The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Special Agent Madrigal Feyen entered the ‘Den of Shame’ as the bouncer held the door open for her.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside. The music drifting near the ceiling blended with a woman singing in French. Madrigal recognized a ten-year old tune from the European dance-pop charts. She walked by the coat-check and two elegantly dressed prostitutes in a quiet conversation about money.

Allah! Grant me the strength to not kill Fariq until I find out what he wants.

Against her will, Madrigal was meeting Fariq Lyr here tonight. A planted note in her hotel room had included a “present” from him and a promise to continue plans for the rescue of her sister, Metis, being held in an obscene private club in Cairo. She looked around for the small robed figure of Lyr. She wasn’t sure how the scruffy little man might wrangle admittance to this sort of club. The people she saw here were military officers and high rollers. She noted a few foreigners. The women wore the latest Italian fashions.

She recognized a shipping magnate from Malta with unsavory connections. Memories of many file photos she had reviewed in the SWB slipped to the front of her mind. No, she couldn’t be an agent tonight. Still scanning the room, she walked past the ‘dirty’ businessman. Madrigal regretted that the black skirt and conservative jacket she was wearing might pull attention in contrast to the range of short skirts and heavily made-up women throughout the club. Yet she wasn’t here as an agent of Egypt, she was here to deal with Lyr, hopefully for the last time.

Let them look at her. No one knew her. Their lurid glances were meaningless.

The Den smelled of French perfume, opium and leather-topped tables. Scattered miniature lighting from Italian designed fixtures made a bright pool of each table leaving the rest of the room seductively dark. Madrigal took a breath to relax. To her experienced appraisal, the place stank of crime and debasement papered over by dirty money. Yet, it was a pleasant enough club on the surface. She was glad her black wool suit made her leather satchel purse seem ordinary. The gun inside it gave her some assurance against everyone here except Lyr. Her cool wits sharpened at the slight tang of fear that thoughts of Fariq Lyr inspired.

She found a space at the bar and ordered a sunset-tango. She didn’t drink alcohol unless forced to by undercover work. Her mind drifted right back to the enigmatic Lyr.

True, she had sought to engage him. She had hunted him through four countries and dozens of false trails. True, she had wanted him because of his reputation that he feared nothing. The President’s Spoken Word Bureau, those special agents charged with stopping extraordinary or bizarre threats to Egypt, were used to dealing with unsavory and extremist use of power. The owner of the Closed Club in Cairo worried the SWB so badly that they had told Madrigal to forget her sister’s unfortunate situation.

Then again, Fariq told me that too this afternoon. ‘Forget her.’ Did he honestly expect me to listen?

Despite her six years of field experience in the strange underworld of Egypt, Fariq had frightened her. Even given his bizarre reputation, she didn’t understand how he had taken away her pistol and identification in the bar today without her notice. She had met pickpockets before and they didn’t do that kind of sleight of hand. She had almost concluded that he had hidden helpers, people who must have fleeced her before she sat down with him.

She couldn’t quite convince herself.

However, that didn’t explain why she had dressed as he instructed and come here despite her fear of exactly what she may have started by approaching him. He had said they had a “deal” and she feared a pact with him. She was afraid this had all been a terrible mistake.

“Buy you a girl, young lady?” A voice whispered at her elbow. “Or rescue a sister?”

She stiffened. A wild thought—as if thinking about him had summoned him from Darkness. She banished the stupid idea, turning towards him.

Again, Fariq surprised her.

He was even smaller than she had realized. Standing at her side now in black leather jacket and black leather jeans in an American style, he was less than one hundred fifty centimeters tall. She looked down, towering over him. The robes he wore earlier had disguised him well. She hadn’t imagined in the earlier sit-down meeting that he was so small. His wild blonde hair was up and swept back with some sort of hair-gel. He had cleaned up. His face, still scraped and scabbed at jawline and chin, was pale as ivory but freshly washed. He sported thin black gloves on his feminine hands. He looked like a street tough. He wore a small set of wire-rimmed sunglasses that hid his green eyes.

She found herself relieved at that. I don’t want to see his eyes. Allah! He doesn’t appear very dangerous now. I’ve handled punks of his look easily. He’s good at seeming harmless.

“I don’t think we can talk about our business here, Mr. Lyr,” she murmured.

He gestured at the bartender, who promptly brought clear liquor with a wedge of orange in it. “Let me be the judge of that, my tanned dove. You have put yourself in my hands. I will not fail you.” He smiled at her as if he were her chevalier.

She shivered, trying to ignore a hot ache in her nipples that horrified her. She had no desire for him. Even more, she feared him as she had no other person she had ever met. It wasn’t right he should appear a fifteen-year-old boy in tough gothic attire. She knew his file at SWB included ‘incidents’ going back fifty years. It was unnatural. It was very wrong.

Something fell into focus then, and she was angry she hadn’t considered it upon meeting him. “You’re like HER,” she hissed at him. “Like the owner of the Closed Club. You’re some kind of ageless demon. You’re as evil as the Thing I am fighting to free Metis from.”

He sipped his drink, but made no sound doing it. He peered up at her over his sunglasses. Bright green eyes pinned her attention. “Yes, of course. ‘Engage an Evil to beat an Evil’ and all that. That reminds me, you called me ‘Ancient’ in the bar. Are you saying you didn’t know?”

“That was before I saw you. I thought you’d be an old man.”

He looked at her strangely. “I am an old man, my tanned dove. Second question, how do you know that your superiors at the SWB didn’t offer your sister to the Closed Club, and then not tell you what they were doing, so that they could get you to find me and interest me in your problem?”

She gasped. “Worthless old Evil that you are, you would think of something like that!” She glared down at him.

He smiled at her with boyish charm at odds with what she knew he was and had done. Even the rough gothic outfit he was wearing didn’t take away from his silly grin. Allah, the most frightening part is how harmless he looks.

“Yes, I would. Third question, are you wearing my gift?” His smile became more sexual.

She flushed. Here she could answer honestly and still have a small triumph. She had stopped at a boutique and bought a black string bikini top to wear over the lace pasties he had told her to wear. He had only written she must wear them, not that she couldn’t wear something OVER them. The top was tiny and didn’t show at all under the jacket she had on. “Yes. I’m wearing your silly gift.”

“Good.” He leaned his body against hers for a moment.

Strangely, she noted his breath smelled not of liquor or bad food, but of fresh herbs. His soft breath was sweet and green. She felt unwelcome heat again. His eyes were so knowing. Her breasts pressed against him, but she refused to lose ground to him. Then he stepped back and put his drink down.

“I’m going to get us money for the trip. Make a few telephone calls and then we can go. But right now, I want you to pretend to flirt with me. Whisper the entire story of your sister, her captivity and the things you’ve tried in my ear and make it quick.”

She was relieved to hear that they wouldn’t be here long. She still didn’t understand why such things would be discussed here, even in whispers. Nevertheless, if he needed money and telephones, he must have contacts in the Den. She draped an arm around his shoulders. She shifted her hips and flexed her knees so it would be less obvious how tall she was by comparison and began to tell him about Metis.

She pasted a smile on her lips and told him everything she could.

The Ancient listened to her husky voice in his ear.

It was a tease. It tickled his memory.

Who could she be? He wanted to be sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks. This was a find. If she were a re-born match for one of his many lost Companions, then he dared to twist the Cat’s tail for half the chance to have more time with Madrigal. Could one such as he not believe in good fortune like this? He did rough figures and calculations, thinking about her flavors. Whose bloodline? Did he sense the Berber vibration? He reached out with his mind and stroked the Great River. He opened his inner archives to a barest trickle from the River. The warm sensation flowed down over his mind while he listened to the mortal, Madrigal Feyen, tell him the trivial details of her doomed pursuit of justice for her enslaved sister.

Images stirred in the bottomless layers of his memory, the entering warmth of the River stirred the dreams and years of his life. He didn’t push or hurry. He let the River find its own path through the labyrinth of his primeval mind while he absorbed the minor details of her quest. He watched the hot flow as a spectator, though he carefully examined each illuminated recess as the trickle of power melted its way down through frozen years.

He knew this woman—or he knew one very like her long ago. One in particular if he could recall it. He always remembered his cherished friends. Their blood pattern was a siren call to him. The patterns returned again and again and he patiently sought them. Yes, an old friend. Certainly some sparkling mortal who had shared his travels and made his heart bright for a short bleed of time. He saw the River finally reach that frozen dream of the past and warm it to life.

“Dirty!” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering everything. He turned his face and looked at her. The pieces of her face were all wrong, but the caress of her voice and the vibration of her Little River were exactly right. His guess about the Berbers was correct. Dirty, the vixen. Dirty, the vulgar thief.

She stiffened. Her arm around his shoulders was suddenly like frozen lead. She glared at him as other patrons at the bar smiled at them both. People had turned at his outburst.

They think something she said has provoked my illumination. They think she whispered indecent filthy things in my ear. That’s fine. In fact, that’s precious good fun. Just like her ancestor might have done to make me smile.

He looked at her.

She was NOT amused. “Just remember, Fariq, that I’m pretending to like you.”

He nodded, “As long as you know that I’m pretending you’re pretending.” He winked at her above his glasses. His sharp hearing picked up the sound of her grinding her teeth. He widened his smile.

She went back to the details of her story.

She finished, wishing that she dared to spit in his strangely interesting face. Instead, she broke the intimate hold on him and took a drink to cool her temper. She was very embarrassed by his stunt. Everyone had looked at her like a whore when he made his lewd outcry.

Evil bastard. Why play with me so?

“I’m impressed,” he whispered. “You did more than I expected and should feel no shame of your efforts. Isis probably let you live because she admired the way you played the game.”

“It’s not a game to me.”

“Everything is a game to Isis,” he shrugged. Except Egypt.

“You seem much the same,” she shot back. “Why do you call her Isis? Is she mad? Does she think she is a goddess?”

His voice sang soothingly back into her anger. “I call her that because that is who she is. No, she is not mad. Yes, she thinks she is a goddess. That is the difference between Isis and I. She is a goddess forgotten by those she loves. I am a lover forgotten by gods. Isis deserves your respect, my tanned dove. She has not abandoned your country despite the fact that the affection has long not been returned.”

Madrigal looked at him. She felt some pang of empathy with his poetic retort. Then seeing his leer, she knocked aside her compassion. “Then she is mad. I think you are evil. I think you enjoy it.”

“Then you will be particularly pleased by what happens next.” He smirked.

“Which is?”

“You’re to be a distraction while I get some things done that will make our trip to Cairo a success. I want people here looking at you. So, take off your jacket now and start strolling around the room blowing kisses to the pretty girls. Make it all look hot.”

“The hell I will,” she spit, taking off her jacket with a shrug of her shoulders.

He took it over his arm like a gentleman. He accepted her purse.

She realized with alarm that he was doing it to her again, making her act out of control. Then the cool air-conditioned air brought her eyes down to her tightening nipples. She was wearing the black lace nipple pasties with the diamond-like chips on their centers—but no bikini top. It was gone. The soft bounce of her exposed breasts generated a twitch of arousal in her cleft.

She was nearly naked from the waist up.

“And you can have this back,” he removed her bikini top from his own jacket and stuffed it into her jacket pocket, “when I return.”

Then he was gone. Right before her eyes, he just wasn’t there anymore. She squeezed her legs together and put her hands over her breasts. She turned around quickly to see if anyone else had noticed what just happened.

A dark skinned woman with too much make-up around her eyes turned and smiled at her. No. Obvious she hadn’t seen the man vanish. Madrigal found herself smiling back. She felt dazed. Her neck was warm. She brought both hands up to her mouth and ‘blew’ a kiss at the dark girl.

The beauty giggled at that. Faces started turning. In short order nearly half the bar was staring at her under-dressed condition. Her face was burning. She felt restless and decided that strolling around blowing kisses was better than being frozen as a naked embarrassed jackass, which is what she felt like.

Metis, think only of Metis.

She wafted a few kisses at other women and stepped off towards the far corner of the room to make a circuit. She felt painfully out of her depth. Warm arousal trickled through her and she was bewildered. How exactly did one walk about like a whore anyhow? Allah! Please make the evil one come back quickly!

Fariq stepped expertly into the Great River and felt the flow charge his blood and transmogrify him. The Den of Shame took on a soft crimson appearance. His skin tingled as if invisible nymphs were teasing his flesh with their soft fingertips.

He became in truth the Quick Knife. His mind raced with power, his thoughts drove like whipped stallions through his flesh.

He moved in a lazy circle about Feyen and studied her looking at the place he had been with a languorous dawning shock. With an enthusiastic eye, he watched her hands slowly drift up from her sides to cover her black-tipped breasts. Her eyes widened as she registered his ‘disappearance’ and then he saw her legs tighten together at the thighs.

Yes. There is much fire in the heart of this woman. She is heir to the passion of her ancestors. My old lover lives again in this one. I could make something grand of her.

He kept moving. To stop within the River would cause his flesh to brighten with the energy displaced and he would then leave an image the mortals could see. Slowly circling Madrigal like a shark smelling blood, he stepped carefully to her pulling off his left glove. He walked around her touching her throat lightly and the pulse of her living energy responded. Wet. Relaxed. You are aroused feeling this embarrassment. The eyes on you make your body hot despite your better judgment. You play the wanton now. Think about each minute of your lovely exposure. Your nipples are hard as nuts. Your thighs brushing each other as you walk remind your sweet pussy of tongues at work.

He continued to circle in his heightened realm, studying her reactions and feeling his own erection. He treasured his secret kinship with the Great River. He loved watching beauty moving so slowly before him, a living gallery of interesting bodies and minds moving at mundane speeds. The entire world was a display to his voyeuristic talents.

Enough! I have things to do and I’m not going to exhaust myself playing now. I need to save something for the Cat and Cairo.

Laughing, he strolled away. He was the Quick Knife. He would die with a smile someday.

The crowds immersed in their slow dance of meaningless mortality gave him no pause. He found the small spaces and passages around their bodies. He brushed fingertips across men’s faces and found information. He caressed women’s asses and found the tingle of the Little River. Occasionally he slowed to watch another pair of eyes discover the erotic display that Madrigal was performing for him. It was a sublime pleasure. Then he moved on.

Never allowing his movement to really stop.

He found the unlocked door he wanted. It was reinforced with quality steel he saw as a deadly black sucking disturbance of the River’s flow. He put his glove back on. He shoved against the door, then quickly closed it again behind him once inside. There was no one near enough to notice the breeze that caused. The brief grounding spill of energy through his near contact with the door singed him very slightly. He passed the two heavily muscled men on the other side. They both sported the black stains where he surmised they kept their weapons holstered beneath their jackets. The steel of their weapons created black eddies with the River at this level. He moved through the casino in the large hidden room and gathered a substantial sum of dinars for the trip to Cairo. He took largely from the House and in small, scattered amounts from the patrons.

He moved around the crowds as a dancer might. He fingered the nipples of a beautiful Nigerian and sampled her thoughts. Her wide sweet eyes had caught his attention as he passed. Her body moved between one step and the next. Her nipples were large and her thoughts as he tickled them made him want to linger, but he did not. Never stopping, he gathered more paper money. He circled one of the guards who carried two guns and a knife in his sleeve. The man’s face reminded Fariq of a trio of brothers who had worked for the Salamander in Napoleonic France. The fellow’s thoughts proved this old pattern was not the case in the here and now. Fariq knew how such echoes clung to Ancients beside himself, so he judged it wise to check. Yes, meaningful faces, bloodlines, or friendships could surface again after a decade or a century. Grinning, he stroked the fellow’s cock until it was hot and hard, and then left the mortal with thoughts of a donkey joyfully mounting his own sister.

He peered at cards kept close to chests out of curiosity. He traced a finger over rumps in tight skirts. He moved through them as a searing breeze that their insensitive minds could not feel or see. When his inner pockets were full of money, he moved to the phones in one of the small private rooms.

Easily moving past a wooden door, he stepped out of the Great River and heard the normal murmur of voices resume as he returned to a speed that made those sounds sensible. Colors came back to their true tints. His flesh smarted even through leather and clothes where he had pushed the armored door in his accelerated state.

No matter, he healed well enough. The burn was the price of cold iron when he danced those levels of the Great River.

He languidly ran a gloved finger along his jaw and sent the pain away for later. He dialed a few numbers and talked to many helpfully vicious men. Smiling, speaking in different tongues with each separate call, he made a quick business of it.

Madrigal felt her face grow hotter with each small chuckle that she heard. She despised her own weakness. She knew she was only pretending to be a wanton, but she knew these people had already relegated her to something worse than a whore.

A slut. A foolish exhibitionist harlot.

Think of Metis.

She wasn’t as pretty as many of these women here. Not like Metis. Madrigal was an athlete, not a clotheshorse. She saw in the faces of the men and women that they assumed this was her way of getting attention for her lack of beauty, exposing herself as a lewd clown for their laughter.

Vile.

She also found it tightened her hot nipples even more and made her clitoris feel as if it was being licked by a man’s tongue. She felt drunk on the attention. She was fast becoming too aroused to walk straight. She turned around, made a ‘kissing’ moue to a woman who was clapping her hands with delight and made her way back across the room.

Metis, think only of Metis. Yes. Metis dancing under the lights with bells clamped to her nipples.

Dazzled, she showered kisses to every woman who would make eye contact with her.

Oh! Metis’ wide blank eyes as she danced with a young woman tonguing between her spread legs.

Now she couldn’t stop thinking of Metis. What kind of pleasure made the mind surrender so?

Metis. I will come for you.

Had it been five minutes yet or fifteen? Would this horrid act never end?

Then she saw him. The evil little demon was standing near the entry to the Den holding her jacket and purse. She changed course and made straight for him. Damn whatever plan he has. I’m leaving now!

She stood in front of him. She prayed that the awful wetness between her legs was not below the hem of her conservative skirt. “Well, Fariq Lyr? Can we go now?” she said softly but with bite. She did not want to anger him.

“Of course. Turn around and I’ll help you with your jacket.”

She allowed that. She tried not to rush the buttoning of the jacket front. Shortly then they were leaving. The warmth of the night-cloaked street outside was nothing compared to the hot sopping between her legs. She wanted to make certain that he didn’t think she enjoyed any of his ‘plan’. “That was horrid.”

“Yes, Forgive me. I have a terrible sense of humor. It escapes my control at times. I have another question. Fourth serious question for tonight, I asked you today how old you were—I want that answer now. " His smile was hard. His eyes were cold and alien.

She wanted to tell him to fuck himself. “I’m thirty-one next month. Metis is twenty-six.”

He made no reply.

They walked further along the street. She saw they headed for the beach and her hotel. She refused to look at him. She hoped that made a difference somehow.

His soft words reached out of the dark. “Pack. Tonight we leave for Cairo. A taxi will come to your hotel at three. Be ready. A seaplane will take us to Alexandria.”

“You’re letting me go with you? Good.”

“My tanned dove, I never leave my valuable property where it might get lost,” he whispered. “I expect you to help me. Further, my plan hopes that you may have some sway with your sister when I have her out of there.”

She ignored the quickening of her heart. She looked at him now. The streets were dark. The buildings they passed were unlit. She couldn’t see his expression, but it didn’t sound as if he was laughing at her. This small figure was going to challenge a goddess. The evil fiend planned to battle a wicked goddess for her sister. She wanted to hate him.

She tried to imagine some way to do that.

She failed. “I’ll be ready.”