The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tracy inches through traffic, the blare of pop music as her only companion. Only the barest of space separates the white Sonata from the car in front of her. She grips the steering wheel and glances at the digital clock on the dashboard, ruing her decision to rent a car and merge into rush-hour traffic, all in the hopes of reaching the stretch of the thoroughfare on the other side. She grits her teeth and bares the spike in blood pressure, even as she curses her bad timing.

A sea of cars stretches out before her, an armada of steel far as the eye can see. No way is she ever going to make it out of here. Despite having grown up near the freeway in her late teens, it’s been years since she’s been back. The culture shock nearly gives her a heart attack. She exhales and reminds herself of the big picture.

I didn’t remember this stretch of 75 being so crowded, she wonders as she reaches for the bag of raisins besides her. A momentary lurch shakes her out of her complacency. Only by the grace of the heavens is she saved from a rear-ender. Suddenly she remembers why she left the warm climate and relative comfort of one of the country’s ten most crowded cities to freeze her bun off in the birthplace of the American Revolution. Screw the Downtown Connector—had she known there’d be so many cars up her ass she’d have stayed back there.

After hearing the same teeny bop song for the millionth time, she turns the radio off. Her ears are filled with the sound of motorists honking impatiently, waiting to barrel like yesterday across the six-lane and speed towards their intended destination. Her only recourse is to sit there and take it. It’s nowhere near as humiliating as a strip search in Hartsfield-Jackson, but at least she has her dignity.

As if to answer her prayers, the traffic finally lets up. Tracy joins the ranks of her fellow drivers, speeding along at a faster pace than when she started. She pulls into an exit, traveling down a circuitous route down a highway bisecting some of the city’s most blighted neighborhood. She keeps her guard up at each turn. Even as she travels along the maze of a path, Tracy is finally grateful to be free of the oppressive highway.

Several tense minutes later, she finally pulls in front of an entrance to a subdivision, ivy creeping up the sign welcoming visitors and residents alike to it. She exhales and steels herself as she stares at the golden block letters.

“Fern Manor.” Tracy murmurs. “This is it.”

She coasts along the private road snaking through the housing development, a bucolic array of houses set against tall oaks and pines, far away from the cacophonous echo of traffic. The scenery throws her back to a time when she struggled to redefine herself in the anonymous noise of the state capital, grateful for a chance to redeem herself yet anxious because of her status as the New Girl in town. Yet that was many years ago, before she won the scholarship to Harvard that would change her life forever, before she met Jeremy.

Jeremy.

Her chest heaves in a sigh. The thought of her late fiancée is never far from her mind. She forces herself to concentrate on the path in front of her, forcing her grief down inside as her eyes dart along the roadway, looking for any sign of the small brick townhouse where her parents live. By chance, she spies it sitting near the edge of a cul-de-sac.

She pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine. Tracy fidgets inside the pocket of her jeans, fingering the emerald ring that’d been in her boyfriend’s family since his grandmother’s time. They just begun talking about setting a date a couple weeks ago, and now it is all that remains of her former life. She has to debate whether to tell her mother and father the truth, or let it remain one of her most precious secrets. Casting aside her fears, she raps her knuckles against their front door.

“Tracy, what are you doing here?” Her silver-haired mother is shocked. “I thought you were in Boston.”

“Change of plans, Mom.”

“Is it fall break already?”

“No, Mom, I just had to get some me time, you know.”

“Do your professors know?”

“I sent them an email before I left.” Tracy unzips her jacket. “Look, the real reason I’m here is there’s something I think you should know.”

“You know you can always tell me anything.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

Tracy takes a deep breath. She composes the words in her head, striking the right balance between saying too much and leaving much to be desired. A lot has happened since she drifted off over the past eight years, pursuing pleasures mental and physical. She’d lost touch, yet she always promised herself to reconnect at a later date with happy news. This is not what she had in mind.

“Jeremy’s dead.” She spits it out.

Her mom’s face turns a shade of pale.

“Jeremy? Is he a boy you met in school?”

“I was meaning to tell you, but I got so busy. But between the dissertation, pursuing tenure and everything else, I kind of forgot. We had the wedding planned and everything and then...”

“You look like you could use some coffee.” Her mother motions her inside.

While the Elgin’s coffee pot hisses, Tracy sits on the beige ottoman collecting her thoughts. So much to say, so much left unsaid. Where to begin? She stares into space, catatonic in a haze. As her mom hands her a makeshift latte, she snaps back into reality, vaguely aware of whatever it is she was pondering before.

“So how did it happen?” Her mother asks. “Was it natural causes, or—”

“I’d rather not talk about it.“Tracy interrupts. “All I can say is it was a shock.” After a pause, a nagging feeling starts to bubble in Tracy’s head. She fidgets, running her hands nervously over her thighs. She darts her eyes around the room, as though noticing something out of place for the first time.

“Mom, where’s Dad?”

Her mother sighs.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier. He moved out.”

“Moved out?”

“We separated six months ago.”

Tracy’s stomach churns.

“Excuse me.”

Running upstairs, she ducks into the bathroom. She heaves into the toilet, punching the wall afterwards. A hail of profanities escapes her mouth. Her veins pulse with anger as she paces around in her old bedroom. She regrets ever making the visit.

She spies a pair of metallic objects, a shimmer of greenish glow reflecting in a bath of yellow light. As she walks toward it to get a better view, it dawns on her what they truly are.

The earrings. How could she forget? A floodgate of memories whiz by her, images of track competitions, friendships, lover’s quarrels. Suzy, Joanie, Asha, Colleen, Hank. Where did they go? Or did they ever leave?

She clutches the trinkets tightly, as if by touching them that somehow she could transport herself away from the present, towards a happier time when the only problem seemed to be snagging the varsity quarterback. A voice pierces her thoughts.

“Are you okay up there?” Her mother calls out.

“Yeah Mom.” Tracy calls out. “Do you mind if I spend the night? While I’m here I’d like to visit some old friends, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure honey, anything you want.”

“Do you want me to get your suitcase, dear?”

“No Mom, I’ll be down in a second.”

She glides her fingers over the jewelry absentmindedly, wondering what if any use they would be to her anymore.

Shafts of bright light wake Tracy from her slumber the following morning. She rubs her eyes and yawns, feeling deprived of a few more minutes sleep. She shakes the grogginess off, pulling on her jeans and stumbling down the stairs, the noise of suburbia not quite registering in her somnambulate brain. The sweet aroma of maple syrup drifts into her nostrils, pulling her towards the island in the kitchen. The moisture of her salivating tongue makes her anxious with each passing second.

The pitter-patter of soft footsteps surprises her. She cranes her head as her mother walks in, clad in the white terrycloth robe that Tracy bought her for Christmas just before she left for the Bay State a decade ago, the familiar sight of pink rollers in her hair. Tracy almost double takes from the image of her mother without makeup.

“Something wrong?” Her mother asks.

“Why does the house smell like syrup?”

“I made your pancakes, sweetie. Just like you used to like them—golden brown, with the blueberries baked inside. That is how you like them, right?”

“Um, sure Mom.”

“What you are sitting on that stool for? Fix yourself some. You look dead to the world.”

Hungry, Tracy settles down and sticks her fork into the breakfast meal, scarfing it down eagerly. She turns on the TV and broods over a cup of piping hot coffee, watching blankly as the morning news anchors glibly deliver the day’s top stories. She stares vacantly at the screen, the fog in her mind reducing her brain to a blank slate.

She turns off the television after the second cup, showering and climbing into a pair of baggy pants and a green and white striped sweatshirt. The rest of the day is spent helping around the house, vacuuming, cleaning volunteering for errands in the city. It’s the least she can do to get her mind off the recent troubles, yet she welcomes the monotony.

As the pink sun sets against a purple sky, she climbs behind the steering wheel and sets off for an hours- long journey, braving the gauntlet of I-75. Blazing past strip malls and fields, she cruises down the busy interstate with no idea of what to expect of her birthplace. She finally spies the sign welcoming her to Bentley, a little apprehensive at the prospect of exploring her old stomping grounds. Idling down the same main drag she swore she’d never visit, she drives along run down shops and restaurants that appear to have seen better days.

In the ten years that have passed since she left Bentley, much has changed. Not just within her but outside as well. The world of social networking, high gas prices and economic uncertainty had been replaced by a 3D computer screens, electric fueling stations, and a limitless economic boom that didn’t seem to end. Like her parents (and millions of Americans) before her, Tracy had fallen into the trap of taking it all for granted. It never occurred to her that the rug could be pulled out from under her, yet she continued to persist, completely convinced in the limitless possibilities of the future.

Powering this dramatic social transformation was a new economic system driven not by oil, or natural gas, but synthetic alternative energy. This had been a concern of entrepreneurs in the past, but as the second decade of the 21st century neared a close the need for new, cheaper sources of electricity to power homes and fuel to ferry cars took on increasing energy. Several companies took on the cause, but as they each fell by the wayside one stood above all others: Divinex.

Spun off as an offshoot of a powerful defense and engineering firm, in the brief time Divinex had existed as an independent company it’d managed to shift itself from purely military contractor supplying algae goo for planes and tanks to a corporation with a diverse portfolio ranging from compact fluorescents to fuel cells; toothpaste to contact lenses.

Of late the company became aware of a new market hole: synthetic perfumes. Not that the idea hadn’t been exploited before. But as precious forests and wetlands in faraway climes gave way to oil derricks and mining operations, demand for alternatives to sandalwood, incense and other materials took root. Using the same process that was once used for artificial sweeteners, Divinex obtained extracts from precious flora and fauna and incorporated it into entirely new perfumes and oils.

With the help of savvy marketing—to say nothing of celebrity endorsements—their line of products took off. Everything from soaps, epsom salts, even colognes laced with aphrodisiacs. Then something strange happened—the military got involved. Having conducted numerous experiments with mind control in the past, they were curious to know whether certain smells could act as a “trigger” in humans under trance. In much the same way that a joker’s wild could be used to trigger desired responses, it was thought that since scent triggered near-instantaneous feedback—such as the memory of a lover’ smell—the whiff of a scent could be used in much the same way to activate sleeper agents in various locations around the world.

It would be the perfect delivery system to activate agents on an ad-hoc basis. They would still have to be trained and know how to shoot/torture/kill on command, but if the government’s hunch was right, years of covert planning would be reduced to months, if not weeks. It was the biggest gamble the military and intelligence community had taken in over a half a century.

Logically, Divinex was best suited to carry out such research. With their defense background, and knowledge of the olfactory organs, the relationship between Divinex and the U.S. military was a marriage made in heaven. Naturally, knowledge of subsequent experiments were kept from politicians or the public, but as contract after contract rolled in, the gravy train seemed to go on forever.

Leading the charge was one Frank Ennis. A veteran of the Persian Gulf War, Ennis had traded the chips he built up as an officer and a gentleman for the riches and perks of the private sector, first as a .com entrepreneur, then as a rising star in the defense industry. When the previous CEO died in a hunting accident, Ennis replaced him, molding the company into one of the largest behomeths in corporate America. A native Bostonian, he later relocated the company’s headquarters in northern Virginia to Massachusetts—the company has been thriving ever since.

Consumed with her studies throughout her six years of undergrad and grad, Tracy had little time or inclination to learn more about the company. But based on the few conversations she had with Jeremy, Tracy knew enough to figure out that whatever that was going on in was extremely secretive, and in hindsight possibly illegal. Her boyfriend only spoke in the vaguest terms about the inner workings of what was going on when he was alive.

Yet now that he has died her curiosity has peaked even more.

Tracy pulls up to the old ranch house she recalls from memory. The yard is no less neat and trim than that fateful day a decade ago. Hard to believe it’s been that long since she first spotted the trinkets. Tracy eyes the yellow light peeking through lacy window shades. She spies a beat up old four-door truck sitting next to a white Miata. Not a good sign.

She knocks on the door still, determined to find some answers. Even if the old woman is dead or face down in applesauce, at least she can be secure in the knowledge that the home is in good hands. She paces around with her hands in her pockets, convinced that the owners of the brick home bear no relation to the kindly spinster who sold her the fateful earrings. She turns around and walks back toward the vehicle, chalking the visit down to a wasted effort.

“You’re awfully quick, for a delivery boy.” The familiar sing-song voice rings out. “How much do I owe you for the pepperoni? Twenty? Thirty?”

Tracy stops in her tracks.

“Suzy Lu? Class of 2008?”

“If it isn’t poor ol’ Tracy Elgin! I’d recognize that voice from anywhere.”

The redhead spins around to face a short woman, her raven hair trimmed into a bob. Eyes peek out over sharp bangs. Tracy hardly believes the change in her classmate’s appearance. Even more audacious is her attire—short, skimpy camouflage shorts and a desert fatigue top. She resists the urge to stare.

“Aren’t you freezing in that thing? What happened to you?”

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Suzy blushes. “I had, um, plans tonight.”

“Plans?” Tracy rolls her eyes. “I leave you for a decade and already you’re on the prowl.”

“Not really.” The Asian shrugs. “I happened to take the day off, and well, one thing led to another. Why don’t you come inside? It’s not often that I have visitors these days.”

“I’ can come back later if now’s a bad time.” Tracy hems and haws. “I don’t want to be the third wheel.”

“That’s nonsense!” Suzy waves her hand dismissively. “You came all this way to see me, didn’t you? The least you can do is grace me with your presence.”

Stepping into the living room, Tracy is assaulted by a variety of odd sights and smells. She traces the bits of latex laying in a trail of water nearby. The scent of melted wax catches her off guard. As she ventures further, her eyes are assaulted by the sight of a woman with bright blonde hair, hogtied on the Oriental carpet.

“I see you brought a visitor.” She purrs in a sultry German accent. “Kinky.”

“I’m afraid she’s not interested, Hilde.” Suzy calls out. “She just stopped by to say hello.”

“We could always use Irish lasses in the mix, Suze. Maybe the Nazis invade Dublin?”

Tracy pulls her old friend aside.

“What the hell is she talking about?”

“It’s Axis versus Allies. She’s a naughty German spy who’s just been captured, and I’m the American who’s been sent to interrogate her...sexily.”

“You’re Korean.”

“So? My father was a gunnery sergeant. Who says a 5′2 with B size boobs can’t serve her country?”

“Your father was a cook in Vietnam. You told me.”

“What’s wrong with a little revisionist history?”

“Ok, ok.” Tracy throws up her hands. “But explain the balloons and the water.”

The confident young Asian suddenly turns sheepish.

“Pearl Harbor?”

“The Germans didn’t bomb Pearl Harbor.” Tracy sighs in exasperation. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Continue to be my friend?”

“Alright.” Tracy rolls her eyes. “Untie her.”

“As you wish.” Suzy walks over to her lover and frees her.

“Maybe next time?” She kisses her forehead.

“Da.” The woman eyes Tracy ravenously. “You’re always welcome to join us, you know.”

“Not my type.” She waves her off.

The two watch the truck speed away. As soon as it disappears, Suzy turns to her comrade, hands on hips.

“Why did you really come?” Her eyes are narrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“You could at least have called or dropped a line. Lord knows I haven’t seen you since the championship, and that was ages ago!”

“I’ve been busy! Haven’t you heard of graduate school?”

“Ten years is a long time to go to grad school.” Suzy snips at her. “What were you doing in Boston that was so important you couldn’t say hello?”

“It’s called ‘getting an education’, Suzy. Everybody does it.”

“What really happened? Did you meet somebody? Settle down?”

“What do you care? You’re a lesbian.”

“I care enough to want to know what my friends are up to.” Suzy barks.

“What do you want me to do? Live my life as an open book?”

“Friendship is a two-way street, you know.” Suzy snarls. “You can’t just walk in and expect to resume our relationship as though nothing had happened.”

As if by fate, the phone rings, interrupting her tirade.

“Somebody you know?” Tracy scrunches her face as checks the caller ID. “This looks like a Boston number.”

“Answer it.”

Labored breaths reverberate on the other end. Probably some prank caller, or worse, a telemarketer. Tracy nearly cuts them off.

“Who is this? If you don’t hang up now I’ll call the police.”

“Tracy?” The frightened Southie brogue echoes through the years. “What are you doing in Georgia?”

“Joanie? Is that you? You sound scared. Are you okay?”

“Is—is Suzy there?”

“She’s kind of busy right now. Can I take a message?”

“Not over the phone.” Joanie admonishes her. “They could be listening.”

“They?”

“It’s kind of complicated. Do you have a Hotmail address or something?”

“Yeah.” Tracy gives out her campus email. “You know I’m coming back to Boston in a couple days. I could meet you for lunch if you’d like.”

“That’d be great.”

click.

Tracy sighs.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Suzy calms down. “Who was it?”

“Joanie.”

“Joanie? Like our Joanie? Why would she be calling at ten o’ clock at night?”

“I don’t know.” Tracy shrugs. “Have you talked with her in the last few days?”

“We exchanged a few emails six months ago, planning a reunion of the entire gang—you, me, her, all of us. We even discussed booking the same hotel where we last saw each other, but then she fell off the planet. I just assumed she was busy or lost interest or moved on—you know how life is. ”

“Did she ever sound erratic or scared? Did she say anything unusual or odd?”

“Not that I was aware of.”

“Well she is now. She wouldn’t say why, but she did want to speak with you. I told her you were busy and scheduled a time and place to chat.”

“Why would she be reaching out to us?” Suzy crosses her arms. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“This doesn’t feel right either.” Tracy nods.

“So how does this affect your stay?”

“My vacation just got shorter.” Tracy sighs. “And just when I thought I was out...”