The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As Mallory sneaked out of room 31, he heard young men talk as they were coming up the stairs. He walked to the landing and looked down. Wind pants and gym bags. More jocks. Three of them.

“I can’t believe you went to high school with Christopher Demetar,” said an agitated redhead.

“You know Mario Lama, the guy who won the best athlete of the year award? Well, the three of us went to high school together in Harriston.”

“Mario’s here actually,” said the third jock, this one with dark hair and a nagging smile. “I’ve seen him around the motel grounds. You should go say hello, Scott, since you’re such good friends.”

Mallory made his way down the stairs, making sure the jocks would have to squeeze to one side of the stairs to let him pass. Click. Click. Click. Three MIP addresses recorded. Well, the regulation book recommended a routine scan of anyone encountered during a mission. His thoughts drifted towards O’Shea being unreachableWhat if...? He abruptly bumped into a hard body; strong and agile hands grasped his arms. The bumped-into man asked: “Are you OK, sir?”

Mallory observed the lithe and muscular male before him; tall, dark, and dressed as a jock, he looked a little under thirty—he had to be a coach. Buzzed by the coach’s cologne, Mallory fumbled with his watch to click his MIP. Damn! Too late. The coach was already racing up the stairs.

“The three of you should rest a bit,” he told his team. “I’ll go look for a pool. I really should have booked more time for practice. You guys need it. Now everything’s booked solid.”

As the coach came back down the stairs, dialing his cell phone, Mallory resisted the urge to try to bump into him again—he risked attracting too much attention to himself. He’d get hold of this athletic hunk later. Meanwhile, he had some time to kill waiting for the Bloom fellow to return. The jocks entered their room—room 33, he noted. The regulation book added that having tested Enthrallment potential in advance was handy for emergencies. The exact method for the tests was discretionary, Domination’s euphemism for encouraging the use of Thralls for sexual indulgences.

In the now empty basketball court, he sat on his favorite bench and scanned the three jocks’ mindscapes. They’d been asked to rest—this could be built on. It took him about three minutes to work out a quick-and-dirty virus and inject it virtually into their minds; he waited patiently for the mental hex codes to confirm that they had fallen asleep and were unwakable. To make this more interesting, he dragged a file named “WETDREAMS.VIR” over the windows of all three minds.

The phone rang. Nick stepped up to it and answered. Gary wiped his brow: he was sweating. The day was heating up, and Nick had air conditioning only in his bedroom. He typed the following:

“A purple mage stole the flask from me.”

The answer came after a short pause. “You seem to know a lot. What’s your location?”

Gary suddenly grew scared: Mrs. Winters was right, he did know a lot. Too much for them. He had no bargaining power without the drug—once he told them what he knew, he was expandable.

“Gary,” said Nick after hanging up, “I have to do my daily laps in the pool right away. There’s an Athletics Gathering in town, and they were looking for locals to volunteer their pools. I thought I was located too far from the place to be taken up on it, but this was a coach who has his swim team at a motel nearby and he wants to use the pool tonight. Are you through with the computer?”

“Yes... I guess I am.”

“Then you can come and watch me...” He added, trying to make it look like an afterthought: “You don’t mind if I swim in the nude?” He looked away from Gary, as if ashamed he’d asked.

Mallory knocked on the swimmers’ door, got no answer of course, and then entered the room discreetly. The gym bags were abandoned in the middle of the floor, one of them opened. The stale smell of sports lingered on. The three athletes were sprawled on their respective bed, fully dressed. He sat on the bed next to the redhead—Seth, he had gathered from his mind—and stroked his arm gently. The boy smiled a wicked smile, but did not wake. Mallory proceeded to strip him, piece by piece. The T-shirt. The boy cooperated and launched into an erotic dream, imagining that it was his girlfriend who stripped him. The running shoes, freeing a subtle foot odor. The socks. The nylon pants, under which he wore a pair of boxers with yellow smiley faces. Mallory explored the boy’s chest with his tongue. The freckles gave his skin a nice texture. The boy responded by deepening and slowing down his breathing. Mallory stripped him of his boxers. The red bush was well-trimmed; the cock already half-hard, and of a good length. The scrotum was tightened, but was starting to relax: he had obviously been swimming. He smelled and tasted of chlorine.

Mallory stripped the two other jocks, in likewise manner, until Scott was left only with white briefs and Trip with tight, ultra-short, black boxer briefs. He massaged Scott, frequently distracted by the taut rounded butt stretching the briefs. That ass was too damn magnificent. He pulled the briefs down to his ankles, and started enjoying it with the tongue, one cheek, then the next. He exposed the butt hole clearly, and then used his tongue again on the pinky anus. Scott let out a moan, and checking with his hand, Mallory noticed that the boy had now a full hard-on, which he proceeded to jerk off. The length of that thing. He could not see it, but it had to be at least eight inches long.

Trip, less muscular, had sexiness in his genes. At Mallory’s touch, he stretched suggestively, and yawned a deep low yawn. His boxers hugged his thin frame so tight they had to have shrunk in the laundry. Mallory caressed Trip’s sexy parts: his calves, his inner thighs, his loins, his shoulder blades. He looked around: Scott was rubbing his precummy erection against the bed, while Seth was jerking off slowly, sometimes laughing a nervous laugh. Trip had been extremely responsive to Mallory’s touch: his glans was coming out at the top of his boxers, the voluminous cylinder filling them impressively. “Tear them off,” Trip whispered to a phantasm sex partner. “Suck it.” Mallory acted before he thought, losing himself in the action. The material tore off neatly and easily, as if it had been its lifelong destiny to free the sexy boy’s eager member. Mallory swallowed the cock with passion, and he felt the jock’s sprightly hands guiding his head. The faint smell of chlorine sterilized the act, made it aseptically healthy. The boy suddenly bolted in the bed, tense, then relaxed again as Mallory felt a surge of warm, viscous boy juice spurt in his mouth. As he swallowed, he saw the jet of Seth’s cum arc towards his chest, and Scott fall on his bed, then turn over on his side to face Mallory, glistening with cum, exposing huge wet stains on his sheets.

So Nick’s exhibitionism was still there, even if he wasn’t drugged anymore. What a pleasant surprise! It had really taken hold: Nick shed his clothes in two seconds. Delighted, Gary lay down on a chaise longue with a water bottle. Sunlight highlighted Nick’s body: it turned his hair into optical fibers, sharpened every nook and cranny of his muscles, and made his sturdy ass sparkle.

“I’m so glad I finally confessed,” said Nick. “It feels so natural to expose myself to you that way.”

He did twenty laps, then came out of the water, dripping, facing Gary. His cock was hard—the fleshy tube had surely slowed him down in his laps. He became self-conscious of his erection.

“I guess I’m enjoying the audience a bit too much.”

He was right in the middle of another set when he suddenly started to cough; he hurriedly hoisted himself out of the pool and crashed on the side, still coughing and spitting water.

“What’s the matter?” asked Gary.

“I just got a mouthful of pool water. It tasted awful, man... Pete must have put something more than chlorine in there. God! I don’t think I swallowed any though. I’ll have to talk to him.”

Doubled over himself, naked and sick like that, Nick looked especially vulnerable. Gary had started this whole thing because Nick had been so rude to him, but now, now that he had spent time with him as a friend, now that he had a friend no matter how artificial the means to create the friendship had been, he realized he liked Nick. While he considered the implications, Nick got up, looking just a bit shaken. An idea hit Gary like a flash. He looked up at the hole in the glass roof. It all made sense now. The hole. The water tasting funny. He inspected the pool. Right across one of the thick black painted lines was the flask. Somehow it had been projected out of the bedroom, had made that hole in the roof and then had dropped into the pool. A jolt of excitement came over him.

“Nick, there’s something in the pool, on one of the lines. Could you dive and bring it back to me?”

“Sure, Gary,” he said.

Within ten seconds, Gary held the flask in a towel, careful not to get one drop of water from it or from the drenched Nick on himself. The good news was that he had recovered the flask; the bad one was that the cap had broken in the fall, and the drug had completely dissolved in the pool. He emptied the water bottle on the grass, asked Nick to fill it with pool water, and then went inside.

Pete was asleep on his back in a guest bedroom, exhausted. His chest shone with dried cum spread over his belly. Gary dripped some pool water on Pete’s chest; it trickled its way down to his belly button. How sexy and rugged Pete was! His crew cut. His bulky abs, biceps, and thighs. And between those thick thighs, under a black sprout of pubic hair, his chunk of prime meat, uncut, 7 inches long, suspended in space over his balls. The temptation was too great. He shook him awake, a but rudely. He was in power again, master of this household. “Get down on all fours and crawl behind me,” he said, surprised at the coldness of his words. Pete did as he was told—the massive man got down on his knees at Gary’s request and trailed behind Gary to the pool. Gary felt a rush of power coming over him. He breathed it in hard, then said to Nick and Pete, in one breath:

“Everything here is mine including your ass and your pool guy’s ass and I am now master of this house and you will call me master and you will fear me and obey my every command and you’ll both lust for me and I’m going to be the only one in the fucking universe that can ever make you two come and you will always try to think of ways to please me and I’ll be a god to you two. You understand. A god. Now drop on your knees and venerate me you despicable worms.

Inside room 14 of Motel Cozzee in Redfield, Illinois, two blocks east of Russell’s Body Shop, John Blake was ramming his sore cock in Brad Perkins’ ass, determined to fully take advantage of the two hours during which this hunky construction worker was his. He had timed himself well for this last orgasm, and he spurted what was probably the last two drops of cum left in his balls just as the cheap alarm clock on the night table went from 7:59 to 8:00. Brad immediately hopped out of bed; John abstractedly stared at the well-proportioned, an-inch-longer-than-average, already-soft dick that had spent most of the last two hours either in his hand, in his mouth or in his ass, as it disappeared inside the white boxers. It would be his again, for a full weekend, if he successfully stole some chemicals at the lab where he was working. Strange how with these Domination guys, the messenger was also the payment...

Later that evening, as Nick drove him to the hospital, Gary tried to lose himself in the Florida sights. The sun was setting, and it created a myriad of shades of orange in the cloudless sky. With all the action, he had lost focus on his vacation. He remembered the sudden urge to come here, to get out of the bookstore, to have an adventure. Just to think of what he’d have missed had he not humored that urge, or taken that fated walk on the beach! A string of tiny coincidences had led to his discovery of the drug and the start of his adventure, and to Nick and Pete. Thinking of them, why had he snapped and turned them into his sexual slaves like that? He couldn’t deny that he was getting off on it, but it surprised him that he did. He’d never even had a fantasy like that...

If his father were alive, and had learned of his actions, Gary would be dead by now. Not that Richard Bloom would kill him directly, no, the founder of the Free White Christians could never be involved in the killing of his own son. But there were mysteries around his father, mysteries whose depths Gary had never dared to fathom, and he knew that the rhyme about the purple mages was soaked in those mysteries. Weird things gravitated around him: his collection of silver boxes, to hide stuff from mages; his obsession with that book, “that evil book” as he’d like to call it, which he made Gary promise to destroy on sight. No, had Richard Bloom learned about Gary’s recent actions, Gary’s death would simply have been another mystery, and Mr. Bloom would have been free to play the father saddened by the death of his son, washed of all responsibility for it.

They stopped to buy another water gun, the Compact Soaker, which was actually smaller than the previous one. Gary used the water bottle to fill the gun up. Nick needed a refreshment, so Gary sprayed his shirtless chest and arms with the gun. Nick’s jeans bulged with a hard-on; he did not wear any underwear. Gary absent-mindedly fondled the erection from time to time.

Nick waited in the car while Gary went looking for the purple mage, armed with gun and bottle. He waited in line a long while, only to be told by a cute, but nervous male nurse that he couldn’t be told the location of the patient, as he was under custody of the police. Gary splashed the nurse at the nape of the neck discreetly. The nurse became instantly cooperative: he brought Gary to an observation room, let Gary make a full examination of his buff, healthy body, told him that a Dr. Carter was now in charge of the patient in room 562, then sucked Gary’s cock diligently.

Gary went up to the fifth floor. He wanted to meet the doctor before going to see the mage. The doctor’s office door was not properly closed. Gary wanted to drug him, but he saw that the boyish doctor was not alone. There were actually three naked men in his office, a heavily tattooed one, a muscular-assed one with a blond crew cut, and an intellectual type with cool glasses.

“... so from now on, I will be in charge of the patient in room 562. You will answer to me ...”

They were taking notes on pads. Something puzzled him: why weren’t they wearing any clothes, and why did they act as if they were? He walked towards room 562, wondering about that. There was a policeman outside the purple mage’s room. He had virile Roman looks, with short fuzzy dark black hair and an air of importance. Gary walked down the corridor, holding his water bottle, then paused briefly when he came abreast of the policeman, looking as if he was about to take a sip. He squeezed the bottle too hard, and it splashed right in the policeman’s face.

“Fuck,” said the policeman, wiping himself with his sleeves. “Watch what you’re doing... sir...”

“Stand at attention,” said Gary, and the policeman immediately took a straight, rigid position, his arms along each of his sides. “Do not move a muscle, whatever happens.”

The policeman’s body froze like a statue in his position. Only his eyes followed Gary, and managed to express fear, intense dislike and worry. Officer Matt White, his name tag said. Gary unbuttoned the officer’s shirt slowly, and took it out of his pants. He rubbed the man’s chest through the undershirt, feeling the landscape of his chest. Then he undid his heavy belt, and detached and unzipped his pants. He let them slide down, exposing the policeman’s bare, fluffy legs. Gary grabbed the waistband of the policeman’s white boxer-briefs. He felt in complete power: he had stripped this uniformed man of his authority. Officer White was powerless before him. He squeezed the policeman’s butt cheeks and pecked him on the mouth, careful not to touch the drugged water. Then he entered room 562, boldly and confidently.

The mage was unconscious, and linked to various medical apparatus. When he closed the door, Gary noticed the purple robes hanging from a hook behind it. He approached the man and studied his face and frame. It was a thirty-something man, with a fair two-day beard and long golden hair splattered across the pillow and over the sheet-covered shoulders. The man bolted suddenly upright, opened his eyes and glared at Gary. He waved his open hand in front of Gary’s face, and Gary sensed a sparkling force like static electricity in the air and all around him. He then felt another force emanating from his own body, canceling the first one. The angel-like mage cowered.

“I know who you are: that protective spell is thirty years old... You’re his son, aren’t you?”

“Whose son?”

The mage rotated his head repeatedly right and left, tossing his hair around, until a purple haze surrounded him. He faded out. Then the purple haze itself vanished with a vague scent of myrtles. His gown had deflated over the bed—wherever the mage was, he had appeared there in the nude.

“Whose son?” Gary repeated to the empty air.

Melissa Franklin, exhausted, hauled her huge suitcase up the stairs and dragged it to the door of Room 31. Through the translucent white curtains in the window, she saw that the lights were on. Yet, there was no answer when she knocked. She tried the door: it was unlocked. She entered the room backwards, pulling her suitcase in, and closed the door. When she turned around, she jumped at the sight of her boyfriend John and his friends Paul, Sean and Jeff, standing just behind her, facing the flickering screen of a laptop computer. The four of them were completely naked, their discarded clothes at their feet; they were immobile, their eyes fixed on a tawdry painting of a fruit bowl on the wall. She was startled a second time when the four of them intoned, in emotionless voices: “I have nothing to hide from you, master. I will answer any question you ask with the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”