The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I sat there thinking about him and me, about us, for the longest time. Finally, I sighed and got up to go to bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day with some consultations and meetings at the hospital so I needed to get to bed. At forty-three, I was no longer a young hotshot with something to prove, and needed to get enough sleep or be in a bad way the next day. I’d be irresponsible to do patients’ consultations on a jag of short sleep if I didn’t have to. I decided I’d better shower before bed unless I wanted to get the residual oil all over my sheets. So I stripped off and turned on the shower. As I waited for the water to run warm, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The eyes were still bright blue and shining. There were just the beginnings of some grey in the hair above my ears, giving me a bit of a distinguished appearance. No hair coloring for me, I thought: I liked the look. My eyes continued downward in their inventory. There was my darkly forested chest with firm pecs, covered with dark brown hair and my large, dark nipples, thrusting through the fur like mountains rising above a forest. The hair continued down my tight belly as it narrowed into a line before fanning out in my bush. When they got to my cock, my eyes lingered for a moment. I’m about seven inches when soft, with a head that resembles a ripe plum. . My balls hang down as far as the corona of my cock head. A nice package, if I do say so myself. Also, I keep my cock and balls shaved because I like the look and feel, so I look even larger. There’s a coating of dark fur on my forearms and legs with the muscles of my legs and arms being well-defined since I work out regularly so that I don’t go to pot. Working out was a habit I was taught during the days of my residency and training. Having the advantage of a body that will take on muscle when exercised properly, I’ve made use of it. Not that I’m a pumped body-builder but you can see the muscles under the skin, giving me an air of confidence and authority. All told, a fine complement to Patrick’s handsome paleness.

The shower was steaming by now and I climbed in, letting the hot water run off of my oil-coated body. I took up the bar of soap and washed twice to get the oil off of my skin. While I did, I imagined showering with Patrick and having him kneel to take my wet balls into his mouth. The fantasy rapidly brought me to a painful erection. Since I’d already jacked off once that night, my cock was sensitive to the renewed internal pressure and began to have a delicious ache. That ache triggered a long-forgotten response and my left hand reached down to my heavy balls and I closed my thumb and fingers around them, distending them to the bottom of my scrotum and I pulled firmly but steadily downward. A wonderful ache reached up from the base of my ball sac into my abdomen. My right hand, in the meantime, had found its way between my butt cheeks and two fingers were inside my hole. My anal sphincter clutched at them, trying to pull them further inside me.

How long had it been since I’d felt that penetration? How long since my own first master yanked on my balls and shoved first his hand and then later, his cock inside my eager hole? He had taken me while I was still a resident. A man in his forties, apparently suffering from a heart attack, had come into Emergency one night, accompanied by a friend. It was close to the end of my shift but once you’d started a case, you didn’t just turn it over to the next shift. It took us about two hours to check him out, get him stabilized and ensure that he was in no danger. In this case, a bad attack of indigestion—what would be known years later as “acid reflux”. And after we’d gotten him settled down with some appropriate meds, I turned my attention to his friend to explain the situation. I directed him into a small treatment room and closed the door just to ensure privacy.

He was a tall man, about 6 foot, two inches and must’ve weighed about 200 lbs. It was apparent that his weight was solid muscle. He was one of those who had a perpetual five o’clock shadow with short black hair and black eyes. Dressed in black jeans, a black polo shirt and boots, he was an imposing presence. Yes, presence was the word. As I spoke to him, explaining the cause of his friend’s symptoms and the treatment we’d prescribed, his dark eyes were on me, boring into me as though he were mining my soul, examining my body and taking my measure. What was just as disconcerting was that his eyes were so dark, the pupils disappeared. When I became more aware of the way he was looking at me, I began to stammer, which made me blush. I looked down at the floor with embarrassment and tried to continue, but ran out of words, my mind suddenly gone blank. I finished by saying “And I hope that answers your questions sir.” Actually, he hadn’t opened his mouth the entire time I was speaking but I didn’t know what else to say.

“You’ve done fine doctor,” he said, a deep, dark voice rolling out of him. “Thank you sir,” I answered, still looking at the floor. I smiled a little, somehow happy that he was pleased, and glanced up at his face. His black eyes continued to bore into me and I lowered my eyes again, feeling somehow diminished and unable to meet his gaze. There was a silence that seemed to stretch on and on. “When are you finished boy?” he asked at last. “I’m finished now sir,” I answered, swallowing hard and realized that my breath had suddenly quickened and gone quite shallow. There was a fluttering in my stomach and my hands began to tremble as my legs suddenly felt a little weak. “I think I know what you need,” he said. “You will come with me. Is that what you need boy?” Before I could even think about what he was saying to me, my mouth was answering him. “Yes sir. That’s what I need.” “Then ask me,” he ordered quietly. I was momentarily confused, not understanding what he wanted.

My whole life had been spent in studies preparing for a career in medicine, to the exclusion of almost anything else. I’d always known there was something unusual in me because I didn’t date in high school or college; I studied. Sometimes I fantasized about naked men and my eyes were always drawn to pictures of partially clothed men, particularly if they were strongly masculine. When I masturbated, I’d have copies of some of the typical male magazines, but it was really the men in the pictures I focused on. Once, in college, I’d discovered “Playgirl” and could hardly stay away from it and its pictures of naked hunks. But I’d never even considered having sex with a man: I was a doctor after all and doctors didn’t do that. But here I was standing in front of this commanding presence and agreeing that I needed to go with him. And now he wanted me to ask. Ask for what? I glanced up again, a questioning look in my eyes. He looked down at me, raised his eyebrows as if to say “Well?” and waited. Somehow I felt like a boy again (hadn’t he called me ‘boy’?), standing in front of my father asking permission to go to the circus. “P-please Sir,” I whispered, “may I come with You?” “And what do you want me to do boy?” “Sir, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.” Now he smiled and his eyes lit up. My heart melted and all I wanted was for him to hold me in his muscular arms forever and make me his own. I knew this was my destiny and a deep peace spread through me. “Ah, a beginner!” he said quietly. “Yes Sir,” I answered hopefully. “Please Sir. Will you make me yours? I’m new but I want to be yours. Please Sir,” I begged.

He stepped toward me and, placing his hands on my shoulders, pushed me down. I went down on my knees and for the first time, found my face in a man’s crotch. I could smell him through the denim and knew what I wanted. I may not have known the particulars yet, but I knew I wanted that and I buried my face in his substantial mound, mouthing it and trying to get at him through the fabric. My tongue scraped against the denim as I soaked it with my spit. My cock surged against my confining pants, sending a shot of pain down to the tip and I started to reach down to adjust myself. Suddenly he bent and landed a tremendous blow with his open hand on my butt, making me yelp as my pelvis slammed into his legs and my face into his crotch. “Keep your hands off that boy!” he said quietly but sternly. “It doesn’t belong to you anymore and you’ll touch it only if and when I give you permission. Got me?” “Yes Sir,” I mumbled, tears of humiliation and embarrassment springing to my eyes.

He took my head in his hands as the tears rolled down my cheeks and he chuckled as he pressed me back against his crotch. “Don’t cry boy. Daddy’s not angry. You didn’t know any better. Just don’t do it again. With anything, if I haven’t given you permission, don’t do it. Do you understand?” “Yes Sir,” I tried to say, but the words were garbled because my lips and tongue were pressed against his jeans.

After a few moments of my slobbering over him and moaning, he grasped my head and turned my face upward to look at him. I was able to return his gaze, I think because I was obviously not looking at him on an equal level. I looked up at him like a little boy or a dog looking at its master. My mouth hung open and saliva dribbled down my chin and dripped onto my lab coat.

He looked at me then became stern again. “You have a lot to learn boy. I’ve never had a beginner before but you have a lot of potential and it’s obvious you need it really bad. So I’m going to give you a try. We’ll go to my place tonight. But here are the basic rules. If you don’t think you can follow them, you’d better say so now because there’ll be no discussion once you’ve asked me to make you my boy and I take you on. Do you understand?” “Yes Sir,” I answered, looking up at him full of hope.

“OK boy. Rule number 1 you’ve already been told: Your cock and balls are mine. So are your cunt and tits. And your mouth. Rule number 2: When we’re at my place, you’ll be naked unless I tell you otherwise. Rule number 3: You obey me first time, every time. If you’re slow, I’ll punish you. If you don’t do something correctly, I’ll punish you. Rule number 4: I’ll punish you just for the hell of it because I like to see my boy squirm. Rule number 5: You don’t speak unless you’re asked a direct question. And then the answers are either ‘Yes Sir’, ‘No Sir,’ or ‘i’m sorry Sir. No excuse Sir.’ Naturally, you can answer a question asking for information with an informative answer: just keep it short and to the point. Those are the basic rules: five easy rules. I’ll give you the rest as you need to know them. Now how soon will you be ready to leave boy?” “Sir, I need to go over a couple of cases with the next shift resident. It’ll take me about fifteen minutes. Then I need to get my stuff together...” “You won’t need any stuff,” he said, cutting me off. “Just do your debriefing and come outside. I’ll be waiting in my car by the Emergency Room entrance. It’s a dark blue Mercedes coupe.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ll expect you in eighteen minutes. If you’re not there, I’ll drive away and never think about you again. Its’ your choice.” And he stepped around me and walked through the door. “Yes Sir,” I said, still on my knees as he disappeared and the door swung closed.

I swayed and fell forward, catching myself with my arms, and remained there on all fours for a moment. Then, realizing that I had very little time, I shook my head and clambered to my feet. It was 2:23 A.M. by my watch. I had to find my replacement quickly and tell her what she needed to know and get outside. Eighteen minutes was all I had! My heart was in my throat because I was sure that if I missed him and he drove away, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

I raced to find Jan, the resident taking over for me. She was talking with a patient in one of the ER cubes. She nodded to me when I pointed to my watch, moved the interview to a pausing point and told the man she’d be right back. I hurried through our debriefing, filling her in on the crucial details she’d need to see to, made sure she was at least acquainted with the cases needing her attention. (Let’s face it: you’re never comfortable with the job of being an ER resident.) Then I ran to the exit, glancing at the clock as I raced past. It read 2:40. I was OK. I swept through the automatic door seventeen minutes and thirty seconds after he’d walked out the door, leaving me on my knees on the floor. I heard a motor’s low hum and saw his headlights come on. As his car pulled toward me, I stepped up and opened the front door. “Climb in boy,” he ordered and I obeyed, changing my life forever. Did I know it at that moment? Was that why my stomach was turning somersaults and my head felt like it was floating free? As I said, I didn’t yet know the details, but I knew this was what I’d been wanting for a long time. At last, I’d found it. Or it, or should I say he had found me!

As soon as I settled into the soft leather of the seat he ordered me to lean forward, put my head on the dash and put my hands behind my back. As I did, he snapped a pair of handcuffs on me. Then he pushed me back against the seat, straining my trapped arms, making me cry out. He reached over me and pulled the seatbelt across, buckling me in. I was now completely at his mercy and disposal. He unzipped my pants and extracted my cock and balls. It was the first time a man had touched me there, excepting my doctor, of course. Immediately, my cock filled and surged in his hand. After stroking my erect penis and giving my testicles a good, hard squeeze, he left them hanging out. He pulled out of the parking lot and started to drive. As he drove, he asked me about myself and I strove to answer in spite of the pain. Strangely enough, my cock was hard as a rock all this time. Sir, I must be back at the hospital at 12:00 P.M. this afternoon. No Sir, I have no family in the area. No Sir, I’ve had no experience with bondage or slavery. No Sir, I have no idea what’s involved. Yes Sir, my cock gets hard thinking about it. Yes Sir, my cock’s very hard right now. Yes Sir, I feel humiliated. Yes Sir, I need to be humiliated. Yes Sir, humiliation makes me hard. Yes Sir. Thank You Sir.

He asked me a little about my life prior to my residency and what my plans for the future were. I told him my parents had died before I got to medical school. My father had had a long, difficult illness and my mother died about a year after he did, probably of a broken heart. He continued to ask me questions and listen attentively to my answers as we drove through the darkened, deserted streets. Then he pulled into the garage of an apartment building on the Upper East Side. I don’t know whether my eyes were bugging out more from the strain on my shoulders or from the appearance of the building and the apparent wealth it conveyed. He was obviously well-to-do. He pulled into a numbered parking space, got out and came around to help me out. I groaned involuntarily as he pulled me out of the car, freeing my arms from the pressure of being pinned between my body and the seat. Then he put a coat over my shoulders so the cuffs wouldn’t show and led me to the elevator, holding onto my arm.

Once we got into his apartment, he closed the door and unlocked the cuffs. “Rule number 2: Strip!” he ordered. “You have forty-five seconds to get naked.” The circulation had not fully returned to my hands and my shoulders were quite stiff so undressing was a major challenge. I tried my best, untying my shoes and toeing them off, then trying to pull my socks off. While hopping on one foot to get a sock off, I fell to the floor, landing on my butt. But I was rapidly running out of time and I was nowhere near naked so I continued in spite of the pain. By the time forty-five seconds had ticked off, I was on my knees, unbuckling my belt, my shirt unbuttoned and pulled out of my pants but I was still not naked. I glanced up at him fearfully, but he was just watching me, his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall. Frantically, I worked to get my clothes off. Finally, I stood and my pants dropped to the floor, followed by my briefs. I stood there naked, breathing hard and looking at him for direction.

“A minute and twenty seconds. That’s thirty-five seconds longer than I allotted, which means thirty-five strokes. You left your clothes in a heap on the floor. This is my apartment and I like it kept neat so that’s an additional twenty strokes for slovenliness. Do you want them now or later boy?” “Sir?” I asked, unsure of what he meant, but having an idea and not welcoming it. “You’ll get a stroke for every second over the time limit you took to accomplish your task. The extra strokes are for a job poorly done. Do you want the beating now or later?” “Sir, I-I-I,” I stammered, trying to read in his expression which would be better from my standpoint. “I’ve asked you a direct question boy? What’s your answer? Or do you want to earn some additional strokes for failing to answer a simple question?” “Later Sir,” I barked out, having no idea what the implications were. If I’d had it to do over again and know what was in store, I’d have begged him to beat me right then, but I was younger and less experienced. The corners of his mouth turned up into a wicked smile and his eyes sparkled. “All right boy. You’ve given yourself your sentence. You’ll get your punishment later. For now...”

That was the beginning of my training as a boy and a slave. I discovered that a “later” beating meant a much more prolonged and agonizing whipping, as he would pause between blows for the pain to build up, rather than laying them on in rapid succession. When I’d experienced both, I would gauge my self-sentencing on how much pain I was ready to experience and how far I was ready to go into that altered state that so often was the gift of a hard beating.

He taught me so much: how a boy was to stand or kneel before his Master. He taught me the meaning of unquestioning obedience and submission. He taught me the meaning of and pathway to surrender and thus, the meaning of love. So much he taught me. So much he loved me and I loved him. Although I learned his name later that night, I would only call him “Sir”, “Master” or “Daddy,” and he called me “boy” or “slave” when we were home. When out in public, we would, of course, use first names. But there were always overtones of the nature of our relationship in the way in which we spoke to one another. People knew we were a couple; we never hid that. His picture was on my desk and mine on his. But we never talked with anyone else about how we lived at home. That was ours only.

Executive Stress Relief—Chapter 14

The hot water was running down my body, making my skin red and sore. I came back from my remembrances and shook my head. How long had it been? Ten years now? God how I missed him. He’d taught me so much; most of all what it meant to be a man; to be a man who loved men. He’d loved me, cared for me, trained me and mentored me. He made me and then he was gone.

Neither of us knew what was wrong at first. I was the doctor but I didn’t know and that frustrated and frightened me. But I never let on to him that I was scared. We were starting to see more cases like his at the hospital but we were still uncertain as to what caused this terrible illness. I cared for him and tried to relieve the nausea, pain and diarrhea, but it was no use. When it became apparent that he was dying, he began to train me to be a master. At first I didn’t want it; I only wanted to be “Daddy’s boy”. “It’s no good boy. I’m not going to be around for you; not that way. I know that now. So you need to learn to master and dominate. Then I can live on in you. Then you’ll really be my boy, my son.” I was crying, begging him not to leave me, but we both knew there was no denying the inevitable. On his good days, he’d have me find a bottom and teach me how to top him. At first, I did it reluctantly and only because he ordered me to but soon, I discovered the dominant inside myself and took to learning my lessons with enthusiasm. Usually, he was too exhausted to do anything more than tell me what to do and coach me. Once in a while, he was feeling well enough to show me. On those days, I’d ask him to demonstrate on my body as well as the bottom’s so that I’d know how it felt as he explained it. What I didn’t tell him was that I was storing those memories away like photographs to pull out when he was gone. But I think he knew because on those occasions, he was firm and stern, but gentle, reinforcing the lesson with a tender smile. Maybe he was storing up his own collection of photographs, savoring these last times with his boy before we both launched out on our separate journeys. Now he’s gone. But he will forever be with me and for that I’m grateful. “Thank You Sir,” I whispered and tears stung my eyes.

My fingers were still inside my ass and I clutched at them, remembering how good it felt when he was inside me. I never knew how, but somehow, he knew; it must’ve been intuitive, and always used a condom when he fucked me or ordered me to suck him. Years back, I’d sometimes lamented that, wishing I’d been able to join with him completely, in life and in death. But, as always, he knew best and he saved my life by refusing to ever bareback me, as many times as I’d begged him. “You’re my progeny boy,” he said. “You’re my offspring and you need to live to keep my name alive. Don’t fail me boy. I’m counting on you to live!” I slowly pulled my fingers out of my hole and brought my fist to my mouth, stifling a sob. The memory had come back like a blow I didn’t know was coming. I’d hidden it away for so long, I’d forgotten the power of his hold on me; but it was still there.

I turned off the shower, dried myself and went to my bed naked, like the first night, like all the nights I’d slept with him. This would be a sleep in memory of him: a sleep in his memory.

He was so much on my mind that night; my own Master, my Daddy. But what about Patrick? Was I being unfaithful to Master if I loved Patrick? I tossed and turned as this question posed itself over and over again in my mind. Then, as I began to drift into that floating, weightlessness of twilight sleep, I could hear my Master whispering “No boy. You can love again. It doesn’t mean you love me any less. It just shows you’ve finally learned what love is; that love is to be shared. I planted my love in you to see it blossom and spread. You’ve finally learned. That’s my good boy...”

“Good boy.” Patrick was coming to me but dressed like Master: leather straps crisscrossing his chest, his pecs furred once again and his pink nipples erect, poking through the red-blond coating. He had black jeans and boots on. I tried to sit up to welcome him and discovered I was bound. I was lying naked on an examination table, my feet in stirrups and my hands cuffed over my head. He came to me and stroked my smooth body. I was shaved, completely hairless below the neck, just as my Master had done that first night when he claimed me as his own. I was “boy” again and he was “Master”. And my cock rose in salute. “Good boy,” he kept saying, stroking my denuded body, avoiding touching my erect dick. There were bands holding my body to the table and I strained against them, thrusting futilely with my pelvis, trying to reach my Master’s roaming hands. “Please, " I begged. “Please fuck me Master. Please take me and make me your boy.” The words were echoes of that first time with him all those years ago when I’d pleaded with him, after he’d stripped the hair from my body and humiliated me, calling me his little boy who needed it so bad. He made me beg him and tell him I needed to be dominated and how much it excited me to admit it. I’d begged and pleaded for him to fill me and make me his boy and finally, he was satisfied and gave me what I craved. Memory and dream combined and blended and, from somewhere far away, there was an urgent pumping, a warmth and an electric charge passing through me and I came.

In a state of semi-wakefulness, I reached down to my naked abdomen and felt the stickiness of my cum. I had actually come. I’d had a wet dream for the first time in years. I felt the profound disorienting caused by a dream that is too close to reality. The revelation was that it was Patrick mastering me that had brought me off. I put my slick fingers into my mouth and sucked them, realizing that my relationship with Patrick was much more complex than I’d wanted to admit and that, after all these years, I still needed it. I needed to be filled and taken. I needed to have a man dominate me. “What now?” I quietly asked the darkness and once again, slid into its enveloping shroud.