tagMind ControlSecret Sins Ch. 13

Secret Sins Ch. 13



"Don't you ever worry about that?" I asked, gesturing to Donna's plate with my fork.

We were back at the real Donna Liski's house where I was about to spend my first night with her, sitting across from each other at either end of the dining room's table. We'd already enjoyed a very nice shower together in the ensuite's large stall, and now we were enjoying a rather delicious supper of lamb stir-fry that the real Donna Liski had prepared and served us.

"You mean that they might try to poison me?" she asked?

"Well, yeah."

"Do they seem to you like they're anything but one hundred percent devoted to me?"

"No, but... what if they... you know."

"Slipped their leash? Won't happen. I'm not saying that it hasn't happened, but it won't with them. See, some people are more difficult to influence than others, in particular, those who are strong minded, those who have a tendency to think for themselves. I can still influence them, but not as easily, or quickly, and it's good to check their leash from time to time. Donna and Roman aren't strong minded, and they're not the type who think for themselves. They're sheeple. Ever hear that term?"


"Shallow, malleable followers. Great workers but, when outside of known parameters, not good decision makers. Well, not unless it comes to serving themselves. For example, Donna's pregnancy was well outside their personal parameters, but they sure made a self-serving decision there. The problem is that real leaders don't have the luxury of being self-serving, though many in this day and age are. That's why the world's so fucked up. Eat your food before it gets cold, sweetie pie."

I took a few bites, pondering what she'd said, then asked, "Do you think I'm sheeple? Because I'm in the Salvation Army and because I believe in Christianity?"

She continued chewing through a smile at my question, looking at her plate as though trying to find a sugar coated answer there until she swallowed and looked up at me.

"No, you're not sheeple. Anthony Robbins has this great little parable about a lion who was raised by sheep. By the time he grew into an adult lion, he thought he was sheep until another lion came along, slaughtered all the sheep and taught him he was really a lion. That's you, a lion who thinks she's sheep. Not everyone who goes along with the great unwashed are sheeple. Some do start thinking for themselves. Sometimes it takes a while, or maybe it takes a particular event in their lives to get them really thinking, seeing beyond the two dimensional pictures that society has convinced them is reality. But no, you're not sheeple. Even were it not for me, you would have woken up sooner or later."

"I'm waking up?"

"I think so, yes."

"I'm still a Christian, you know. Not a very good example by my behaviour, but I still believe in Christ."

"But you already doubt him."

"Why do you say that?"

"You doubt that he loves you. You wonder if he ever even knew you. You doubt your salvation. Once those thoughts progress, once they become accepted, you won't be able to abide your faith in the belief that you're outside it, and you'll sooner or later come to a different understanding of who and what you thought God was. Your doubts will allow your mind to indulge in a little critical thought out of the desperate hope that there'll be something there for you to hang onto. But that's actually only a classic earmark of those who think in religious terms."

"How do you mean?"

"Something to hang onto," she repeated. "That's what you'll be looking for, because that's what you've always had, if only in your own head. Ironic as it is, you'll find nothing at all to hang onto and, sometime after that, you'll find that it's the most important discovery you could have made, that you stand on your own two feet, that you can stand on your own two feet, whether you think the right hand of god is on your shoulder or not, and you're responsible."

"What makes you so sure that's how it will happen, that I'll be so quick to discard God?"

"Because you probably won't. Ultimately, you'll only give up the ridged, dogmatic guilt complex that you've turned the concept of God into. I've seen it happen more times than I can count, and you're too smart to keep digesting the religianity you've been fed. Eat your food before it gets cold."

After another few bites, I asked a much more direct question.

"Donna... what are you?"

Another pause left me waiting until she swallowed before she replied with, "I don't know."

" ... You don't know?"

"Not really, no."

"But... how can that be?"

"Do you remember when you were a baby?" she asked.

"No," I replied. "My first memory is my third birthday. I got a toothbrush. I was disappointed."

"Do you remember being born?"

"Well, no."

"Do you remember being conceived?"

"Of course not."

"Do you remember where and what you were before your conception?"


"Well, I don't remember any of that either, and that's how I don't know what I am. Just like you, I was not... and then I was."

Another pause went by, this one longer as I looked into her eyes, swooning and loving her until she looked away. I was trying to read something of her, but the only result I got was arousal. She'd gone back to eating as though nothing had happened, but I knew she was aware of what had passed.

"Will you... influence me?" I asked.


"I want to know how it feels."


"Because I'm curious, and..."


"I want to be helpless. I want to be used like Janine and Candace were. I want... that."

She smiled again, taking another bite from her fork, chewing, swallowing and then answering.

"Horny little slut. I'm sorry, but I can't. Although, I'm glad you asked me that. It shows that you really do trust me. I mean, I knew that, but... now I know that."

"Why can't you?" I asked, instantly disappointed like I was with the toothbrush on my third birthday.

"Because we're related."

I only looked at her until she explained.

"My effect on you is limited."

"Because we share the same bloodline."

" ... Yes."

"There's something you're not telling me."

"There's lots I'm not telling you," she agreed, "not until you're ready, and I've already explained why. "Now, eat your food before it gets cold and I have to spank your pretty little ass."

We locked eyes again, and I felt that wonderful rush of love and pleasure, basking in the effects of that smile she uses only with me until she looked away. So, I ate a few more bites until the effect mostly wore off before I spoke again.

"What does it mean that I'm related to you?"

" ... It means that you're special."

"How so?"

"You'll see."

"Was my birth mother... special?"


"Could she influence people's minds? Like you can?"


" ... Oh. ... Why can't I?"

"Would you like to?"

"I... I never thought of it."

"If you could, what would you do?" she asked me.

"I don't know."

"You don't know? I'm sure if I asked the average person that question, she'd come up with some pretty quick answers."

I shrugged.

"So, would you like to have that ability? If it were possible for you?"

"I'm not sure. I'm having enough of an identity crisis these days as it is."

"That's a fair answer."

"Do I have other relatives?" I asked. "Like you, I mean?"

" ... Not exactly like me," she replied, going back to her plate.

I got the impression that this wasn't a topic of discussion that she was completely comfortable with, but this only meant that the answers would be informative.

"They can influence people?"


"Do you... Do you ever see them? Can I meet them?"

"Tara... just eat your supper, okay sweetie pie? I don't lie to you unless I have to, and I don't like it even then, so just trust me on that and leave certain things alone until I decide you are. Okay?"

She gave me another loving smile, but there was subtle warning in it so I simply gave her one in return before going back to my meal. For about three minutes.

"I want to know your real name."

She stopped chewing, her entire body actually stopping, freezing in response to my words. I waited, my heartrate climbing until she finally moved. Putting her fork carefully down on the table, she kept her dangerous eyes on her plate, once again chewing until she swallowed. Only then did she look up to speak with a quiet, controlled anger.

"Tara. I told you about that."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but... but I love you, and I don't want to call you by her name anymore," I argued, gesturing to the kitchen while my eyes stayed helplessly locked to Donna. "I don't even like her; why would I want to use her name for you? And it won't matter to me what your mother called you. If I were allowed to use it, I'd mean nothing but love for you."

Tears had risen in my eyes, running down my cheeks, but not because I was afraid, (though I was) but because I had such feelings for her. Yet, still she glared at me, completely devoid of expression as the colours in her eyes danced and roiled around the hellish darkness they held. So, I screwed up my courage, looked her right in the eyes and said it.

"I want you to tell me now."

I knew then that I may have made a terrible mistake. But I only kept staring back, tears running down my cheeks, until she slowly shoved backwards in her chair. With her eyes still on me, she rose to her feet and walked around her end of the table. Keeping those eyes on mine the entire time, she walked the length of it, stepping around behind me to where I couldn't see her. But I could feel her there, looming dangerously over me. I sobbed out loud, too scared to turn around, but determined just the same.

"You're all I have, y'know," I cried in a small voice.

And just when her silence became unbearable, she encircled me with her arms, making me jump. Her lips touched the top of my head and she gave me a long kiss while I sobbed again, sniffing like a child as she held me.

"You're like my daughter sometimes," she murmured. "Insolent, bold and so beautiful. If you had any idea how much I love you, Tara... I've been there your entire life, making sure you were adopted by the right people, making sure you were alright... watching... waiting for you..."

She held me for long moments as I sniffled, letting her words soak in. Then she let go, and my chair was suddenly spun one hundred eighty degrees to face her in a display of strength that surprised me, to say the least. What surprised me even more was how the blackness of her pupils had completely taken over her irises, the golden browns and green flecks only existing as darting sparkles of bright colour as she beheld me, tears running down her cheeks.

"For the last time... Eat -- your -- fucking -- supper."

And then she stared at me like that, and I stared right back, transfixed until, seconds later, I found myself cumming in my panties.

By the time I was able to recover my senses, she'd left the dining room. I didn't know where she'd gone, and I wasn't about to go find her after what had just transpired. Just then wasn't the time to push.

"Do- Donna!"

The real Donna Liski came bustling around the corner in a shiny, dark bronze dress that offered moderate cleavage and a half decent amount of leg with a black belt to accentuate her hips. As it happened, she and I were about the same size. Not as close as she and her and her life-jacker, but close enough.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Take your dress off," I told her, looking down at the wet crotch of my jeans.

"Yes, Ma'am, right away, Ma'am!"

I used my top to clean myself up with, giving that and the rest of my clothes, save my bra, to her with trembling hands and instructions to put them in the laundry. After she bustled away again, now in nothing but a dark green bra and matching panties, I put her dress on. With my bust line, it offered a little more than moderate cleavage, with my height, a little more leg, but that was fine. I was a slut and I liked to dress the part.

Wiping the last of my tears away, I sat down to finish my meal as instructed, pondering the things she'd said, though it was difficult getting my mind off the fact that she'd given me an orgasm without even touching me, and a very good one at that.

But, with a shaky sigh and a mouthful of Donna's stir-fry, I began by centering my thoughts on what was perhaps the most noteworthy portion of our conversation, this being the fact that she'd orchestrated my adoption. This wasn't hard to believe when I considered that she was able to know where I'd be posted before I did, but it also meant that she was necessarily older than she'd told me she was.

As I'd noted when I first met my assistant, her age was hard to pin down. Thirty-five was easily believable but, had she told me she was twenty-five, I might have believed that as well as if she'd told me she was forty-five. She seemed to have an odd way of defying any pinpoint. Of course, with my acceptance of her ability to influence people's thoughts and actions, make me cum in my panties without even touching me and, last but not least, those horrid eyes, this was relatively small potatoes. But still, it begged the question: How old was she?

And she'd mentioned a daughter.

Where was this daughter now?

She'd said that I was like her, and didn't this mean that her daughter would have to be at least close to my age in order for her to make a comparison? If Donna was really thirty-five, that meant that she would have had to have been around fifteen years old when she gave birth. This was certainly possible but, along with the fact that she could pass for being older than her stated age, it left her no reason to lie about it. It wasn't like she was the type of woman who was too vain and insecure to admit to being in her forties. No, she had no apparent reason to lie about her age at all, so why would she? Was it only to fit Donna Liski's profile?


What if she was my mother? I'd often likened her to a mother figure in my mind and had on more than one occasion noted a certain kind of old world sensibility about her. It was in the way she spoke at times, some of her expressions and viewpoints, the things or events she'd sometimes refer to or her way of doing basic things. Yet, even after weighing out the likelihood of Donna being my mother, my gut somehow rejected the theory.

I searched my memory for other clues that she may have dropped, but could think of none.

"Would you like a drink, Ma'am?"

I was startled, looking up at Donna, still only dressed in bra and panties, as she looked at me from the dining room doorway.

"Uh... yes. Screwdriver. Make it a double."

"Should I take your plate as well, Ma'am?"

"No, I have to-"

Looking down, I found that I'd already finished my supper. So engaged in thought was I, that I hadn't even noticed.

"Yes... Yes, go ahead."

"Right away, Ma'am." She promised with smiling positivity.

I really didn't like her. There was something about her, her husband as well, that made me want to take a shower whenever they were around. Was it what Donna had told me regarding her three abortions? As a Christian, I certainly didn't agree with abortion, but there just seemed something about the couple, something beyond that that made me dislike them. And, while I still wouldn't have cared for them had I not known about their three abortions, I nevertheless got the feeling that I wouldn't have felt so strongly about it had I met them in an uninfluenced condition.

Along with mine, she also took the new and improved Donna's unfinished meal and cutlery, disappearing with her load to the kitchen to once again leave me alone with my thoughts.

Donna had told me there were others like us, blood relatives. By these, did she mean her daughter? If so, why did she become so discomforted by that particular topic? Especially since she'd later spoken of her daughter in such glowing terms? Assuming that this wasn't the case, did she dislike them? Did they dislike her? Was there some reason for me to fear them and, therefore, reason for her to protect me from them? Did she fear them? She'd said that they also had the ability to influence people's minds, but also that they weren't exactly like her. But, I wasn't exactly like her either, and she didn't fear me. She'd implied that she'd been looking out for me from afar since I'd been born, even orchestrating events in my favour, so if she disliked or feared them, why didn't she feel the same about me? Was it because I couldn't influence people's minds? Furthermore, if my mother and the rest of our relatives could influence minds, then why couldn't I?

But she'd asked me what I'd do if I could. Was that some sort of test?

"Your screwdriver, Ma'am," Donna gushed, setting the glass on the table in front of me. "Is there anything else you need of me? Any little thing at all?"


"Please call if you think of something, Ma'am," she asked before leaving.

With a long, heavy sigh, I got up and went to the living room. Donna wasn't there and I sank down in the comfy couch, taking a drink from my glass before putting it on the coffee table to add another unsightly ring of my own. Putting my feet up, I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples while new thoughts filtered into my mind.

I didn't feel at all bad about using the Hubas or the Caraways. Well, maybe a little, but not much. Was it because I was becoming acclimatized to such things, or because they'd represented a threat to me? In any case, they certainly wouldn't be running around showing pictures to anyone now, not with all the pictures Donna had taken of them during their visit.

I couldn't help a smile and a short, hissing laugh at that. No, I obviously didn't feel too badly about them at all. Good Christians gone bad, thanks in part to slutty little me.

I took another drink.

It was true that I was related by blood to Donna. She'd offered no evidence to this, but she didn't need to. I knew it, could feel it. It was that connection to her that I'd always felt, the then unexplained familiarity I'd felt almost from the first moment I'd met her. Since then, my life had completely changed in such unimaginable ways that I never would have believed it had I not experienced the things I had.

And it wasn't over yet. I knew this. Donna had an agenda that centered on me. In fact, my entire life had been subject to this agenda, and now it was coming to fruition, taking everything I'd always wanted and mercilessly shredding it to confetti, scattered and blowing away in the warm, prairie wind.

I used to be so happy. I was an Officer in the Salvation Army. That was something to me. Was it still? Was I even still an Officer? I still had the uniform and, as far as Territorial HQ was concerned, I was. But was I really? Considering all that had happened, wasn't I the only one who could make that determination? Was I fit to make such a determination? God, did I even still care?

Taking another drink, I welcomed the infilling warmth and security of light inebriation.

I finally found her in the master bedroom, propped up in the king size bed and reading a hardcover tome. Her eyes back to normal now, (at least for her) she looked up at me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, some dreading suspicion in her glance.

"Just wondering if you're still mad at me," I provided in a neutral tone.

"No. I'm irritated with you," she patiently explained. "You don't listen, always pumping me for information no matter how many times I try to make you understand that I have my reasons for not telling you right now."

"I'm sorry, but... I have my own situation here."

"And I do try to keep in mind that you're young and you're going through a lot right now, but Tara, that in itself is one good reason for not overwhelming you."

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