The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Meryem trotted up the steps of the old museum. It had been such a joy getting the assistant curator post. Fresh from university with her archaeology first degree and masters in museum curatorship she had been one of the lucky few of her class to have found a job that perfectly matched her qualifications. Not London, of course, and indeed somewhere rather out of the way but a nice town nonetheless. A hot day and her light cotton dress swished against her knees as she rummaged in her bag for the key. It was strange walking through the empty museum. It was something which might have worried many walking past the stuffed animals with their unblinking glass eyes and the sarcophagi from Ancient Egypt. It did not worry Meryem, indeed she revelled in the oldness of things such that she made a point of always seeing her blue black hair was neat in a polished silver mirror from Roman times displayed not in a glass case but hanging on a wall. She liked to imagine who might have used that very mirror millennia ago.

It amused her that her sandals had something of the Roman about them, though her light cotton dress was hardly a woollen toga!

It came as a bit of a surprise to find a parcel placed in front of one of the displays in the Classical gallery. The statue was of the minor Greek god Himeros, a very fine statue of a young winged man, alas much damaged though well restored. Meryem picked up the parcel. It was not so much a parcel, when she looked closely, as a piece of rolled cloth clearly with something within it. Carefully she unrolled the cloth placing it atop one of the glass display cases.

“Oh!” She said aloud.

What was within the wrapped cloth was more than a surprise to Meryem. There were, of course, penes aplenty in the museum. She was not unused to such things. Her university course had not avoided that. She knew ancient peoples were no less interested in, or even obsessed by, sex and procreation than were modern man and woman. The classical statues sometimes had revealed male genitalia, if not defaced, but of small proportion as was the Classical tradition. Other exhibits did not shy away from the procreative purpose. There were Paleolithic stone phalli, one carved quite clearly from a stag’s antler, a double ended dildo from Roman times complete with a single set of balls (beautifully carved but it did make her blush) and some of the Greek Attic vases certainly had some rather strange pictures upon them.

Strangely, surrounding the dildo within the cloth were small white marble tear-shaped pebbles, perhaps a hundred or more. Meryem reached and lifted the dildo. It was rather heavy. Meryem smiled, she liked the idea of a weighty penis. Not married or with a man she was not experienced in such things but had her thoughts and dreams. An idea of weightiness, a heaviness in her hands was not an unusual, private thought in her bed.

Meryem had been amazed, when she lifted the weighty stone up in her hand, clasping its shaft in quite a rude way, to find it fitted perfectly the scarred stone at the junction of the thighs of the statue. It was like none of the other statues—it was quite a different portrayal of maleness. Meryem liked what she saw!

The old curator had been excited when he arrived and she had shown the object and the tear-shaped pebbles to him. He had disappeared into his office with that intense look she knew when he was becoming absorbed in study. She did not expect to see him again that day.

The security cameras had recorded the benefactor. A young girl laying the parcel down at the very end of the museum’s day. A quick glance around and a hurried placing and then a pause as she had stared at the statue. She had walked briskly away out of the camera’s view and then, after a few moments, reappeared not once but thrice as if she could not bear to really leave the parcel there. Once she had almost touched it again.

It was all very mysterious.

The old curator seemed almost obsessed with the mystery and the object. He had watched the security recording and had Meryem look back to see if the visitor had been there on other days.

Two weeks later the old curator had lead her down to the statue of Himeros and shown the restoration work he had undertaken. The statue was once more entire. She had blushed as she stood there. The representation of a young erect man albeit with wings was stunning. More than stunning as it had a particular effect upon her. She felt a creeping wetness between her thighs.

It became her habit to visit that particular room last on her early morning rounds before opening the museum. She found herself moistening every time in anticipation. Just as when she had first unwrapped the marble she could not resist touching it. So upstanding, so perfectly detailed, so inviting a caress. Indeed more than a caress: it invited stroking, a running of a closed hand up and down the shaft as if ‘exercising’ it—the word in her mind. She found herself holding its testes as she slid her hand. Each morning she imagined it spurting as she had seen boys do. The thought excited her. The idea of white semen pulsing high in the air from the penis’ head as her fingers flew up and down encouraging the ejaculation. The idea just made her the wetter.

Each morning she found herself making a ring with her thumb and forefinger and stroking up and down the upraised organ. Slowly at first and then faster as if willing it to ejaculate.

It was perhaps inevitable that one morning Meryem would bend her head and take the knob in her mouth. Hard, smooth and cold but so the shape of a penis’ head. So rearing up as if waiting to be sucked or...

Later in her office she was embarrassed by what she had done. Aware of the recording security cameras but with her back to them it was difficult to see what she had been doing and, in reality, only she ever looked at the recordings. Mere fondling was one thing, fellating the marble statue quite another. In her dreams though, the statue. Meryem was man-less and slept alone. To awake in a sweat in the darkness of the night and have to pleasure herself back to sleep on account of remarkably vivid dreams about a young, virile young man—with wings—was not what she was used to. She was not unfamiliar with what fingers and thoughts could do to her body but the frequency and tenor of her imaginings were now different and stronger.

Each time Meryem looked at the statue, so perfect, so male, so virile, so erect, she knew what she really wanted to do.

Would it be such a wrong thing? It was not as if the statue was a real young man.

“I... I couldn’t help myself... I”

Meryem stood in the exhibition hall completely naked and with blood running down her thighs. Never had she felt so embarrassed, so awful. There was nothing to hand to hide her nakedness or the awfulness of what she had done.

The old curator just stood there, Dr. Jennings, in his tweed suit. His spectacles twinkling in the electric light. He was looking at her, looking at her body. “You were a virgin?” He asked.

He must have been watching, standing at the entrance to the gallery. She had not seen him so engrossed and absorbed in her... act... with the statue. He would have seen everything. Dr. Jennings never arrived that early, yet he was there.

Meryem looked down, “yes,” she answered, “I have not been… with a man.”

“You will hardly have been the first—on that representation. I suspect, indeed am nearly sure that would have been its purpose—the defloration of young virgins. Probably hundreds, who knows, a thousand even young maidens would have climbed up and pierced, their veil of virginity, their hymens torn asunder upon that carving.”

Meryem had not moved, nor had the old man’s eyes left her body.

“Hymen indeed!” He went on. “Hymenaios, one of the Erotes, winged gods of the Ancient Greeks, god of marriage ceremonies, to be invoked at a wedding, his presence desired. But this statue is not Hymenaios, it is Himeros. He represents desire and unrequited love. I think, my dear, we see the result of desire upon you! He should really be wearing or carrying a taenia, a colourful headband worn by athletes. Naked athletes of course.”

Meryem was used to the old man’s encyclopaedic knowledge. His voice becoming a little shrill and loud as his enthusiasm for all things ancient mounted.

“Naked, you knew that?”

Meryem knew and had liked the idea. Lithe young men competing in athletics, naked, all of their bodies visible.

“I too have felt the allure of this ithyphallic statue of young Himeros. Not his undoubted male beauty,” he smiled, “not that I cannot appreciate the male body in the aesthetic sense but it does not move me like…” the indication with his eyes was obvious. He meant the female form, particularly Meryem’s naked body.

“I had thought my days were over,” his voice dropped as if confiding in Meryem, not that there was anyone else to hear, “of late I have been, how should I put it delicately, unable to get it up—much. Mrs Jennings has noticed.”

The girl nodded and made sympathetic noises. Such a shame for him, though he was, of course, old.

“I found myself drawn, drawn as you no doubt were…”

The girl’s eyes dropped. Dr Jennings quite understood her.

“…drawn to his phallos. Such perfection in… well, the male generative organ. Did you think so?”

The girl nodded. It has been her thought—it was her thought. Strong and weighty.

“I wondered if I was to touch my own against the marble whether some of Himeros’ vigour might rub off, so to speak, upon me.” He smiled as if recognising the absurdity of the idea.

The girl was wide eyed, “And… and did you?”

“I dreamt… I dreamt of Himeros. I had… a wet dream. You know what I mean?”

Again the nod. She understood.

“I dreamt of Himeros… and you. It is unsurprising, I know, to dream of work colleagues in an unusual and, sometimes, even inappropriate way. The mind plays odd games. I found myself here in my dream, in this very gallery, watching you, looking at you and you were as beautifully naked as you are now, kneeling before the statue of Himeros, so wonderfully restored, and you were placing those little tears of marble so carefully on the floor. I stood watching, puzzled, until I realised what you were doing. They were not tears at all but the representation of semen—an ejaculation—and you were placing them as if Himeros, or his statue, had ejaculated, a shower of semen across the tiled floor.”

The curator was agitated, excited at what he was saying.

“I believe, the little drops of stone, were an offering to Himeros. I do not know whether they were brought by young virgin girls. I am sure defloration was ritually practised upon his phallos: I am less confident that there was some male rite of passage also. I am sure the drops were individually formed by the young people, a laborious task carried out over evening after evening by the light of oil lamps, then brought and ritually dropped or cast upon the floor of the temple at the feet of the statue. Over the centuries the drops would have become like gravel, smooth rounded, white gravel beneath the bare feet of virgins.”

“Who knows where all those pebbles, those offerings are now? Trod into the dust, scattered on the hillside? Who knows? Yet, yet we have a few brought by our mysterious benefactor—she with the phallos.”

“I was watching you naked, so conscious of my soft penis. You were so careful with the placing of the pebbles. Clearly choosing where to place each one, placing them as semen might spurt, as my own did once. And in your kneeling your bottom was raised, round and so appealing to me as a man. In my dream, you turned and saw me. I felt acute embarrassment but you walked towards me and... and...”

The old curator swallowed, “you took me—my penis—in your hand. So soft, so gentle—and still I did not erect. I felt such a wanting but could not. A terrible, terrible frustration. To have your hand holding me but not reacting as a man should. But your smile was sweet and understanding, Meryem, in my dream, and you pulled back my foreskin and I saw, in your hand, one of the marble drops, smaller than most and tear shaped and you placed it on my urethral opening and with the ball of your thumb pushed.”

Meryem’s eyes opened wide. What a strange dream Dr. Jennings had experienced, as if she would do such a thing!

“Was it signifying something else?” He continued, “I am not a student of the interpretation of dreams. It was undoubtedly the reversal of the norm. The female pushing semen, albeit the representation of semen in marble, into the man. But I could see it there, my opening, my urethral opening stretched and rounded with the just visible rounded end of the marble showing white.”

“And you became hard in your dream?” Meryem spoke.

“Yes, yes and came. I awoke flooded with semen soaking my pyjamas and my penis as erect as if I was again a young man and... and since then I have had the most marvellous erections. Look... look!”

The curator tore at his belt and the buttons of his tweed trousers and pulled.

“Oh,” exclaimed the girl.

“Yes,” said the curator.

There in front of her was not just the stone representation of the statue but a real erection, not simply pointing out horizontally, or even downwards, as might have been expected of an old man but upright and strong. There was nothing weak about the organ, nor was it small.

“Was it always that big?” asked the girl, her eyes wide.

The man was not content with his exposure but was pulling at his clothing, removing them, seeking to be as naked as Meryem and the statue.

“No!” He was presenting it to her, pushing it forward. It was big, not absurdly big but undoubtedly rather large and very erect, the veins, so sinuous around it, were swollen.

To Meryem, Dr. Jennings penis was weighty, indeed it was what she thought of, in the dark warmth of her bed, as a ‘two handed’ erection.

“And... and how, I mean. what was happening in your dream when you... ejaculated?”

The old man looked somewhat bashful, embarrassed even, despite his display there in the museum, and then he spoke, looking straight at her, “I was having sexual intercourse... with you!”

Meryem had known what the answer would be, just as she knew the curator would take her with his penis. She would not stop him. Her body wanted that as much as he. They faced each other naked. The man displaying his proud, almost over large, masculinity, her receptive femininity hidden beneath her triangle of blue black curls. It was receptive. They would be joined.

Meryem also knew in her mind she must complete the dream. She turned to the displayed pebbles, white tears of semen, and picked one before closing the gap between the curator and herself. The curator’s so real penis was before her. She had held the phallos of Himeros so many times despite the ‘Do not touch’ sign by the statue, a sign not specifically aimed at the phallos, but this was different, very different. She was a deputy curator after all and could touch the exhibits but she well knew she was not alone in that. Not a few visitors, penetrating so far into the museum, had done the same. She had seen them, furtive, even sheepish on the cameras but they had still reached with a hand. The organ invited a clasp, an encircling hand.

The marble phallos invited an encircling hand but so did the curator’s. Meryem reached and held. The curator’s erection was both hard and soft at the same time. An inner strength and soft skin without. The bifurcated head purple and swollen and, at its tip, the urethral entrance. No doubt as sensitive as her own more discrete opening. She had never thought of pushing anything into it but now she was going to do just that to the curator, Dr Jennings. She placed the pebble, the less rounded end at the entrance so it stood vertically atop the penis and then, with the ball of her thumb she pushed and the marble slid into the man.

As in his dream Meryem could seem the opening stretched open and obstructed by the rounded white marble. Her hand gently moved the skin, the curator’s foreskin. She did it without thinking, an instinctive action. And, as she stared at the big plum of a head with the opening stretched open by the smooth marble as if semen was exuding, she realised what would happen. Not only was she completing for real the curator’s dream but in ejaculating within her, as he would do, his semen would force the single drop of marble, Himeros’ semen, into her. She had taken her virginity upon the statue. The statue was about to inseminate her with its marble semen.

The old man shuddered. Perhaps it was simply the touch and the strange feeling of having something pushed into him; perhaps it was the physical and real completion of what he had dreamed or else, perhaps, it was having a very real effect, making permanent his renewed sexual vigour and power.

All would be recorded on the security cameras. The naked girl and the old and erect man. Silently the cameras would see his hands reach and hold her breasts, touch them as she wanted to be touched, stroke the hard peas of her nipples as she wanted them to be stroked and then to bend his head forward and suck them as she wanted them to be sucked.

The girl knelt, as she had done before the statue of ancient Himeros and her lips closed upon the curator’s penis. It was hard and strong in her mouth: not as hard or, indeed, stone like as Himeros, but more so than the boys she had sucked at Uni.. A virgin maybe, or at least until that hour, but not inexperienced with hands and lips. She had experienced many of the sensual pleasures of the flesh, had bathed and slept with boys but never before had she felt, deep in her consciousness, the sheer masculinity of the phallos epitomised by the statue of Himeros and the re-energised curator.

Meryem’s lips moved, her dark, blue black hair swung around her neck as she bobbed up and down simulating with her mouth the movement of sexual intercourse. The penis, the hard and big penis, felt good in her mouth. It would feel better still in her vagina. She looked up at him, her almond eyes looking up at the old man.

“Please,” she said.

The young girl had settled herself on the floor, perhaps deliberately with her sex towards the ancient, so phallic statue, and looked up. Above her two erections. She had already ridden the marble one, taken it deep within her body, and now the phallos of flesh would take her. The old curator loomed above her, his testes hanging bull like below him, so visible from her position, and above it his erection soared to its big, plum head.

The girl opened her thighs revealing all to the curator. The beautiful, smooth brown skin of her thighs leading to her sex. A little blooded from her recent impalement but in the mutual sexual excitement or frenzy it was not a time to pause and bathe or shower. Her dark blue black hair a riot of curls upon her mons veneris, trickled down around the thick fleshy outer lips. Within these the oval of her sex with its pale pink inner lips, the edges long and scalloped. They stood engorged around the sexual entrance to her body. A trickle still of blood, but her vagina now revealed as a dark entrance, opened by Himeros in the ancient way.

She could feel herself as wet as she had ever been, could actually feel a trickle, occasionally running onto and beyond her anus. It tickled in an arousing way.

As the man knelt, preparatory to penetration, she could see the white of the marble within his stretched urethra—stone semen for her, to be expelled.

The old man settled himself on the soft skin of the girl and his maleness found her femininity, hard masculinity found feminine wet softness, and pushed. The connection was made, the ancient joining of the male and female and they were, as Shakespeare wrote, ‘the beast with two backs.’

Above them the gentle smile of the ancient statue as the girl locked her ankles over the old man’s back and his restored and enhanced penis began to move, thick, long and stimulating.

The ancient statue presided as perhaps—who knows—it had done countless times over the ordinary act of sexual intercourse between man and woman. On the hard, cold floor they rolled, the young assistant curator and the old curator. Between her thighs his strong erection pumped, sliding like the lubricated hydraulics of some piece of modern machinery—such a modern simile for an act so old.

The security cameras recorded all but did not see, hidden as it was deep within Meryem’s body the climax of the sexual intercourse. The smooth marble drop being forcibly ejected at speed from the curator’s urethra by the power of his ejaculation.

It is said if you climb the hill to where the old temple ruins stand, leave your clothes and wash naked in the cool water of the spring and if you are a virgin and pure then the ancient statue of Himeros will stand before you in the way men stand in your dreams and you will be permitted to mount and then descend the hill virgin no more.

It is whispered there is a statue in the museum’s reserve collection, a statue of a naked man with the most wonderful erection. A thing to make a schoolgirl giggle and blush. It is whispered that if you hide in the museum at closing time you can do more than gaze upon the statue.

The whispers about what you can do are very quietly spoken.