The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dinner conversation revealed that both Charlie-Bob and Amy were from the small town of Sweet Onion, Georgia. Charlie-Bob had driven all the way to Atlanta by himself—

“—but anytime Ah’m not at the hotel this weekend, Ah’m staying with my Uncle Jack and Aunt Sally. But am Ah complaining? Ah expected my folks to say, ‘Hotlanta by yourself, at sixteen? No way.’ So them saying ‘Yes, but some restrictions apply’ is a deal Ah can live with.”

Heather gestured at the building around us. “Especially as there is no way a sixteen-year-old could afford a weekend at this hotel.”

“Tell me about it,” Charlie-Bob agreed. “Between the tux rental, the gasoline here and back to Sweet Onion, and the convention registration, Ah’m in hock to my folks for over a hundred bucks, even after working all last summer.” Then he looked at Amy and blushed. “But worth every penny, sitting here with last year’s Miss Vidal County.”

Amy smiled at him. “You are so sweet. But Holli Sue Moffatt won; Ah was just First Runner Up.”

“Well, okay,” Charlie-Bob said. “Still, they printed your picture in the paper. And Ah thought you looked really pretty then. But now?” The boy was blushing red. “You look, um, even prettier in person.”

As Amy was thanking Charlie-Bob, I thought, Thank her nanobots, kid. Bigger tits make any girl “prettier.” But of course, I didn’t tell the boy what I was thinking.

When dinner ended, there was a mini-studio set up, where a photographer took pictures of couples who were dressed to the nines. I thought I looked good in my tux (my own nanobots had transformed me into an Alpha Male), so I got a picture taken of myself with Amy and Heather. Before the photographer snapped the pics, I told the bimborg units, “Convince the camera that you’re each five seconds away from ripping my clothes off.”

And sure enough, the two stacked blondes wound up looking sexy. Meanwhile, I stood between them with a Sean Connery smirk. It’s a great photo.

I paid for three copies of that photo (which made the photographer happy). Then I thought, What the hell, why not? Still on my dollar, I got a photo of Amy and Heather, with Charlie-Bob standing between them. And though the women weren’t vamping in this photo, neither did it look like they’d been dragged in front of the camera at gunpoint.

A few minutes before eight o’clock, Heather, Amy, Charlie-Bob, and I walked to the big room where the formal ball would be held.

We walked through a door at the center of one wall. Against the opposite wall, at the center was the bandstand where the musicians were setting up. Beyond them was an eight-foot-tall aluminum frame, from which hung royal-blue and white crepe-paper streamers (the colors of SOS’s logo).

Behind us, in a corner of the room, was a long table that was covered with white tablecloths. On it set chips and dips; cake slices and plasticware; glasses of ice water, buckets of ice, and a water dispenser; and punch glasses—but I saw a big blank space on the table where the punchbowl should have been.

We were standing around talking, when two hotel waiters came in with the silver punchbowl. The whole thing was done very classy: The two men were wearing striped pants, high-cut red jackets, and black bow ties. Four hands set the punchbowl on the long table. Then the two waiters squatted down behind the tablecloth-covered hotel cart. To bring out replacement punch, I suppose, I thought.

To be honest, I was paying more attention to a story that Charlie-Bob was telling, than to what the two waiters were doing.

That changed quickly when the two waiters stood up. They each were wearing ski masks and holding Uzis.

One guy was also holding a pillowcase. He yelled out, “THIS IS A HOLDUP! DO NOT MOVE. GIVE US YOUR MONEY AND JEWELRY, AND YOU WON’T BE HURT. AND DON’T EVEN THINK OF TELLING ME ‘THIS JEWELRY IS FAKE, SO YOU DON’T WANT IT.’”

The pillowcase-less guy ran straight to the one door in/out. From inside his waiter jacket he pulled out wooden shims, which he pounded into the crack between the door and the doorjamb (using the Uzi as a hammer). In theory, the door opened out, but friction now prevented this.

Nobody outside could get in. And the man with the Uzi was there to make sure that nobody inside could get out.

EXCEPT...

Dimly visible through the crepe paper that backstopped the bandstand, and seven feet above the carpet, glowed red letters.

I yelled, “BEYOND THE BANDSTAND, THERE’S AN EXIT. GO OUT THAT DOOR!”

And people did, starting with the musicians who’d been standing open-mouthed on the bandstand.

“FUCK!” yelled the guy guarding the shimmed door. “STOP!”

B-b-brap!

He fired a burst into the ceiling, to scare people. It worked—but not the way he expected. Only the people nearest his door—the people he could certainly shoot and kill—stopped at his command. Everyone else ran toward the bandstand door, but now they were panicked and screaming.

By now the aluminum frame and its crepe paper were laying down. So I was able to see three tuxedoed men stop in front of the bandstand door. They turned to face the gunmen, as they linked arms. The three intended to act as a human wall to protect everyone else running out that door! Brave men.

The gunman guarding the shimmed door ran over to the center of the long wall, where he could cover both doors. “STOP!” he yelled again—

B-b-brap!

—but this time his shots didn’t go over the crowd. Near the bandstand door, a tuxedoed man and a woman in a green gown fell to the ground. That stopped the exodus.

Meanwhile, Pillowcase Man was advancing toward me, his weapon pointed at my chest. “YOU! You fucked things up for us!”

He looked Amy and Heather up and down, then turned his ski-mask-covered face back toward me. “You owe me,” he said. “And since neither of them is wearing fancy diamonds”—his voice was leering now—“we’ll have to get payback some other way.”

He pointed his Uzi at Amy. “C’mere, babe. We’re gonna have some fun.”

“NO!“ Charlie-Bob yelled. He jumped in front of Amy. In a quavering voice, he said, “You’re not taking Amy Emily, you prick!”

“I’m not?” Pillowcase Man said. Then he smiled. “Okay, fine.”

Pillowcase Man pointed his weapon at Heather. “Okay, MILF, over here. Now.“ He lunged forward to grab Heather’s wrist, letting the pillowcase fall to the carpet.

“You’re not getting her, either!” Charlie-Bob said. Then this small-town kid actually took a step toward the gunman. Charlie-Bob jumped up at the last second, with his left hand shooting up. I figured that Charlie-Bob intended to punch the gunman in the face. Nope—the boy’s hand went to the side of the gunman’s head, then up and over.

Charlie-Bob had unmasked Pillowcase Man. Now Charlie-Bob yelled out, “Y’ALL, GET OUT YOUR CEL PHONES! TAKE HIS PICTURE!”

Letting the ski mask drop to the carpet, Charlie-Bob then grabbed Pillowcase Man’s own wrist, trying to break the gunman’s grip on Heather.

“You filthy brat, look what you’ve done!” Pillowcase Man said. His weapon came up, with clear intent to kill.

Have I mentioned that a bimborg unit’s thought processes work much faster than a human’s? Or that a bimborg unit’s emotion is always a robotic calm, despite appearances to the contrary? And have I mentioned that any two bimborg units can talk telepathically, with each other or to the entire Club?

I was out of my league, frankly—too much unexpected shit was happening too fast. But to bimborg units Amy and Heather, this was a snail race.

Here’s what happened next. Some of this stuff, Amy and Heather had to tell me later, because everything happened so fast—

• Amy pulled up the front of her evening gown. She still had a restricted range of motion, but she was able to give Pillowcase Man a martial-arts leg sweep, knocking him backwards.
• Startled, Pillowcase man fired two shots. One shot ricocheted off the carpet. The other bullet went into Charlie-Bob’s leg.
• Meanwhile, Heather had locked the fingers of her two hands together. She pulled her wrist free of Pillowcase Man’s left hand.
• As soon as Pillowcase Man was on his back, I jumped on top of him. I straddled his chest, and slugged him.
• Heather dropped to the carpet, to kneel on the gunman’s left arm.
• Amy dropped to the carpet too, kneeling by Pillowcase Man’s gun hand. She grabbed Pillowcase Man’s trigger finger with one hand, bending it back painfully. Her other hand grabbed the Uzi by the back of the bullet chamber (which was still comparatively cool) and pulled the gun out of Pillowcase Man’s grip.
• Amy’s kneeling body “just happened to be” blocking most onlookers from seeing what was going on. Amy put the Uzi against the right side of Pillowcase Man’s body, just below his ribs, and fired one shot, going left and up. She missed his heart (deliberately), but she hit an aorta. It took less than a second, from the time that Pillowcase Man lost his grip on his weapon, to him being shot with it.
• I felt Pillowcase Man lurch between my legs, at the same moment I heard the loud gunshot. Pillowcase Man started gasping.
• Amy threw the Uzi on the carpet, and jumped up, looking panicked. “Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, Ah shot him! Ah like shot him, but Ah didn’t mean to, you know?”
• I said, “Amy, go to Charlie-Bob. He needs your help.” Amy moved to the wounded boy, after she looked at the onlookers and said, “Ah didn’t mean to shoot the robber, y’all.”
• By an amazing coincidence, Amy had thrown down the Uzi where Heather could easily pick it up. Heather stood up, holding the Uzi.
• Heather pointed the Uzi at the still-masked gunman. “Put down your gun,” she said with seeming nervousness. “You know the police are coming.”
• “You guys shot J—my buddy?” the gunman replied. “You fucki—”
• I was no longer straddling Pillowcase Man. I had grabbed up the pillowcase, dumped the loot out of it, and wadded it up into a ball that I pressed against the gunshot, trying to stanch the bloodflow.

B-b-brap!

• I didn’t see what happened next. But onlookers all agreed that the ski-mask gunman began to shift his aim, to point his own Uzi at Heather. That’s when Heather fired with a left-to-right spray of three shots.
• Heather’s second and third shots went into the wall. (Which was no surprise, considering that she was “obviously untrained” at firing an Uzi.) But the first shot hit the ski-mask gunman right in the middle of the forehead. “How lucky for her!”

The bandstand door was still open; now two armed security guards rushed in, guns up and aimed at Heather. “Put down your weapon,” the older guard said. Forget your stereotypes about security guards—this man had a flat stomach, and had the face that comes with combat medals in his bedroom closet.

“Guard,” an onlooker said, “put your gun away. This woman saved us.”

Heather looked down at wounded Charlie-Bob. “And this poor boy saved me. Please, is anyone here a doctor?”

Two ambulances were called, for Charlie-Bob and for Pillowcase Man. By the time Pillowcase Man’s ambulance showed up, he was beyond medical help.

The Atlanta Police, very apologetically, told Heather that until their investigation was completed, she was not free to leave the city. (Neither was Amy, but since Emory University was within the Atlanta city limits, Amy’s own restriction to city wasn’t a problem.) Now stuck in Atlanta, Heather joined Amy and me in often visiting Charlie-Bob at the hospital.

I met Charlie-Bob’s parents, who’d rushed to Atlanta from Sweet Onion. They were pleased to hear Amy and Heather tell the story of Charlie-Bob acting like a hero. But soon they were showing signs of worry. I soon learned why—

“These medical bills are gonna skin us alive, James!”

It took a little skullduggery on my part to soothe their minds: A bimborg in Pensacola, Florida drove to Vidal County, Georgia, and made several calls to Charlie-Bob’s parents from a pay phone, even as various computer records got falsified. But soon my good-hearted trickery paid off: The parents got convinced that “the Vidal County Orphans and Relief Society” would pay most of Charlie-Bob’s medical bills.

(No need to tell the parents that “the Vidal County Orphans and Relief Society” didn’t exist until today; or that funding for the Orphans Society came not from Vidal County charitable contributions, but from Linda-5 looting the Swiss bank accounts of scumbags.)

What the Orphans Society “couldn’t” pay toward Charlie-Bob’s medical bills, I paid openly, out of “my savings.” By an amazing coincidence, between the Orphans Society and myself, there was just enough money to pay all of Charlie-Bob’s bills; his folks didn’t have to shell out a cent.

I also arranged for the Vidal Voice and WVCO-TV to find out about Charlie-Bob’s good deeds. They both did nice stories about him: “Local boy shot rescuing damsels in distress.”

Sunday night, after visiting hours had ended, I was pacing around the hospital parking lot.

“It drives me snakeshit,” I told the sky, “that this boy does this brave, heroic thing, and all I can do is pay his bills? He deserves better than that.”

An hour earlier, I’d figured out a way to pay all of Charlie-Bob’s physical therapy bills without his parents paying a cent, and without the money being traced back to me. I should have been overjoyed, basking in the satisfaction of doing another good deed. But instead, I felt lousy; I felt that my charity fell short.

Then realization hit. I slapped my palm against my forehead.

“If Charlie-Bob hadn’t acted like a hero, right now he wouldn’t be in the hospital, he wouldn’t need physical therapy, and his parents wouldn’t be spending money on doctors. All that my clever money-shifts have done is to make sure he doesn’t lose yardage on the play. But I haven’t rewarded him for being a hero. That is what’s bothering me!”

Well, this was easily fixed. I could fill up a cardboard box with cash, tape it shut, then have a bimborg leave it on his doorstep some night...

Wait, did I say “bimborg”?

BIMBORG?

Then I got a great idea! I clapped my hands in delight.

Ooh, watch THIS, world! Hero Charlie-Bob Owens is going to get rewarded like nobody has ever SEEN before!

I ran back to my car. As quickly as I could legally get there, I drove back to the Omni Hotel. Then I rushed myself to the hallway in front of Heather’s hotel-room door.

When she opened the door, I lowered my voice and said, “Bimborg Heather, I have special instructions for you about Charlie-Bob. Invite me in.”

Beginning the next morning, with her next hospital visit, Heather hit Charlie-Bob and his parents with a blizzard of questions. All the questions were variants of “What’s Sweet Onion like?”

The shootings had been on Saturday night. On Tuesday, Amy’s shooting was ruled accidental, and Heather’s shooting was ruled self-defense. After all, since neither woman had served in the military or had police training, how could either blonde have killed her man with a well-aimed, premeditated shot?

The Atlanta Police told Heather and Amy, “You’re free to leave the city.”

And so Tuesday, Heather caught a flight back to Pueblo, Colorado. ”But,” Heather told Charlie-Bob and his parents, before she left—

“You guys will see me again. Because as soon as I can make it happen, I am moving myself, my furniture, and my dental practice to Sweet Onion. I’m getting tired of big-city life, and your town sounds so lovely. Besides, I’ll feel safer living in a town with a proven hero in it.”

Heather neglected to mention that her setting up a dental practice in Sweet Onion would lead to all kinds of personal benefits for sixteen-year-old Charlie-Bob Owens.