The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Blue and purple triangles flashed and whirled in Gary’s field of view; they crashed into his head and slit his mind with razor-sharp edges. He lay face down on Nick’s bed, a gentle breeze cooling his exposed ass. The bittersalty taste of Nick’s cum still lingered in his mouth—despite the most immediate defeat, it still tasted like victory. Pulling his khakis and boxers from down his ankles, he clumsily stood up beside the bed then immediately winced in pain. He had stepped right onto shards of broken glass, which littered the bedroom floor: the bay window was shattered.

He was alone. After having extracted the bloody shards from under his feet, he walked cautiously to the opening through which the breeze was coming. Below, something had punched a hole the size of a basketball into the glass roof of the conservatory. There wasn’t anyone down there either. He checked his watch. Almost 3:30 PM. He had been out of it for about half an hour. He sat on the bay window couch, closed his eyes, and tried to think. The water gun! He reopened his eyes in alarm and scanned the room. It was gone! Was it in his bag? He kneeled next to his bag on the floor and ransacked it. The gun was gone, and so was the copper flask containing the drug.

As Ryan unlocked the door to room 31, he wondered why the hell these students needed more towels. Apparently, they had run out of dry ones this morning. Unless some of them had taken two showers, it didn’t make any sense. It would have been easier to understand had they been athletes, but just how dirty can engineers get? A picture glowing on the laptop screen on the desk gave him his answer. Pretty dirty, he guessed. His mind became clouded and his fingers mechanically moved to unbutton his tropical shirt.

At the exact moment Gary accepted that the drug had been stolen, his blood thinned to the point of blanching his entire body, making it buoyant and almost unsubstantial. Without the drug, what was he, anyway? The ghost of a person, who now floated rather than walked? A bookworm for whom life was something you read about rather than lived? Someone meant to docilely obey rather than command, as he had been to Richard Bloom, his father, the high priest, the moral highlander, the beacon of humanity’s hope? Now there was someone worthy of power, someone in whose shadow you were happy to crawl, someone superior enough that when he beat and punched and bruised you, you could only be proud to be the one bringing him relief.

Gary drifted out of the bedroom, as if carried by the breeze. The situation was hopeless; without the drug, he had to sneak out of there and go back home to resume his lifeless life. Noises could be heard from Nick’s office downstairs. Nick and the pool guy were certainly drug-dry by now—how were they going to react towards him? Even after the drug had ceased to work on Todd the janitor and the room 31 students, they had kept on not remembering their adventures with Gary; yet for a moment Todd and Jeff had both reacted violently against Gary after the drug stopped influencing them. So, did the effects go on or not? Was it random? He was such an imbecile—now that was something he had often heard from his dad—Nick had certainly reported to the cops by now that Gary had broken into the house and taken advantage of him. He had to flee before they arrived.

Gary darted down the stairs to the front door. He was just about to open it when he noticed, on the front page of the Sun-Sentinel lying on an Early American writing desk, a picture of the green man, of the man in the green suit. The headline: «Two dead and one wounded at beach mansion» The caption: «Owner Timothy O’Shea died on the beach outside mansion.» Gary picked up the paper and started to read the story as he went outside. The police had no clues as to the motivation be-hind the killings; they assumed it was drug-related—not so far from the mark, Gary thought. Apart from O’Shea, whose body had been discovered on the beach where Gary had left it, the police had also found two men dressed in purple robes, members of some unknown sect, inside O’Shea’s mansion. One had been killed by a gunshot, presumably by O’Shea, but the other, only wounded, had been sent to the Holy Cross Hospital. Purple robes? Why was this familiar to Gary?

At the Broward County Convention Center, Sean was staring at the cruise ships in Port Everglades with Jeff and Paul while John talked to Melissa, his girlfriend, on a public phone.

“I’m sorry if I sound cold, Mel,” John said, playing rope with the phone cord, “but something happened to me last night—or maybe this morning—anyway, I fell in love with someone else.”

His words startled Sean. Who could he be talking about? John wouldn’t drop Mel for one of those cock-teasers from last night, would he? Jeff and Paul, seated a few feet away, hadn’t heard John, too busy throwing meaningful looks at each other that Sean tried to ignore. He had surprised them in a secluded corner before the last session, and he could swear they had been just about to kiss.

“Forget it! I won’t tell you who it is. I didn’t even tell the guys yet... Hell, I didn’t even tell the one I love... Anyway, it’s intense, and I want to pursue this... I just needed you to know. I’m sorry...”

Sean filled his mouth with another piece of minty chewing gum. What a weird day! John was dumping Melissa for a secret ghost girl, Jeff and Paul were making goo-goo eyes at each other, and he couldn’t get that awful taste out of his mouth. At least, he had succeeded in removing all those blond hairs on his tongue. How the hell they had gotten there was beyond him...

“Don’t act stupid, Mel... No, I’m not saying you’re stupid but you got school... Hello? Mel?”

John hung up, and his three friends turned their attention to him.

“She’s crazy—she wants to take the next flight here! Sometimes I think she’ll turn out like her sister Jane... That’s a bit mean, sorry... Eh! Isn’t that Mark Gosling and Jon Brandon? Mark! Jon!”

Two dark-blond boys down the hall stopped in their tracks and walked towards the foursome.

“Why did he do that?” whispered Sean to Jeff and Paul. “You know what they say about these two and their friends... I’m not talking to them.”

Mark and Jon could have been brothers: Mark would have been the oldest, with a rugged face, large eyes, and a brawny physique, and Jon his junior by a year, with fine features and a thinner, blander build.

“Hi guys!” said Mark. “Were you at the ‘Engineering Ethics’ session?”

“These two were,” said John, nodding towards Jeff and Paul. “Sean and I were at the ‘Conversation with an Astronaut’. It was interesting... These guys sure put their lives in our hands.”

Sean kept to himself, studying the group. Mark was the most social, pushing for a conversation. Jon was like Sean, aloof but alert. John seemed eager to engage in meaningless chat, probably to forget all about Melissa. Paul was staring at Mark and Jon as if he was undressing them with his eyes. Was that a hard-on in his pants? How did he get so weird?

“How do you like the Blue Sparrow?” asked Jeff, wanting to join in.

Jon surprised everyone by answering, with a voice so charming you could almost not sense the disdain: “Cheap. Tawdry. The worst America has to offer. But vulgarity has its appeal, wouldn’t you say? Sex is vulgar, and sex has its appeal. An overpowering appeal, almost...”

There was a sudden fire in Jon’s eyes, and his face tightened. Sean could not help but be fascinated by Jon’s voice, and what it was saying. His thoughts drifted toward vulgar, pornographic sex: zoomed-in body parts, bodies sweaty and in heat... Fuck, he was he getting a hard-on, and fast... Jeff, John, even Paul, they were all frozen like himself, listening to Jon’s words, and all three had obvious woodies in their pants. Only Mark seemed unaffected, but quite interested.

“...and its power cannot be resisted, because it’s coming from your most primal self. It mounts and mounts and takes hold of your minds and bodies...”

Sean squirmed in place, clutching at his pants, as his brain was drowning in its own visions of raw, naked flesh, satin breasts and flowery cunts.

“...It invades your brains and hearts and cocks and it stimulates them, stimulates them, creating a surge of rational, emotional and physical pleasure until it reaches its unavoidable climax...”

At the word climax, Sean instantly came in his pants, his warm juices soaking his briefs. His friends had also relieved themselves in the same way—Paul and John had dark stains all over their jeans. Jon smiled wickedly and left with Mark, leaving Sean and his friends wet and confused.

When purple mages threaten to snatch you for their joyrides, remember: copper protects, gold reflects, and silver hides.

Gary remembered these words, uttered in his father’s voice. During Gary’s childhood, Richard Bloom often frightened him with tales of those purple mages who, like demons, could possess you and make you do things you’d never do. When Gary did something wrong—often the case in the Bloom’s household—his father would invariably say: “You’re opening the door for the purple mind-snatchers to make you theirs” with sincere, atypical concern. Then he’d say the rhyme.

Not so long ago, Gary had met a man in purple robes. When that man entered the bookstore, Gary instantly started to shiver at the prospect of meeting a bogeyman from his youth. It was an amiable enough man who was looking for a book, a rare book. Gary told him that the book was untraceable and proposed some alternatives. The man left without taking a look at...

“Don’t go so soon Gary!” The voice, Nick’s, made him jump despite its sweet tone. Gary stopped, but did not turn around. He had almost reached the sidewalk. Was Nick still drugged? That was impossible. Was it a trap? Was he pretending, just to take his revenge on Gary? Then who had struck him earlier and stolen the drug? The pool guy? Anyway, the drug had strong chances to still be in Nick’s house. He had to recover it and be somebody again. He turned and smiled at Nick.

Mallory heard a noise from not too far away. Someone was coming towards the court. He jumped away from the bodyrubbing action on the chaise longue, flinched at the jocks’ load moans, and sprinted towards the gate. As soon as the intruder entered the court, Mallory came to him, pointed towards the two half-naked athletes, and said:

“I don’t know what game these two are playing, but it sure isn’t basketball!”

Discreetly of course, he took the man’s MIP address. The man—who was probably in his late twenties—carried a large broom with him; he was attractive in a primal sort of way, with wiry limbs, a fuzzy face, and straggly reddish hair. Some kind of janitor, thought Mallory. Not too good to let a motel employee see too much... He sat on the bench with his PowerBook and hurriedly picked the janitor’s mind. The latter approached the chaise-longue where Kyle was apparently buffing Scott’s body with his own, making both of them howl madly with pleasure.

“You can’t do stuff like that here...” said the janitor, awkwardly.

As Mallory browsed... Todd, there was his name... as he browsed Todd’s mental landscape, something puzzled him. There were some forcefully implanted pathways there, still fresh, not merged with the surrounding code. These pathways were now discarded, disconnected. Someone had recently tampered with his mind. Who? And why this particular man? There was no occult signature, so it wasn’t a Mage. Was it the trace of a Rogue? He’d have to report it right away. He decoded the exact pathways. Allowing someone to stay... somewhere... in a sauna... Stripping... from his shirt... A gradual increase in... sexual arousal... Not hurting someone... Letting someone go... Being grateful... for being allowed a little fun on the job... Cleaning himself up... and getting dressed... Forgetting about everything... Mallory couldn’t believe this. All of these mental algorithms were written in clear, perfect code! Some of them were quite complex, especially the emotional control ones. Who could have written such perfect mindcode? As soon as he’s recovered the book from this Gary Bloom, Mallory would make a visit to O’Shea. Maybe Domination would let them investigate this together, just like old times.

Todd was still dumbly waiting for the boys to acknowledge his presence. The virus in the jocks’ heads would last for another five minutes, so by simply reactivating some of Todd’s newly acquired pathways for this amount of time, and then calling that crystal-clear Forget mindcode, Mallory would be in business. It took him about thirty seconds to use the existing algorithms in a preprogrammed sequence: Strip, Arousal, Cleaning, Forget...

Todd, finally tired of waiting in vain, came to him and said: “I’m getting the manager. They’re ignoring...” He stopped abruptly and started to unbutton his shirt.

Mallory had changed a few variables to increase the rhythm of the mindcode. Within a minute, Todd had stripped naked and was jerking off, his eyes on the two boys. Mallory studied Todd’s tall, sinewy body with its reddish fuzz, its lance-like steel-hard dick, and its tight, dimpled ass, then reapproached the boys, who were oblivious to the events around them. He removed Kyle’s black briefs: they were filled with cum, probably from more than one orgasm. When he tried to do the same to Scott’s boxerbriefs, Scott struck at his arm, then went back to the rubbing action without missing a beat. Strange. Todd soon joined in the fun, and the boys welcomed another hot naked body to rub against. Mallory walked back to the bench, turned off his PowerBook and closed his briefcase. He left the three of them as they entered the cleaning up and dressing up part of their programming, then made a call with his cellphone as he headed towards room 31.

“Julia Dreyfuss, please... Julia? Mallory here... I’m walking to his motel room right now... What about the Redfield branch?... Yeah, that would be a hell of a coincidence. Send an Untainted, use a Thrall for the contact. If it’s something of ours, or based on something of ours, it must be recovered; and if it’s a Coinage, it must be confiscated... From Canada? That’s odd. Don’t we have a Thrall there? A Mountie from the old game at the Harriston compound? Frank?... No, Fraser... Have him investigate there as well. What does O’Shea think about all this? Those chemicals are up his alley... Really? I called this morning and couldn’t reach him either... I’ll check... Thanks Julia.”

Mallory was now in front of room 31. Someone was inside, probably Mr. Bloom. How did he get to his room without Mallory hearing him? He probably did so while he was playing with the basketballers. He knocked on the door. No answer. The door was unlocked; he slowly opened it.

“Mr. Bloom?” he said, discreetly.

The room was a mess—four unmade beds floating on a sea of stuff. Odd: Mr. Bloom was supposed to be traveling alone. There was a laptop, turned on. Sitting in front of the computer was Ryan, naked, his discarded clothes spread over those of the room’s guests next to a pile a pile of white towels. He was jerking off to a picture of naked girls playing beach volleyball in the sand. He hadn’t noticed Mallory, who now hid under one of the beds and waited for the boy to finish his program. After spraying the keyboard with his sperm, Ryan regained his senses, used one of the towels to clean his mess as best he could, got dressed, put the other towels in the bathroom, then left. Mallory then set out to work on the laptop, setting a computer snare for dear Mr. Bloom.

“I’d never thought I’d go so far with a guy,” confided Nick to Gary. They were sipping coffee at his magnificent dining room table. “I mean, I let you suck my cock for Chrissakes!” If Nick was playing a role, he was doing it well. He was dressed, now, in a tight black silk T-shirt and jeans. There was no trace of water on him: so why was he still acting as Gary friend?

“What happened after that? Someone struck me from behind. Was it the pool guy?”

“Him? No. He’s in the guest bedroom. I think he’s having some kind of mental breakdown or something. I can’t get him to dress... His dick is all red from all that jerking off. There’s no sperm left in his balls: when he comes, it’s just dry spasms. I should call 911, but he’s begged me not to, saying he’d die of embarrassment, and that he’d get his act together. He hasn’t, so far.”

“So, who knocked me down?”

“I’m not so sure. I’d closed my eyes for the blowjob; then I heard a noise while I was coming and ignored it. I felt your mouth slip off my dick, but I didn’t want to open my eyes. Someone yelled real loud, then something hit the window and broke the glass. When I opened my eyes, I thought I saw someone twisting around in the middle of the rug, but he faded out in a purple flash.”

“A purple flash?”

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make sense. I guess I was still doped on my orgasm or something.”

A purple flash. There had to be a link with the purple robed men found at O’Shea’s mansion. Copper protects. Wasn’t the flask made of copper? Maybe it was why the purple man had been in pain. The flask was protected from purple mages. If so, where was the flask now? One of those mages was at the hospital. Maybe it’d be good idea to visit. But now was the time to contact Domination, as he should have done hours ago.

Thirteen hundred miles from Lauderdale-By-The-Sea, in Redfield, Illinois, Brad Perkins was operating a mechanical shovel to dig a huge excavation when he noticed that a man on the edge of the hole was desperately trying to get his attention. He stopped the shovel, jumped out, and then walked towards the man, adjusting his helmet. “There’s a phone call for you,” said the man, who struck Brad as being quite effeminate. God, how he hated faggots!

“My wife?” asked Brad, as he headed towards the office, the effeminate man running behind him.

“No, it’s a man. He wouldn’t leave his name. He says it’s urgent.”

Brad entered the office with the door opened, and took the receiver lying on the desk next to the ‘Albert Findlan, Site Supervisor’ name plate. Mr. Findlan came in and closed the door.

“Hello? This is Brad Perkins. This better be import... Yes...” His voice had suddenly calmed down. “Yes, George... I’ve been a good boy, George.” Mr. Findlan sat in his chair, staring in anticipation as the handsome young blond construction worker’s gaze became fixed and lusterless, his jeans filling up at an alarming speed. Brad listened motionlessly for a long minute, then said: “I will do as instructed, George... Yes, Mr. Findlan is here with me... Yes, George, I will do that.”

Brad hung up, then looked at Mr. Findlan. “George said you could use me for the next half hour,” he said, matter-of-factly, stripped down to a pair of loose white boxers, then walked to stand right next to Mr. Findlan. Mr. Findlan studied Brad’s dirty face beaded with sweat, his smooth chest with the blond fuzz, the thin, rugged legs, and the huge erection coming out of his loose white boxers’ fly. He had fantasized about Brad ever since construction started. Findlan tore off Brad’s boxers, and swallowed his cock with alacrity.

“This is an IP address, you idiot,” said Nick. “I can’t believe you thought it was a phone number!”

They were now in Nick’s office, in front of his computer. Nick typed in «165. 34. 54. 100», the Domination IP address, in Netscape. “You’re such a computer illiterate!” he said while the browser connected. The page turned to a dark forest green, the same color as O’Shea’s suit, and a single question appeared in blood red. “What do you want?” A flashing cursor waited patiently for his answer. Nick typed in «SEX», then was about to press RETURN when Gary stopped him.

“No! We might never get another chance. Type: DOMINATION.”

“Why Domination?”

“Just do it.” Nick looked at him arrogantly. “Please,” added Gary. The drug sure wasn’t working anymore. Nick sighed and entered the word. The page changed to a primitive, bare, web site entrance, offering some kind of catalog. At the bottom, there was a mention that Prowlan and Graham, Inc designed the site. Then, a single line caught Gary’s attention: “Contact DOMINATION”. He snatched the mouse from Nick’s hand and clicked on it. A window appeared.

“This is a chat window,” said Nick. “There is one person on line at this time: Mrs. Winters. If you type something, she’ll see it and will probably respond.”

Gary nodded and typed: “O’Shea gave me the copper flask.”

Soon enough, an answer flashed back: “What’s your location? We’ll send someone right away.”