Puppet Show
(MMF,mc,nc,nonviolent)

by holeFair

Disclaimer: This story is fantasy.  It is not something I would
actually do or approve of. In particular, I do not condone using mind
power to control of other people's behavior.  Also, the fact that the
narrator does not know how to spell "tachyon" should not be construed
as evidence that I don't.
.  



"But look here," Mr. Weerawagan said, "If what you're saying is
correct, then why is it not the case that we are most of us
_enslaved_ by people with this mind-control power?"

He had this formal way of talking; I'll try my best to reproduced
it. I don't talk that way, especially after a few drinks, which is the
situation we were in.

"For various reasons.  The kickback I mentioned is the main one.  
That could be probably be overcome if the people with the power were
better at cooperating with each other.  But we tend to be a suspicious
lot, who keep to ourselves.  Except for a few devoted followers, of
course.  It's hard not to be self-absorbed when you have this
kind of power.

"But if you ever see a politician who seems oddly powerful in spite of
having no charisma at all, say, Dick Cheney, or that guy Johnson back
around the Vietnam War, it's sometimes because they can tweak the
people in their vicinity just a leetle bit. Not that I'm saying those
two in particular were Controllers. But if they were, at least they
used the power to try to accomplish some good for society, as they saw
it, rather than getting their rocks off with some random person. They
only ran out of gas because they couldn't control a hundred million
people at the same time."

"Explain the kickback phenomenon one more time," said Mr. Weerawagan.

We were stuck in an airport bar with all planes grounded on account of
fog. I had loosened up to the point where I felt like it would do no
harm to talk about my secret.  Few people really believe me anyway,
and I try to make sure I don't run into the ones that do more than
once.

"The mind-control ability exploits some kind of field that interacts
with the cortex of the brain.  I didn't get far enough in school to
understand how it works, but some Controllers have become Ph.D.'s in
physics and have looked into it.  There is a mind-control 'grapevine'
and all of us Controllers hear about stuff like this eventually.  If a
bunch of people are Controlled for a certain amount of time, they
accumulate an excess number of tackyons or something.  The tackyons
do drain into the field, but at a fairly slow rate.  So too much
Control and they build up.  Eventually they flow back into the brain
of the Controllers in the vicinity, usually the schmuck or schmucks
who has been tampering with people. The signal that's sent back is
basically a big noisy blaaaaat, but it usually carries a strong
emotional charge. It can knock you down, make you suicidal, even kill
you. So you've got to use the power in moderation."

I paused and ordered another Scotch.

"Stop me if this gets tedious," I said to Mr. Weerawagan, but I was
pretty sure he wouldn't.

"Oh no, I've got nowhere to go."

"All right. The Control skill usually develops during puberty, perhaps
not the greatest time, but much better than when it happens at younger
ages. If you can't get a grip on the power, the backlash will get
you. Most kids who discover it think they're the only ones in history
to be so lucky. If they're teenagers, they are thinking about some
attractive person of the opposite sex a lot, and suddenly that person
seems to be reading their mind and doing what they want them to
do. For about a day or so, and then suddenly a wave of hate sweeps
back over the newbie Controller. Their brain interprets it as 'I hate
myself.'Plus, the person they love is suddenly free of control and
tells you in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of their heads and
let them alone. A day or so later you can control them again, but the
kickback next time is worse and they may try to kill you, if you don't
kill yourself. A certain percentage of baffling suicides by teenagers
are due to this backlash. You have to figure out what's going on and
learn to turn the power off, which is about as hard --- at first ---
as making an erection go away."

Mr. Weerawagan giggled and blushed.

"Sorry to embarrass you.  But if you want to hear more about mind
control, sex is an inevitable part of the story."

"Yes, by all means.  Sorry for the interruption," he said.

"So anyway, all that is bad enough, but if you're five years old when
the power develops, every tantrum results in the grownups doing
exactly what you want for an hour, followed by them absolutely
freaking out.  Sooner or later the kickback just knocks the kid dead.
The cause of death is usually ruled epilepsy.  After a while the
people who experienced the episode forget the details that don't fit
the official story, or they decide a poltergeist or some other
supernatural demon was the culprit --- their poor little darling was
possessed."

"As Arthur C. Clarke so famously said, any sufficiently advanced
technology is indistinguishable from magic."

"Oh?  What's technology got to do with it?"

"Now that you mention it, nothing.  Although if we could harness this
power, ..."

"What?  The government could enslave everyone more effectively than
they do now?"

"No, no.  I imagined it could be used for some good purpose."

"Sorry, I have no such illusions.  It's better left in the hands of a
few lucky freelancers, like me."

There was a pause.  Then he said, "Mr. Shaugnessy, you tell an amusing
tale, well suited to an airport becalmed by fog.  But how do I know
it's anything more than a tale?"

"That's pretty easy.  Here," I said, passing him the ashtray, which was
fairly full of my butts by this time. "Eat this."

"All right," he said, and started to do it.  Then I released him.

"Oh, my." he shouted, or tried to shout, with a mouth full of
cigarette butts and ash.  He spluttered, stood up, and backed away.
He was quite pissed off.  "Is this the kickback?" he asked, "Because
if you wanted to make me angry, you have succeeded."

"Naw, I only poked you a little.  I barely felt a thing when I let you
go.  You got pissed off the old-fashioned way.  Let me buy you another
drink to wash that out of your mouth."

I signaled to the bartender and he brought Mr. Weerawagan another 
club soda, but agreed to take a little brandy mixed with it.
But he remained standing and didn't seem to want to come any closer.

"Now suppose you didn't know who had done that to you, or indeed that
anyone had done it. Suppose you were sitting in a bar and a person
across the room Controlled you. You wouldn't know who to be mad at
except yourself."

"I am convinced," he said.  

"Come on back," I said, "I'm not going to fuck with you any more.  But
I'll tell you what.  Do you see that woman reading that women's
magazine over in the corner?  Watch this."  The woman stood up,
leaving the magazine in her chair.  She unbuttoned her blouse, reached
in, and pulled her tits out.  She turned so we could get a good view,
then sat down and picked up the magazine again.  Every man in the
place was staring at her.

Then suddenly she jumped up, and ran for the ladies room, trying to
button her blouse and cover up her titties as fast as she could.
Mr. Weerawagan burst out laughing, and sat back down on the barstool
he had been using.  "Very impressive."

"Yeah, see, she thinks the idea came from her own psyche.  All she
feels is embarrassment."

"Is it safe to use the mind-control power long enough for a woman to
have sex with you against her will?"

"Yes, pretty much.  But of course she knows you're doing it, so you
have to plan carefully how you're going to stop Controlling her and
make your getaway."

At this point Weerawagan was hooked.  He might have done anything I
asked even without the little pushes I giving him.

Before I could decide what was next on the agenda, there was an
announcement.  "Would everyone waiting for the departure of Flight
---- please come to the desk at Gate 23?...."

We both groaned.  We were both traveling on business, not for the
first time, and we knew what was coming.  All flights were canceled,
would we like some help in finding the nearest Red Roof Inn, no
expenses paid?  There was already a long line of frustrated passengers
waiting for some advice on where to stay in this city that they would
have preferred never to visit in their entire lives.

Fortunately, there was a pretty good Sheraton in this airport, and
several other planeloads of passengers, some of them pretty girls,
looking for accommodation.  "Come on," I said to Mr. Weerawagan,
"Let's not get involved with this tour of Greater ------, I've got a
better idea."  He looked dubious, but followed me without comment back
past the clogged gates of the airport, past Security, and out into the
main concourse.  By the time we got there, a very attractive girl, no
older than 19, had joined our group.  "Hi," Mr. Weerawagan said, "Tell
us your name."  "I'm Cheryl."  Cheryl was of Asian descent, but sounded 
American as apple pie.

"I'm Patwanathan Weerawagan," said Mr. Weerawagan.  I think that was
his first name. I didn't bother introducing myself, and besides, my
name isn't really Shaugnessy. We turned a corner a found ourselves in
the lobby of a Sheraton hotel, with big comfy leather-upholstered
seats.  I sat in one while Cheryl and Mr. Weerawagan strode up to the
counter.  "We would like a room for tonight,"  he said to the man
behind it.  The man would have liked to say, "Impossible, we're
completely booked," but instead found himself saying, "Of course, I
think we have a suite you'll like a lot," and booking them into the
penthouse suite normally reserved for VIPs, even on a night like
this.  You never know whose flight has been canceled.

Fortunately, Mr. Weerawagan had a credit card with enough juice to pay
the hefty price they were charging for that suite.  He signed for it,
and he and Cheryl headed for the elevator, after the man behind the
counter said, "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. and Mrs. Weerawagan."  I
followed them into the elevator. They both looked rather
uncomfortable, and I tried not to look like the cat that had swallowed
the canary. All three of us got into the suite and the rather
sumptuous living room. I sat down to enjoy some fun.

I hadn't told Mr. W. about my sexual tastes, which ran to voyeurism of
a particular kind.  I liked to see women being humiliated, forced to
do things that repelled them.  I had cast Weerawagan as the
perpetrator.  "Sit down," he told me, and I sat meekly in a chair in
the middle of the room.  "You are going to be our audience tonight.  I
do like an audience.  Don't you, Cheryl?"

She was sitting on the end of the sofa.  She now stood up on the
cushions, pulled up her skirt, and sat down on the sofa back, with her
back against the wall.  She had nice legs (I insist on that) and wore
pantyhose and pumps.  She looked adorable.  It was almost a pity that
she had to take them off, but this she proceeded to do, tossing them
to the floor and then pulling her skirt up again to make sure that we
could get a clear look at her pussy.  Her labia minora were clearly
visible through her sparse hair.  She put her elbows on her knees,
folded her hands under her chin, and gave us a nice smile, just in
time for Mr. Weerawagan to take a picture of her with his cell phone.

"Your pretty face and your pretty pussy go so well together, don't you
think?" he said.

I released Control over her vocal chords.  She sputtered, "What are
you _doing_ to me?"

"Why, nothing.  We're having a festivity.  Shall I call room service?"

"I'll scream."

"I don't think you will," but he didn't call room service.  He
strolled casually over to the minibar as if he owned the world.  

Cheryl looked at me.  By this time I had taken my pants off, and her
eyes made my penis even harder than it already was.

"You bastards," she said.  Her pose was getting uncomfortable, and I
let her relax her arms and raise her head back up to a more natural
position.  But we were still exposing ourselves to each other.

"Don't include me," I begged, "I'm as trapped as you are.  Something
dreadful is going on.  I've never been so ... ashamed," and I made as
if to try to cover myself, but in vain.  My cock was sticking straight
up and she couldn't keep her eyes off it.

Mr. Weerwagan came strolling back wth some little bottles of
expensive-looking brandy.

"Here," he said, "This may help you relax," and he poured her some.
She didn't want it, but she drank it down.  "I see you two have got
acquainted," he chuckled.  He took some more pictures, and then
fiddled with his camera and one of the cables the desk was equipped
with. "There, I've e-mailed them to a friend in Chicago, and with any
luck you're both on the road to overnight fame."

"But you've gotten started without me."  He came over and stroked my
penis a few times.  "My, we are hard tonight.  Let me get a piece of
this action," and he took off his clothes deliberately, folding them
carefully and laying them on the well-appointed desk, with its
no-extra-charge Internet connection.  I took the opportunity to take
the rest of my clothes off, too. He was finally wearing only
socks and underpants, which didn't conceal very well what was going to
pop out, and did, when he took off them off. He had a large but well
proportioned penis, light brown like the rest of his body,
uncircumcised but with the head fully protruding from the erect shaft.
You might not think you could will a man to have an erection, but it
usually doesn't take much Control.  Show a heterosexual man a pussy
and nature will take over from there.

What I wanted now, as usual, was for Cheryl to entertain us, especially
Mr. Weerawagan.  He turned to her, and she climbed down from the sofa,
stood on the floor, and began to remove her blouse.  I like to prolong
this part, and my subjects are usually not in a hurry to expose more
of their bodies.  There's something about a woman taking something
off, even if it's just a raincoat, that's instantantly arousing.  In
this case what Cheryl revealed was a lacy bra over a delightful pair
of breasts, on the small side, something else I insist on.  She pulled
her arms out of the sleeves slowly, pausing with her arms behind her
back as if the blouse were a rope tying them together.  Then she
pulled her hands out and tossed the blouse on the floor.  She reached
back and undid the bra clasp, then brought them around to hold the
cups over her tits.  She leaned down so we could get a glimpse of her
nipples.  "Oh my God" she whimpered.  Then she lowered the bra and
tossed it on the floor too.

Then she stood and submitted to Mr. W's close inspection.  He stroked
her nipples gently and got them to stand erect.  (Fortunately, this
did not take much doing; she was actually a pretty sensual girl, our
Cheryl, I'm pretty sure.)  He kissed her and his penis brushed against
her navel.  She stroked it a few times, then squatted just enough to
let the head of his penis brush her nipples.  "Oh, what sensual moves
you have, Cheryl," said Mr. Weerawagan.  I believe he was starting to
enjoy this, even if it wasn't his idea.

She wasn't enjoying it that much. "You bastard," she whispered.  I
didn't want her screaming or anything, but I let her talk quietly.  He
stepped back and suggested she take off her skirt.  This she did,
turning around so we could see only her bottom at first, as she
released a catch and let the skirt fall to the floor.  She kneeled on
the sofa, lowered her breasts to the cushions, and let us see how her
pussy looked from that angle.  It looked so good that Mr. Weerawagan
was tempted to take advantage of her.  He started brushing his cock
against her ass, and then gently brushed the head against her pussy
lips.  But he backed away.

One thing I have never been able to do is force a woman to lubicrate
if she doesn't want to, and believe me, the horniest woman in the
world does not want to be fucked by a total stranger who seems to have
made a puppet of her.  (Or at least I've never found such a woman.)
And something I have never wanted to do is cause a woman physical
pain.  So I always pack some K-Y, and I had managed to set this out so
Mr. Weerawagan could get to it.

"Don't worry," he now said, "I'm not going to have sexual relations
with you without using some lubricating jelly. I don't want to hurt
you. But I wouldn't mind embarrassing you a bit more. Turn around."

Cheryl turned around.  Her face was contorted with anger.  But who was
looking at her face?  My eyes danced from her breasts, to her
beautiful legs, to those sensual pussy lips, and, peekaboo, is that a
clitoris I see at the top of that slit?  And let's not forget her hips
and waist.  So many young women today seem to want to look like boys,
but a woman's hips should be wider than her shoulders, and her waist
should be narrow.  And her breasts should not distract from her
overall figure, but harmonize with it.  Cheryl wasn't perfect --- I
would have voted for slightly narrower shoulders --- but under the
circumstances I was not complaining.  

She got back up on the back of the sofa and spread her knees so her
pussy was clearly on display.  She chose not to speak, but she was
starting to cry.

By this time I was nearing the edge of what I could handle.  It's hard
to Control two people so carefully for even a half hour, and my penis
really wanted to come.  Fluid was leaking down the tip.  I got up and
walked over to Cheryl, who edged closer so she could help me with the
problem.  "Oh Jesus stop!" I whispered to Mr. Weerawagan.  I hoped I
sounded sincere.  She wiped a finger down the slit of my penis and I
almost came right there. Then she let me wipe my dick on her cheek and
lips, and tried to take it in her mouth, but I succeeded in pulling it
away. I surely would have come in her mouth if she had gotten it in
there.

"Now, now," said Mr. Weerawagan, "Please don't confiscate my
prerogative.  Your role in this drama is to watch, Mr. Shaugnessy."  I
lay down on the floor, which baffled Cheryl until she found herself
crawling towards me, head to head. Her tits didn't have a lot of sway
in them, but tits are udders after all.  I've never understood why
some women want to alter them so they look they're sticking straight
out even in an earthquake.  A little sway is very sexy.

But before her breasts got to me, we were kissing, upside down.  She
opened her mouth just a little bit and we stroked each other's tongues
with our tongues, tip to tip, very delicate.  I could almost pretend
she liked me.  She crawled a little further, and paused so I could
grapple with her beautiful breasts using my mouth alone.  I kept my
arms pinned to the floor as if this were not my idea.  I got her
nipples all wet and stiff. Crawl, crawl, she was approaching my
extremely erect penis. I could get a closeup view of that pussy! Those
lips! That little clit! I could even smell it, and fantasize about
what it must smell like when she was really aroused.

She didn't want to suck my cock, and I let her whisper, "No,
please...," but Mr. Weerawagan was not to be denied, and she licked
delicately at the glans.  It was very hard to control myself, so I let
her go and pushed Mr. Weerawagan into the picture.  The first thing he
did was pull a pole lamp down to the floor so it shone on Cheryl's
pussy.  This was for my benefit, but I hoped Cheryl would think he
just wanted to see his own cock better.  He crawled up
behind her, grasped her petite waist with his hands, and let his
penis jut under her. It was my turn to say, "Oh, Christ, not..." and
then make spluttering sounds as I took the head of his cock into my
mouth. He gently stroked his penis in and out, but we had the usual
problem with 69, that my tongue was on the wrong side. Besides, I
hadn't really come here for that. He withdrew his penis and began
spreading K-Y jelly along her slit, and inside the labia majora. He
also put some on his cockshaft, although it probably wasn't necessary,
because the little bastard was pretty horny and dripping clear fluid
onto my face. (The hard part about all this was keeping K-Y jelly out
of my eyes.) Then, oh glory, he slowly inserted his penis into Cheryl's
lovely cunt, and began to slide in and out. There was plenty of light
because of the lamp on the floor; I had done this before and had
pretty much perfected it. I could see every wrinkle on his ball sac,
which was tight against the base of his shaft, like a grenade about to
go off. But I could keep him from coming, and I did.

It was keeping myself from coming that was hard, and I was ready to
let go.  So without further ado I let Cheryl begin licking my glans in
earnest, slurping up the precum that flowed like lava, until the whole
thing was so exciting that I had her take the frenum into the front of
her mouth --- no teeth --- and suck gently, gently, until I started
cumming and cumming.  Some went into her mouth, but most splattered
over her throat, her breasts, and me.  

I made it last as long as I could, then suddenly said, "Agh!  I'm
... free ... I can move!"   And I slid out from under Cheryl, and
jumped up.  The tableau was still intriguing, Mr. Weerawagan fucking
her doggy-style, but my time was just about up.  I wiped the mess off
with a bunch of kleenex, still feeling pretty sticky, threw my clothes
on, and said, as apologetically as I could, "I'm sorry, Miss,
....Cheryl, but I'm getting out while I can. I hope this control thing
is weakening, for your sake, but maybe it isn't, and this is freaking me
out."  I opened the door, and headed for the stairs. The rest is my exit
strategy, which I really don't want to divulge too much about. Suffice
it to say that I released Cheryl and Mr. Weerawagan from Control just
a few minutes after leaving the room. (Beyond a certain distance it
fades out anyway. The kickback, no; it has a long range.) A few
minutes after that I got hit with the kickback, which would have made
me stagger, but I was in a vehicle (not an airplane, I can reveal!) by
that point. All the rage and loathing my victims had experienced came
flooding into me, and I almost groaned. It was like having a massive
hangover, a big price for partying hearty. Too big? It never seemed
that way beforehand.

My consolation was imagining the scene in that penthouse suite: Cheryl
hopping mad, Mr. Weerawagan in an agony of arousal, tempted perhaps to
try to hold onto her for 10 seconds while he got his rocks off? It
would be hard for anyone to resist. Whether he did or not, he would
have a hard time convincing her that he was not responsible for their
little pageant, that it was all the fault of that loathesome bastard
Shaugnessy. If they called the police, no one would believe either of
their stories, especially because they contradicted each other. One
part of me hoped he really hadn't raped her; there was enough danger
of pregnancy even without him coming. Another part of me realized that
if he did come inside her he would have a hard time passing a
lie-detector test about whether he forced Cheryl to do anything
against her will.

I admit, it's hard to feel really good about yourself after using
people like this.  It takes a long time, days really, to get horny
enough that such second thoughts fade and you start thinking of clever
new schemes to use the power God or the Devil or someone gave you, for
some purpose, probably not this one, but what the hell.

