Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Mind Control, Romantic, BiSexual, Fiction, Interracial, First, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Safe Sex, Slow,
Desc: Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A Canadian teenager discovers he has an incredibly rare ability... and that all gifts have consequences.
Most men go all the way to their grave without ever realizing the purpose of their lives. I discovered mine the day my voice broke.
It started on a winter weekend. I woke up late and came downstairs into the too-bright family kitchen, rubbing my eyes.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” My mother, sitting behind the kitchen table and wearing her pink dressing gown, raised her coffee. “You’ve missed breakfast, but there’s cereal.”
“Aw, I really wanted pancakes.” As I spoke the sentence, I felt different: overnight, puberty had physically shifted something in my throat, dropping my voice into a lower, deeply resonant register.
But that wasn’t nearly as interesting as what happened next. Rather than rolling her eyes, my mother blinked for a moment, then stood up. “Well, of course. You’re a growing boy. What would you like with them? Blueberries? Strawberries?”
“Uh, blueberries. Please.” I frowned. That wasn’t like her: if I missed morning breakfast, I was expected to make something myself. But there she was, happily humming as she slid on an apron and began to make batter over the white kitchen bench.
“Your voice changed,” she noted as she worked.
“Yeah.” Even between the two syllables I could hear a pitch-shift, my vocal cords still struggling. “It feels ... weird.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think it sounds manly. Commanding.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged.
The rest of the morning passed without incident, and I pretty much dismissed the incident as a temporary whim of my mother’s.
While I was browsing the web, my phone buzzed with a text.
Come to the window!
Smiling, I headed upstairs. At the north end of my bedroom, the ceiling lowered to a dormer window. By crawling forward on my stomach, I could look directly across our cul-de-sac into the window of my best and oldest friend.
In her bedroom, Angelina waved with a grin. Pointed to her sunlit shelf.
Do you see?
I looked down. Along the shelf, under a series of plastic domes, a line of tiny green seedlings had sprouted. Angelina’s miniature hydroponic system, her contribution to the high school biology class we shared. My thumbs tapped the keyboard on my phone.
Her grin widened. How’s yours?
I reluctantly pulled my project to the window. The sealed transparent bucket of dark mud still had tiny air bubbles crawling up its sides. On top of the biobattery, the red LED barely flickered.
Not great I typed back. Getting only 30 microwatts.
I could see Angelina frown. Maybe check the anode again?
She smiled from the window. You’ll get it working! Come by later?
Sure. GTG return books to library.
Crawling back from the window, I slipped the library books into my messenger bag and headed to the kitchen for a snack before heading out. Turning at the bottom of the stairs made it impossible to avoid seeing the photograph of my father in his regimental dress uniform, his constant location in our home.
I had never known my father. I was a year old when he died, killed when a suicide bomber drove a car full of explosives into the NATO convoy he was leading in Kabul. Two years before his death he had met my Samoan mother during a training tour of Australia, and had brought her to Canada as his bride. She had never remarried; as far as I knew, she’d never even dated after his death.
Seeing him was always slightly unsettling, like seeing a ghost from the past. I had studied his face endlessly as a child, trying to find myself in him: the light blue eyes we shared, the same strong, stocky Viking features. But I was so very different: from my mother’s side, I had inherited the height of my cheekbones, the shade of my skin and hair, my lips.
No matter which way I looked at him, I could never see myself.
I found my mother in the little sunlit office at the back of the house mending clothes. She worked as an accountant for some high-tech firms in the Toronto-Waterloo tech corridor, but remained super-thrifty; life hadn’t been easy when she was young, and she had never let go of the habit of saving at every opportunity.
“Just going to the library.” I kissed her cheek. “Back in an hour.”
She hugged my arm for a moment. “Be safe.”
The winter air was chilled, but not too cold; a recent warm spell had melted most of the ice and snow. I pulled a bike helmet over my toque, light gloves on my hands, and my brought my bike from the back shed, rolling it through the wet slush on the ground until I hit dry pavement.
Cycling towards Johns St, I took in fresh, bracing lungfuls of air, my breath streaming behind me. I turned into Augustine St and lowered gears as I moved up the hill, pulling out slightly to avoid a wedge of plow-driven snow. Heard a short, angry honk in response behind me. Forced myself to keep both hands on the handlebars.
The car slowed, pulled up beside me. No, a truck. Of course it was a white guy in a truck.
“Hey, you fucker!”
I pretended I was listening to something loud and violent. Kept cycling.
“Hey! What are you, anyway?”
I sighed deep. Thorncliff was extremely diverse; the driver was probably someone passing through on his way to a bedroom community in Toronto. Stop for a bite to eat, harass the locals, have a little fun.
For a moment I debated pulling over into Rosemont St. on the left; mounting the curb, I could be in the park that ran parallel to the road, still heading towards the library, and no longer bothered by ignorant truck drivers. But a small spark of anger leapt in me.
Still pedalling, I turned my head. “Fuck off.” I could feel my new voice catch and flex, deep and resonant.
The driver blinked. Without another word, he pressed on the gas pedal and shot away.
I blinked. That never happened. We might trade a few insults, or exchange gestures, but angry drivers never just left.
I shrugged, kept pedalling. Perhaps it was just my lucky day.
At the library I locked my bike up at the white wooden fence and walked inside, stamping my feet a few times in the foyer to rid my shoes of the remaining sticky snow before walking to the central desk. The library was one of my favourite places in the village, a two-story white-painted house almost two centuries old that had been turned over to the community, full of warm nooks and crannies to lose myself in.
“Hi, Mrs. Applebee,” I smiled. I could feel my new voice still see-sawing up and down with the exercise on my bike, but it seemed to have settled a little more into its new register.
“Hi there, Joshua,” the head librarian smiled. Mrs. Applebee was a Thorncliff library institution, almost part of the foundation. When I had first wandered into the library, she’d been in her early forties. A decade later, she remained almost a caricature of a librarian: always prim and proper, wearing her dark hair in a bun with a single long pin, a white collar blouse, and horn-rimmed glasses on a chain.
I pulled the books from my bag and passed them over the desk. Mrs. Applebee scanned them one at a time, as thoroughly as ever.
The machine beeped on the last book. “Oh. I’m sorry, Joshua. It looks like this one is a day late. That will be 50 cents, please.”
“Oh, dam ... darnit. I don’t have any change today.” I felt my voice pitch-shift as I spoke. “Can you let this one slide? Just this once?”
She blinked. “Certainly, Joshua.”
That never happened. Mrs. Applebee was kind, but as long as I had known her she’d been as strict as God when it came to overdue books. Without fear or favour, she would always insist on collecting exactly what was owed.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Applebee.” She smiled, walking the books to the returns cart without another word. What was going on?
I felt a wide, crazy thought creep through me, like the strong impulse I had felt to jump on the glass floor of the CN tower, 500 meters above the street, when our class had visited Toronto.
I turned away from the book return desk and looked around. At one of the reading corrals, an elderly man wearing a thick cableknit sweater was taking notes from an open book. No-one else immediately around.
I walked up to him. Felt the point in my throat. “Give me your pen.”
The man looked up, raising his hand to his ear. “I’m sorry, what?”
With horror, I saw the pink hearing aid in his ear canal. I took an immediate step back. “Nothing. Sorry. My mistake.”
He shook his head, turning back to his book.
A feeling of deep embarrassment warmed my skin as I walked away, followed by confusion: what was going on? Could everything just be a product of my imagination? There were over seven billion people on the planet, I reasoned: one-in-a-million events had to happen to thousands of people every day. Perhaps I’d just experienced a string of them.
But I couldn’t let it go.
I walked upstairs, into the fiction section. The light was dimmer here, the rooms smaller, stacks closer together. I started turning randomly in the corridors – left, right, right – and almost ran into a girl carrying a load of books from a returns cart.
“Oh! Sorry.” I turned, crabbing sideways in the narrow passageway.
“Quite alright.” She leaned back against the far stack, books held against her chest. A few years older than me. Pale skin, blonde hair held back in a red bow, round glasses, the cutest hint of an overbite. Probably a university student on part-time work experience.
Halfway into passing, I stopped. Took a breath. What was the worst that could happen? She’d report a crazy kid loose in the stacks, and I’d have confirmation that this was all a weird series of coincidences.
I looked at her evenly. “Please pass me those books.”
The moment she blinked, I knew I was right. And felt more insane than ever.
The girl passed the stack over with a grateful sigh. “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”
Wait. That was a totally reasonable response. Maybe she thought I was a practicum student too? I thought desperately.
“And your glasses,” I added.
“Sure.” She pulled them off, folded up the arms, and placed the glasses carefully on top of the books I was now carrying. “I think I look better this way.”
“You do.” I agreed. “And...” How far could I push this? I looked around quickly: we were quite alone. I didn’t think there was anyone else upstairs. “You’d look even better with one more button undone on your blouse.”
This was beyond reason. She couldn’t possibly accept it.
“Oh! You’re right!” The words left her lips as a pleasant, sudden, and completely accepted understanding that this was the right thing to do, right now, here in the library. She reached up and undid the button, revealing the very edge of a lacy, cross-your-heart bra with a tiny pink ribbon in the centre. And stood there, smiling.
I didn’t pick up on any sense of flirtation ... not that I was finely attuned to that from girls. Neither was she glassy-eyed. She’d just accepted what I had to say, completely and without question.
A sense of shame suddenly flooded through me. I couldn’t do this to a stranger. I shouldn’t be doing this to anyone. “Here,” I said, passing the books back. I realized her glasses were still on top of a paperback and carefully opened them, sliding them over her ears and nose. “When you’re done shelving these books, please re-button your blouse.”
“Sure,” she said mildly, as if nothing had happened at all.
I turned, half-running down the stairs and out the library doors, my mind desperate.
Angelina’s family had fled Syria when she was five years old, before the borders had closed. My mother’s church had sponsored the family’s immigration to Canada, rescuing them from the civil war and raising funds to have Angelina’s infantile cancer treated by a specialist in Toronto. Shortly after that, she had moved into the house across the street.
Growing up with Angelina had been an education. She was a stranger in multiple ways: a shy, studious, black Ismaili refugee from the Yarmouk Basin. By now she spoke English better than I did, plus Arabic and French, although the rest of her family still sometimes struggled to communicate with locals.
I crossed the street and knocked on the front door of the Fares’ home. Mrs. Fares opened the door with her broad, friendly smile. “Hello, Joshua.”
“As-salaam ‘alaykum, Mrs. Fares.” The greeting was, sadly, most of my Arabic, but she was always pleased to hear me try. “Is Angelina still home?”
“Yes, Joshua. Wait, please.”
I nodded, slipping off my shoes in the front hall. When we had both reached ten years old it had been made clear that all visits had to be closely supervised by at least one parent or her elder brother.
Called by her mother, Angelina came down the stairs, wearing a pink Hello Kitty sweater and yellow tights, her hair pulled into two neat Minnie Mouse buns. “Hey, Joshie.”
“Hey, Angie.” I returned. “Need to ask you something.”
“Sure. Outside?” She turned and headed for our usual meeting place, a sheltered patio at the back of the house, visible from the kitchen. In the hall we passed a series of stiff, formal black and white portraits: revered Fares family elders, most of them judges, doctors or lawyers.
“Joshua,” Mrs. Fares called from the kitchen. “Something to eat?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Fares. I had a meal at home.” I hurried to the patio: if I gave her the chance, I know that she would ask the same question at least three more times.
We slipped on garden shoes and stood out on the flagstone, breath steaming in the chill air.
“You sound different,” Angelina observed.
“Yeah. That’s what this is about.”
“Oh?” She sat on one of the white iron patio chairs overlooking the garden, swinging her legs. “It doesn’t sound bad.”
“It’s not that, really. I have something really weird to show you, I think. But you have to promise – really promise – that you’ll never tell anyone about it. Not ever.”
Angelina tilted her head, bright eyes curious. “Okay, now I’m interested.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. I had only learned her Syrian name after many years of friendship, whispered into my ear after a birthday party.
She held up her hand, pale palm outwards. “I swear it, Joshua.” Her face was as sober as those of the jurists and generals in the hallway behind us.
I exhaled slowly. “Okay. You’re going to think I’m crazy, unless I show you.”
“I already think you’re crazy,” she smiled.
I felt the change in my throat, concentrated on it. “Stand up,” I said, not really believing it would work.
Angelina blinked, slowly rising from the garden chair. “Fine,” she said. “I needed to stretch anyway. I’ve been doing extra study.”
“Balance on one foot.”
She blinked again ... and raised her right foot, balancing on the stone paving.
Toes arched, arms rose, and she hopped delicately on the patio. I caught Mrs. Fares looking out from the kitchen with curiosity: Angelina was not a playful girl.
“Stop!” I said quickly. “Sit back down.” Angelina returned to her chair, as casually as she had risen from it.
“Angelina – “ I paused. “Why did you do those things?”
She frowned, as if I had asked her why she drew breath. “Because I wanted to, silly.”
“Do you remember me asking you to hop on one foot?”
“Yes of course, but...” She stopped. “It just seemed ... just ... the right thing to do.”
“Angelina, I made you do it.”
“But you didn’t! I decided ... I mean I...” She rubbed her forehead.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes. No.” She shuddered suddenly, pulling her knees under her sweater and wrapping them in her arms. “Joshua, I did those things because I wanted to.”
“I think – “ I swallowed. “I think maybe I made you want them.”
“But it felt like I wanted to do them. I swear it did. I still feel that way. But I remember you telling me - “ Angelina hugged herself tighter, rocking forward. “This is crazy.”
“I warned you.”
“It’s just – “ she looked out at the yard. “Joshua, when did this start?”
“Today. When my voice broke.”
We both turned at the sound of rapping knuckles on glass. Mrs. Fares stood framed in the tiled window panes with look of deep concern. “An-gel-i-na. Are you okay?”
Angelina waved weakly. “I’m fine, Mom. The – um, the wind changed. I’ll get a jacket in a moment.” She looked at me, voice low. “I’ll see you at the front of the house.”
A few minutes later we were walking down the street, Angelina’s hands thrust deep into the pockets of a red Sherpa jacket. Mrs. Fares had moved to the front lounge of the house, where she could keep an eye on us both.
“You’re saying that you can do this to anyone.”
I nodded. “Well, not everyone. I don’t know that, yet. The first two times were accidents, really.” I quickly described what had happened with my mother, the truck driver, and Mrs. Applebee, and my experiments immediately after. I carefully left out the detail of telling the student to open her blouse.
She ducked her head deep in the hood of the jacket. “Joshua ... that’s really scary.”
“I know.” I looked down. “But I think, maybe – maybe I might be able to do some good with it, too.”
“Maybe,” she said.
There was a long silence to the end of the block where we turned around, following the tight orbit prescribed by her family, and began the slow walk back.
“I was thinking of science class with Mr. Peterson,” I said finally. “The scientific method.”
“Hypothesis, prediction, observations, data,” Angelina repeated by rote.
“Right. I thought we might – well, we need to test this. To find out if it’s really real.”
There were a dozen paces of deep thought before she spoke again. “If we do this... if we do... there’s going to be rules.”
“Like, if it’s real, you promise to never use this for yourself, ever.” She stopped in the street, dark eyes over the red trim of the hood. “I mean it, Joshua. It could turn you into a monster.”
“If it’s real. Alright, Angelina.”
She nodded firmly, and turned on her heel. “And second, you never use it on me again.”
“But that’s going to be hard,” I hurried after her. “I don’t have anyone else to experiment with. At least, no one that I trust. And it would feel weird just using random people.”
“I guess so,” Angie admitted reluctantly. We had almost made it back to her house. “Alright. Okay. As long as you don’t tell me to do anything more than hop or jump, things like that.”
“But I’m not going to be your first subject,” she said, opening the door to her house.