The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Morning, Susan here. Well, afternoon. We all stayed up late, and Helen didn’t get in until 7 AM-ish. We settled for a late bacon, eggs, & what was going to be toast before an Ultimado ran a plate of croissants out of the oven across the street to us for breakfast. Helen settled for two of the croissants. She also sent Velasquez to bring her some clean clothes and take care of the outfit she’d been wearing when she came home. (I didn’t notice it in the dark, but apparently, “Why did you come home with blood that’s almost certainly Leonard Whyte’s on your clothes” is another “Question We Don’t Ask Helen.”)

“Sorry,” She told us, accepting the coffee with hazelnut creamer to go with them. “I ordered room service after you guys left. Sorta did breakfast early this morning.” I didn’t have much either, leaving the two of us alone at the table, looking through the breakfast nook with the television off to one side, while Julie and Troy took care of dishes.

Julie started handing the breakfast dishes to Troy after passing them under the sink, and he’d check them to see if they needed extra work to get stuff off, or if they were dishwasher-ready. Rejects would be set on the prep table for further scrubbing afterward, and the others got efficiently loaded into the dishwasher. Troy extended his left hand, reaching past his field of vision to grab the dish that Julie had been holding just outside her own. It reminded me of the dishwashers at the diner, when we got some who’d stick around long enough to build up any kind of rapport, doing moves like that.

I think that’s why I like watching Troy and Julie do kitchen stuff together. (Apart from the fact that it means that it’s not my day to do it.) Because watching them set the table for dinner was the first thing I ever saw the two of them do as a couple. After the thought “robots” left my head, the one after it was “This is what two people who know and trust each other completely look like when they’re working on a problem together.”

Helen was still sipping her coffee, too. She’d also been watching them. And from the look on her face, thinking about them; like I’d just been, and imagine the same look was on my face. It seemed like she wanted to share her thought, so I let her.

“Do you know how I know that ‘evil mind controller’ Troy’s always worrying about isn’t out there, Susan?”

I did not. And if she had an answer, I certainly wanted to hear it.

“No, I don’t. How?”

We sipped our coffee together. Helen took a drag of her cigarette. By now, it was just something that’s a part of Helen. She used it to gesture subtly into the kitchen.

“Look at who found it. An artist and a mathematician; emotion and reason working in perfect harmony, love, and trust. No egos, no ulterior motives; no agenda other than ‘I really wanna learn how to do this cool thing with my best friend and fellow oblivious soulmate.’”

Julie gave no response to that. She was at the sink, and it was running.

“Fucker like Whyte couldn’t have found it.” I agreed.

“No, or he would have. So would a couple dozen pricks who thought ‘those other guys who’ve tried to take La Contessa down just weren’t man enough, unlike me.’ But nope, two kids, obsessively reading library books, comics, and books they ordered from ads inside those comics, figured it out.”

Troy closed the dishwasher. He spun around to kiss Julie. She turned and kissed him, then grabbed the “need a little more” stack off the table while he started the washer. She then stepped to the left sink, and Troy slid into her former position on the right side to help with those.

“And that,” Helen said, pointing with the cigarette again. “Is how I know that ‘evil mind controller who might be out there’ isn’t. As for Troy’s Men in Black/Area 51 thing, I know that’s bullshit, because I’ve asked the right people, and I’ve been there.”

My eyes widened. I’m sure all the ladies in my head’s eyes widened too.

“What’s in Area 51?” I asked. I was, after all, cleared to know this stuff now. At least in San Finzione. “I’ll go live in San Finzione to know this!”

Helen leaned in closer.

“Nothing. It’s a diversion. The good stuff’s all hidden around Areas 1-50. But nobody even asks about them, because they’re all too busy staring at 51 and waiting for the next laser show.”

I smiled. She gave me one of those “Am I joking? Best answer you’re getting, anyway.” looks. I accepted it.

“All right, then. Well, when’s the Auction?”

“Midnight.” She replied. “We got the time and town to be in, We’ll get the actual location two hours prior. Enough time for everyone to make sure we’re not being followed and get there. There’s usually a little cocktail thing before we get down to business; let the ones who ‘need to’ be fashionably late.”

“Ok.” I took a drink before my next question. “So, how’re you taking THEM down?”

“I’m not, Susan.” Came the last reply I was expecting. She saw the expression on my face and continued. “The Auctioneers have been around for quite a while, Susan. Where do you think the movies got the ‘I’ll sell it on the black market, to the highest bidder’ idea from in the first place? They’re not something you ‘shut down.’ This isn’t even the fifth or sixth group to call themselves The Auctioneers. There’s too much money to be made for someone not to keep it going. If this group goes down, a new group of Auctioneers forms the next day. It might take them a while to build up the old group’s contacts and connections; and who knows if they’ll be better or worse than the last one? If they’ll start inviting people who absolutely shouldn’t get hold of this shit or who were taken off the last group’s list for a good reason. The current group are good about not letting their items fall into STUPID hands, who’ll use it without a single fucking thought in their heads; then blab about them when they get caught. That’s why none of the ‘superpowers’ are on the mailing list. What if the fuckhead you’ve got in there right now got hold of Springheel? Do you think he’d use it wisely, or would anyone who calls him a not-nice name in the press start meeting with strange accidents until he can’t resist tweeting the whole world about it? No, the best thing I can do, Susan, is keep myself on the list; in case something like Springheel comes up, so I can make sure nobody else gets it.”

I gave her a smirk on that one.

“Channeling evil into good DOES appear to be the San Finzione Way, but I’ve been in your head, Helen.” I told her. “Well, Suzy-Q has, and she can’t lie or help telling me everything. She briefed me when she got back last night; you’ve seen how that works now.”

Helen nodded. It seems she didn’t get the full experience that I get from what I’m calling ‘Suzy-Q’s little memory upload kisses.’ (I may come up with a shorter name later.) Suzy-Q IS me experiencing those things, and that would explain why it takes me a while to sort things out after she shares them with me; like whether I had sex with Helen or Suzy-Q did. I mean, it was her idea, and technically, she WOULD make the same choices that I would in any given situation. It was more than I wanted to consider right after breakfast, when I still had a point to make to Helen.

“The point, Helen, is that I know why you really want Springheel. Because the first time you watched the video, you thought ‘This is the instrument of my death. This is how someone finally gets to me,’ And it’s haunted you ever since. So, as soon as you’ve gotten hold of this thing and destroyed it, that’s when you’ll be able to relax. Like Julie’s said she wish you would and all of us are thinking.”

We looked over at the TV, which was on mute. By afternoon, the news was growing tired of showing us digitized-out pictures of Helen’s pussy and had moved on to other stories, like the suicide of tech mogul Leonard Whyte CBE early this morning after losing everything in the stock market yesterday. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV and the black & white photo of Leonard Whyte’s face on a black background, with his birth and death dates in big red numbers.

I patted Helen’s hand and left mine there. She didn’t stop me.

“And speaking of things everyone’s thinking, Helen? I learned about the other thing too. Suzy-Q didn’t tell me; we stayed up late waiting to hear if you’d be ok, holding each other, and talking. It wasn’t until Ortega told us that everything was under control that we were all able to relax and get some sleep. So, of course, you were the main subject of conversation, Helen; you wanting Troy’s baby and him wanting my thoughts on the matter before making a decision came up eventually.”

Helen’s eyes widened as she sipped her coffee and barely managed to avoid a spit-take or choking on it. It must be that “never let them see you sweat” thing that people like her have to develop.

“You guys have made this weirdly easy for me.” Helen replied, once she’d fully recovered.

“You’ve got enough problems.” I told her. “None of us want to add to them. So, I’ll tell you what I told them: That I don’t know if I’ll want kids or not. Up until a year ago, I figured that it was something I wouldn’t even have a say in; having all of it is still sort of new to me. However, if I ever do, there’s no one I’d rather have them call Daddy than Troy. We seem to go back and forth on things we can’t blame each other for. And there are no other kids besides his and Julie’s whom I’d want more for them to call brother or sister. Thinking about it, though, his and yours would be just as cool.”

She was overjoyed. It turned into a kiss. Her joy fueled mine, until the kiss became a real one. The one she knew exactly how to kiss, either from Suzy-Q, or the man I’d learned it from. It didn’t matter. It was too fucking hot. It made Suzy-Ho beg me to invite her up to see my room. I ended it moments before I would have agreed and relaxed back in my head and let Suzy-Ho make the offer.

Both of our first reaction was to look over at Troy and Julie at the sink. If they’d noticed us, then their not noticing us now was deliberate. It seemed genuine enough.

I looked back at Helen. Her eyes seemed like they didn’t know whether she should apologize or not. People live or die based upon this woman’s decision-making skills, and she was using all of them to determine whether or not she’d “gone too far, just like Helen Parker always does.”

I took the hand I’d been patting, picked it up, and held it in my other hand, so it was gently pressed between both.

“Not just yet, Helen.” I whispered to her. “Those odds of ‘love’ becoming an acceptable word between us aren’t as long as they were when you made that video; and I can feel them decreasing all the time; I’m just not there yet. There are things to consider like, do I want it to be just us that first time, or…” I nudged my head toward Troy & Julie, wrapping up in the kitchen. “As a family, since that’s bound to happen eventually, too; or how? I know I’ll be cool with the idea soon, let’s at least get this Springheel thing off your head first.” I thought a moment. “Plus, Denise wanted to know if she could come meet you yet, and she’s still in high school, so there’s a ‘none of that when Denise is around’ rule. That thing OR That Thing.”

She nodded her understanding. I nodded back to let her know that this part of the discussion was just on hold for now. I had something else to tell her.

“About that first night, I called you.” I said, looking down. “There was something…”

Helen patted my hand now.

“Suzy-Q explained about Propappou’s jacket in that last kiss. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. And you’ve forgiven me for so much fucking shit, how can I not?”

We hugged over that. This time, I saw Troy & Julie looking, then pretend they weren’t and start to head into the living room.

We picked up our coffees and followed them.

“Well,” Helen said, entering the room. “Equalses and Baileys. It looks like I’m suddenly free until tonight, and we already did the ‘wreck up Seattle’ thing yesterday. I heard Denise wants to stop by, I’d like to meet her, too. Anyone wanna do anything until then?”

At a Seattle area weekly publication, at the desk of one of the photographers, something was happening. He’d been covering the crowds outside the phone store when La Contessa and her own group arrived. There’d been something in his own photos that he hadn’t noticed; or rather, it was a thing in his own photos that he hadn’t thought at all unusual until he noticed it missing from the others’ photos of their day with La Contessa.

“The other women.” He thought. “The ones with the shoes. The taller one had red, strappy heels on.” He compared them with the feet waiting in the back of La Contessa’s limo in front of the club the night before. Different shoes, but two other women with her again. “They’d just been shopping all day, so of course they’d change shoes and outfits for clubbing; still in all likelihood, the same two who’d been with La Contessa all afternoon.

He looked at the red heels again. They were sticking in his memory for a reason. After a few moments’ thought, he got up and walked over to his co-worker’s desk.

“Hey,” He signed to the writer. “The art show in Spokane we covered a couple months ago; you have that stuff handy?” The writer nodded back that he did and handed him a binder. The photographer signed his thanks and returned to his own photos.

With the memory of “Spokane,” it didn’t take him long to remember exactly where he’d seen those red, strappy heels: on feet at the bottom of legs that disappeared into a form-fitting knee-length red dress that surrounded an amazing hourglass figure. And atop that figure, a bright, expressive face, surrounded by a mane of hair that couldn’t decide if it was dishwater or buttery blonde.

He looked at the pictures he’d taken of the exhibit, and why he’d remembered those heels fell into place: Because the beauty of both the artist and her work had been memorable. He’d admired her expressions of the world around her. Everything was beautiful in her eyes, all the world. And the artist gave that beautiful vision back to the world on her canvasses.

The shoes stood out to him, because the artist herself had stood out to him. Oh, a sexy woman, absolutely; great ass, amazing tits, all that. But that wasn’t what made him remember the entire woman based on the shoes she’d worn to an art showing two months ago. It had been that THE ARTIST had been such a work of art herself. As much a part of her showing as anything on the walls. Not just a pretty woman, but a person so completely sincere and honest with both her facial expressions and her brushstrokes that you could see it in Julie Equals’ eyes; that was the name of the artist, he remembered now. You could see in her eyes, the beautiful place from which her vision stemmed. She’d moved him as much as her paintings had. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he imagined that it was as beautiful as everything else about Mrs. Equals; of course, a woman like her would be married, and her works both were. She’d been a radiant woman, whom people gravitated toward, and the photos showed it.

He looked at the artist’s biography and read the first sentence.

“Julie Equals and her husband, Troy, consider themselves fortunate to have been born best friends and next-door neighbors, a week apart, in Anchorage, Alaska. They reside in Federal Way, Washington, where Mr. Equals is...”

Yeah, that’s how he remembered she was married; how do you not lead with a love story like that? “Anchorage, Alaska” floated through his head for a moment. It looked for something else to connect with in yesterday’s photos.

He went to his computer and brought up the Wikipedia page for Contessa Helena de San Finzione, looking for her place of birth.

Susan here. We were gathered around the living room table. Troy had dragged out a board game, and the drinks had switched from coffee to hot cocoa. I’ve noticed a distinct “hot beverages preferred” theme with Helen, and that they vary with her mood. Cocoa, I’ve observed, is the most positive one so far. I’m told it was what Propappou always made for her.

“So, I have two questions I have to ask, Helen.” I had to ask Helen. “The question that Rita answered that tipped me off to her. I have to know what your answer would have been: Why wasn’t America invited to STRANGERS?”

Helen took a sip of her cocoa and looked me in the eyes.

“We tried to make the President a special invitation that would explain all the issues to him in a way he’d understand, but then, SOMEONE broke the crayon.”

When we all stopped laughing, I asked my second question.

“The Bank Robbery Quiz: What was your answer to the ‘Why don’t we do it’ question?”

“Helen cocked her head and smiled.

“I never answered that question. When he asked how I’d do it, I just stood up, said ‘Why the fuck would I tell you my plan, Troy? You’ll just try to stop me.’ and ran into the bank. I was already in the vault when Troy caught up with me. After I made up for the assignment, we came out and spent a whole ten minutes talking to the manager and the cops clearing it up. By then, most of the cops in Anchorage were like ‘Yeah, that’s The Parker Girl, this kinda thing happens,’ anyway.”

Everyone who wasn’t Troy laughed at that. Then he joined us.

From across the street, we heard My Generation start booming from the speakers and all concluded that Mander must have made it back. Helen had said that she didn’t have much for him to do now until the Auction, so he had some free time, and had been catching up with some guy named Bluey back at the hotel.

“Bluey’s agreed to stay as Your Countessness’ prisoner at the ’otel.” Mander told us when he stopped by. “Told ’im it’d show good behavior if ’e ’elped maintain the illusion ’at Your Countessness is still occupyin’ the suite insteada bein’ ’ere. Orderin’ room service, gettin’ some pay-per-view, chargin’ a couple things to the room. Ya know, makin’ it look like someone who don’t care ’bout money’s really stayin’ there.”

“Top notch service, Alfred.” Helen said with a grin. She turned and whispered to me. “And yes, I’m aware that he’s up to something when he turns up the Cockney.”

“Who’s Bluey?” Troy asked.

Helen looked down her nose at Mander and replied in the tone of a 19th century Victorian landlord introducing the thugs he’s brought along to help collect the old widows’ rent.

“Another reliable gentleman such as himself.” She dropped the accent. “Whose taste in porn I’ll trust won’t be too weird when I get my bill.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Julie said with a smile. “Wait til you see some of the freaky shit you ordered while you were in the bathroom a couple of times.”

I smiled at that. Helen tends to pick the porn that her hotels air, too. Another of La Contessa’s personal touches.

Troy had still been setting up the game and was asking Mander if he wanted in when there was a commotion outside. Mander took point as we all made for the front door, his hand on the gun at his side.

Out on the street, which was more visible now that most of the Ultimados’ vehicles had been put into storage until Troy could find some local charities that could use them; four Ultimados dressed in ripped jeans and plaid flannel shirts were accosting a man who’d just gotten out of his car in front of our house. (The Ultimados were better dressed for Seattle today, because Julie and I took the opportunity while shopping yesterday to pick up a few less-conspicuous outfits for some of them. We’d distracted our nerves while awaiting word on Helen from the command center last night by giving some of the ones not busy taking orders from Ortega some ‘How to Blend into the Crowd in the Northwest’ fashion tips.)

Helen shouted “Stop!” at the Ultimados as a command, when one pulled a camera and notepad from the man’s pockets. Julie and I weren’t sure why it became urgent at that point, but Troy seemed to know. I tried to remember to ask why later. They froze in place, and the man looked at them curiously, but retrieved his notebook and camera from one of them and started walking toward Helen. They looked stunned at the man who continued slowly, non-threateningly, walking toward her. Helen told the Ultimados to move, but let the man be.

“Contessa Helena de San Finzione?” He signed, once his possessions were returned to his pockets and his hands were free.

Helen nodded.

“I’m Tom Arnette with the Seattle Acquaintencer. Is this not the home of the artist Julie Equals?”

“Yes, it is, Tom.” Helen signed back. “While you still remember that, how did you find me here?” A moment later, she signed “Forget I said that. How did you find me here?”

“I recognized Mrs. Equals from the shoes she wore to an art showing a couple months ago.”

Helen swore under her breath. As we’d talked since, I’d found out that the “shoe plan” had been something she and Julie had cooked up during one of their “post-coital and still high-on-whatever” conversations during their Party Girl days, about how if one of them married someone rich and famous; for money or something, the two of them would still carry on behind that person’s back. They hadn’t discussed it much since then, especially since by the time it was actually needed, the one who was famous was a widow, and the other’s husband was someone they both dearly loved, who positively encouraged, and played an active role in, their relationship. It apparently didn’t cover the other of them also achieving some modest level of fame, and someone connecting the two of them that way.

“Who else did you tell you were coming here?” Helen signed to him.

“A couple guys back at the magazine.” Tom signed back. Helen turned her head down Troy & Julie’s street, and saw two news vans coming their way.

“Nessuna sparatoria!” Helen shouted to the Ultimados, running for Troy & Julie’s door and ushering everyone inside. Tom started to follow them. Helen turned and signed “Not you, you stay out here” to Tom as she did.

“Helen?” Troy asked, as soon as we were all inside. “Why did you just tell the Ultimados ‘No shooting?’”

“Because the day you’ve always feared so much that it’s made me fear it too, has come, Troy. The media is here. My world IS about to come crashing down on your doorstep!”