The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1.

I was leaning against the railing in front of some empty benches on the boardwalk looking out at the ocean wearing nothing but my skimpy little black speedo and a cool tan I had gotten from being at the beach sunny-day in, sunny-day out for more than two months.

Evening was falling. It was nine-thirty, just beginning to get dark. An evening wind breezed by suddenly and my sweet little nipples cringed and crimped at the chill.

I had to feel them. They were hard and sharp and strong and it made me feel so good touching them that my hot little cock started acting up inside my speedo, making an exhibitionist of himself, just when this blond guy three or four years older than me I’ve had my eye on, on the beach, passes by down below; trudging along through the sand; him, too in only his speedo.

Hey, I call to him.

Hey little nipper, he calls up to me. He refers to me as little nipper he says because I remind him of the dog next to the old fashioned Victrola listening to his master’s voice.

He reminds me of the guy who plays Anakin Skywalker.

Grr, I growl playfully at him.

Woof, he answers back and comes up the steps and walks over to me. I’m pressing my balls and boner against one of the vertical bars of the railing.

He puts his hand on my butt, cups it and keeps it there.

I turn my head so I can look at him. I smile and cup his cock and balls in return.

With his other hand he takes hold of me in front and has got my cock and balls in the palm of his hand…and me, too.

I inhale; I exhale.

Relax, he says.

I kiss him like a child expressing adoration and the need for affection.

He rubs my cock, and without even thinking about it, I’m rubbing his through his speedo, gently outlining its shape and feeling its warmth and vibrancy.

He puts his lips to mine. Then he takes hold of my nipples and gently pinches them. Then he gets rougher. He is holding me by the nipples, pulling my face up to his. I’m going out of my mind. I just want to worship every part of his body with my tongue.

You’re the kind of kid who needs discipline if he’s to grow up right, he says.

Who’s gonna do it? I challenge him.

Just wait, he says.

Till when?

But he doesn’t keep it up. Instead he messes up my hair and says, It’s getting dark, junior. Why aren’t you in bed already?

I’m waiting for you to tuck me in, I answer, trying to get it going again.

You think I’m your mother? he says and leaves me standing there.

2.

I don’t know what I’m doing with that kid or what I’m getting myself into, or, maybe, what he’s trying to get me into. But every time I see him, he comes on to me in a way that makes him irresistible. But it makes me angry. It does. And the strange thing is that that’s what makes me start to respond to him.

It’s like, fuck you I’m saying. You want to do that. You daring me? Well this is what it feels like, kid, so watch it. And every goddamn time, it turns out that he beats me at the game. He doesn’t back down and we’re into the real thing.

So I figure if this kid can mess up my mind so bad and make my hormones race I better do something or I may be looking at serious jail time and a tainted life for the rest of my life. It’s a critical time for me. It’s my mind against my body for the control of my life. And that little fucker is at the heart of it.

So there’s one thing I gotta do, and that is…get it on with Laura,

But that’s a lot easier to wish for than to accomplish.

Problem is, I don’t really wish for it, I want it. I want to want it. But I don’t wish for it. I know I want to want it because I think about it, but I wonder if I really want it because even though I think about it when I’m not with her, it’s more like scheming than desiring. Suddenly, when I’m with her and I’m trying, something goes dead.

Now this is getting me crazy and I start wondering if I’m queer.

I know it’s perfectly ok to be queer, and yet something about me does not like the idea of me being queer. It’s like I don’t know if I’m really queer and not letting myself admit it, holding down that part of myself or if I’m really not queer and just doing a number on myself to make myself crazy.

My friend Richard says I’m crazy either way, but suggests that I let him hypnotize me to get to the root of it.

The thought of it gives me a hard-on. Does that mean I’m queer?

Not necessarily, Richard says. But it does mean I get off on being passive, he says. I think submissive, but keep myself from saying it.

Ok, I say, hypnotize me.

Take off your shoes, he says. We’re sitting across from each other by the window in his room in his parents’ beach house. It’s nighttime. There’s a full moon hanging over the ocean and hardly any stars are visible.

Let your head fall forward and slowly roll your eyes up and down, look up at a spot in the center of your forehead and then down to a spot beneath your chin and keep doing that. Notice how heavy your eyelids are becoming. You can’t keep them open anymore.

It worked. My eyelids closed and when he told me to try to open them, I couldn’t. The more I struggled, the heavier they became.

He told me I was in a trance, and I guess I was. I was sleeping and I was not sleeping. I heard his voice and everything became as he said it was. When he told me I couldn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t. When he told me I could, I could. When he told me I couldn’t stand up, I couldn’t. When he told me I could, I did.

3

The kid sat at his desk unable to get his mind on geometry as Miss Foster was showing them how to find the area of a parallelogram. The autumn was still rich with vibrant color. In his blood it felt like springtime. The surge of his blood through his body felt like the memory that the ocean had left in him each summer night when he lay in bed dreaming of caresses after the long days spent at the beach in his speedo darting over and around the bodies of all the other kids he played with in the water.

The feel of the blonde kid who called him nipper was still in his body too and it aroused him in a dull and dreamy sort of way. Glad he was when the bell rang and the school day was through.

Jack, Miss Foster called him before he was out the door and free of her. He turned around and walked back to her desk.

Yes, ma’m? he said, respectfully.

I don’t know where you were, but you weren’t here today. Not yesterday, either. Your mind is up in the trees.

Yes, ma’m, he said. I’m sorry.

Well, sorry isn’t good enough. Sorry isn’t going to show you how to figure out the area of a triangle.

No, ma’m, it won’t. He had learned long ago neither to argue nor to contradict when he was being reprimanded. But it drove the teachers crazy. He was polite, but they couldn’t get a grip on him. There was no traction when they tried to talk with him.

I’m letting you know now before it’s too late so that you can get a hold of yourself.

Thank you, he said, but all he could really focus on was the other meaning of her expression.

4.

When you overcome yourself you find that you can give yourself to things from which you once held back and you can begin to enjoy them. Later you may wonder if what you gave up might have offered you more if you had only been patient and waited for it to emerge. But if you had done that, you would have had to take a stance of dangerous defiance. Dangerous because possibly self-obliterating. And then you would not have been there to wait.

So he lay in the lonely bed with Laura in a pre-war building in Washington Heights aware of the loneliness tearing at his heart as he held her in his arms and kissed her without meaning it, and waiting for the night to go away.

He was aware of a sadness he had never felt before. Yet it was familiar. He recognized it as his own. He knew it was something that had been waiting for him. It was waiting for him the way that our adult features are waiting for us as we pass through childhood. They are waiting to surprise us with what we really are in our own dreadful individuality, when we are no longer being shaped and formed, after we have been irrevocably cast. He had come face to face with his inevitability. It was like a blow to the gut. Weak tears welled in his eyes but did not spill out in sobs.

What’s the matter? she said, trying to be tender.

I can’t do this he said.

What can’t you do?

This.

She knew what he meant without his having to break it down.

I’m not forcing you, she said. She had intended it to sound gentle but it came out harsh.

I know, he said.

Tell me what it is, she tried again.

But unformed words stuck in his throat and nothing took shape and nothing could get out.

Perhaps you better go home, she said at last, insulted that he would not tell her what it was.

Yes, he said, getting out of bed in the dark and feeling around for his clothing.

A surge of affection for her welled up as she stood opening the door for him and he kissed her good-bye with his tongue. It was a feeling of relief.

Call me, she said.

Anger flooded him like an arrested orgasm. He knew he would not.

5.

I can’t force myself, Jack said through his tears as his father slapped the failing test paper which he was required to sign down on to the table.

No? he glowered.

No.

What makes you so special?

I’m not special.

Every day I force myself. I force myself to get out of bed. I force myself to go to work. I force myself, Christ, to come back to this lousy house every night. I force myself. And you can’t force yourself. That’s what life is all about, forcing yourself. If you don’t know that, it’s time you learned it.

I don’t want to learn it. I don’t want to live that way.

You don’t want. You don’t want. It’s not a matter of whether you want it or not, boy. It’s the way it is.

6.

I told Richard about what had happened with Laura.

Good, he said, rubbing his hands together. We’re making progress.

Progress? I echoed uncomprehending.

Leaving the past behind. Stepping into the void.

I don’t know what that means, I said.

Of course you don’t, he said. That’s why it’s the void. The dark place where nothing’s there but discovery. Sleep now, he said, without a pause between one sentence and the next.

I knew what was happening, but I had to do as he said. My head fell forward, my eyes rolled up, my lids fell shut.

You step into the void, he said. There is nothing to avoid, he said. Everything is dark. You feel the humming of darkness flowing inside you. Go deeper.

7.

I long for coincidence. I seek through the streets the unfinished, the avoided, the phantom of what might have been but did not happen, the shadow made flesh of the lingering but impalpable form left as a trace of a movement aborted by a hesitation.

It’s a long shot. More often than not this convoluted desire is frustrated, as it must be. As it must be, for that is the reality of things. They are as they are. We are bound to ourselves and nothing changes.

But if I’m making up the story, it’s another matter, shadow becomes substance and fantasy becomes fact.

So I was not surprised when I saw the kid looking in the window of the men’s clothing store on Greenwich Avenue in an old pair of dungarees and a motorcycle jacket hanging open. A cigarette was loose on his lip and as he turned in my direction to light it and the match flame flared I saw from the way he inhaled it was a joint.

You remember me, nipper? I said approaching him.

I’m not that stoned, he said, in wonder, looking at me and trying not to let his breath out as he spoke, and, I felt it: him involuntarily drawing towards me, like I was to him; magnetized.

And then he exhaled, and before all the smoke could leave his lungs our mouths were upon each other and I had caught his sweet and nutty breath in mine and felt his soft and velvet tongue caressing mine.

I backed away and put my thumb to his lips. He gently kissed it, smiled, and said, I always believed I’d find you again. This time you’ll stay with me.