The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Gabriel

The sun crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold as we finally reached our destination. My legs felt like lead, muscles screaming from the hours of trekking through forest and underbrush. We’d managed to circle around Chantwell without incident, staying beneath the tree canopy whenever possible, though at times we’d been forced to cross streets and skirt the edges of suburbs. By some miracle, we hadn’t encountered anyone.

Nia looked worse by the hour. We’d patched her leg as best we could with the limited supplies we had, but her face was flushed with fever, her breathing shallow. Imani and Helena supported her between them, their own exhaustion evident in their slumped shoulders.

The hunting lodge was nothing like I’d expected. Rather than some rustic cabin, it was a sprawling structure of timber and stone, partially built into the hillside. Solar panels gleamed on the south-facing roof, and I spotted what looked like a sophisticated water collection system. The place was clearly designed to be self-sufficient, hidden from casual observation by the surrounding pines and a clever use of the natural landscape. It had taken us nearly twenty minutes of searching before Warda recognized the access path. A dirty black SUV was parked in the clearing in front of the building, and a faint curl of smoke rose from a stone chimney.

Movement caught my eye. Two women had spotted us from a garden area. One was young, perhaps early twenties, with long auburn hair and a startled expression; the other was older, silver-haired and wiry, her weathered face creasing with alarm. Both immediately retreated toward the house.

“Let’s hope their owner isn’t the shoot-first-ask-questions-later type,” Charlotte muttered, adjusting the transmitter in her pocket.

Warda’s hand moved to her holstered gun, and beside her, Elaine tightened her grip on Lenore’s shotgun. I noticed Cedric shifting uncomfortably on my left, though I deliberately avoided looking directly at him. We’d maintained a careful distance throughout the journey, the unspoken tension between us a tangible thing.

“If Duncan said Rowan could be trusted…” I began, not entirely convinced of my own words. “Then I hope he was right.”

The front door of the lodge swung open, and a massive man emerged, rifle held confidently against his shoulder. He was tall, at least six-foot-four, with a barrel chest and powerful arms covered in dark hair. A thick beard framed his face, salt-and-pepper like his close-cropped hair. He positioned himself behind a stone planter, using it as cover.

“Get the fuck off my property,” he called, his voice deep and resonant. “I won’t ask twice.”

I stepped forward, hands raised. “Are you Rowan? Duncan Mercer sent us. He said this was a sanctuary.”

The man hesitated, rifle still trained on us. “It’s a sanctuary alright. MY sanctuary. And I’m not in the sharing mood.”

“Please,” I insisted, trying to keep my voice steady despite my exhaustion. “We just need internet access. Something happened at Echelon. We had to flee.”

His eyes narrowed. “Where’s Duncan?”

The question hit like a physical blow. “I... We suspect he’s dead,” I answered, the word bitter in my mouth. “The bastard who probably killed him took over the facility. That’s why we ran. We need internet access to stop him from whatever he’s planning next. We just need to contact someone who can end this.”

The rifle lowered slightly. Rowan’s expression shifted, hardened, then crumpled at the edges. He stood from his position, weapon pointing at the ground.

“Well, shit,” he said softly, then gestured toward the door. “Come on in.”

The interior of the lodge was a study in contradictions: rustic log walls housed state-of-the-art technology. The main room featured a massive stone fireplace alongside a wall of computer monitors. Leather furniture and handwoven rugs created a comfortable living space, while visible security systems and communications equipment spoke to more practical concerns.

About a dozen women of varying ages occupied the space, all watching us with wary expressions. What struck me immediately was how… normal they appeared. All were fully dressed in comfortable, practical clothing. There were no collars, no revealing outfits, nothing to suggest they were being used as sexual playthings.

Rowan stepped into the light, and I took a better measure of him. His flannel shirt stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos. His eyes were a startling blue against his tanned skin, crow’s feet at the corners suggesting he smiled often, though he wasn’t smiling now.

“I’m Rowan Blackwood,” he said, then noticed Nia’s condition. His expression softened with concern. “Marjorie,” he called to an older woman with a stern face and kind eyes. “She’s got a gunshot wound. Can you take a look?”

The woman, presumably a doctor, nodded and approached, gesturing for us to bring Nia to a side room.

“Duncan is… was a good man,” Rowan said as Imani and Helena carried Nia past him, his voice gruff with emotion though he clearly tried to maintain a stoic facade. “Damn good man. You sure he’s dead?”

“It’s very likely...” I said, suddenly finding it hard to speak.

“How well did you know him?” Warda asked, her eyes scanning the room with professional assessment.

Rowan barked a laugh that didn’t quite mask his pain. “Known him for fifteen years. We were… close.” Something in his tone, in the way his eyes dropped momentarily, made everything click into place.

Duncan was gay. Rowan was his partner. That explained why Duncan had never touched his claimed women. I looked around the room with fresh understanding. This wasn’t just a sanctuary in the physical sense; it was a true refuge. These women weren’t being exploited; they were being protected.

“I’m sorry about Duncan,” I said, the words feeling inadequate against the grief evident in Rowan’s face. “From what little I knew of him, he was a good man. A principled one.”

Rowan nodded, his massive shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh. “Don’t know what happened exactly. Not sure I want the details. Duncan kept whatever he was doing at Echelon these days pretty close to the vest.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “But whatever he was working on seemed important to him, so it’s important to me too.”

He led us, Charlotte, Warda, Cedric, and myself, down a hallway lined with bookshelves. The others remained behind, my women settling in with Rowan’s claimed women, who were already tending to Nia’s wound.

Rowan’s office too was a blend of rustic comfort and high technology: a heavy wooden desk dominated the space, topped with three large monitors. Hunting trophies shared wall space with framed photographs, many featuring Duncan. One showed them together on a fishing trip, Duncan’s usually serious face split in a rare, genuine smile.

“Internet’s spotty these days, but we’ve still got access,” Rowan said, gesturing to the setup. “Feel free to use whatever you need, especially if it’ll fuck with the bastard who killed Duncan.” He paused, his expression darkening. “Does that mean the killer got Duncan’s women too?”

I hesitated, realizing that knowledge about death breaking a claiming must have spread widely by now. “Yes,” I finally said. “I expect he claimed them immediately.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, closing the door behind him.

I sat at the desk, the others gathering around me as I tried to log into my Echelon account. “Damn it,” I muttered when access was denied. “They’ve already locked me out.”

I switched tactics, logging into my personal social media accounts and searching for Dr. Vokter. Finding his profile, I sent a direct message explaining the situation and asking for urgent contact.

“Charlotte, the transmitter,” I said, holding out my hand. She passed over the small device, and I connected it to Rowan’s computer, opening its storage to access the deprogramming file, ready to send them.

The tension in the room was palpable. Cedric stood by the window, deliberately avoiding eye contact with me. I didn’t try to bridge the gap between us. The guilt over what I’d made Olivia do weighed heavily on my conscience, especially now that it might all be rendered moot by the deprogramming signal.

“Wait,” I said, staring at the screen. “Something’s wrong.” A notification had appeared: Dr. Vokter had blocked my account. “What the hell?”

I quickly switched to another platform and tried again, with the same result.

“Shit,” Cedric said, his first words to me in hours. “They must have gotten to him first. Told him not to talk to us.”

The realization hit me like a physical blow. “Ramona and Phoebe. Smith has them now. They’ve warned Vokter about us, probably told him we’re the ones trying to sabotage everything.”

I drafted an email, explaining everything in detail: Smith’s coup, the deaths, our escape with the genuine deprogramming code. “I’m sending this,” I told the others, “but I’m not holding my breath. Ramona and Phoebe have likely painted us as the villains, warned him that we might contact him with lies about being the good guys with the real program.”

We waited an hour, the silence broken only when Rowan returned with a tray of drinks, which we accepted gratefully. But my inbox remained empty. Dr. Vokter wasn’t responding.

I nearly jumped out of my chair when the email notification appeared. My heart sank when I saw the sender: Wendy. My fingers hovered over the mouse, hesitating.

Cedric moved closer, his face tight with concern. “Is that—”

“Don’t open it,” Warda warned, her hand moving to rest on my shoulder. “It’s got to be Smith. He’s using her to get to you. Probably blackmail of some kind.”

I knew she was right, but I couldn’t help myself. This was Wendy, my wife. Whatever Smith had made her do, I needed to know. I clicked on the email.

The message was brief: “Thought you and Cedric would like to see this! Miss you both! xoxo” Below was a link to a video hosted on one of Echelon’s secure servers.

My hand trembled as I clicked the link. The video player expanded to fill the screen.

The footage showed Wendy and Olivia, completely naked, kneeling side by side. Wendy’s full breasts swayed gently as she moved, her nipples hard and pink. Olivia’s smaller, perkier breasts bounced slightly as she giggled. Between them was an erect cock that they were taking turns sucking, their lips glistening with saliva. Wendy’s tongue swirled expertly around the shaft while Olivia focused on the head, both of them moaning with apparent pleasure.

Cedric made a strangled sound behind me. “Not again,” he muttered, turning away but not leaving the room. “Jesus Christ, not again.”

I felt sick but couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen. The camera angle shifted, rotating to reveal Smith’s smirking face before turning back to the women. Wendy was now cupping her breasts around the shaft, sliding them up and down while Olivia licked at the tip whenever it emerged from between the soft mounds.

“Hi, Daddy!” Olivia chirped, looking directly into the camera with wide, innocent eyes that contrasted obscenely with her actions.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Wendy purred, blowing a kiss while her other hand stroked Smith’s cock. “We miss you!”

They switched positions, Olivia now taking the length into her mouth while Wendy licked along the side. Strings of saliva connected their lips to the shaft as they worked in tandem.

“It would be really nice if you came back,” Olivia said, her voice light and playful despite the pre-cum glistening on her chin. “Especially if Charlotte’s with you. And that transmitter thingy with the programs.” She giggled. “Otherwise, Wendy and I might have to take a little trip off the roof. You know, the one you escaped from?”

“That would be so sad,” Wendy added, not looking sad at all as she sucked one of Smith’s balls into her mouth. “So maybe just come back?”

They returned to their enthusiastic oral service, Wendy’s heavy breasts pressing against Olivia’s side as they worked together. Smith’s breathing grew heavier, and suddenly he was cumming, filling Olivia’s mouth. She turned to Wendy, and they kissed deeply, sharing the white fluid between them before returning to lick Smith clean, their tongues meeting around his softening member.

The camera once again shifted to Smith’s face, flushed now with post-orgasmic satisfaction. “I trust you’ll consider their request. Time is ticking. If you come back, with the transmitter and the programs, you have my word that your women won’t be harmed.” He smiled. “If you’re not here by tomorrow, however...” His expression hardened. “Oh, and my condolences for Edward’s and Duncan’s death.” The video ended abruptly.

The room was silent except for our breathing. Cedric’s hands were balled into fists, his face a mask of rage and disgust. Charlotte had gone deathly pale. Warda seemed completely unfazed.

“I’ll kill him,” Cedric whispered. “I swear to God, I’ll kill that bastard.”

Warda shook her head, suddenly looking at Cedric with concern. “You can’t go back there. He’d just kill you both. But if you really want to... I’ll help.”

“He has no reason to harm them,” Charlotte said firmly. “Think about it. Why would he get rid of two claimed women? Besides, what’s the point of saving Wendy and Olivia if we don’t free them from the claiming? How could you really save them otherwise?”

“He could harm them... Slowly...” I said, my throat tightening.

“He could,” Charlotte acknowledged, “but it doesn’t change anything. We have everything to lose and nothing to gain by giving Smith what he wants.”

I groaned and closed the video window, returning to my inbox. Still nothing from Vokter.

Then it hit me. the video could prove to Vokter we were telling the truth. “We could send him the video!” I exclaimed as I clicked the link again, but a “404 Not Found” error appeared.

“Damn it!” I slammed my fist on the desk. “It was set to be viewed once. It’s gone.”

“Fucker is a gambler,” Warda muttered. “I guess he really wants the transmitter and the programs back if he’s willing to risk that kind of shit...”

“He’s not risking much,” I grumbled, still staring at the error message. “Even if we had managed to record it, Ramona and Phoebe probably told Vokter not to open anything we’d send him anyway. It would be easy to say we’d try to hack his machine or something.”

“Vokter’s not an option anymore,” Warda finally said, setting down her empty glass.

Cedric, slowly calming down, turned to Charlotte. “You’re a pilot, right? Could we fly to Norway ourselves?”

Charlotte gave a humorless laugh. “I’m a pilot, but the planes I fly don’t have that kind of range. I’m not an airline pilot. And even if I were, where the hell would we find a transatlantic aircraft?”

“Why Norway specifically?” Warda asked. “Aren’t there other broadcast facilities we could use?”

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “There are only a handful of facilities worldwide capable of transmitting a VLF signal globally. Most are military installations, completely inaccessible to us.” I paused, a new thought forming. “The closest would be the one the Source used—Jim Creek in Washington state and...” I froze and turned to Charlotte. “Could you fly us there?”

She frowned. “Where exactly?”

I pulled up Google Maps, zooming in on the naval radio station in Washington. “Here.”

Charlotte studied the screen. “That’s about a thousand miles. With the right plane, it’s doable, though it would be tight. The plane I usually fly only has a range of about 800 miles, and that’s assuming we can even reach the airfield, find the plane intact, and with fuel.”

“What if we stop at an airfield on the way and refuel?” Warda asked.

“Seriously?” Charlotte shot back. “And risk getting shot at if someone has settled there? We can’t even know for sure if we’d find fuel.”

“Would a Cirrus SR22 make it in one go?” Cedric asked suddenly.

Charlotte looked at him with surprise. “Yes, actually. It has a range of about 1,200 nautical miles. More than enough. But why? Do you know where we can find one?”

A nervous smirk crossed Cedric’s face. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Everyone’s attention snapped to him. In all the years I’d known him, Cedric had never mentioned anything about planes.

“Go on,” Warda said, eager to know more.

“The Sheriff has his new headquarters at Ridgeline Airfield. Remember? I went there to ask him for help finding Olivia,” he explained, glancing quickly at me before looking away. “Anyway, while I was there, he gave me a tour of his base of operation and the aircrafts he’s got stored there. He was very proud of his little collection. Spent a good twenty minutes bragging about his Cirrus SR22...”

“Shit...” I breathed. The Sheriff was the last person I wanted to deal with right now.