wasn’t aware of these kinds of subtleties, so he didn’t think to make fun of me about it.)

I could sit and read in the library, or the park, all day. OK, I’m a bookworm. I admit it. I actually look a lot like Mitchell: we both have the same straight noses, quirky smiles, and auburn hair, but where he’s lean and muscled from sports (wrestling and hockey teams, etc., etc.), I’m completely out of shape. I can’t throw, I can’t run (I certainly don’t want to, with my big boobs bouncing around), I don’t much enjoy going to the gym. I take walks occasionally, but that’s about it. I’ll probably die young.

His friends never tired of staring at my chest, of course. How appealing!

The good news about this summer: Jill would be in town. She was my old friend from high school. She was going to Yale business school – don’t ask me what had come over her. I always thought she’d be a professor like me. But her family business – it’s a ski resort called Gurnsey Hill Slopes – came on hard times, and I guess she felt responsible to save it. I hadn’t talked to her all term, but her emails made it sound like the whole thing would fall apart. It was pretty scary, actually, but I was expecting to come into some money this summer. Grandpa Thompson couldn’t live much longer, and it’d be a relief to him to shuffle off. Anyway, I was hoping I’d be able to help Jill out if she needed it.

When I got back downstairs after my shower, lo! And behold! The beer bottles had been neatly recycled, and the table had been wiped clean. Mitchell swept in from the kitchen with a towel on his arm, smirking at my stunned expression.

“Little bro got himself a job waiting tables,” he explained. “What can I getcha? Something to drink? I’ve got Fenwick’s Ginger Ale.”

“No way.” I couldn’t believe he even remembered it was my favorite – much less that he bothered to get it. Maybe he was turning over a new leaf.

“Way.” He bustled in with the ginger ale already poured into a cup. “Enjoy.”

He watched gleefully as I drank it, then looked at his watch. “Good stuff?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But the carbonation was a little low. You must have poured it wrong or something.”

He nodded sagaciously. “I’ll be more careful next time. How are you feeling? Tired from the drive back?”

“Not particularly.”

“OK.” He looked at his watch again, then pulled a pamplet out of his pocket. It looked like the manual for a VCR or some such thing, that had been folded over several times, and had been sharing his pocket with goodness knows what kinds of boogers, crumbs, critters, and sludge. He unfolded it and started looking for something. Half of it was in what looked like Japanese.

“Jill’s coming over at nine,” I said. “I hope you and your cronies won’t be too noisy?”

“At nine, huh?” he said. “OK. Let’s see, that’s not for an hour and a half. Should be fine.”

“Fine for what?”

“Nothing.” He looked through his manual. “Let’s see...a few minutes. Good. Um, my friends are going to stop by pretty soon, we’ll be, ah, playing a game. You can play too if you like.”

“Yeah, right. What are you playing? Football?”

“Just a sec. Let’s see...God, this thing is confusing. Subject externalizes... internalizes... Jesus.”

“What is that thing, anyway?” He didn’t answer. He was obviously a lot more interested in that pamphlet than he was in me. No big deal. It was time for dinner. “Well, I’m going out for some food,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

“No!” he shot up from his chair. “I mean...hold on a second. Do you...I mean, did you see the, the latest episode of House?”

I turned and looked at him. “House? You watch House?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, not all the time. But sometimes. Do you watch it?”

“Sometimes. But what does that have to do with the price of potatoes in Kyrgyzstan?”

He was still clutching his pamphlet, or whatever it was. “Well, there was this episode with this boy who, who had a seizure, or something, only he turned out to be only dehydrated, from drinking too many sports drinks. Did you see that one?”

I couldn’t remember. “I guess.”

He glanced at his paper. “And there was this one with this lady that had a heart attack, and her boyfriend had this complicated thing with his mother and her pastor, who were from Kyrgyzstan, and the President of Kyrgyzstan got in it, because of all the, the fighting on the border between Russia and Kyrgyzstan, and Mother Teresa stopped the fighting, but she had a thymoid problem, and there were a bunch of children, with the one boy that was, a, um, a bull...and a lot of stuff like that. Did you see that one?”

My head was spinning from the complex plotline. What did the children have to do with Mother Teresa? The President of Kyrgyzstan in a House episode? That was so unlikely, it had to be true. “I think so,” I said. “Do you remember what else happened?” I really needed to know how the children tied in with Mother Teresa. It suggested an interesting relationship between the spiritual mother and the mundane mother....

“No, I don’t remember,” he said, smiling a little. “But it was a good episode, wasn’t it?”

“I guess,” I said. I really couldn’t figure out what kind of episode it had been, actually.

“Work out the details for a minute,” he said, then he got on his cell phone. “We’re ready,” he said. “Come ahead.”

“Who’s coming?” I said.

“Just some friends.”

“Have they seen that episode?” I asked. “I can’t remember how it goes.”

“Forget about the episode,” he said. “I want to take a look at your boots.”

“Boots?” I looked around.

“Yes,” he explained, patiently for once. Thank God. I felt like I needed explanations for some reason. He was reading from a handwritten note stapled to the back of his pamphlet. “You made some lovely boots in an anthrolopology class, having to do with Mayan footwear customs. The class was very interesting. There were sections on footwear from a variety of countries, including Guatemala, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Nicaragua, and Madagascar. There were shoes and boots of every color represented, including blue, yellow, red, purple, silver, green, gold, black, and maroon. Several shades of maroon. The symbolism of the shoes varied from culture to culture, but in every case the symbols included dominance and romance, and the relationship between the shaman who made the boots, and the girls who wore them.

“Do you remember the boots you made for that class? They were very, um, elaborate, with pieces of leather in seven shapes stitched on. Let’s see, um, stars, triangles, candles, suns, rocks, cups, caves, and baseball bats. They used all the colors I mentioned. Do you remember the colors?”

I did remember. “Blue, yellow, red, purple, silver, green, gold, black, and several shades of maroon,” I parroted.

“Good!” He smiled at me again, and his smile was so big and broad, he must have been very happy with me. “Do you remember the symbols you sewed onto the boots?”

“I stitched them on, not sewed them,” I said severely. “But yes. Of course I remember: stars, triangles, candles, suns, rocks, caves, and baseball bats. I remember thinking the baseball bats were very unlikely. Can do tell me what the significance of the bats was?”

He glanced at his sheet. “Uh, no. But let’s take a look at these boots. Can you show them to me please?”

“Show them to you? But...where are they?” I looked around hesitatingly. I couldn’t remember putting them anywhere....

“You left them in your shirt, silly,” he explained. “These are your boots. Let’s pull them out so we can have a good look. You did a great job on them, sis, and you want everyone to know about all the work that went into them. The guys will all want to see them and stuff.”

“They will?” I felt a little uncomfortable, sitting at the breakfast nook, holding my boots, but they were very nice boots, and I was proud of the work I’d done on them.

“Uh-huh. I think they’re here.” Sure enough, I could hear them tromping up the stairs like a herd of wild elephants. They’d probably want me to make them all breakfast. Well, I wouldn’t. I had a lot of homework to do, and I needed to do some more studying on the footwear culture of Madagascar. I could hardly remember a thing about it. They used symbolism around dominance and romance, and of course I remembered some of the symbols involved...I heard boisterous laughter, and the door opened. Jerry, José, and Cameron trooped in. They all stopped and stared.

“See, it works,” said Mitchell, a little severely, I thought. “Just remember what I said before. We’ve only got a couple of minutes. Lindsay here would like to show you all her boots. Show the guys your boots, Lindsay. They’re all really into boots. You can explain about the colors and the symbolism and stuff. It’s real important that you don’t disturb, um, things, like I said before. OK, guys? There’s a lot riding on it. So remember the rules.”

“We’ll be good,” said Cameron, the kid with the bug-eyes. I mean, he always did have bug-eyes, but now, he was staring at my boots like they were the gateway to Heaven. He cleared his throat. “Count on us, Mitchell. We don’t want to screw anything up. Do we, guys? We want to know all about the boots, don’t we?”

“We sure do!” said José. “These are incredible boots! Hubba-hubba! I’m sweating with how much I want to see the boots. Smell my pits, guys!” He raised his arms. I rolled my eyes. What a dweeb. “And I wanna hear about the, ah, symbols. And help with polishing them, too, I love polishing boots.”

“Hold onto that thought,” said Mitchell. “Let’s just take a close look, for now, OK?”

They all crowded round. Cameron and José each grabbed onto a boot. “Guys! Be nice to the boots!” Mitchell warned. They stroked them nicely. I did appreciate that. Those boots were a lot of work.

“Notice the symbolism,” I said. “There are stars, triangles, candles, suns, rocks, caves, and baseball bats. See?” I pointed out each feature as I named it. The boots were generously sized, with space for all the decorations. “The baseball bats stand out, they’re so long and powerful, but I really love the candles and suns as well. The light symbolism is particularly important in Madagascar.”

“She really likes having us look at the boots,” said Mitchell. “It feels really good when we touch them.”

“What’s this part?” asked Jerry. He looked like he was going to pee his pants, he was so excited to look at my boots. Well, they were awfully nice boots. But still. “That’s a sun motif,” I explained, since he was so interested. “This is a reproduction of a boot from Guatemala, with the sun, here, and the area around it symbolizing its rays. It’s so very warm. It does feel good when you fellows hold my boots.” I smiled at them, hoping they would appreciate the warmth of the smile. I was feeling very much at peace with the world at that moment.

“It’s traditional for visitors to kiss the sun on the boots in Madagascar,” said Cameron, pushing in front of Jerry, and suiting the action to word. He kissed the one, then the other, and it felt lovely. I know my face was flushed, my whole body was warmed by it. He looked up into my glowing face. “This mark of affection is felt very warmly by the, ah, shoemaker.” He grinned at the guys. I was holding the back of his head with one hand, almost overcome with emotion. They really loved my boots! I felt so validated in my studies. I’d always thought my brother and his friends were uninterested in the kinds of things I studied.

“Time to stop,” said Mitchell, pointing to his little manual. “We’ve used up our seven minutes, and I’ve still got to do the continuation routine.”

“No fair!” said Jerry. “I haven’t gotten to kiss the suns.”

“Yeah!” growled Jose, burping beerily. “Fuck you. I ain’t got to kiss them yet either.”

Mitchell looked at his watch again. “Well...OK. Quickly. We’re running overtime, and all kinds of things can go wrong if you take too long. That’s what the guy said – don’t try to push it past seven minutes, especially on the first day. The manual says only five minutes.”

Jose shouldered Cameron out of the way, positioning himself squarely in front of my boots, and planted his lips on the sun design. “Mmmm...” I said. I couldn’t help myself. He latched onto the other one, and I was transported. It was transcendent. His hair, his jeans, his clean white sneakers, I could feel them each as part of myself, as if my awareness was spreading, spreading. His eyes met mine, and his hands met behind me, wrapping around me, and it was as if my hands were around him. I don’t like to say this, but it was almost like making love to him. Strange – he’d always struck me as such a jerk. He was the kind of kid who thought football players were a higher life-form.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathed, smacking my butt. I was in such a state, it didn’t even annoy me.

And then Jerry pushed in and started kissing all over the boots. The warm feeling was spreading all through my body now, and across to Jerry’s. Jerry’s head was incandescent, hot as an enchilada, and it felt kind of dizzy. A hot spot slipped from my left boot – that he was kissing – and lifted off the boot, and attached itself to Mitchell’s right hand.

I stared at it. The hand was glowing, too, now. I could feel it. I was inside Mitchell’s hand, and I had never loved my brother as much as I did at that moment.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m falling into your hand, Mitchell.” Everything made sense at that moment.

“That’s it, time to wrap it up,” said Mitchell, sounding worried, but I couldn’t see his face, my entire body was held, snuggled, warm and safe, in his hand. “Everybody out.”

“No way! We ain’t leaving,” said Jose.

“Jose, don’t be a jerk, let the man work!” came Cameron’s voice.

“OK, sis, settle down now,” said Mitchell. “Just focus your attention on my voice. You had a great time today, nothing too strange happened. You like getting drinks from me...you’ll always take a drink if I offer you one. You...let’s see.” Paper rustling. “You don’t need to think about what’s happened here, it was all just really nice. Maybe it’ll happen again. Now, go upstairs and lie down for a while. Then forget about all this. Got that?”

“Mmmm,” I said, laying my head against his thumb. “You just put me where you want me, Mitchell. Thank you so, so much. You’re a giant with hands of gold. An aircraft carrier.”

“Jesus, sis, just settle down.”

He carried me through the house and settled me in my cold little bed. “Don’t leave me,” I said, reaching up to him. It was so sad...so sad. Tears were trickling down my face, and I didn’t really even know why.

At least I could see his face now. He looked nervous. “Don’t worry. When you wake up, everything will be normal again. Got that? Normal.”

I smiled. “Normal...” and closed my eyes. I dreamed of rocks in triangles, lit by candles. Suns in red, gold, green, and maroon, purple, and rose danced around Mitchell, who grew larger, and larger, until I woke up screaming. It took a long time to get back to sleep. Colors and pictures dances in front of my eyes until I thought I’d kill myself. But finally I dropped off.