The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Deputy Ed Binning sighed as his cruiser’s headlights swept across the crumbling concrete of the old WWII airfield away to the south East of Wide-Awake town. The dashboard clock read 10:04pm: prime time for teenage shenanigans in these parts. But the kid waving frantically over by the skeletal remains of the control tower didn’t look like he was here to sneak something into his girlfriend’s panties. His jeans were torn, his Letterman jacket smeared with something dark, and his hands trembled like leaves in a thunderstorm.

Binning rolled his window down halfway, resting his palm casually on the grip of his Glock. “Evenin’, son. You lose your way to the drive-in?”

“The girls...” the kid gasped, pointing toward the derelict hangars. His throat worked like he was trying to swallow a golf ball. “They took Julie and Mandy right off the hood of my truck! One minute we’re stargazing, next...” He made a sound between a sob and a hiccup. “There was this light. Like when you shine a laser pointer through a milk jug, but... wrong. And the smell...”

Binning’s fingers tightened on the wheel. Ozone and burnt hair. Same stink as the Dry Wash Creek incident.

The radio crackled to life before he could respond. “All units...” Dispatcher Wendy’s voice sliced through the static. “Multiple reports of... hell, I don’t even know if this has a code. Possible UFO activity near...”

The transmission dissolved into white noise as every light on Binning’s dashboard flared bright enough to leave afterimages. The airfield’s abandoned runway lay out there half hidden in the faint moonlight but there seemed to be a hump right in the middle... a new hump that hadn’t been there last time he patrolled here. A definite hump or a trick of the light... Ed Binning had been a cop for too long to jump to conclusions.

The deputy’s service pistol cleared its holster before he consciously decided to draw.

The kid whimpered. “Oh God, they’re back.”

Three figures were gliding towards him, as they approached they raised glowing rods in unison. The deputy’s last coherent thought before his cruiser lurched three feet off the pavement was: Rachel’s gonna kill me for wrecking another patrol car.

Binning’s stomach flipped as the vehicle drifted through the air, its wheels scraping the derelict runway lights. Outside, the kid screamed, a raw, animal sound, as one of the blonde figures glided forward, her long silver dress rippling like liquid mercury. Her pupils were pinpricks in glowing electric-blue irises.

“Deputy Edward Binning.” She intoned, her voice layered with harmonics that made his fillings vibrate. “We have no use for you.”

The cruiser settled onto the cracked concrete with a groan of protesting shocks. Binning’s fingers twitched on his Glock, useless against whatever this was, but training kicked in. “Ma’am, I don’t know what...”

The Nordic woman’s hand shot out, fingers splaying. Binning’s vision exploded into fractals of light while he tasted copper.

A phantom whisper curled through his skull: You always want to protect the pretty ones, don’t you, Eddie?

Outside, the kid scrambled backward as two more blondes levitated toward the cruiser. Their gowns shimmered through every metallic shade from brushed nickel to rose gold. The lead figure tilted her head, observing Binning’s struggle against the mental intrusion with detached curiosity.

“Resistance is...” She searched for the word, her English flawless but oddly formal. “Quaint.”

Binning’s radio burst to life again, Wendy’s voice warped as if underwater: “...aywaykla reports visual on...”

The cruiser’s windshield imploded.

Binning barely ed the stinging cuts before the Nordic women snapped their heads toward the tree line in perfect unison.

From the darkness, Deputy Waya Kaywaykla’s voice rang out: “Evening, ladies. You’re tresing on Air Force Property and you’re also hurtin’ my buddy.”

The lead blonde smiled, revealing teeth too white, too even. “Ah. The Primitive returns.”

A second one laughed, a sound that was almost musical. “But Meekra, darling, they are all primitive.”

Binning’s vision cleared just in time to see Kaywaykla step out of shadow and onto the runway, his long hair whipping in a wind that wasn’t there. His right hand held a combat knife; his left clutched one of Rachel’s spare .44’s.

“Last warning!” Kaywaykla said, thumbing back the hammer. “Go! You don’t belong here.”

The blondes didn’t flinch. Their ship’s surface rippled, revealing an interior that looked less like a cockpit and more like a cross between a medical facility and a boudoir. Binning’s stomach lurched again, this time with primal dread.

One of the blonde Nordics turned, her smile widening until it stretched beyond human proportions, the corners of her mouth nearly reaching her earlobes. The tube-like device in her hands hummed to life, pulsing with an orange light that made the air around it distort like heat waves over desert asphalt. Binning’s cruiser suddenly smelled of hot metal and ozone, the scent of a lightning strike about to happen.

Kaywaykla had moved before the Nordic’s finger could tighten on whatever served as a trigger. His boots kicked up gravel as he lunged, he holstered the pistol then yanked Binning’s door open with enough force to nearly tear it off its hinges.

“Move!” He barked, hauling his dazed buddy out by his shirt just as the tube discharged. The purple energy struck the cruiser’s grill with a sound like a thousand bees exploding: one moment it was solid metal, the next, the nose of the vehicle slumped into molten slag, dripping onto the runway like a melting candle wax.

Binning hit the ground hard, Kaywaykla rolling them both behind the wreckage as secondary bursts of energy sizzled overhead. The kid, whatever his name was, was screaming again. Kaywaykla risked a glance around the cruiser just in time to see the blondes levitating the teenager toward their ship, his limbs dangling like a marionette with cut strings.

Suddenly the kid fell to the ground with a sickening thump. “Useless Male!” One of the blondes spat. “We have no use for the genetic waste of your species.”

The lad fell to the floor, seemingly unharmed if the speed at which he jumped up and ran away was anything to go by.

“Son of a...” Binning wheezed, fumbling for his sidearm. His fingers felt numb, his thoughts sluggish as if wrapped in cotton candy.

The lead Nordic tilted her head, amused. “You’ll thank us later, Deputy.” She purred, and this time, the voice wasn’t just in his ears, it slithered down his spine, coiling around his vertebrae with intimate familiarity.

Kaywaykla drew again and the .44 roared, the round striking the Nordic square between her perfect eyebrows. Her head jerked back slightly and she blinked, once, twice, then plucked the flattened slug from the air in front of her forehead. “You have no weapon that could possibly harm us!” She said, and raised the tube again.

The moon chose that moment to slip behind a cloud plunging them into darkness. Kaywaykla’s knife spun through the air: it’s short flight ending with a sickening thwack! In the dim light they saw one of the aliens crumple to the ground in slow motion: the Apache’s knife protruding from her neck.

From the trees, a new voice called out; raspy, familiar, and pissed. “Y’all best step away from my deputies.”

Rachel’s silhouette emerged from the shadows, her revolver held in a steady hand. Behind her, Two MP’s raised assault rifles that were probably also useless.

The Nordics hissed in unison, their gowns flickering through a range of colors like startled cuttlefish. “We... go!” One of them squealed. The pair then grabbed their fallen leader and hustled her into their craft. Their panicky departure showing none of their previous arrogance.

“Wait!” Barked Rachel, her voice cutting through the desert night air like a whip crack. The Alien women froze mid-retreat, their gowns rippling unnaturally. One, the smaller of the two still standing was actually trembled, her elongated fingers clenching and unclenching around the limp form of their leader.

“The women you seized.” Rachel continued, thumbing back the hammer on her .44 with an audible click that was more for show than anything else. “The women in your ship: release them. Now.”

One of the Nordics turned her head a full one hundred and eighty degrees, her blonde hair swaying like a curtain of spun gold. “Why?” she demanded, her voice petulant and defiant.

Rachel didn’t blink. “Because if you don’t,” she nodded toward the MPs flanking her, “my troopers here have grenade launchers built into their rifles and if’n I say so they’ll lob their bombs through the entrance and into your ship. I’m guessin’ that their velocity will be low enough to clean through your forcefields.”

The two MPs grinned, raising their rifles in perfect synchronization. The Nordics’ eyes: too blue, too bright, widened marginally.

“Of course I could be wrong, but it will be interesting to find out...” Rachel said quietly, adding. “Your call, ladies...”

“What? No!” the smaller alien squealed, her voice losing its melodic quality. A hissed rapid exchange followed, something guttural and sharp. Jerkily the other one pressed a slender finger to her wrist, murmuring something that made the air hum.

The ship’s aperture dilated even further, making a wet sound as it did so and two dazed women stumbled out, staring into the darkness which now surrounded them. Their clothes or what remained of them, hung in tattered shreds, their skin marked with faint, glowing sigils that pulsed in time with their ragged breathing and seemed to move with a life of their very own.

Kaywaykla and Binning moved instantly, guiding the women away as Rachel kept her revolver trained on the Nordics. The lead alien, now conscious but swaying, lifted her chin with regal disdain. “We will not forget this, Rachel Sheriff.” She spat.

Rachel holstered her revolver with deliberate slowness, her lips curling into a contemptuous smirk. “And neither will I.”

The ship’s surface rippled like disturbed mercury, swallowing the Nordics whole before it vanished upwards with a sound like a thousand sheets of paper tearing all at the same time.

Silence settled over the runway: broken only by the sobs of the rescued women and the distant wail of approaching sirens.

Then Binning groaned, clutching his ribs. “Sheriff... I think I just pissed myself laughing.”

Kaywaykla snorted. “ the club, N’daa.” He said using the Chiricahua word meaning ‘white-eyes’... And slapped his buddy on the back.

Rachel didn’t laugh. Her eyes remained fixed on the empty space where the ship had been. The alien was right: this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Then as Benning looked towards his wrecked patrol car, prior to apologizing for the damage, he froze. “Shit!”

The front of the vehicle was pristine and unmarked.

“Yeh, I saw it too, Ed.” The Sheriff said quietly. “They’re messin’ with our minds: putin’ things in ’em to control us.”

The morning sun blazed down on the old Cordova ranch which was spread out down in the valley looking more or less as it had for well over a century and a half... Oh, it had been burned down a couple of times early on but the family had never given up and had rebuilt each time.

The figure, who sat on the little flat area part-way up slope overlooking the valley, poked at the little fire with a stick and when it flared up sprinkled dried herbs into the flames. The acrid smoke swirled up and the blanket-covered head leaned forward into it, inhaling for a few seconds before straightening and jerking back. It flipped the blanket off its head and snarled something at the figures that seemed to materialize in the dusty air all around. The sweating face was smeared with ash and smoke and painted with streaks of red and yellow ocker, his long black hair secured by a red cloth band wrapped around his cranium.

He started to chant rhythmically, the ancient medicine chant low and melodic...

The figures in the air; the ghost figures; moved around. Not in time with the chant but bound by it. Waya Kaywaykla climbed to his feet and thrust the blanket away... His chant continued... Monotonous... Rhythmical... Then his feet began to move: to shuffle: to step in time with the monotonous chant...

Step...

Shuffle...

Step...

Shuffle...

His head jerked up, his wild eyes scanned the ghost-figures... Assessing them... counting them... Auditing their souls as surely as an ant audited books.

Step...

Shuffle...

Step...

Shuffle...

The figures crowded in closer, anguish on their faces: unable to flee they did the Medicine Man’s bidding... not that they had any choice.

Step...

Shuffle...

Step...

Shuffle...

Kaywaykla’s chant changed... became more strident but the dance went on...

Step...

Shuffle...

Step...

Shuffle...

His head flew back and he screamed at the sky and the sky obeyed: the breeze dispersing the figures just like it dispersed the smoke from the little fire. The Medicine Man slumped almost boneless down onto the deer skin on which he had been seated earlier... He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over his head for he had much to ponder and so little time to remain in his dreamtime. Something was coming: something big... Heavy... Dark... Mist! He could see mist roiling in like foul smoke... Hiding... Blinding... There were figures moving through the mist: tall white-eyed women with pale hair and paler faces...

He began to chant again, but softly this time it was a chant that dispelled ghosts rather than attracted them... Yet wherever he looked he saw the women... The Nordics... They were coming... But not only that: they would be hunting. Hunting other women, smaller ones would dancing to their tune: their minds controlled... thoughtless. Not only women but cats too... All would dance to the Nordic’s tune.

He saw men too, but they weren’t dancing, they were fleeing for their lives.

Soon I will have to be an N’daa Cop once again for I have promises to keep. He thought... But this time, cop or not, he knew that he needed to remain a White Mountain Apache Shaman.

The jukebox at Ma Barker’s Diner was playing Patsy Cline’s Crazy on a loop: not by choice, but because something had fried the selector mechanism. Rachel sipped her fourth cup of sludge-black coffee, elbow propped on the cracked vinyl booth, watching the late breakfast crowd through half-lidded eyes. The diner hummed with the usual mid-morning chatter, but the rhythm was way off. Too many pauses. Too many furtive glances toward the windows, where the newly repaired power lines swung in a breeze that shouldn’t have been strong enough to move them.

She had received reports from Sergeant Wenger, who ran Black Mesa’s small police station, that the Nordic they’d captured and handed over to the USAF had been able to make them see things. Lieutenant-Colonel Atkinson had poo-pooed the idea but Rachel trusted her sergeant’s judgment more than she trusted the colonel’s. So she sat drinking coffee and doing what she always described as taking the town’s pulse.

Sitting at the counter, Old Man Fralick, up from Black Mesa to visit kin, stabbed a sausage link with more violence than the gesture warranted. “Ain’t natural,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “Them gubmint boys say it’s solar flares, but my granddaddy tol’ me...”

“Told you jack squat, Earl.” Interrupted Darla from the grill where she was flipping a pancake with a spatula. “Your granddaddy thought Roosevelt was the Antichrist.” The laughter that followed was brittle but relieved.

“Which Rosie-velt?” Someone inquired.

“Both of ’em!” Earl Fralick cackled, clearly enjoying being the center of attention.

A shadow fell across the Formica table as Melanie slid into the booth, her slim frame swallowed by Rachel’s spare denim jacket. She smelled of chalk dust and the lavender shampoo Mari-belle liked. “You’re brooding,” she observed, stealing Rachel’s coffee cup.

“Observing.” Rachel watched a deputy’s cruiser roll past outside, Siobhan Nolan was driving. Her posture was too rigid, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Hypersexual compulsions my ass. Rachel thought. That girl is wound tighter than an eight-day clock.

Melanie followed her gaze. “She’s a lesbian now and it scares her.”

“Smart girl.” Rachel muttered, casting her eyes around at the townsfolk gathered in the eatery.

“Who?” Melanie asked, all wide eyed and innocent sounding. “Her or me?”

“The both of you!” The Sheriff purred as she leaned over and kissed her wife. “That’s what I love about you... You didn’t need no alien mind fuck to turn you on to women.”

Outside clouds scudded past hiding the bright morning sun... Pale colored clouds that seemed to be moving in random directions. Last night it had been nebulae... Bright and crackling... They sure as hell didn’t look like the Northern Lights, Rachel thought, none of the pictures I’ve seen showed ’em being bright yellow an’ orange an’ swirling like a whirlpool.

Rachel’s thumb traced fresh scratches on the tabletop: four parallel lines, like clawmarks. Ma swore they hadn’t been there yesterday.

Outside, the power lines hummed. Not the usual sixty-cycle drone. Something lower... Hungrier... Something that put teeth on edge.

Rachel reached for her coffee just as the cup vibrated toward the edge of the table. The spoon in it trembled, then stood straight up.

Silence fell over the diner.

Patsy Cline’s voice warped into a static-laced whisper: “You’re... not... alone...” Over and over again.

Deputy Binning slid into the seat next to Melanie, smelling of antiseptic and sunbaked leather. His left eyelid twitched, a telltale remnant of his recent nighttime neural intrusion. “Okay to you, Sheriff?”

Rachel didn’t lower her coffee cup. “Ain’t you’n Kaywaykla supposed to be doin’ a beat around them isolated homesteads in the desert hereabouts?”

The deputy shrugged, rolling a sugar packet between nicotine-stained fingers. “Oh he’s off doin’ something... Apache!” His attempt at a grin faltered when the spoon in Rachel’s cup began vibrating again.

Across the diner, the jukebox needle screeched across vinyl.

Binning sank back in his seat and Darla brought him a mug of something foul, black and acrid. Steam curled from its surface like a dying man’s last breath. “You ’n Waya go back ways, don’t you Ed?” Mel asked, for want of something to say that hopefully would get them away from recent happenings.

Ed nodded, blowing on the toxic-looking brew. “I’ve known him since he came out of the Marines but our folks been running into each other since about 1870.” His knuckles whitened around the mug, whether from the heat or memory, Rachel couldn’t tell.

“Fort Lowell?” Mel asked, tracing a water ring on the cracked Formica.

Binning nodded. “Yeah. My great-great-great grandfather was a lieutenant in the Fifth Cavalry. Stationed there in the 1870s.” He chuckled darkly. “Story goes he once traded tobacco with Cochise himself.” The mug trembled slightly in his grip. “Funny how things circle back.”

Rachel’s boot tapped an uneven rhythm under the table. Outside, the unnatural breeze plucked at a loose shutter as yellowish clouds thickened. The spoon in her coffee quivered again.

Binning’s gaze flicked to the window. “Waya’s out at the old Cordova place right now. Says the ground’s humming there.” He lowered his voice. “Like the Nordic bitches’ ship the other night.“

Melanie’s fingers found Rachel’s under the table, squeezing tight. The sheriff didn’t react, her attention fixed on the deputy’s twitching eyelid, the telltale remnant of his recent alien encounter.

Darla reappeared, refilling coffee mugs with a sludge that smelled like it was made from something burnt rather than roasted. “Hear tell that you boys have found them missing heifers.”

Binning’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Not the heifers, Darla. Just hoof prints... leading straight up into thin air. They galloped up a slope but not down the other side.”

Rachel waited until the diner owner’s daughter retreated behind the counter before leaning in. “Bullshit. Waya ain’t trackin’ no cattle: you’d be with him if he was.” Her voice dropped to a desert-dry whisper. “What’s he really doin’ out there?”

Binning answered with a single word: “Ceremony.” He paused, watching the coffee swirl unpleasantly in his cup despite the fact he wasn’t stirring it. “You know that he’s a Medicine Man?”

Rachel’s slow nod confirmed that she knew and Binning continued. “Most of his ancestors were”. There was another pause. “Heard tell they can read the future better ’n most folk can read the present.”

Rachel snorted. “Yeah, I heard that too.” Her thumb rubbed the edge of the table where the claw marks ended abruptly, as if something had yanked the creature away mid-scratch. “Read it, not predict it.”

The deputy leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not just the future. The past, too. Waya says...” He hesitated, glancing at Melanie. “Says he’s been seeing Fort Lowell. An dreaming about his ancestors watching me, Sheriff. An’ they were watching you too long before you were born. He reckons you’re important.“

Melanie’s grip on Rachel’s hand tightened. “That’s...”

“Crazy?” Binning chuckled, but his fingers twitched around his mug. “Tell me about it!” Outside, the power lines groaned under an invisible weight. The spoon in Rachel’s cup trembled violently before clattering against the porcelain.

Rachel exhaled through her nose. “So what’s he doing? Digging up ghosts?”

Binning shook his head. “Setting traps. Old ones. Says the land re better ’n we do.” He hesitated, then added, “Waya’s sure the Nordics have come a hunting in these here parts before.”

The jukebox crackled again, Patsy Cline’s voice warping into a guttural whisper: “They... walk... beneath...”

“So what happened back in the 1870’s?” Rachel suddenly asked. Her sudden directness taking Binning by surprise.

Binning’s coffee mug hit the table with a thud. “You don’t ask easy questions, do you, Sheriff?” His chuckle died when he noticed Melanie’s fingers tracing the claw marks on the tabletop: the four fresh grooves he was certain hadn’t been there yesterday.

Rachel leaned forward just enough to cast her face into shadow. “I ask necessary ones.” The overhead light buzzed like a trapped fly, flickering in time with the distant hum of overloaded transformers. Outside, a tumbleweed rolled across Main Street despite the absence of wind. “I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s goin’ on but I need to know how long it’s bin happenin’ for.”

The deputy sat back and stared at the claw marks. “Like I said, I ain’t the first Ed Binning to wear a uniform in these parts... An’ he ain’t the first Waya Kaywaykla to fight evil around here either.”

“And?” Rachael asked quietly... It was an old cop’s trick: one that could tempt a suspect to say more than they intended... Binning wasn’t suspected of anything but he was holding back and the Sheriff knew it.

The Deputy looked her in the eye and said. “It’s really weird: I’m only here because that other Waya Kaywaykla didn’t kill the other Ed Binning.” His fingers traced a phantom scar on his temple.

Rachel leaned back away from the cracked vinyl table, the diner’s fluorescents suddenly too bright, too loud. The implications settled over her like desert dust: inescapable, itching under her skin. If Kaywaykla’s visions held weight, then none of this was coincidence. Not the missing poultry, not the abductions, not even her own damn stubbornness keeping Wide-Awake County functioning when logic said they should’ve been cattle-prodded into submission by now.

Binning suddenly froze. “Sheriff, he says the land re what’s coming.”

The jukebox died mid-warble.

“So what happened, Ed?” Rachel asked quietly.

Binning’s fingers traced the rim of his mug, eyes distant as the desert horizon. “Journal entry for July 17th, 1874,” he muttered. “Lieutenant Edward Binning reported encountering a small White Mountain Apache war party near Dry Wash Creek. He was leading a small patrol and they were jumped. A Medicine Man was leading them, a tough, mad-looking bastard. He took that Ed Binning clean off his horse, he never stood a chance . He lay there stunned and saw the glint in the Apache’s eyes... Saw the knife coming down straight towards his throat. Then the Medicine Man just froze... His body seemed to lock up!”

Rachel’s coffee was suddenly cold.

The fluorescents buzzed like angry hornets.

“The fighting sort of ceased,” Binning continued after a short pause. His fingers twitched near his temple again. “The Medicine Man pulled my forebear up onto his feet and dusted him down before saying: ‘The future needs your children as much as it needs mine!’” His coffee mug trembled as the overhead lights flickered violently. “The journal says the Apache smelled like the air after a lightning strike.“

Melanie nodded, pale fingers still tracing the fresh claw marks. “There was a Lieutenant Binning at Fort Lowell.” She murmured, more to herself than the table. Her eyes widened slightly. “Maribelle’s class history project last month, we found old quartermaster records. There’s an annotation from July 1874 about a patrol that came back with no horses, no gear, no casualties... but grinning like fools.” She added. “The note just says ‘Apaches let ’em go!’”

Binning nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s in the journal too. Says that Lieutenant Colonel Hayes, the post commender, didn’t believe them at first... Threatened them all with a Court Martial for losing everything but they didn’t change their story.”

Rachel felt the hairs on her neck rise as Binning’s coffee mug began vibrating in slow circles. The deputy’s fingers twitched near his temple: that same damn spot where Kaywaykla kept rubbing since the Nordic attack. “Waya’s been dreaming about Dry Wash Creek,” he whispered. “Says his ancestor saw something in the lieutenant’s eyes. Not the past... the future.” His voice dropped to a desert-dry rasp. “And whatever that Medicine Man saw scared the bejesus out of him. And Apache’s don’t scare easily!“

Melanie’s elbow jabbed Rachel’s ribs... hard. “Sweetheart.” Her voice carried that particular teacher-tone reserved for kids about to miss the fire alarm. The diner’s murmur had become a rising tide of scraping chairs and muttered expletives.

Rachel blinked back to the present, coffee cup halfway to her lips. She looked towards the grease-smeared windows around which the Diner’s patrons were clustered like spooked cattle, their faces tilted upward. The town square stretched out before them, or should have. Instead of dusty asphalt and town’s people there was a wall... a wall of pearlescent yellowish fog that rolled across and swallowed everything in slow, viscous waves.

A fog that smelled both acrid and sulfurous like brimstone smoke and bad eggs....

Shapes roiled in the fog: shapes like nothing that sane people could imagine. Tall shapes... Small shapes... And permeating it all... The stench... The silence.

Old Earl Fralick elbowed his way through the throng until he stood in the doorway. Suddenly he let loose a wailing moan. “The Day of Judgment is at hand, y’all. Prepare to meet your maker!”

Unsure, the people gathered around looked at each other... Rachel could hear their words echoing around... Words like:

...the end of Days...

...the stench of Hellfire...

...repent for He will surely smite the wicked...

...it surely is God’s Judgment on us all...

Suddenly Earl Fralick lurched off into the fog and was gone.

“Shit!” Rachel snarled. “We’re gonna have a lot of frightened people...

“Melanie, stay here... Binning, you’re with me.” Then she grabbed her stetson off the table and jammed it on before following Fralick out and into the fog.