The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lizzie had had to be up early to go to London and she had felt so tired. She had not wanted to go at all but her parents would not hear of her ducking out. It had proved a long and very busy day. The only bright spot being she had not seen Conrad at all.

Utterly exhausted from her day, all Lizzie wanted to do was sleep but she sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chin in her pretty nightdress too scared to close her eyes. Last night’s had not been a happy dream: it had been a nightmare. She had been so enjoying the sexy dreams of the last few weeks: so oddly different from her dreams before. She was sure Conrad was something to do with her dreams but how could he get inside her head, how could he control her mind? Why did he keep appearing in one guise or another, most awfully as Smee the night before? She shuddered at the memory of Jas. Hook. It had all been so real, even when she had woken the dreadful scene had still seemed almost more real than her bed and bedroom. She had nearly run in to see her father and mother in the middle of the night, which was something she had not done since she was nine years old when she used to drag her duvet in and sleep on the floor, night after night.

Perhaps she would dream of Friday, or the Scarecrow or her Sister in Oz but... what if it was Jas. Hook again or something worse? She thought back over what Conrad had said the day before but that gave no clue as to a book. But he always mentioned books. What did his remarks about journeying and choices mean?

She would read for a bit and settle her mind. Perhaps if Conrad hadn’t mentioned a book she would not dream or maybe it would be a happy dream. She looked around and picked up ‘Pride and Prejudice’, now she would not mind at all meeting Mr Darcy! She began to read:

‘IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,’’ said his lady to him one day, ‘“have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?’’

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

“But it is,’’ returned she; ‘“for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.’’

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

“Do not you want to know who has taken it?’’ cried his wife impatiently.

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.’’

This was invitation enough.’

The book dropped from her fingers and Lizzie was fast asleep. It seemed to her only moments had gone by when she found she was walking in a mist, following a path, a path that was only just visible ahead of her. The path was wet and muddy and not very distinct. Lizzie could not see what was on either side of her because of the mist and its effect of dampening all sound. There was a silence, which seemed eerie. Lizzie paused and looked about her. She was so tired but there was no where to sit, it was all too wet, so she might as well keep walking, she was after all, she noticed, well shod in stout leather boots.

She decided, despite immediate appearances, that she was in Wonderland again when she saw, sitting on a bough of a gnarled and weather beaten tree a few yards off, the Cheshire Cat. It grinned when it saw Lizzie.

“Cheshire Puss,” she began again and it only grinned a little wider. “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat predictably.

“I don’t much care where—” said Lizzie.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

“—so long as I get SOMEWHERE,” Lizzie added as an explanation.

“Oh, you’re most certainly sure to do that,” said the Cat grinning even wider, “if you only walk long enough. You could go back the way you came or on the way you’re going.”

Lizzie felt that this could not be denied, but was singularly unhelpful; which was rather as she had expected from the Cat so she walked on leaving the Cat grinning behind her.

As she walked the mist cleared away and she found she was hiking across a rather featureless moor following a peaty track between the heather. She could see no trees here, just purple heather, not even a gnarled and bent by the wind hawthorn to relieve the monotony of the landscape. Overhead the clouds were moving fast, a storm either approaching or going away. She was not sure which. The light was bright but with a cold light rather than the warm light of the visible sun. Lizzie found it depressing but she trudged on, awfully tired and really wanting to be home in bed. “But I am home in bed,” she thought, “it’s just I’m in this rotten dream. I didn’t want a rotten, horrible dream tonight. Why can’t I dream of lying quietly in the shade of a coconut palm on Crusoe’s Island with Friday or in the Tin Woodman’s cottage rather than this desolation more reminiscent of the waste around the House of Usher than anywhere else?”

A patch of blue sky allowed a shaft of sunlight through, though not on Lizzie, illuminating something on the horizon, right where her path lead. Slowly she trudged towards what seemed to be a post in an otherwise featureless landscape. As she got nearer she decided it was a signpost and she was right. It was one of those old English white painted wooden signposts you still sometimes see at country crossroads, though too many have been replaced by stark metal signs. It would have had fingers pointing at the ends of the signs if they had not been so old, rotten and broken. It was a sad sight, rot had got into it due to lack of re-painting and the arms had wholly or in part broken off and, presumably, the pieces now lay amongst the heather. Mushrooms or fungi grew from the main post. Lizzie stood and looked at the sign. It pointed to left and right and, indeed, the path no longer went straight on but changed direction forking to left and right.

“Looking for something or someone?” said a small voice. She looked around but could see no one.

A wisp of smoke rising from a bright yellow bracket fungus on the signpost’s side caught Lizzie’s eye. She stepped into the bracken and looked closely. Sitting on the mushroom, only just visible due to its camouflage of yellow and black alternate segments, sat a large caterpillar with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah.

The Caterpillar and Lizzie looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

“YOU again?” said the Caterpillar.

“What are you doing here?” asked Lizzie.

“Smoking.”

“I can see that.”

“Why did you ask?” replied the Caterpillar.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The Caterpillar did not reply.

“Well have you any advice for me this time?”

“This time?”

“Have you any advice for me on this bleak moor such as which way to go?”

“No.”

“So, how do I know which way to go then?”

“Signpost.”

“Hmmm!” Lizzie looked up at the signpost, one arm pointing to the right said ‘Reality’, the other pointing left said ‘dreams’.

“Well I’ve had enough of dreams. I want to get back to my bed, to the reality of my bed.” said Lizzie, feeling very tired, and set off to the right.

“Are you SURE?” said the Caterpillar, “it is important to make considered choices and even more important to make the right ones particularly when journeying.” The Caterpillar smiled and put the Hookah back in his mouth.

It was unfortunate Lizzie did not go round the other side of the signpost where she would have seen the two pointers said respectively “but not as you know it” and “Sweet”

It was equally unfortunate she did not look for the broken off pieces of the signs which would have said the same thing, and very much more unfortunate she did not look for the completely broken off arm that, once upon a time, had pointed back the way she had come and said ‘Home sweet home’.

Lizzie followed the path; it began to descend a hill and steadily became steeper and steeper and muddier and muddier. The mist rolled in. Lizzie tripped and fell forward...

Lizzie floated in clouds, it was really rather soothing if a little uninteresting. There again, being asleep was not, she thought, meant to be interesting but it had often been so these last few weeks. Through a gap in the clouds she espied a mansion set in gardens. A river wound its way nearby and there was a lake with an island. The house was built of stone and Lizzie, from her vantage point, could see the roofs were slated. The sun shone down on it through the gap in the clouds and its windows reflected the light back so they seemed to flash at Lizzie in welcome: or warning. She began to drift lower through the gap and then, picking up speed, she found herself moving faster and tumbling and tumbling towards the ground.

This was not a nice experience. Lizzie remembered being told if you are falling in a dream and you reach the ground you have died. She was frightened and willed herself to wake up. The ground was getting closer and closer, coming up to meet her. She screamed.

Lizzie was sitting on the floor in a room of mirrors with the long skirts of her dress spread out around her. Unsteadily she got to her feet and looked around her, dozens of reflections of herself looked back at her. She walked across the polished wooden floor to one of the glasses and looked at herself. Lizzie looked back at her from the mirror.

“So, I look like me in this dream, that’s a change. But what an unusual dress. Very, very pretty but...” Lizzie twirled around admiring herself in the mirrors and the way the dress material spun out and round with her. It was clearly silk. “Why are my boobs so exposed?” The dress was low cut, ridiculously low cut so Lizzie’s breasts were not covered at all. It was not that it was simply undone. There were no catches, no buttons, no laces to do it up at all and whilst the skirts were generous to an extravagance with material there was not enough at the bust to pull across and hide her bosom.

“Curiouser and curiouser, I suppose Alice might have said. Well, let’s be up and doing.” Lizzie walked around the room looking for the door. It was all mirrors, mirrors in gold frames, very opulent, arguably also very vulgar.

“One is going to be a door, if I can find the handle.” On her third circuit she espied not a handle but a black hole about one and a quarter inches in diameter set in the frame of one of the mirrors at about the height you would expect to find a handle. She put her finger in the hole. She could not feel a catch or anything. It was just a smooth sided hole longer than her finger. She put her hands on her hips rather cross and looked again about the room. It was not actually empty there were chairs (gold with cabriolet legs and red velvet seat covers, still rather vulgar) and various tables, some with drawers.

“Perhaps there is something I can poke into the hole in those drawers?”

Lizzie opened the first one. It was empty. The next one was more promising. Opening it she found paper, a pencil and a key. But the key did not touch anything in the hole and seemed to be nothing to do with it. She put the key back. The next drawer was again empty. When she opened the last drawer she started back in surprise and embarrassment. Lying in the drawer on a velvet bag was a penis substitute, a gold dildo. There was no mistaking what it was; it comprised a long straight shaft rising to an acorn shaped head. Two joined balls formed its other end. Lizzie shut the drawer and walked back to the hole. Her dreams did get very odd. Why did she seem to be obsessed by sexual imagery? Was it just because she was young?

There seemed to be nowhere else in the room where anything could be found to fit in the hole. She stared at it. An idea came to her.

“Surely not!”

Returning to the fourth drawer she again opened it and this time took out the gold penis. She held it in her hand. She had never actually used one herself, well apart from in Oz but that was only a dream. A naughty thought came into her head. Shaking that idea from her head, she walked to the mirror with the hole and pushed the acorn head, the glans, into the hole. It slid in easily and fitted perfectly. Lizzie pushed it home. There was a click and the dildo held firm. She stepped away and looked at what she had done. Sticking out from the mirror frame was what could almost be mistaken as a handle to a door if it did not look so much like a pair of gold testicles. Lizzie grasped the gold scrotum in her hand and turned. It was indeed a door handle. The mirror door opened.

“Ah Lizzie you have arrived! I am, as you know, the Chevalier Heuron.”

The door had opened into an anteroom, well furnished and containing a single occupant. The man appeared not to have finished dressing. He wore an embroided doublet and hose but they were ‘open crotch’ and he did not have a codpiece to hide his manhood. Lizzie was a trifle embarrassed to see his penis and balls exposed though, recollecting her own dress, perhaps this was normal in this dream.

“Chevalier? A French knight.”

“Mais oui, my sword is always at the ready.”

A second man entered in a similar state of undress and clearly agitated.

“Chevalier, I cannot attach this codpiece at all, I really do not know what to do. We should not be late and I am not yet dressed. Who is this?” He seemed to notice Lizzie and bowed.

“Perhaps Lizzie, this is of course she, can help you. No doubt she has nimble fingers.”

The second man thrust the codpiece into Lizzie’s hand.

“I, I don’t know how it fits, I’ve never worn or had to...” she said.

“Of course you’ve never worn one. You’re a girl!” They both laughed heartily at the idea.

“It laces you know,” remarked the man helpfully.

Kneeling Lizzie attempted to lace on the codpiece. The leather codpiece, finely decorated with hunting scenes, had a series of eyelets intended to allow a lace to pass through similar holes in the hose and thereby hold the codpiece in place. Lizzie threaded the lace but it was not easy as the eyelets were small. Her small fingers kept brushing against the man’s penis. Initially flaccid Lizzie could not help noticing that it was getting larger. It really was the most attractive penis she had seen. She tried ignoring it as she laced another hole. The penis kept rising. It was pointing straight at her now as she completed another eyelet on the left side. Before she had threaded the next one the foreskin had begun to slide downwards exposing the sensitive skin of the head, a delightfully pale pink. Lizzie without thinking ran her tongue across her lower lip. The cock reached full height, standing stiff and erect well above where the top of the codpiece would go.

“And how do you think you’re going to get that inside my friend’s codpiece?” demanded the Chevalier. “He’s a fool to wear one, he should go without as I do, leaving his cods exposed.”

“But I like my codpiece! It is of the finest leather. What should I do? It is so elegant, it so becomes me, oh, what can we do?”

Lizzie sat on her heels, the pale pink head of the erect cock inches from her face. It looked lovely. There was surely no harm in a dream in doing what you want to do? Lizzie put out her tongue and licked it. It jerked, Lizzie was quick and caught it between her lips and sucked it into her mouth.

“Of course!” cried the Chevalier.

The cock felt wonderful in her mouth, the head was smooth like glass. Lizzie rolled her tongue across it and began bobbing her head backwards and forwards driving the penis across her lips.

The Chevalier was not unmoved by the sight, his own cods stirred and rose. He thought of lifting her dress and seeing if, but no, there was not really the time. Later perhaps.

Lizzie kept up a regular motion, sliding the cock in and out between her lips; she had learnt that men liked a rhythm. She found she could easily lick the smooth head on the outstroke, a quick flutter across its end as it moved away. A caress across its eye. She reached up with one hand and weighed the balls. This was a good dream, they felt weighty and warm. She squeezed gently feeling the testes within. Lizzie wondered if she would remember this delicious dream when she woke.

The man had temporarily forgotten about his codpiece. Lizzie was working his cods, she was doing it very well and it would not be long before her efforts produced a tangible result. Having been taken pleasantly by surprise he had left the activity to Lizzie, but now he suddenly came to life and began to thrust with his hips. Lizzie, a bit taken by surprise, caught him on the back of her throat but knew what it signified. Grabbing hold of the shaft to control it she readied herself to receive the pulses of semen that were about to be expelled. The man was either unusually gifted or had not ejaculated for a long time, as Lizzie’s mouth was almost filled on the first pulse with the warm viscous fluid, she swallowed quickly and wisely as immediately her mouth was filled again with semen. Eight times she swallowed before the torrent slowed to a trickle.

Lizzie had become a little excited and wet but had been nowhere near orgasm. She had after all not been touched at all. So she was not surprised that the dream continued its strange course, though she was disappointed there was no immediate touching of her.

The softening penis, still releasing a little semen (“not on the leather, not on the leather”) now fitted snuggly in the codpiece. Lizzie finished her lacing and stood up.

“Bravo, Lizzie, bravo,” cried the man.

“Come,” said the Chevalier. They walked in line abreast, the two gentlemen either side of her, each holding an arm. Lizzie’s breasts swaying as she walked in her strange beautiful open fronted dress, the Chevalier’s penis swayed in a similar way as he walked but his friend’s codpiece remained firm and solid. They walked down oak panelled corridors with moulded plaster ceilings in the Jacobean style and large busted stone Caryatids relieving the panelling at intervals. Wide stone windows looked over the fine lawn Lizzie had seen earlier from above. Lizzie wanted to stop and look but her companions hurried her on. They came to a splendid marble hall lit from above by flaming lamps.

“Ah, just in time, excellent,” said the Chevalier, “it would not have done to be late!”

Across the marble hall Lizzie discerned a strange tableau. A man and a woman were attempting copulation. Each was encased from neck to hip in a sort of carapace, similar in shape to an egg. These were gaily painted in bands of black and bright yellow. The prospective copulators’ legs were clad in yellow hose clasped to their thighs by black garters but their loins were unclothed. They wore long gloves, yellow to their right, black to their left. Their faces were painted in the same stripes as their carapaces. The two of them were bumping into each other with loud crashes as they sought to mate. The women’s full hips were adorned by a strong growth of hair dyed bright yellow to match her clothing. The man sported a large erection rising from a similarly dyed nest of curls.

Intercourse was impossible whilst they wore their strange garments. The man’s penis, though stiff and pointing, did not even touch the woman when they bumped together. Their frustration was evident as they tried harder and harder to connect. One particularly strong impact sent both of them flying and they lost balance. Once over they were like insects on their backs unable to get up. Lizzie watched as the two rotated on the marble floor arms and legs flailing as they attempted to right themselves. The woman’s legs kicked in the air exposing her sex to the onlookers view. Lizzie could see that all of her hair, even that along the side of her labia had been carefully dyed bright yellow. Her sex shone in the lamplight showing she was excited and wet. Poor thing thought Lizzie, she must be very frustrated. The man was similarly trapped; he too rotated on the floor, arms and legs flailing. His rigid cock waving in the air as he moved.

“We must help them, Lizzie”, said the Chevalier as if speaking a part, “they need our help, do you agree?” On the arm of the Chevalier Heuron she crossed the hall.

Lizzie nodded her ascent. She had thought the Chevalier meant to help them to their feet. The Chevalier however took hold of the woman’s flailing legs and pulled them to him. Dropping to his knees he applied his already hard cock to her bright yellow-framed sex. He sank in and began to ease her need. She ceased to struggle and appeared to be greatly enjoying his ministrations. Lizzie had not been unmoved by the man’s large cock. She had glanced more than a few times at it finding the bright yellow of its nest of hair particularly alluring. Nor had she missed the beauty of the women’s sex and its strong growth of brightly dyed yellow hair. Her own sex was moist, her exposed nipples hardening. She too dropped to her knees and with an effort stopped the rotating man; her hand found his penis and grasped it firmly. At once his struggles stopped. She pulled the foreskin up and down a few times half expecting this would cause it, in its excitement, to spurt. Closer to it now she thought how the man’s curly hair really was the most amazingly bright yellow colour. What an odd thing to do, to dye one’s pubic hair. The penis felt good in her hand, she was really quite wet now.

“Come on Lizzie,” shouted the Chevalier looking across from his position between the woman’s thighs, “you need to fuck him.” Lizzie lifted her skirts and sank down on his upturned shaft. The penis’ end touched her sex, she pushed downwards, it was very large. Inch by inch it slipped into her. The man was motionless, she began to ride, faster and faster, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. The pleasure was almost unbearable, she knew she would wake up soon, she always did on orgasm. Still she rode the hard penis onwards, her orgasm approaching, “I’ll wake up now she thought,” she was nearly there. She felt the man begin to come, hot spurts inside her and, with a last push, she began to orgasm. A long drawn out spasm building in intensity until her whole body was on fire before the feeling slowly began to fade away. She slowed to a stop and rested, sitting on the man’s thighs embedded on his cock. Around her was silence; the Chevalier had quietened the woman with his exertions. He too had come.

Her senses returning Lizzie was puzzled by the silence and, more, that her dream had not ended. She rose, feeling the man’s softening cock fall from her vagina, his semen beginning to trickle down her leg. He lay on the marble floor, penis at rest upon its patch of brightly coloured yellow hair. Damp from Lizzie’s own excitement, wet from her sex, semen still oozing from its eye. Something felt wrong, very wrong, she tried, as on other nights to wake up, she knew she was dreaming, she wanted to wake but could not. She could not get back to her bed.

A loud crack startled her, the man’s absurd carapace was splitting apart right down the middle releasing the man and allowing him to rise. He stood, still ridiculous in his bright yellow hose held by the black garters and the long yellow gloves. Otherwise he was naked but for a pouch slung from his neck. Lizzie recognised the pouch, recognised the man. “You! she hissed, “why do you haunt my dreams?”

“Dream?” he laughed, “So this is your dream you think?” his hand swept around encompassing the hall. “This is your dream?”

The Chevalier had got to his feet and was regarding Lizzie with a quizzical smile. His companion still lay on the floor rocking almost imperceptively from side to side, her legs still spread displaying her recently exercised sex, beautifully framed in yellow and still swollen, a little semen dripping from it and forming a puddle on the marble floor.

“I don’t recognise the story Conrad, I haven’t read the book.”

“Do all your dreams come from books?”

“You know, leastways I think you do, they come from the books you mention or they do seem to have done recently anyway.” Lizzie turned, “This is becoming a nightmare not a dream, I want to wake up now.”

There was laughter, not just from him but from the Chevalier, the woman on the floor and others unseen. Lizzie turned sharply round.

“I want to wake up, now!” She shouted. It had always happened before.

Conrad opened his satchel and took out a book. An ordinary spiral bound book she recognised. “Here is your story, this is the book.”

“That’s not a book, it’s your notebook! I mean a published book like ‘Wonderland’ or ‘Oz’ not a notebook.”

Smiling he opened the book and began to read,

‘The two wasps, Worrity and Wiggle circled each other round and round the chequerboard floor. Nearer and nearer they came but they could not meet and join. Lost and sad, so near yet so far. The Chevalier, a gentleman, took out his handkerchief to mop away his tears.

“We must help them, Lizzie”, said the Chevalier, “they need our help, do you agree?”

Lizzie tossed her yellow hair, she did not want to help, she wanted her own way, but she was a good girl and agreed to help the best she could.’

Wide eyed, Lizzie grabbed at the book; Conrad was certainly not letting her have it and held on. Nonetheless she was able to read the words written on the page in black ink.

‘Her help was good enough.’

“Would you like to know what happens next?”

“The page is blank. It’s not a finished story, it’s not a real book”

“You see this is my book. I am writing it. I have written you, Lizzie, into my story. Not just written you in but, better than that, made you a central character.”

“Kind of you Conrad but...”

“Kind! No, not really. I’ve watched you since I first saw you. Wanted you in my story. But I didn’t just want to write you in, no, I really wanted you. Not just my version of you. I wanted you and I have you now.”

“I’ll wake up soon.”

More laughter from the room. It was becoming a nightmare.

“Lizzie you misunderstand this is waking for you now. I can be here, I can be there: but you can’t. You’re in my book now and when it is published, printed, on sale in the bookshops you will be everywhere but, just for now, you are here, just here in my book.”

“I’m not, I’m not.” Lizzie picked up her skirts and ran through the far door, down long corridors until she found herself outside in the garden. She kept running across a lawn, down a gravel path between beautifully tended herbaceous borders, into an avenue of Yew trees, gloomy and sad and out into the sunshine by a low brick wall. She stood looking wildly around, her chest rising and falling with emotion, her pretty breasts with their pointy nipples beautifully agitated, before throwing herself to the ground sobbing.

“Lost are you?” said a voice from above her. Lizzie sat up. Sitting on the wall was a small boy, no a little man with a mischievous face. He sat, legs together, knees up to his chin. All Lizzie could see was his large hairy feet, ankles, shins and knees and his round brown face under a blue cap.

“I, who are you,” she said standing.

“Robin.”

“Hood?” said Lizzie hopefully. Was she now in a different and better dream?

“Do I look like an archer, tall and handsome dressed in Lincoln Green?”

“Not really.”

“I can draw a bow but my cap is blue.”

“Do you live here?”

“Not like you!”

“I’m not from here. This is a dream.”

“Ho, ho, ho. Not from anywhere else. Think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumber’d here while these visions did appear. I think not, Lizzie!”

“Shakespeare, you quote ‘The Midsummer Night’s Dream’ to me here? Perhaps I’m dreaming the Dream? If so then you must be, either I mistake your shape and making quite, or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow. Are you not he?”

“Thou speakest aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. By Oak, Ash and Thorn,” cried Puck, taking off his blue cap to her, “you are certainly quick but not right about the dream. You see, Lizzie, we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

“I’m not a dream and that’s ‘The Tempest’ not the ‘Dream’.

Robin Goodfellow or Puck, they are but one and the same, waved his hand negligently to the west, the clouds there were dark and moving fast even though it was still warm and sunny in the garden, “and what is that then, ho, ho, ho, a monstrous crow?”

The wind began to rise.

“I’m not made of dreams, I’m real and I want to wake up.”

Puck laughed again, “Not so, not at all. You are here and belong here. I like it; it’s a merry place with japes, frolics and tumbles. I like tricks, jests but especially tumbles.”

“I don’t like this at all, it frightens me.” The wind got stronger.

See the house? A merrier hour was never wasted there. What do you say about the tempest now, Lizzie? The wind or I play tricks you know!”

Lizzie stood, “What tricks do you play Robin Goodfellow? Is it you who stops me waking up?”

“You are awake Lizzie, this is waking, and this is your story. You know who is writing it! Not me, no, not me. I wouldn’t do that to you. No, I play games not steal people, I play fun games and I have a little, or not so little, trick, a jape, some fun to show you. I am sent with broom before. To sweep the dust behind the door.”

“Before, what do you mean by that?” As Lizzie watched, Puck, his brown face still grinning with mischief, casually stretched out his legs along the coping and stood revealing between his thighs what had been present since he had first spoken, an outsize erection reaching nearly to his chin. It sported a ruddy red head and its veins climbed sinuously up its shaft. Below it hung two large hairy balls. It was quite out of keeping with the size of the little hob. Puck smiled widely and, as he moved his legs, his hard penis swayed slightly from side to side.

A sudden gust of wind caught Lizzie pushing her off her feet, billowing her skirts up and over her head, as she fell backwards onto the long grass. She could not see. With her hands she beat against the material that was swirling around her head in the mounting wind. It had exposed all of her lower half and covered her upper half with her dress. She could feel the long grass pressing against her naked bottom, tickling her between her legs. She fought against the material trying to restore her composure and modesty, her legs kicking.

Too late, she felt two small hairy hands on her inner thighs stilling them, forcing them apart, opening her, exposing her, revealing her pretty curls: and she felt the knob of a large erection touch the entrance to her sex.

“I don’t know where Lizzie is,” said her mother, “I’ve been in her room and she’s not there. Her nightdress is in her bed, not on top or folded or anything, just where it would be if she was in it in bed. Do you think she’s gone for a walk? Her shoes are by her bed so I don’t know. It’s not like her at all. I’m worried.”

In a small bedsit not far away sat a young man with a yellow and black stripey jumper and old jeans. His head was bent over a spiral bound black and red notebook. His greasy hair flopped over his black-rimmed glasses as he wrote with a bright yellow fountain pen,

‘Lizzie’s close encounter with Puck lead her to be wary of the merry prankster and to pay more attention to what Worrity told her. She did not let the jape worry her for long and looked forward to the promised river trip on the morrow.’

He closed the book with a smile. The shimmering with the yellow edge over by the wall stopped. He would go through it into his world tomorrow and see how Lizzie was faring. He had her now; she was his; locked in his book; only he had her; locked away until the book was published. Of course then everyone would know her: though not perhaps in quite the same way. He chuckled, as he pulled off his clothes ready for bed. His penis hung down between his thighs as he ambled over to his bed. Should he exercise it tonight? He pulled the sheets and blankets over him. There was no need, Lizzie had worked him well that day and she would again tomorrow. He reached out his hand to his bedside lamp to turn it off.

“Sweet dreams, Lizzie.”