The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Wings

by euanthe ()

“Join the Navy, and see the world!” the recruiter had said.

Somehow, he’d neglected the fact that the world is three-quarters water.

From angels fifteen, the south-Pacific’s brilliant blue expanse stretched endlessly toward the horizon, shifting shade as it went, till it blended seamlessly into the azure sky. It was a study in sensory deprivation, matched only by the Double Wasp radial’s white-noise drone in creating an aura of boredom so intense I feared my brain might pickle in its own juices.

Mmmmmm... Pickles! Now there was a thought.

My mind drifted away from the controls of the Corsair and towards the tastier topic of lunch. A pickle sandwich. Wet with bite. I could go for one of those.

The Corsair would do just fine on autopilot whilst I nipped to the fridge. Just one last glance at the screens to make sure...

Wait!

What was that? Just a flyspeck? Maybe I’d been remiss in cleaning my canopy. I nudged the plane a sliver west. The flyspeck stayed right where it was, which meant it wasn’t in here on the canopy, it was out there.

That meant plane, and I was the only friendly in the sky.

You blithering idiot, I thought—but to whom? It’s not really a canopy, it’s a monitor, and it’s the display that changes. Flyspecks on the screen stay where they are too.

By the time I’d wiped the screen, smearing skin oils across my 32″ display, the flyspeck was already growing, its black spot resolving into a fuselage and wings.

Oh cock. I gunned the radial’s drone into a roar. “Olivia Five, Bandits located, Lat four deg, five-four-point-niner min North, Long one-seven-niner deg, two-two-point-five min West,” I called into the radio microphone, “at least one Zeke, maybe more.”

That discharged my duty to the carrier.

Now I was in a fight for my life.

The Zeke had manoeuvrability on its side, but my “Bent-Winged Bird” had speed and ceiling in its corner. Unfortunately, the Zeke was coming from above, and trading altitude for speed meant he, not I, got to set the terms of this engagement.

Sure, I could dive and escape. But I hadn’t come here to run, I’d come for fun. And a Zeke, easy meat though it might be, would be an excellent playmate.

A thrill, one I’d long thought lost, ran through me. The Zeke pilot thought he had it all his own way. I was going to turn the tables on him, put his plane under my guns and leave his hope shattered and sinking across the uncaring Pacific waters.

Then I’d have some real fun with him.

A quick kick to the rudder pedals and a smooth dip of the control yoke sent me banking toward my soon-to-be victim. Let his fragile Japanese toy-box go head-to-head with the weight of my American metal. It was time to kick some butt, and take some names.

At a closing of over 1000 miles per hour chains of fire linked our two aircraft. Rounds pinged and whined as they impacted along the engine cowling, but I held my line as the Corsair’s heavy armour simply shrugged them off.

A golden rain of spent shell-casings cascaded from the Zeke, joined by occasional metal parts and pieces of fuselage.

The other pilot thought better of it, pulling his plane up into a zoom. Big mistake, buddy, I thought, and sea swapped with sky as I rolled the Corsair in pursuit. Now slower was better, as I cut inside his turn, keeping his fragile plane under the hammerblows of six .50 cal. machine guns.

A second more and I’d have him.

Then I felt the shiver of 20mm cannon-shells blowing holes in my fuselage. Shit, there must be a second Zeke, I thought, erasing awareness of my soon-to-escape prey—because now I was the prey—maintaining the steady pressure against the yoke to complete the role I’d begun, putting the Corsair into a dive.

It’s only a MMO, I though, only an MMO, if I bite it, I’ll just go and get that sandwich, maybe have the first early night in a long time.

It doesn’t matter if I get shot down.

But it didn’t feel that way. As the engine roared, and the high-def screens showed the too-blue waters rushing up to meet me, and my breath hyperventilated in my throat, it felt like I was in a flight for my life.

The higher purr of a Zeke engine, frequency-shifted by the Doppler effect of the dive, rang from the speakers behind me. Slowly, unbelievingly, unwillingly, my eyes slid to the screen displaying the Corsair’s rear view.

It was filled with whirling, red-tipped propeller. I saw the Zeke’s pilot wave, almost cheerily, and grin an all-to-feminine and feral grin.

Type 97 machine guns flashed. Impossibly, something exploded at the back of my neck.

The worlds, in-game and real both, went dark.

White sands merged into turquoise bay, into deep blue ocean, into azure sky. Apart a few fishermen hauling in their nets, I had the beach to myself. Tourists didn’t come to Tuvalu. Too far, too expensive and entirely facility free. I was living in a hut, which I’d rented at the extravagant price of a cool thousand dollars.

Yearly.

It was cheap to live in Tuvalu, but that wasn’t why I was here. It was the closest I could get, short of living on a boat or some deserted sandbank, to -4.9158, -174.3750, where my life had changed forever.

I’d tried to go on. Tried to fly again, but defeat had gnawed at me, and my replacement Corsair only held fear.

It had followed me, out of the cockpit, on to the subway to work, into the office. Every face became a threat, every person a whirling propeller, or the flash of Type 97’s.

I’ve always been independent, my own woman. Now I needed a protector. I’d called an old boyfriend, and woken screaming in his bed. Worse, his body held no interest for me. It was just a thing, a hard, rough edged thing.

I found myself longing for smoother lines and curves, like a Zeke’s. An occasional cheery wave from a female colleague, a feral grin over a salacious joke at the water cooler. Those things thrilled as much as they terrified.

Twice, I nearly begged girls, one a friend I knew liked women, one a leather clad chick on the street leading her lover by a leash, to accept and protect me, to make my their lover, servant, slave.

Oh, how are the mighty fallen.

But how could I know they were strong enough?

And so I had known. The only one for me, had had me, downed me, and that one was naught but a memory, waving cheerfully and grinning a feral grin, half-obscured by whirling propeller and flashing Type 97’s that I dreamed of nightly. They weren’t even nightmares, not anymore.

They were fantasies.

They were only thing that comforted me, that brought me, when my fingers slipped to my warm and oh-so-wet places when I roused.

Thus Tuvalu. And the waiting. At least it was cheap here.

“Corsair?” Someone Midwestern drawled.

I wanted to be suave. ‘Maybe,’ I’d wanted to purr back, ‘depends who wants to know,’ I’d settled on saying, of the million ways I’d planned this moment.

“Yes,” I squeaked as I jumped around to face her.

Face them.

For some reason, I hadn’t been expecting it to be a them, although of course the fact should’ve been obvious. The Midwestern – cornflower hair, short, fresh faced and frighteningly young, her legs and hips not yet filled out into womanhood – laughed, a warm, rich sound out of the farmland that wrapped around my heart. The other had some Japanese in her ancestry, straight black hair cascading around soft, expressive eyes over a mouth mouing into a smile.

She had a freaking Samurai sword slung across her back.

I found myself hoping that she was the one who’d downed me, not just because she was old enough—albeit barely—to do right now (and oh, was my body ever crying out to jump her), but because, yeah, protector. She could do that.

“Um, which one of you...” I wavered.

“Does it matter,” Japan murmured back, her eyes gliding across me. It felt almost appraising. I suddenly felt very old and frumpy before these two youthful beauties, neither carrying an ounce of spare flesh on their bones.

“She got me over the Channel,” Midwestern drawled, “and then she wouldn’t do anything about it because I’m ‘too young!’” She sashayed towards me – which is hard to do, when you don’t really have hips yet—“but you won’t do that, will you honey,” the word dripped, and so did I, “no age of consent in Tuvalu. I’m perfectly legal here,” she murmured as she violated my personal space, then my person, cupping my breast through the thin fabric of my shirt, nuzzling up to it.

My body wanted to moan and melt into her. It came out a groan.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Midwestern moaned into my breasts. I could feel the linen of my shirt, wet and sticky from my sweat and her mouth, dragging across my sensitised flesh as she pulled it aside, “so full, so womanly. One day I’ll be you,” she glanced up, and too-innocent eyes looked into mine, “but for now, I’ll settle for having you.”

This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And Midwestern hadn’t gotten me, so I still had choice. And I couldn’t choose this.

I put my hands on her cornflower hair, and pushed her away. Her plaintive wail as she sank to her knees on the rough sand nearly broke my heart. Japan – I hadn’t even noticed her move – bent and kissed the top of Midwestern’s head. “Gomen nasai, kid” she said, “we’ll find you a nice girl next, someone your own age. I promise.”

“Bbbut,” Midwestern blubbered, “she’ll leave me when she’s old enough for you. Or I’ll leave her.” Her eyes went vicious and hard, and for the first time I bought her as a fighter pilot, “and no-one deserves to feel like this!”

“Exactly your own age, then, sweetie,” Japan murmured, “and you can come to our bed together.” I shuddered. Somewhere out there, there was an unlucky, innocent fighter-ace gamer whose date of birth had just painted cross-hairs on her back. The thought dribbled into my swimsuit. Then I looked at Midwestern through teenage eyes. Gorgeous, but not finished. Not intimidating. Someone to learn with, share a wonderful, exploratory first experience with.

Some lucky, innocent fighter-ace gamer, I amended.

Japan was grinning her feral grin at me. I wondered why, and swayed when it hit me. ‘Our bed.’ I wasn’t going to be sent away. I was going to be kept.

Before I’d seen her move, I was in her arms, the world a blur as she lowered me to the sand in bullet-time. Her lips took mine, and then she took all of me.

Three Spitfires droned above far green country under a swift sunrise.

End