The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ever get to be a graduate student and be asked for your ID before buying a beer, yes, well I guess it happens. But do they look at the card, look at you, do the right math and then still turn you down, and that’s just the connivance stores. But I suppose you grew past five foot four, and as for looking six years younger, it’s not so bad, unless you happen to be twenty-two.

Not that Charlesford is exactly fuelled with nightlife. I’ve been here two months now and I’ve only managed one brief date with some sweater-toting reject from the Hampton’s. I think he was helping the rural cousin out, how rustic, how fuck off man. And take that fucker sweater with you, do not start tying fucking ivy league sweaters around me in public. And I’m not your boy that’s what I told him on that last night at his poetry club. He quoted Marshal, the gladiator stanzas, not the right ones for Wesley Giles Branforth the Third to choose. He’s tall, he’s slim, he’s dark and handsome, but he had teased my muscles, in both senses of the word, for the last time. In the poem, written to honour the Emperor Titus, the gladiators fight so hard, so long and so well that both are named the victors, given wooden swords and so their freedom. Wesley never got that far, he ended his contest by being slammed to the floor before his face found its way into the punch bowl, for some time. That I suppose was the end of our relationship, though I did try to make it up to him the next day by translating some Virgil for him. I suppose by now you know that I’m studying the Classics, or Ancient Literature as its been called since last year at our little Ivy League college. Not much use for a job I suppose, but its all I’m good at, and I’m the only person here who needs one. I also have the distinction of being the poorest student at the college. How do I know, well I’m the only one who needs a Scholarship and I’m the only one who does not a parking place. I am though the corner stone of the wrestling team, there are only three of us, that’s where I met Wesley, not on the mat, he was just hanging around watching, a kind of wrestling groupie, he has a thing for the idea of the gladiator. Not that I mind men watching me, its great, there’s no choice here, an all male college, which I suppose is why many of us are here. Anyway after four of the poetry group pulled me off Wesley, so allowing him to breathe something other than the punch, I end up with the councillor who decides that I need a week resting at home.

My apartment, a cold large room on the second floor of pre USA house, 1740, sixty two years older the college, but conveniently built within walking distance, I get a small fresher attached, and sometimes water, which can less warm than desired. The poetry group liked it, very gothic said Miles, a non descript young man whose main means of communication is staring at my ass and quoting Poe. They found the john beyond the gothic and recommended a plumber which they where more than willing to pay for. Money is a sore point, I need to find more of it, but not from them. Wesley especially found it infuriating that he couldn’t use his money with me, that I wouldn’t let him pay all the time. That would be to easy for me to go from wanting him to needing him, or at least his wallet. Not that he could appreciate the argument, to him and the others in the group money is like air, something you take for granted and move through easily. Now for me its a little bit more of a struggle, sitting here wrapped in a blanket as fall turns to winter, saving my pennies and finding my thoughts turning to the mystery of my fellow tenants, such as, where are they? dead? gone? mute? or hiding? Now there are some people around, there is number 1 directly above Miss Bowers below 60 going on 110, hears things, such as my music, bangs on the roof at two in the morning, god knows why, my hi-fi packed up a month since. Number 2, saw three very hot young men go in, nothing since, mores the shame, have hung around outside, no luck. Up the stairs, number 3 on the left, one poor student, aka me, but enough of that tale. Around the landing to number 4, nothing, absolutely nothingness, tried some flour on the floor in front of the door, jammed one of my hairs in by the gap next to the lock, my hairs still there though the mice got the flour. Then the stairs rise again and end at a single door, number 5, the gable room, the penthouse that spreads across the whole of this sagging structure.

Number 5 is his place, I’ve seen a few times, waited for him, hoping to get his attention his interest his anything. Blow-out major bummer so far. He is a mans man, thirties/forties distinguished, silver hair, hard face solid fit carries himself easy confident a man whose seen this world and carries the mark; and with a gaze which you can’t meet but don’t dare turn away from. I did try, I tried, but my tongue got tied up and perhaps a tight tee shirt was the wrong tack.—I’m sorry kid but your little young for me—and that was it the no where of a no relationship following a no start. OK I’ve accounted for four out of five apartments it’s just that the place feels kind of empty or maybe it’s that I feel there is more going on than meets the eye, bah, who knows.

There is a knock on the apartment door. I know who it is before I open the door.

- Hello Wesley -

- Hi Ben—he gives a weak smile—can I .... come in Ben -

- Sure—I say returning to flop down in my armchair as he comes into the room, alone, closing the door behind him, I had to ask.

- Are the others not coming -

That got him to look at me and smile.

- No, their a little busy, Wills has a three bruised rips and twisted ankle, you dislocated James shoulder and Miles thinks your fucking crazy and he said wouldn’t feel safe being in the same room as you. I expect they’ll be around tomorrow if you want to see them, ...or me for that matter -

He sat down opposite me, another derelict armchair, he glances down at his sleeve resting on an arm no doubt wondering what else besides dust he is picking up. He places the case he is carrying across his knees, unzips and opens.

He starts wrong,

- I brought this for you Ben.. -

He places the laptop across the case,

- I’m sorry that I’ve take you for granted—its really small a Sony, with a built in camera, its Wesley’s own, he can see that I’m suspicious—I’ve been an ass, I’m sorry and I’m not trying to give this to you -

Trying to size me up , guess what I’ll do next, getting a little nervous now his neck is starting to twitch a little and after our last encounter who can blame him.

- you can borrow it, for a couple of weeks, its got an internet account and everything -

- OK Wesley you win—I can’t help but smile which buts him at his ease, his shoulders relax as he leans back into the chair, momentarily oblivious to the dirt he is resting into.

- But don’t think where OK yet, you’ll have to give me a few weeks -

I took the lap top from him, I could see his hope as our hands briefly made contact, but that’s all, he had really pissed me off last week. He’s still waiting awkward, hoping.

- I have to do some work Wesley, this is going to take some time, you know what I’m like, I’ll take a while to come around -

- Right Ben I’ll... see you around—and with that he left.

Now I don’t want gifts, and this is a loan, but I had to use it, on the net without the limitations of the college server, it is forbidden, you must not, do not download et all. Great fun though most of them the cheesy pay to view crap. It took me two days to do the obvious, its Wesley’s computer, Wesley’s account, lets see what he’s into, Favourites and History follow.

Wrestling as I expected, lots of these some with links to pictures of me, good shots too. Few naked men, muscle men, few bits of action, god how can he bend down that far, I have a go, and give up before my spine snaps, I can get to licking distance and that because I’ve a long tongue. And then more obscure interests, pictures of statues, a site called Studsinstone, Galaxy Pause Stop or Zone, images of men frozen turned into mannequins, becoming objects. The more I looked at these the more aroused I found myself. I came to with a start when I realised that I was beginning to fantasise about becoming a statue, really weird. There was one site in particular simply called Male Statue Hire, password required, I pressed enter anyway, always optimistic, a window pops up client ArenaPatronJunior password seven black dots, no I mean seven dots, I don’t know Wesley’s password, I’m just grateful he’s left it saved. Still an interesting site, four fit young men covered in body paint and available for hire as living statues for society parties. The same young men in examples of several poseable positions, single work, group work, all models locked in position through hypnotism, shit that made me sit up, that’s fucking horny, but there is something else, something I can’t put my finger on it.

MODELS WANTED

FIT YOUNG MALES

NEEDED FOR RIGID LONGTERM POSITIONS

GOOD PAY FOR LONG HOURS

APPLY ON E-FORM BELOW.

FULL LENGTH NAKED PICTURE MUST BE INCLUDED

I just filled the form in and quick as that, used the camera in the laptop to take the picture, done and sent in less than five minutes.

It was then I knew, it came to me what was wrong with the site. I scrolled back to the pictures of the statues, the men, not that one, but this one enlarged, the face I had seen, strong chiselled, seen him once, I’m sure now, Apartment 1 downstairs, shit it is him?

The computer chimed.

A green dildo is bouncing up from the bottom of he screen.

I click on the dick.

YOUR MESSAGE READS

KNOCK KNOCK

Knock knock at the door.

I have to laugh, bloody Wesley, it will be James our computer nerd.

Knock knock knock knock, a little heavy for Wesley, I run to the door and fling it back and stand struck dumb.

- Are you really twenty-two boy -

Silence

- Well boy don’t stand there let me do some of the work -

Silence

His hand comes forward, I find mine meeting his, half asleep.

- Can I come in boy -

- Er.. sure -

And he was inside, like that, measuring up my small squat, measuring up me a hard gaze to meet, at least I got some of my senses back.

- I’m sorry but I’m expecting -

I’m not really sure what I’m expecting now.

- You’re expecting me boy -

He closes the door behind him and walks around inspecting the premises, and I’m still dumb struck. I’ve had fantasies about this man, and now he’s here, looking, looking at my old socks, yuck and he walking into the health hazard which is my kitchen. I manage to get a towel over my somewhat ripe trunks, a click and the heating comes on full. Satisfied he sits down in my chair holding me in his gaze.

I manage to speak.

- But how.. you live upstairs? -

He puts his head back and laughs, which puts me at ease.

- Ben, my studio has to be somewhere, why not here.—

I find myself smiling back at him unable to fault his logic. Bolder now I feel I can speak and ask those questions he is expecting from me.

- But how does it work, how can you hypnotise someone to stand still, its not permanent, what’s it like to be hypnotised-

He smiles again and speaks softer.

He tells me that anyone can go into a trance.

He tells me that a hypnotist can then give instructions and triggers.

To be still is one of the easiest.

To enjoy being still.

To lie back and listen.

And be still, boy be still.

I shook myself awake in the chair, afraid that I had been rude. He is standing by the door.

- Well boy I think we’ll start you easy. You’re not ashamed to do a waiter’s job? -

- No sir -

- Good, be at 5 King Street, at 8pm tomorrow night, wear a sweat shirt, track bottoms and trainers only, do you understand? -

- Yes sir -

- Good boy -

And with that he is gone.

Leaving me to figure out what had just happened.

I know that the statues are young men like me. I know they volunteer to be hypnotised and then they are trained too stand still, in fact to want to stand still. I know they are well paid to be enjoyed by a discrete clientele. I have been told all this but I’m not sure when or in what order.

The next night I took the bus to within two blocks of King Street. No buses run in this neighbourhood, big gates, big drives and big cars. I come to the entrance to mansion number 5, the wrought iron gates stand wide and taking a deep breath I walk up to the house, no cars stand outside, but light and a faint sound of music come from behind tall windows. Broad stone stairs lead up to the monumental door, the doors are a closed black, a bell pull to one side.

I’m past the point of return now, I pull the cord, a bell jangles somewhere within. I check my clothing, bottoms, trainers, sweat top with hood, no underwear, no socks as instructed. The door opens a middle aged man in a dinner jacket stands there, a cigar in one hand sharing with a cocktail glass.

He looks down at me.

- And you are? -

- I think I’m the waiter sir -

- Of course you are boy, come in -

- Follow me boy close the door -

- Come across here. Now boy, you can get changed in here. Your clothes are at the back. When your ready go through to the kitchen there -

I find myself alone in an empty cloakroom. Empty pegs line one wall a single bench below, on the bench a pile of shimmering fabric. Curious I pick up the fabric, a spandex bodysuit unfurls towards the floor, not black as I first thought but a deep deep chocolate brown, a white panel on the front, my size. I know what to do, I strip naked and take down the zip at the back of my neck, then I sit and start to feed my feet in through the still tight opening. I find the legs and slip in deeper feeling the suit stretch over me, holding me and then contact as my toes, heels slip to the firm base, surprised to find the boots are part of the suit. On my feet now I roll the suit over my chest, a brief struggle follows as my arms contort into the sleeves, only the hands emerge and last, reach behind to gently work the zip up and closed in a high neck collar. I turn around and get the joke reflected full length in the mirror hanging from the back of the door.

The suit is screen printed in my new work. My hands run over the smooth tight surface so tight and so thin it might as well be sprayed on, my muscles bulging through scarcely contained matching the grown bulge of my crotch. Hands move up across the formal white of the chest, a shirt in print, a flat mock bow tie surrounds my neck. I trace the dark lines, which run over the slick brown of the main suit, marked as a mock formal jacket deep tails run over the hard curves of my buttocks.

Ready, I took a deep breath and went out into the hall. The hall was empty, I had a major boner by now, but what the hell, I can’t do anything about it. The door to the kitchen lay centred under a great sweep of double stairs, one set of stairs not big enough for this house, a curved flight on each side of the clear shaft of light running from the kitchen door. The only sound the click from my moulded boots on the hard marble floor, the fabric of the bodysuit slipping over my flesh with each step, I can’t believe how horny this suit feels on me.

I step into the kitchen my eyes struggling to adjust after the darkness of the hall. The kitchen runs away from me in acres of stainless worktops, quiet, empty of staff. I’ve worked in hotels with smaller kitchens.

The man waiting for me is the same gentleman who had shown me in, Mr Hamilton the host of the evening and owner of the mansion and a man obviously not short of a few dollars, hell he’s bought me for the night.

I was given my instructions on service for the night, don’t speak and stand still until required. All very clear, all very concise, all in good order, the trays and glasses and drinks all laid out for me in neat regular rows on the kitchen table. Mr Hamilton left me there, I knew a bell would sound in an hour to summon me to the drawing room where I would serve for the evening. With nothing better to do I took up a cloth and set about repolishing the glasses, if a jobs worth doing, my hands slide down futile over my slick second skin, I have to laugh as I keep trying to put my hands into pockets which only exist in print.

I stare at the clock, crawling round, patient and waiting. The bell sounds and a bulb lights on the service board, the word Drawing Room in black script beneath.

I pop the first cork and start work.

They where already in the drawing room, though not waiting for me, already discussing stocks and shares, mergers and a hand beckons me across and I serve, from the right. Four rich men, each in a high backed leather chair, five chairs, set in a shallow semicircle an audience about the main feature, a circular curtain, red velvet draped from the floor to a circular steel frame some ten feet across bolted to the roof, a cylinder of plaited fabric. I stole a few glances hoping to see the exhibit hidden within. But no luck, not a single gap and shit quick pour the next drink, slow. And then return to stand discretely out of sight at the back of the room, hands clasped behind my back, head dead ahead as instructed by Mr Hamilton. Jack Hamilton of Hamilton industries, up six cents on the day. The other all executives, directors, a business club, with only myself as some weird ornament. I had been worried that I might be expected to you know, do something, they’re not people you can hit. As well as Jack there is Edward, who had been at Yale with him, same fraternity, big in steel, complaining about imports. Younger, in their thirties, Colin and Richard partners in a corporate law firm, experts in tax avoidance, or at least small tropical islands, the way they looked at each other, their partners in more than law. And from them as the night goes on and the drink builds up more than casual interest in my crotch. But from the older two, not a bat of an eyelid, to them I am simply a beautiful object.

I almost jump from skin as the door from the hall the door next to me swings open scarcely missing me.

- I trust I’m not late gentleman -

My back is to him, as I close the doors, but I know the voice, a shiver, a half memory runs through me, I turn as Mr Hamilton is already clasping the hand of the male, of my desires. The first time I was to learn his name though I would never use it.

- No, not at all Richard, come sit down and have a drink -

The fingers click and I go to serve the man, waiting patiently while the other guests rise to greet him he takes the last empty chair and I move to serve him, bending over face flushed, closer and closer. I find my hand shaking, my cock pulsing forward stretching the fabric of the bodysuit to bursting point.

He takes the glass from my hand and speaks softly.

- Its all right Ben its time to be still -

His free hand gently stroking my oozing crotch as my cock strains to new lengths. I can dimly hear Hamilton behind me making some speech and then gone, only the mans voice remains, soft, velvet, before memory.

- That’s a good boy be quiet be still -

He turns me to face the curtain. I feel his hands running over my buttocks, tracing the line of my buttocks. A vague thump as the bottle I was carrying hits the carpeted floor. Arms by my side look straight ahead. Arms by side feels so good to stand still, so good to stand still.

- So good to stand still Ben -

A gentle touch on my fingers arranging each one down in turn.

- Ben, Ben frozen boy -

My head cleared, like waking from a dream.

- Try to move Ben -

It was such a strange idea, why should I want to move, but he wanted it so, I tried, I tried so hard but my body remained locked in position, I wanted to cry, I wanted so much to obey him and I couldn’t.

- It’s ok Ben, stay still, you’re a good boy -

The wave of relief pulsed through me and I knew that I was not meant to move. Calm now I can see Mr Hamilton still speaking and then he stands to one side and then a motor whirr’s and the stage drapes rise.

The drapes, curtain, cloth, screen fold up, rise, broken steps, a broken order. Three marble statues of young studs, standing

- Feels good to stand still -

Feels good, trapped, immobile, their bodies taunt, coated in white marble, paint or real...

- Feel so hot Ben, the more you stand still the hotter you become, feels good, feels good -

... feel good, their eyes alive, fixed blank forward ..

- Feel so hot Ben the more you obey the hotter you become -

From the apartment.. the other apartment..

- Is it becoming hard to think Ben -

Empty... the boy here blank.. the men rubbing...

- I have that effect on some people -

hands over their smooth polished chests..

- A statue -

..beating our fixed rods...

- A boy statue -

- Say it to your self -

.. boy statues that’s what they, we are.. I’m a statue, a statue,

- Growing hard, solid, solid stone-

... rigid .. so stiff... so hard... so good... think... think...

- Sleep go to sleep Boy -

- Deep sleep -