The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

❧ September 28th. Monday.

One of the things that I thought I’d never get used to at Bell House was the grand hallways. At dad’s house, or any of my friends’, a hall was the smallest possible space to allow people to get from one room to another without walking through a sibling’s bedroom. But here, it was like the corridors were the main feature. The rooms were ordinary, despite the giant size of the house. Our bedroom was a bedroom like any other, and the kitchen had all the usual features.

But the foyer was the largest space I’d ever seen in a house, even larger than some of the lecture theatres I’d been to on my introductory tour of the university, and the layout of the house seemed to be structured around the eight hallways that branched out from it. This one, the eastern corridor on the ground floor, seemed to lead to no more than the lounge and some storerooms. And yet the floor was polished marble, a strip of thick-pile burgundy carpet down the centre outlined in gold. The ceiling was vaulted to make the space look even larger than it was, and the walls were mostly glass on both sides. To my left, a massive window commanded a view of a back garden that had all the space lacking at the front, while high narrow windows on the right passed daylight on into the lounge, over the top of enough bookshelves that I knew they’d never be full before I graduated.

I heard Jim utter the word “fornicate”; that was always something to get my attention, and my awareness jolted back to the present. I found myself trying to remember what he’d been talking about.

“Sorry, what was that?” I muttered, embarrassed to be caught out lost in my thoughts like that. “I wasn’t paying attention, sorry.”

“I figured,” he gave a tiny sidelong grin that made me wonder how long he’d been talking, and if he’d injected licentious words into his monologue just to get my attention. It wasn’t my fault really, I was still half asleep. I’d helped Jim load sheets of plasterboard and MDF and God knows what else into his van yesterday, then he’d stuck around to give me a lift home after I’d done the grocery shopping. Then Marten had helped him unload while I cooked dinner for what was fast becoming some kind of extended family. I’d been too tired to ask Jim what he was doing with the basement then, but he’d promised to show me around the rest of the house properly in the morning, now the goose-egg lump on my head wasn’t hurting so much and I could take in what he was showing me.

Morning had come, and I felt all awkward. I’d woken up early again, but this time without my love beside me. I’d taken a quick look around, but Alex wasn’t anywhere in our room, or in the kitchen downstairs. By the time I realised she must have other things to do – or other people – it was still too early to get up, but I wasn’t at all sleepy. I went back to bed anyway, and got up for real some time after ten, my head full of cotton wool and my mouth dry.

I was amazed that I missed her so much. We hadn’t even been living together a week. When we both lived with our respective parents, we’d seen each other most days and often found excuses to spend the night in each other’s arms. Now we lived together, and that room was our room, not just mine. So despite how much I thought of her, how strongly I wanted her to be happy, the thought that she was sleeping with someone else was like a stone in my heart. Cold, heavy, and uncomfortable, the knowledge had pinned me to the bed, not wanting to interact with other people at all.

“Olivia?” Jim’s hand was on my shoulder, and I realised I’d been lost in my own thoughts again.

“Sorry,” I muttered, knowing I’d have to get used to this feeling sooner or later, “It’s just…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. I wanted to explain, but not to burden him with my own problems. My master, my lover, and my best friend, Jim had done so much for me, not least buying a student house and reassuring my dad that I’d be safe here. I couldn’t hurt him with my worries.

“I know,” he put a strong arm around my shoulders, and I looked up to see the understanding in his deep, hazel eyes. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I need to do more to support you, and I’ve ended up hurting you instead. This is new to all of us, and I can’t expect you to just cope.”

I held him close, and pressed my face into his chest. He always knew the right things to say, even when I couldn’t hold back the tears. When I held him close, I knew that even if it was hard now, he’d be there for me until we got used to the current situation, and then for the rest of our lives. While I was still worried, I knew that there was no reason for my fear.

“So,” I eventually asked, “what was that about fornication?”

“Just a bad joke. Probably just as well you didn’t hear it, you might be totally disgusted with me. Did you notice how ornate the decoration is here?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about that,” I admitted, “these corridors look like they’re just showing off, and why do we even need them?”

“Sometimes you can just tell the house wasn’t designed by an architect.”

“What?” Not the most well-considered riposte, but I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“1898, Harold Grunewald makes his fortune and decides he wants to have a huge ballroom with a bell. The rest of the house was pretty much an afterthought, and he only got a professional in to look over his plans to make sure they’re safe. The house has been refitted and walls moved around a few times in the intervening years, as people try to make some use if it, but they’ve left these lovely hallways intact. And you’re right, as usual, there’s no need to have a hall here. It’s a folly, like the Colonial Bell, showing off how extravagantly he can use space.”

I shrugged. It was interesting to hear about the history of the house, but I couldn’t think of anything I could say about such a crazy story. At least it took my mind off Jim and Alex.

“Anyway,” he opened a little door off a side branch of the corridor, “Can I entice you into my dungeon?”

⚒ ⚒ ⚒

The cellar didn’t have the impression of size that the rest of the house had, but after being down there for just a few minutes I started to realise that wasn’t any reflection on its actual dimensions. The walls were close and the ceiling low, but after Jim led me around a few corners I was quickly lost. The rooms down here might be small, and the shelf-lined corridors short, but the place was a labyrinth.

I noted a couple of plasterboard panels leaning against the wall, with a tool chest beside them, at the end of the side passage we’d come down from upstairs. That would have been a great thing to look out for if I got lost, until I saw another set of panels. First I thought we’d been walking in circles, but then Jim headed down the corridor that should have led back to the house, and the stairs were nowhere in sight.

I paused, looked back at the tool chest. I’d helped him load dozens of pieces of plasterboard into the van yesterday, and they were all over the place. But nobody had two identical toolboxes, and left them in the same place at two different junctions. I knew I was missing something, though I had no idea what.

“Well I couldn’t make it too easy for you,” Jim had followed my gaze and predicted exactly what I was thinking, as usual.

“I thought this might appeal to you,” he continued, “Welcome to the dungeon.” The dungeon was a small room, at least by the standards of this house. It was probably about the size of my room at home– at my dad’s house. It would probably take a while before I stopped thinking of that as ’home’, even though this place was already home to a large part of me.

The ceiling was low enough to make the whole room feel more cramped than it really was. I was surprised Jim could even stand up in here, and I could see that his hair was brushing the unpainted boards. There was a suspended floor and ceiling, some kind of dark wood, and the uneven white-painted brick that made up most of the cellar walls was covered with the boards we’d bought yesterday. I could see two lines of screw heads along every join between the panels, and more than a few holes where unidentifiable fixtures protruded.

I guess Jim must have picked this chamber, out of however many were down here, to begin his renovations. It was interesting, but I still didn’t know what all the space down here was for. I asked Jim, which was probably what he was waiting for.

“It’s a dungeon,” he answered as if it was the most normal thing in the world. And then the perspective shifted. This wasn’t a construction site, as much as it could look like one. An odd shaped cluster of timbers in the centre of the room could be something being built, but look at it a different way and you start to see all the different poses – comfortable and otherwise – in which a willing victim could lie on it or bend over it to be restrained. A steel pipe on the wall wasn’t going to be boxed in for tidiness once the room was finished, it had been installed as an anchor point. Even the lengths of cable coming from the wall weren’t a sign of lights yet to be installed.

The cables were tied tightly around my wrists, while I was still gaping at the room, seeing the decor with different eyes.

“How did you do that?” I gasped in surprise, or tried to at any rate. My voice was muffled, I couldn’t even close my mouth. It felt like I was biting on a tennis ball. As Jim pulled on the cables, my arms were pulled tight and up to the hooks on the wall, holding me with my face against the dusty board. The letters “–ISH GY–” filled my vision, the middle part of a brand name stamped all over the boards.

I stared at the words, waiting for what would happen next. It was as good as a blindfold. I could still see, but my head was so close to the wall that I couldn’t look at anything in the room. I tried to turn my head, exploring the limits of this restraint, but was stopped by tension in the gag. It felt like the ball that stopped me speaking was both attached to a strap around the back of my head, and connected to one of the hooks on the walls so I couldn’t move.

I could hear Master rummaging in the tool chest, the clink of metal on metal as he hunted for the one he wanted. I wondered what he had in there, and couldn’t stop my mind’s eye conjuring up images of what he could do to me with a cold wrench, or a screwdriver. Things that might feel amazing, or things that could hurt so much. Even things that could be both at once, becoming more and more intense until I couldn’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain.

My heart was racing, and I found myself involuntary tensing, awaiting a blow. Needless to say, this was all turning me on so much. My cunt was practically dripping, and I found myself blushing hotly for a moment as I realised this. Then a line of pain flourished along my back, below one shoulder. Crack. The distinctive swishing sound of a flexible wooden cane. I gasped in shock, but managed to resist crying out at the first blow.

Crack

Another blow, lower than the first. I whimpered through the ball gag, and tears came to my eyes. Again and again the stinging pain of flexible wood on bare skin. He wasn’t over-eager or relentless, like so many vicious Doms. He treated it like an art, every stroke followed by a moment’s pause, a second of contemplation. I tensed, reflexively waiting for the next burst of fire across my back, but it didn’t come then. Always, every time, the crack came at the instant I was least expecting it, when I was just starting to wonder if the blissful ordeal was over. Master never gave me an opportunity to get into the rhythm of the blows; I could expect the pain but never anticipate it.

I wished so much I could beg him to stop, but more than anything I wanted him to carry on. I didn’t need to think about that, there was no time to think about anything but the pain. It was exquisite, a perfect moment. My body became a living work of art, broken and remade at the same time. It felt like he might have broken the skin a few times, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t even think about that. My whole world was the flash and sting from my back, the swish and crack of the cane, the few letters in front of my eyes, and my ever growing arousal. I felt so helpless, I couldn’t move a muscle, unable even cry for help as much as my body wanted to. Even if I could break free of the bonds, I’d never have been able to find my way back to the stairs.

Somewhere deep inside I knew my confusion was just another post-hypnotic suggestion; that a house’s cellar can’t really be as labyrinthine as it seemed to me at the time. With a word, he’d caused me to forget the order of twists and turns, and I’d even confused some other landmark for that tool chest by the stairs. The same session of programming meant that I hadn’t noticed the cables or the gag until it was too late, that I hadn’t even been aware of Master stripping me. I didn’t know I was naked until the first time the cane hit me.

In the moment, I couldn’t think about any of that. The stinging, biting of the cane took away my thoughts and burned them. But I was made aware, every time it landed, of just how much my own helplessness turns me on. I was dripping, so horny I couldn’t think. The thin trickle of blood and sweat and everything else running down my legs was a subtle counterpoint to Master’s beautiful crescendo of violence. I think I’d never been so horny without exploding before.

Then there was no warning swish, just the flash of a bare handed slap across my buttocks. And as I was expecting that sensation to repeat, I felt his hand between my legs, pulling me slightly back towards him, so I had to raise onto tiptoes to make sure I didn’t fall. His hands were rough, calloused like a real workman, and I didn’t even realise that the change might just have been in my mind. His touch was rough, brutal, uncaring. He’d never been like that before and I loved it. Three fingers inside me, before I even had a second to think, a hard pressure right there was all it took to push me over the edge.