The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The other tourists who’d witnessed the attack were still being held for questioning inside Castle Finzione when Lady Maria returned and the castle went into lock-down. La Policia seized their phones and electronic devices to examine the footage as evidence; however, it was several minutes before anyone thought to shut off the castle’s complimentary Wi-Fi, and that was time enough for a few of them to upload their photos and video to social media before they were rounded up.

Within an hour, the international news outlets were broadcasting the footage. The American media outlets decided that although San Finzione was in Europe, because Contessa Helena de San Finzione was born an American citizen and was also a wealthy, young, beautiful, Caucasian female, they would go ahead and cover the story just this once.

“Critical Intra-Abdominal Trauma” was all that the media had been able to get on her current condition. The videos of the assassin’s attack played on the screen as medical experts in suits pontificated about what could be seen on the video.

“Probable liver damage, she may require a transplant,” said one of the talking heads as the video showed La Contessa walking into the ballroom with Generalissimo Ramirez and being caught off guard by the tourists. “Kidney damage is entirely possible,” he continued as the tourist’s phone suddenly jerked away from the image of La Contessa toward a woman in a French Maid’s outfit dealing with a small electrical appliance that had shorted out. When the phone video panned back to her, the assassin was charging.

Contessa Helena de San Finzione looked wide-eyed at the man, then stood fast and shouted for him not to move. The man kept coming and slipped the blade into her right side. He stuck her twice more ad his momentum caused her to fall over and him to land atop her. Gasps and screams were heard, but no one on the edge of the action seemed to be moving at all as the assassin struck her right breast.

“Now, I can’t see how long that blade is,” the expert continued. “But depending on the length, it may have passed through her… uh… breast; and between the ribs to puncture the lung.” The assassin’s back was to the camera, and he was cutting her neck when four gunshots rang out through the Grand Ballroom and the man flailed and rolled off La Contessa. One of them knelt by her side and started ripping away the clothing around her injuries, and then people were moving again. The tourist who was holding the phone tried to step closer and twist around the Ultimado tending to her. The image of a beautiful blonde soldier with a smoking gun and a furious look on her face filled the camera for a second, a Spanish obscenity was hissed, and then the phone tumbled to the ground.

“A punctured lung?” Julie Equals asked no one in particular as she sat on a plush sofa in front of a 120-inch television. “They know she’s still a smoker, right?”

“Everybody knows that, honey.” Susan Bailey said as she placed a tray containing a drink on top of a coaster in front of Julie. With a deftness forged by long years’ experience waiting tables, Susan had positioned herself so that the action of placing the tray had put her between Julie’s reach and the remote. She was then able to combine snatching it, straightening up, and backing away; taking herself and the remote out of Julie’s reach, into one fluid motion.

“And we’re doing everything we can, which is ‘get to her,’” Susan continued. “So, no more listening to dicks in suits make morbid guesses about stuff we don’t know. If anything really important happens, Maria or the Ultimados will let us know.” She found the off button while a famous psychiatrist was over-explaining The Bystander Effect to the show’s host. “Now, come with me, Mrs. Equals. I need a word with you and your husband.”

The Contessa Class suite on Air Finzione’s upcoming featured SST routes consisted of four rooms: The Gathering Room that they were leaving held the suite’s full bar and enormous entertainment center. A lavish bedroom, private bath, and office with secure telephony for the world leader, CEO; or, like La Contessa, both; with business to conduct in flight comprised the other three.

Susan took Julie’s hand and led her into the Office Room, where her husband, Troy Equals, was on his iPad and phone at the same time. He sat at a large, expensive-looking desk in front of a giant portrait of Helen and alternated between speaking Greek and English while he dealt with calls and messages from relatives in Greece and friends from the old days who knew how close he and Julie were to Helen.

Susan stepped up to him and snatched the phone away, telling whoever was on the other end that he’d call back later and hanging up. Troy leaned away from her and gave a quizzical look as she tapped on his iPad.

“Troilus,” she said to him, using the real, Greek name that was on his identification instead of Troy. “You already talked to Julie’s parents, your cousins in Greece, and our friends who know Helen. Everyone else is secondary. Post to Facebook and let them read it there, then fucking unplug and help me take your distraught best friend’s mind off all this.”

Troy nodded his head down once, closing his eyes and turning his head slightly to the left as he did so. He then remembered that Susan wasn’t Greek and nodded affirmatively the way the rest of the world did so.

Susan sat up on the desk and shoved the iPad to him, leaning to show off the cleavage of the clubbing dress she was still wearing from the night before.

All of them had been in bed when they got the news, and so the clothes they’d worn the day before were the closest at hand for getting dressed. Slightly panicked at the beginning, Troy & Julie had barely thought to throw a few things into overnight bags before departing. A habit born of Susan’s troubled past, however, caused her to always keep a prepared bag where she could grab it on her way out the door. Apart from better shoes, she hadn’t bothered to change, and Susan’s look now could have been uncharitably described as “walk of shame” if not for the unmistakable glow of pride on her face.

“That ‘good and thorough fucking’ that your Mistress expected her Master to give her is now medically needed.” She leaned in closer to Troy, whose attention was now divided between trying to post the update and Susan’s generous cleavage. “And I’ve been missing her too, Troy. Even after the night I’d had earlier, her being back home with us and the ideas that both of us, and probably you, too; have been having about Colleen? Mmm… I could definitely go again.”

Julie casually leaned against a wall by her elbow and watched as Susan slid up onto her knees on the desk, then maneuvered her legs to slide back off of it, straddling his chair. Color started to return to Julie’s face, and the seeds of a smile sprouted when Troy just hit send on whatever he’d typed without bothering to look at it and tossed the device aside. She loved watching this woman fuck her husband.

Julie loved other women, and she loved sex with her best friend. And she loved watching her best friend give samples of the deep, intense fulfillment she constantly received from him to other women. It always inspired her to either jump in, grab hold of the nearest convenient female body; her own if not someone else, or reach for one of the sex toys that she’d named after her husband.

If the weekend had gone as she’d planned, she and Troy would have spent Saturday in bed, trading stories about the hot chicks that both of them had Done What They Do to and fucked in each other’s absence. They sometimes turned it into a mind control sex game where they’d take turns going down on each other while the other told their story, and the one who had the best story would make the loser their mindless sex slave for the rest of the day; helpless to find the winner’s every suggestion anything less than the most arousing idea ever. Julie usually played to lose, and she loved losing even more when at least one of the other women in Troy’s story was Susan.

She loved Susan too. She recognized that Troy and Susan had a special connection of their own, and watching how the two of them shared it aroused her on a level that was just as special.

“The other girls send their love,” Susan stage-whispered into Troy’s ear so Julie could hear it too, taking hold of the back of his head and pressing his face down between her breasts. “Can you still smell it on me, Troy?”

He looked up from kissing her cleavage.

“Not yet,” Troy said, wrapping his arms around Susan’s waist and looking over to Julie. “Perhaps if I had some help from the audience, Mistress?”

The smile that had been growing on Julie’s face blossomed into a wicked grin as she walked over to the two of them. She tried to slide in behind Susan, but there was no more room on Troy’s lap, so Julie sat on the edge of the desk. Troy figured out what she was going for and wheeled the swivel-backed chair closer to the desk so Julie could wrap her arms around Susan’s waist and lean forward to begin kissing Susan’s neck from behind.

“I’ve got a better idea, Master,” Julie responded. “Since I went straight to bed from an eight-hour drive myself, why don’t the three of us see if we CAN fit in that bathtub that looks like it might big enough and get cleaned up, then Susan can show us what she’s learned with Colleen? And anything that happens in the bath in the meantime… well, happens.”

“Helen picked it out,” Troy said as one of his hands moved from Susan’s ass to Julie’s knee. “We’ll all fit.”

Susan let out a low moan before speaking.

“Then we better get on it now, Equalses, because one way or another, these panties are coming off in a few seconds.”

Contessa Helena de San Finzione reasoned she must be in surgery. It wasn’t her first time; she’d had work done before, but nothing major. Just removal of some of the bigger old scars that comprised her sole inheritance from Wade Parker.

That had been different, though. They’d put her under, she’d woken up and cried for a bit, then went back to sleep and woke up ok. This time, she’d gone from unconsciousness back at the castle to what she hoped was a somewhat lucid dream, because she really didn’t want it to be the near-death experience it appeared to be.

Helena took a drag of her cigarette and turned to the strange caricatures of morning talk show hosts Sally and Cara, the set of whose show seemed to be the location her mind had picked for whatever this was. She would have happily stayed naked except for her tiara and other jewels; however, the idea that this was entirely her imagination took some of the thrill out of her fantasy of masturbating on live television. Whatever this was, she had some tiny measure of control over it, and had managed to create a red, knee-length Chinese qipao with two black dragons fighting an unseen opponent on the front and a slit up the length of her left thigh to clothe herself.

“Ok,” Helena asked as she exhaled the smoke. “How’s this work? Are we going the Dickens route, or will everyone I’ve ever wronged come out and accuse me of all the horrible things I’ve done or what?”

“Well, Helen,” Sally-Thing replied. “We can do the whole ‘Trial of La Contessa’ thing, or you could use this time to your advantage and figure out why someone just tried to kill you.”

“Jury’s still out on whether or not he’s succeeded.” Cara-Thing piped in.

Helena nodded affirmatively.

“Why not? For myself, even if I don’t live to tell anyone else. So, what do I know about the guy who attacked me?”

“Ooh,” Cara-Thing spoke up. “I do believe we have a clip! Can we roll that?”

An old film projector like the ones Helen remembered from her early school days appeared, as did a screen. The projector started rolling, and she could see Generalissimo Ramirez through her own eyes as they were about to step into the Grand Ballroom.

“Hey,” Helena said with a smile as she took another drag of her cigarette and picked up the mug of coffee in front of her. “This hell is finally good for something!”

She watched as Pierre, the tour guide, played the role of having been “surprised by her sudden appearance.” He’d been a good actor. If she lived, he had a raise coming. And then, from the corner of her view on the screen’s eye, she saw him. The man in the white windbreaker.

“We can pause this, right?” She asked the Sally and Cara-Things. She then shouted to whoever was in the control booth that she couldn’t see. “Does this have a pause?”

“It’s your memory, do what you want.” Sally-Thing said.

“Ok, pause,” Helena said to the air. “Back it up a couple seconds.”

She looked at him, sweat forming on his brow that she would have written off as the noon-day heat of San Finzione even if she’d paid attention to them before. Watching her with that look that she would have recognized sooner if she had singled his face out in the crowd. Now that she was looking at him, she could see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, gauging the moment to strike.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen his face before,” Helena thought out-loud for the viewers at home. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Someone could have hired him.”

“Do you think so?” Cara-Thing asked. “It was pretty sloppy work for a paid job.”

“Yeah,” Sally-Thing said, gigantic feet up on the couch as she sipped from a wine glass the size of a 50-gallon drum. “And if it was a political nut, wouldn’t he have shouted ‘death to tyrants’ or something?”

“Well, I’m guessing at the moment, ladies, and all I’ve got is ‘don’t know the guy.’ For all I know, he’s a stalker who got tired of whacking off onto tabloid pictures of me while cutting himself and decided to ‘follow his dreams.’ Look, I’ve got a process to these things, and you’re not helping. Hit play, someone.”

Cara-Thing turned to Sally-Thing and stage-whispered as the film resumed.

“ARE we here to help or are we here to fuck with her?”

“It can be two things.” Sally-Thing replied.

Helena watched the memory, returning her gaze his direction after looking away for a couple more words with Ramirez. Now she was keeping her eyes on the man who was thirty seconds away from stabbing her. She saw him reach into his right pocket as his left arm dropped to his side. Her attention went back and forth between his two hands, and while the shank was dropping down into his left sleeve, his right hand produced a tiny, brown, glass bottle that he was unscrewing with his thumb and forefinger.

“What the fuck is that,” Helena asked. “Keep rolling, but did he poison the shank? Would they even think to check for that? In this part of the Mediterranean, I’d think they would. I doubt I’d be the first San Finzione to be taken out with a poisoned blade.”

The Helena whose eyes they were seeing the memory through turned to see Jeanne, pushing the beverage cart with an admiring smile at her in the background, and she remembered now that she’d seen Jeanne was about to hit the column with the cart a couple of seconds before it happened, but was too distracted by the speech she’d been practicing to shout a warning. She reminded herself not to get distracted again and focused on her assailant, who was off to the side of the memory’s field of vision, but still visible.

Then came the crash. Everyone in the group jostled each other as they turned to look, and she saw someone bump the man and the vial drop from his hand and shatter on the ballroom floor. Helena saw it, then looked back to his face. Still, he kept his eyes fixed on her, and didn’t look away with the others.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Sally-Thing said.

“Yeah, I thought this show would be shorter,” chimed in Cara-Thing.

“I’m really getting sick of you two,” Helen said to the Things.

Over with Jeanne and the cart, the pops and sparks then began, and Memory-Helena noticed the face that hadn’t turned away. Hadn’t had any reaction at all to the strangeness that drew everyone else’s attention. And that’s when she recognized the look and called for another pause.

“The vial broke,” she commented. “Half the plan shot to hell right there, so why not abort it? And I’m standing right next to Ramirez; an armed and highly-decorated combat veteran, trained in hand-to-hand combat. He can SEE the damn medals for them right there! Any assassin with the slightest bit of survival instinct would call it off and try again another day. What was your escape plan?”

Cara-Thing tried to say something and Helena threw the coffee cup at her.

“I’m thinking here!” She calmed down, a bit more satisfied now. “And I’m thinking there WAS no escape plan. That’s why you go through with it as long as you’ve got the shank. This was a suicide run!”

She paused. Sally-Thing opened her mouth to speak. Helena interrupted her.

“Shut the fuck up! I’m getting close to something here. Roll the goddamn tape!”

The man stepped forward and charged her. The other tourists turned their attention and cameras back to her. She heard herself shout her command not to move. She’d been off guard and hadn’t said it to him alone, but had done it to everyone in the room. Her guard was lost completely when the command didn’t work on him, when he didn’t even lose a step as he charged. It hit her a few seconds before the blade first pierced her flesh in the memory.

“He didn’t freeze because he didn’t hear it! He didn’t react to Jeanne and the cart because he couldn’t hear them either! Because he was deaf!”

The studio audience applauded. A lighted red sign of the sort that usually cued an audience to applaud was now flashing the word “CLUE” at them.

“Yay,” said Sally-Thing. “You figured something out. Doesn’t seem to have brought you out of this.”

“You know,” Helena said, standing up and walking over to them. The two Things stood to their full height, as if this were something they’d been waiting for. “Hallucinations, inner demons, Anne Coulter’s true form under the Human Suit; whatever the fuck you two are, I’ve had enough of you.”

“Me too,” said a familiar voice from up in the rafters with the lights. Helena looked up and saw the shapely form of a woman in green hot pants and a grey boob top with twin holsters strapped to her thighs. She jumped off of a scaffold and performed a somersault in the air, drawing the twin USP Match 5 pistols from her holsters and firing multiple rounds at Sally-Thing and Cara-Thing. The slugs pierced their bodies and they collapsed in a pile in front of Helena, which the somersaulting woman landed on with her back turned.

“L… Lara Croft?” Helena asked.

“Not quite,” the woman said, holstering both of her guns at the same time and turning so that Helena could now see the now familiar face.

“Hello,” the woman with Susan’s face said to Helen. “I’m Suzy-Q. Things are about to get weird, but I assure you that, unlike them, I’m here to help.”