Second That Emotion
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2006 by Latikia

Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A young boy discovers he has empathic abilities. How will this gift/curse affect his life? Story code note: Slavery is not a significant part of this story.

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   mt/ft   Ma/ft   Mult   Consensual   Mind Control   Slavery   Heterosexual   Science Fiction   Extra Sensory Perception   Incest   Brother   Sister   Spanking   Torture   Harem   Violence  

I am certifiably sane, which is probably more than 99% of you can claim. In fact, I actually have the certificate to prove it. Do you?

On the other hand, if you ignore the paperwork (and most folks do), I'm about as nutty as anyone else. Hell, just having a certificate that proves you're sane is tantamount to confessing that you aren't.

I got my certificate of normalcy back in the early 90's following the end of the first Gulf War. It took five long mind warping months of interviews, tests, group therapy sessions and drug treatments to get it though. Sometimes the government insists on being far too thorough. The real pity is that if they'd been as thorough ten years earlier I would never have had to go through those final five months. And my life would have probably turned out a hell of a lot differently.

 

My name is Ike Blacktower, and I'm a mutt. That's mutt, not nut. Remember, I have an official certificate.

Most of you identify yourselves by the heritage of your parents and their parents. In America (since we're such a young country) that means you might be one quarter English, one quarter Irish, one quarter French and one quarter German. We don't (or can't) trace back as far as some of the older countries. In some ways this is a good thing but it's also proved to be intensely harmful.

There is no such thing as a pure blooded anything anymore and hasn't been for a very long time. And identifying human beings based on country of origin is so patiently stupid it hardly bears thinking about. Countries are (in the grand scheme of things) such transient entities. (if you want a 'for example' take a look at any map of the world made prior to 1750 then compare it with one made this year) The USA didn't even exist three hundred years ago. So how could there be a pure American? Germany, as a national entity, didn't exist until the latter half of the 1800's. Even China, one of the oldest and longest existing nations, has been in constant flux... sometimes fragmented, sometimes unified, sometimes larger and sometimes smaller. Hell, the concept of nationality is still relatively new. Before nationalism came along, people tended to be identified by where they lived and worked (oftentimes it was the same tiny little podunk place where they'd been born).

 

Anyway, as I was saying... I'm a mutt. If you label me based on my parents and grandparents I'd be English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, German, French, Swedish, Dutch, Russian, Romanian, Spanish, Egyptian, Nigerian, Apache, Navajo, Sioux, Jamaican, Haitian, Chinese and Korean. Oh, and second generation American... on my dad's side. And that's just going back two generations. If I went back two more, to my great-great grandparents the listing becomes geometrically more complicated. My family has a long and proud history of not mixing with the local stock.

In point of fact, we have a long standing tradition of enforced diversity. No one in my family (that we're aware of... and we are aware of as far back as the mid 600's Common Era) has ever married someone that looked even remotely like themselves. We go for the exotic and unusual. I don't know if this tradition is genetic or learned, but it's real enough. We choose mates that are as different from ourselves (physically as least) as we can find.


Description time: My father, as a young twenty year old, stood about six feet tall, weighed two hundred pounds, had dark black hair, black eyes and after an hour in the sun could pass for either a Mexican or an Arab. My mother, as a young twenty year old, stood around five and a half feet tall, weighed just over one hundred pounds, had very light brown hair, pale blue eyes and after an hour in the sun would have been dead from sun stroke. Her skin was almost alabaster white.

They had three children, four if you count the one who died minutes after being born.

My brother Ivan, at twenty, stood five feet nine inches tall, weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, had dark black hair, brown eyes and was just a shade or two lighter than my father. My sister Isabeau, at twenty, stood five feet ten, weighed one hundred and thirty pounds, had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and skin that looked like mocha coffee. The baby that died was also a girl and probably would have looked like Isabeau, since they were twins.

And then there's me. I'm the youngest of my parent's children... and the oddest of an admittedly odd family. At twenty I stood six feet four inches tall, weighed two hundred and forty pounds, had a full head of snow white hair, pale gray eyes and skin so white you could see the veins running underneath the surface. Not quite an albino, but too damn close for my personal comfort.

 

My brother Ivan got married ten days after he graduated from college. His wife Svetlana is Lithuanian, very blond with green eyed, about my height and weighing in around one hundred seventy five pounds. (Ivan looks like a football player, but he's actually more of a chess master/PhD type, by which I mean he's very smart but is sadly lacking in common sense... Svetlana looks like a fashion model/centerfold, but she was a track and field athlete in college.)

Isabeau didn't marry... she was waiting for the right person.

I got married three and a half months into my second year of college.

I graduated a year early from high school (in case you're wondering, I did NOT max out my SAT... only scored 1510. I did score a 23 on the ACT... I'm not even sure they give that test anymore.) starting my freshman year just before my seventeenth birthday.

I have always stood out. The pale skin and bright red hair I had as a child made it very hard to blend in. Looking totally unlike my siblings didn't help either. I used to get shit from them on top of the neighborhood kids. Ivan, to this day, claims that it was all part of their plan to toughen me up and make me better able to deal with the rest of the world. What bullshit! That may be how it turned out, but I don't believe for an instant that it was ever planned that way.

I got called a lot of names and got pushed around and bullied. Not being able to spend a lot of time out in the sunlight made things worse. No outdoor fun for me. No trips to the beach, no pool parties, no long summer days running wild with my childhood friends or my brother and sister.

I was shy and introverted as a kid. My mother often described me as over-sensitive. My father and brother used less tactful language. (In fairness I should say that my father never called me a 'wimp' or 'pussy'. At least I never heard him use those words. Those terms came from my brother. My father was more... circumspect. If my mother had ever heard either of them using language like that about me she might have actually hurt them physically. And she could have done it too. You did not want to piss off my mother. Her temper is the stuff of family legend.)

So I had a lot of free time on my hands as a youngster. I read... a lot. I read everything and anything I could get my hands on and I don't mean Dr. Seuss. I had read the collected works of Shakespeare and Mickey Spillane by the age of twelve. I played games like Chess, Go and Backgammon. If it required thinking and planning I played it. I killed at Scrabble and Risk.

When the sun went down the other kids went home and were afraid of the dark. But that was when I went out to play. I had (and do to this day) exceptional eyesight. My night vision is three times better than your run of the mill human, and my standard vision is rated at something like 20/10. My night vision is only slightly worse. So I played in the dark, running and jumping and climbing trees... all the kinds of things that young kids usually do in the daylight. When I got older (about twelve I think) I started lifting weights and beating on punching bags.

Just about the time I was starting junior high school, some bright bulb scientist invented a type of sun blocker that worked on skin like mine, and suddenly I emerged from out of the dark and descended upon an unsuspecting world. Mostly it descended on me.

I got my first growth spurt when I started puberty at 11. I went from four foot ten to about five foot five in less than three months. Damn, did that ever hurt. My second growth spurt came the following year when I went from five six to five foot ten. I had another surge at thirteen when I made it all the way to six feet. I stopped growing for a while and my last growth spurt came when I was eighteen and I finished up at six foot four. I never grew another inch after that. Fortunately for me I did gain some weight for a time... I guess my body mass was trying to catch up so I wouldn't blow away in a stiff breeze. The big joke when I was thirteen was that if I turned sideways and stuck out my tongue I'd look like a zipper. If I kept it in I was a matchstick.

As it turned out, my high school football and basketball coaches both tried very hard to convince me to play. I'd bulked up some by then and was somewhat larger than most fourteen year olds, so I was a desirable prospect... even if I'd never played either sport before. Unfortunately there were a few little problems.

First, I didn't like basketball. Not even a little bit.

Second, I'm not (by natural inclination and also by training) a team player. I mean, what the hell do I know about working with other people? When did I ever have an opportunity to learn?

Third, I can remember wanting to try football, if only so I could have a shot at hitting back at some of the kids who'd made my childhood such a joyous memory. Much as I would have liked the opportunity to vent some built up pubescent angst, it was not to be. I was too sensitive for that kind of direct violence.

This last line requires a little explanation, so let's flashback a bit here, to when I was ten.

My granddad (my father's father, he was part Sioux and part Apache... the Navajo part was from my mother's side of the family) took it upon himself to teach me the fine art of shooting and hunting. First there were lessons in gun safety and cleaning. Boring, but necessary. Then, and only after I proved I'd mastered the boring lessons, came the shooting. With my eyesight I had a definite advantage. Using iron sights I could see targets clearly that some folks couldn't even see using scopes or field glasses. I started off using single shot .22 rifles and gradually moved up to 30-30 lever actions and 30-06 bolt actions as I got a bit bigger and heavier. I was a very good shot at just about any distance, as long as I was shooting at inanimate targets. My first real clue to just how sensitive I was happened the first time I went deer hunting with my Granddad, my father and my brother.

We had gone out early one cold and damp autumn morning not long after my thirteenth birthday. School was out for the Thanksgiving holiday, so Dad and Granddad decided it was time for me to go hunting for the first time. The leaves had turned and they were beautiful, their bright colors highlighted by the dawning sun and the light mist that drifted across the open fields. The morning was chilly and quiet; the only sounds came from scattered birds and our footsteps crushing the grass and leaves beneath each step. We'd been out tracking for maybe forty minutes when I spotted a big buck with a massive set of horns at the edge of the tree line, some three hundred yards away. Granddad, looking thru his scope, verified my sighting for Dad and Ivan (they were always skeptical about my eyesight, no matter how often I proved to them how good it was) and then proceeded to talk me thru my first kill.

"Line up your target, Ike." He whispered softly, because sound travels really well in the early morning air.

"I've got him, Granddad." I whispered back excitedly in a voice that had recently begun to crack at the most inopportune times.

"Good boy... now, release the safety and ease your finger over the trigger."

"Okay."

"Still got him in your sights?"

"Got 'em."

"Good. Now listen to me Ike. I want you to try and imagine you can hear that buck's heart beating. You can feel each beat, hear each breath he makes. Can you feel the link between you and him?"

Damn me if I didn't. I felt as if I were just inches away from that big deer. I could see the steamy breath when he exhaled from his nose. I could count the points on his horn rack. I could feel his heart beating. I could feel him feeling the morning breeze ruffling his coat. I could almost smell him. I nodded my head just a tiny bit, never taking my eyes or sights off my target.

"Now, imagine the path of your bullet following the link between you and the buck. Can you see the path; feel the link and the buck?"

"Oh, yeah!" I rasped excitedly.

"Then squeeze the trigger gently and send the bullet down the path."

I did exactly what Granddad told me. I squeezed the trigger gently and the bullet roared out of the rifle barrel, following my link right to that big, magnificent, unsuspecting animal.

I felt the bullet hit him just off center of his heart. I physically felt the bullet hit him in the chest, just like I would have felt it if I had hit a bag of sand with a baseball bat. I felt the bullet punch thru his chest, felt it mushroom, shredding his lung and heart. I felt the sudden searing, radiating pain and the confusion he felt. And then I felt him die.

I dropped my rifle, my eyes got big and blood began to leak out of my mouth. I had bitten my tongue, trying to keep from screaming.

"Oh shit..." I gasped quietly as the blood ran down my chin. This day also marked the first time I had ever cursed in the presence of an adult. I wasn't sure which was considered the greater crime, killing or cursing. I knew which one I thought was the greater evil.

"Damn, I couldn't see for sure if Ike got him or not." Grandfather groused. Dad and Ivan said they thought I'd missed and the buck got away.

"He's dead." I said sadly but with authority, wiping the blood off my chin with the sleeve of my jacket.

"Huh? What's that?" Granddad turned to look at me, taking his eye from his rifle scope.

"He's dead," I repeated. "The bullet hit him right in his heart and he died and fell down."

"Did you see the bullet hit?" Granddad asked me.

"Didn't have to see it; I felt it." Tears began rolling from my eyes.

Ivan broke out the 'wimp' and 'pussy' labels that my mother had kept him from using. I guess he felt safer saying them out here where he only had to answer to my Dad. Dad didn't say anything, but the look on his face made me think he agreed with my brother.

Granddad saw the light spray of blood on my lips and chin, which apparently Dad and Ivan did not. He looked hard into my eyes and thru my tears I could see his eyes go wide with surprise.

"Show me where he fell, Ike."

I started walking in the direction of the deer I'd killed. I didn't bother to pick up the rifle. I didn't want to touch it. I think Granddad retrieved it and made Ivan carry the damned thing.

It didn't take all that long to get to the fallen deer. I couldn't bear to look at it, so while Granddad and Dad examined it and (I learned later) dressed it out, I turned and walked off into the trees, looking for a place to be alone with my pain. After a while I came across a fallen tree and sat down. I closed my eyes and just listened to the sounds that were all around me. I wanted to try creating another link to whatever was making those sounds, but I was far too afraid and ashamed of what I'd already done to make the attempt. So I just sat there, eyes closed, and listened.

After about half an hour I could feel someone approaching, the overly loud noise of human footsteps breaking into my hard won peace of mind.

"Ike?" It was my Granddad. He took a seat next to me on the fallen tree.

"Yeah?"

"Your dad and brother are taking care of the deer. They'll clean things up and haul it back to the truck."

"Okay."

We were both silent for a while. Me because at that age I didn't have the words or experience to describe what I was going thru, and Granddad because he didn't know if he could explain to me what he knew or if I could accept what he might tell me.

"When I was a very young boy," he began "my grandfather told me the stories of our people; legends of mighty warriors and great leaders, tales of the gods and the first People. One story I remember very well was about a great Lakhota hunter. This young hunter was so good that he never missed a shot, never failed to take his prey. He had eyes like a hawk that could see for miles, powerful legs like the antelope and could run for days without getting tired. But most important of all was a gift from the earth mother, something that made him a truly great hunter. He could become one with whatever animal he hunted. He thought like his prey, saw thru their eyes, climbed inside them and wore their spirit. He became them. And because of this gift, as long as he lived, his family and tribe never went hungry."

I was silent for a few more moments, thinking about the story he'd just told me.

"Do the stories say how much it hurt him when he felt the animals die?" I asked.

Granddad let out a long, tired sounding sigh. "No, I'm afraid they left that bit out. Ike, I want you to know how sorry I am to have had any part in doing this to you. I had no idea, Ike none at all. I never truly believed that such a thing was possible. Your mom's told me many times how sensitive you are... but I tended to think the same way as your father and brother. We were wrong. Very, very wrong. You have an extraordinary ability, but it's gonna be a hard one for you to come to terms with. One thing I am sure of... you should avoid violent activities like the plague. Any and all types, you just walk the other way. You could be just like the hunter in the story, with a kill each and every time... but I don't think you'd have a very long or happy life if you did."

"What am I gonna do? I don't want this... thing!" I hissed. Granddad laid one of his big arms across my shoulders and pulled me close in a sideways hug.

"I know." There was a long pause, then "In the old days someone with a gift like yours would have either ended up as a tribal chief or a holy man. But you don't have enough of the right kind of blood in your veins, and you sure don't look enough like one of the People. They'd never accept you." Another pause followed, then he spoke slowly "But if you think about it from a different angle... you'd make one hell of a doctor."

I miss that old man. He and my mother were the only ones who truly understood or cared. Granddad died a week before my sixteenth birthday. I think maybe it's a good thing he went when he did. He never had to see just how accurate his prediction turned out to be.

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