The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lizzie wandered the cold corridors bathed in the moonlight streaming through open windows, her bare feet padding almost silently across the bare flags. Unbeknown to her Puck watched from a vantage point high above an empty fireplace. He smiled to himself, Miss Sherrell was proving more and more amusing by the day. What had she planned for Worrity? What was her merry wandering of the night? He foresaw amusement.

Earlier that evening Lizzie had been to the ball. She had never seen anything like it. The ball itself had initially been magnificent, colourful, a real spectacle but its degeneration into a drunken orgy spoilt it for her. Conrad had been brash, noisy and commanding as the host. The Marchioness had not seemed to mind and had certainly enjoyed the attentions of the many men who had fawned on her, indeed as the night had worn on had more than fawned but come on and in her as seemed inevitable in Conrad’s peculiar world. Conrad, of course, had sought out Lizzie with the intention of once more seducing her—but such a thing was quite impossible. He could only succeed by force, trickery again or, as Lizzie recalled from the stocks, restraint. As the evening had progressed Lizzie had tried to melt into the background, climbing the steps to the musicians gallery and watching as the musicians played for the revellers. The wine flowed, dish upon dish appeared from the kitchens and the noise and merriment grew louder.

“This looks almost like you are hiding, Lizzie Sherrell,” said a voice next to her. Lizzie turned from watching the revellers to see Puck sitting on the balcony rail, goblet in hand. “Watching not participating. That is not like you—a healthy energetic girl. Such girls need regular exercise to keep those thigh muscles in tone. I could assist if you like?” His head was once again on one side and his ever-present outsize penis was firming.

“Do you think of much else, Robin Goodfellow?”

The blue cap tilted to the other side, “Let me see, Japes, Wenches and Merriment. What else should I think of? You though, Lizzie Sherrell, think of escape, but the Writer won’t like that. He could get very angry, cross and vengeful. You wouldn’t like to be chained in his dungeon would you? All those chains, leather, whips and straps. Not perhaps your idea of amusement? He might see it differently. A little enforced sex, he might think, would do you good - cool your temper!”

“And would you help him, Robin?”

“Me, help? What a strange notion. Me help someone! I should think not!”

Lizzie had not intended, had not expected to have any interest in sex that night. She had already enjoyed a bout of sex that afternoon which had extended beyond the dreams and certainly the experience of most girls, being successively penetrated by a team of the most beautifully male men imaginable, experienced a tender erotic lesbian dream which, whilst she might not want to recount its substance to her friend Lotte, was not at all a distasteful memory and experienced a further orgasm at the end of Robin Goodfellow’s ridiculous outsized penis—perhaps that was a memory she would prefer to pass over - there had been a need at the time.

No, she had not intended to have any more sex that day. She was actually a little sore from perhaps too much stretching and her muscles were in need of no further toning as they ached a little from exertion. Bed would have been sensible but she did not feel tired. Her afternoon nap had done her good. It was not that she was enjoying the later stages of the ball, she was detached from that, Lizzie just was not sleepy.

It was the sight of the gymnast, the gymnast with the hanging scrotum Lizzie had so much admired, crossing the hall beneath her, which changed things. Her eyes followed him and her interest was not lost on Puck.

“Fabian Fetherstone,” he said, “impressive physique if,” he looked at Lizzie obliquely, “you like that over tall shape.”

Lizzie turned to him with a smile, “Jealous, Robin?”

“I could be that shape if I wished,” Puck said with asperity, “I just choose not to be. I am Faerie you know. Intimate with the Queen.”

“You’re not going to tell me her name is Titania are you?”

The head with its blue cap, dropped to one side with a half smile, “Might be, might not, and where would you have got that idea from, I wonder?”

Lizzie turned back and watched Fabian Fetherstone. Why was he wearing a tunic, it looked almost like a dress? She got up, not with any plan or purpose in mind but knowing she would like to speak to him and, yes, she would like to see his balls again. What an odd thing for her to want.

“See if I care,” said Puck as Lizzie headed off to the stair.

Down in the hall Lizzie was uncertain how to broach the subject. She could not possibly imagine doing so back in her own world. The idea of asking a boy if she could see his genitalia, “Excuse me, I saw you exercising earlier. Would you mind showing me your equipment?” Even so, Lizzie was intrigued. Much more so than she had been with Dai Ambrose Penstimen Fallick but Fabian was more her own age and rather good-looking.

And there he was, right in front of her. She had not worked out at all what to say, what to ask.

“Why the dress?” she said.

Fabian Fetherstone looked rather surprised.

“Tunic,” he said, “to let the weights hang.”

“Weights?” Lizzie had not heard them called that before. “I saw you, this morning, your exercises.”

“Well, of course, I wasn’t wearing them then.”

“Wearing what? You weren’t wearing anything.”

“The weights.”

The conversation seemed a little circular.

“What weights?” asked Lizzie.

“The ones I hang from my scrotum to stretch it.”

“You’ve got weights hanging from your balls?” said Lizzie in disbelief.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“To stretch...”

“Yes I can see that, but why do you want your balls to hang so low.”

“Didn’t you think they looked fine?”

“Well, yes I did. I’d like to see them again.”

It was an obvious invitation. An invitation to have sex with someone she had not met five minutes. Lizzie was surprised at herself; she had not meant to be anything like so forward. What had this world of Conrad’s done to her?

The young man smiled. “Come,” he said.

Hand in hand they left the ball. Lizzie did not know where she was being taken.

The gymnasium by candlelight was not an obvious place for a tryst. Belt undone and tunic over his head, Fabian stood naked before Lizzie. Her eyes went to his penis, nestled on its bed of hair and, of course, his pendulant balls. Fabian had not been joking about the weights - she had thought he might be—there were indeed lead weights attached to his balls. They swung as he moved pulling at the ball sack. Despite the velvet of the straps, Lizzie was sure the pulling must hurt. Fabian untied them letting them drop to the floor with a thud, and walked to the parallel bars. He began an exercise, swinging as he built up momentum until he was upside down and then, on the next swing, he was in the air and turning round before swinging down again. This was repeated several times before his acrobatics changed and he did splits in the air. Catching the bars again he swung to the floor.

It was an impressive demonstration and Lizzie could not help but watch the swinging movement, the gyrations of his penis and balls as he moved. Her desire was strong to touch.

Back on the floor now, his skin shone with perspiration. “You see. I have worked to make them so.”

Lizzie wanted to touch. His scrotum really was so deep; the balls so low slung; the narrowing of the sack before the splay at its base where the testes lodged; the shape all interesting and different. Fabian’s development of his body was, Lizzie supposed, no odder than any other body building or wish to develop one’s appearance, perhaps by larger breasts, a tuck here or the growth of biceps. “May I?” she said.

Reaching down she lifted his remarkable ball sack, taking its weight, feeling the egg shaped testes in their lengthy wrinkled sack, there was so much movement, the sack so large. From her limited experience—admittedly much, or totally, enhanced by her very recent experiences—they were heavy. Her hand stroked the wrinkled skin and closed around the sack. She could—just as she had supposed—close her fist, not too tightly though, around the sack tightening her grasp so the penis hung over her thumb and the testes, still with room to move, hung below the bottom of her fist. From base of penis to hang of testes was a good seven inches. The penis, soft and curled, began to move over her hand; she could feel it creeping as it lengthened; she stroked it, encouraging its rise. It was a nice enough cock but it was the balls that drew the eye and Lizzie wanted a closer look and, it has to be said, the idea of sucking on Fabian’s balls was tempting. Releasing her grip Lizzie crouched. There they were just hanging for her to catch. With a gentle push she sent them swinging from side to side like the pendulum of a clock, back and forth they went—it was almost hypnotic. Lizzie’s tongue tip reached out and its touch stilled the movement, she licked the wrinkled skin feeling its texture on her tongue before sucking the twin plums into her mouth. Rolling them around, she tickled with her tongue, drawing as much scrotum into her mouth as she could she almost choking herself.

“What a peculiar thing to be doing in this peculiar world” she thought. The hardness of Fabian’s cock was on her forehead. Releasing her hold on the balls they swung wetly from her mouth and she licked up Fabian’s cock to engulf the head. She sucked.

Clearly Lizzie’s work pleased Fabian—perhaps it was about to please him too much, too quickly, for, in a fluid movement, he pulled her from him and lifted her up so she was draped over the parallel bars, hanging from the crook of her knees and arms; her dress thrown back and Fabian’s smooth face was between her thighs, tongue exploring, seeking out what Lizzie had hidden, hands sliding up inside her dress to tease her nipples. Lizzie wriggled under the onslaught but, hung as she was, there was little she could do to prevent it - had she wished to! He did not hurry and his tongue was busy for a while.

Fabian stepped back to look at Lizzie. He was standing between her thighs, naked with his penis pointed upwards, slowly his hand reaching out to touch her sex. He stirred.

Lizzie bit her bottom lip; she did so like to be touched there.

Fabian’s fingers were fumbling around just out of sight. What was he doing? Why didn’t he just keep stirring or push his cock into her, giving her that lovely feeling of being opened and entered. What was he doing? At last—she could feel that she was being penetrated, something was being pushed up into her but it did not feel like Fabian’s fingers and it could not be his cock as she could see it standing, its purple head swollen and shiny.

Fabian smiled at her, “I bet nobody has fucked you with his balls before!”

Lizzie’s mouth opened in surprise. Fabian had pushed the length of his scrotum into her, balls and all and as he slowly stroked his penis shaft on her opened sex, just on the little swollen bud of her clit, she could feel the twin egg shapes of his testes sliding within her. The novelty of the experience added to her excitement. Every so often Fabian used his fingers to push his balls back up Lizzie to keep them inside her but he did not let up on his penile stroking of her clitoris. Lizzie was biting her lip, rocking a little from side to side as she held onto the bars, her orgasm approaching.

Really this was such a strange coupling. It was questionable whether sexual intercourse actually took place between them. Sexual intercourse requires penetration and this means penile penetration - fingers and indeed scrotum do not count. Lizzie’s coming, the sudden increase of lubrication, her vocal exclamation, her obvious joy was accompanied by a simultaneous spurting from Fabian’s penis as it rubbed across her sex and through her golden curls, a spurting reaching to her breasts and leaving a trail down her. There had been no penile insertion, it was scrotal intercourse only.

Fabian did not seem disappointed by the place of his ejaculation. It was a relief to Lizzie both to come and to let herself down from the bars because her arms were beginning to ache. Fabian’s remarkable scrotum slid from her. Standing again she reached down and took Fabian’s penis in hand pulling the skin to close over, and then slide down, the shiny head. “Thank you,” she said, “that was good. I do love your wonderful balls.” Her hand slipped lower, cupping the large wrinkled, rather wet, sack, “I’d like to do that again.”

A tentative assignation made, they parted. Fabian contemplating bed—naturally he had invited Lizzie to sleep with him but she was not tired: Lizzie wished to walk not sleep, walk anywhere but to the noise of the revels. Her steps took her out from the Great House into the dark—or rather the not dark of a bright moonlit night. Lizzie walked the gravel paths, across the lawns revelling in the coolness and quiet of the night. She was almost tempted to walk further afield, up the road from the house or even into the wood. Was there actually any danger in Conrad’s world—apart from Conrad himself of course? Were there beasts of the night, night goblins or something else fearsome? Lizzie rather thought not. She could imagine there might well be things which did sneak up on one but probably only with a sexual intent, perhaps something slithering but slippery warm seeking intimacy and orgasm. Well, Lizzie really had had enough of sex for the day so she was not going to venture too far or even beyond the bounds of the Great House. She did half expect Puck to spring out at her with his usual object in mind, but after a time this seemed unlikely. All was peaceful and quiet. Lizzie walked on, enjoying the quiet as she thought about many things. It was a long perambulation. One by one the lighted windows of the house darkened.

Lizzie’s walk in the moonlight in time took her back into the house and to Conrad’s room. It had been an idea only but it did seem not unlikely that with the amount of wine he had drunk he would be very sound asleep such that if she could get into his room he would not easily wake if she looked around—looked around for his book. The idea had developed as she had walked, an idea that she had turned over in her mind and increasingly resolved to try.

With her ear to Conrad’s door she could hear nothing—did that mean he was asleep or the door too thick to permit sound to easily pass? Was the door locked? If he was awake and it was unlocked she would never have the same chance again—he would take precautions. If it was locked nothing was lost. But if it was unlocked and Conrad asleep! The risk was worth it. Lizzie turned the handle and gently pushed—the door moved.

A sound of deep snoring came through the narrow crack she had opened. Conrad was asleep. Lizzie stepped into the room. A single candle, nearly spent, feebly lit the scene. Lighting a second Lizzie looked about her. Conrad was sprawled across the bed, naked, his penis betraying, with drying semen, its recent use but the girl, or girls, were no longer present. The snores were loud. Her eyes darted around the room. The book was on a desk; an old fashioned desk such as might be seen in a Dickensian adaptation.

Seated at the high clerk’s desk Lizzie opened Conrad’s book and began to read. It was a most peculiar book. Lizzie could not decide what to make of it, but certainly there were present all the passages he had read to her. Had he really written this strange world, the house she was in and its denizens? She glanced at the snoring, sprawled Conrad. A further idea grew in her head—could she possibly write in it instead of Conrad, change things, perhaps write herself home? But she did not want to be written back in again.

The pen was there on the desk. The pen Conrad used. The yellow fountain pen.

Lizzie picked up the pen and slowly unscrewed the cap. Could she really write in the book, as Conrad seemed to do and make things happen? She could but try. Glancing at the bed Lizzie saw Conrad had not stirred, all was well. The gold nib touched the paper and the black ink began to flow.

A letter was sent, from the Chevalier to the Marquess. The letter detailed the crimes of Worrity, his deceptions, tricks and, certainly worst of all, his taking of Lizzie—a kidnapping no less. The Marquess sent word, a command, for imprisonment. Worrity should be stripped of his privileges and rights. He should be incarcerated...

Lizzie paused, yes, that was the word—but incarcerated where? In a deep dungeon? No, that would be too cruel. It had to be somewhere light but appropriate, somewhere he could see all he was missing and ponder his misdeeds. Lizzie was getting into the swing of the writing. The pen seemed to flow effortlessly across the page. A tower, yes a tower looking at the house. But what to call it? She wrote:

...in the Tower Innominate. The Guard was summoned, the Guard marched, the miscreant was seized and carried to the tall flint tower on its hill. The key turned and the Tower sealed. The prisoner could but gaze with sad longing from the Tower’s high windows towards the Great House and lament his many misdeeds. The Chevalier was given charge in his place...

Lizzie was not sure of her last sentence. Was this unfair and hard on the Chevalier? He worried so much, dear man, and would this not give him more trouble?

... and was overwhelmed by many offers to assist. The burden proved light.

Lizzie smiled. That was all right then. Would this work? Would her writing actually do anything? It was worth the try and, anyway, Conrad would not like finding this writing in his book. Now, if it did work, how could she write herself home? That was her next task. She picked up the beautiful pen again.

The room was silent apart from Conrad’s snores and Lizzie became aware of a faint sound, a faint sound that was getting louder. It sounded like marching and was getting nearer. The Guard was on the move! Surely her writing could not already have worked itself through into the reality of the place—could part of what she had written already have taken place?

The door crashed open and it was, indeed, the Guard who marched in, ornamentals tinkling. They were not on ceremonial parade. Their weapons were not at the ready. Their task was different. An arrest to be made. They held chains.

Conrad woke red-eyed and disorientated. It must have been a terrifying awakening from a drunken stupor though Lizzie did not feel at all sorry for him. He struggled as the Guard chained him, protesting, ordering, and swearing, until he saw Lizzie at his desk, his beautiful yellow fountain pen in her hand and his book open before her. His face showed fury.

“You can’t,” he screamed, “You haven’t,” he shouted, “I’ll...” but he was silenced by the Guard as they carried him off, the sound of marching fading into the distance.

Lizzie walked, almost in a trance, from Conrad’s room to the garden and out into the early morning light, into the freshness of a new day with the dew still on the ground, ecstatic at her success—her success in imprisoning Conrad. Everything felt suddenly so much better—she looked with pleasure on the beautiful grounds and the fine house.

Lizzie thought, “Oh for a camera. If this really is real, Lotte would be just amazed by it all. Look Lotte, this is the ballroom, this is the river, isn’t it idyllic, this is the Chevalier Heuron, yes he always dresses like that. That would make her giggle!”

Happiness washed over her. She lay on the grass, despite its dampness, and looked up at the blue sky. Already she could feel the warmth of the day—it was going to be a hot day—she would dry quickly once she stood up. She closed her eyes. Sleep, deep dreamless sleep, came to her.

It was mid morning before she woke to find the Chevalier Heuron looking down at her.

“Ma cherie you will catch your death if you lie on damp grass mais, c’est ne pas la petit mort.” He was smiling as he helped her up but then he looked serious again, “You have heard the news peut-être? We have been deceived. The Marquess has ordered and I must obey.. It is a great burden but everyone, tout le monde, has been so kind. Mais, votre chemise is all damp. You must take it off.”

Even with her many adventures in Conrad’s world, Lizzie did not feel comfortable standing naked without her dress in the middle of the great quadrangle of the house but the Chevalier was insistent. The hot sun on her skin dried any residual dampness within seconds. Really he was worrying about nothing. Of course it was not as if she was standing naked next to a fully dressed man for the Chevalier, as was his custom had his penis exposed through his hose. At the sight of Lizzie’s naked body it stirred. Lizzie did not wish to be excepted from the kindness being shown to the Chevalier and was kind to the him.

The sun shone down on the Great House and in the middle of the lawned Quadrangle, surrounded by the house, Lizzie knelt before the Chevalier as he emptied himself in her sweet mouth.

Lizzie stepped again into Conrad’s room. It was silent. Its occupant now resident in the Tower Innominate. Was it only a few hours ago that she had sat at the desk writing with Conrad’s pen? She still had it tucked in her dress. Taking it out she held it in her hand and looked at it. It really was a lovely object—even if it was in a colour she had come to intensely dislike. But there was no denying the craftsmanship and quality of he enameling and the gleam of the gold. She looked around. So this was Conrad’s room, ridiculously over decorated with hangings and carpets in yellow and black. In the wall to the left Lizzie noticed a peculiar doorway, a doorway whose edges seemed to shimmer and change. She had not seen that before. A doorway through which she could see another room—a room which looked so ordinary, so unlike Conrad’s room, so unlike the Great House that the contrast was startling. Lizzie walked towards the doorway to step through it and walked into what seemed, and certainly felt like, an invisible wall. It hurt.

Lizzie staggered backwards and then reached out her hand. There was indeed a barrier, an invisible wall against her passage. She starred through the doorway at the room. It seemed to be a very ordinary room, a very ordinary bedsit in fact—very ordinary for her own world. It was a mess. On the bed were discarded clothes, some of which she recognised as Conrad’s. So this was how he came and went between here and... where she wanted to be—home. But why couldn’t she just walk through? She tried again with no success.

The doorway had not been there during the night time she was sure, or had it been there but she had not seen it because it had been night and dark both here and in the bedsit? Lizzie sat down again at his desk and starred at the doorway. A glimpse of home, so near yet so far, so tantalisingly close but seemingly unobtainable. A despair crept over her.

But that did not last long. She thought again of the book and her idea to write herself home but as she sat and read page after further page of the book there was nothing about the doorway, nothing about the Yellow Fountain Pen. She looked at it again. It was a beautiful fountain pen enamelled in the most pretty yellow colour. It was a Parker. But what made it special? What enabled Conrad to write and make things happen? Why was the doorway not mentioned? Might it be possible for her to write and change things, things that were not the result of Conrad writing in the book? She could not see how that could work. In frustration she threw the pen at the hateful doorway and buried her head in her hands. She wanted to go home. She just wanted to go home.

After a moment or two she looked up. She had not heard the bang of the pen hitting the wall. Why was that?

Lizzie got up to look for the pen and immediately saw it—it was in Conrad’s other room—lying just under the bed. She had thrown it through the doorway and it had not been stopped by the barrier, the invisible wall. Yet when she tried she found again she could not go through, could not follow it. Lizzie cried out in frustration. The solution to the puzzle was obvious. Things which came through, such as the pen and, presumably, the odious Conrad could go back. She had not come that way so could not pass. The doorway began to fade. Was it opened by the pen as well?

Now Lizzie saw in despair not only had she lost her view of home, or a bit of her world anyway, but the pen as well which had at least given her some control over Conrad and his strange world. Lizzie could not think that just any pen would do. She was quite sure it was the pen not the book that was the key. She slammed the book shut; conscious she had just made a big mistake. She was furious with herself.

A long walk calmed Lizzie. It was vital she thought clearly. A way had to be found to escape and she had probably just lost a vital key to one solution. Was there another? What had her friend, the Green Maiden said? “You chose the wrong path.” Lizzie remembered how in her dream she had fallen to Conrad’s world. She had been walking and had tripped. Had she taken a wrong path? The Green Maiden thought so but what wrong path? How was Lizzie to get back on the path? If she flew upwards could she get back on the path—surely there were not paths in the clouds? Lizzie looked upwards into the perfect blue sky. There were no clouds.

Lizzie stepped out on the road from the Great House that lead away between an avenue of Lime trees to rise up the side of the funny little sugar loaf hill. A hill that had been devoid of even a tree when she had last set out from the house and been waylaid by the Great Maple in the Forest, but now was crowned by a forbidding tower of stone—the Tower Innominate. Even from here she could see something yellow at one of the barred windows—Conrad was watching her. As Lizzie drew nearer she could make out his features. It was not going to be an easy meeting—she had not come to gloat but to talk, reason, discuss perhaps even negotiate. She had the upper hand but whilst he was trapped in the Tower Innominate, she was trapped here in his world. He would want release. She wanted to go home and be free of him. Perhaps the meeting would enable her release.

Conrad was sitting looking dejected when Lizzie looked into his cell. “Lizzie, how has this happened? Why have you done this to me? I offered you so much. I chose you to come here with me. Is it not wonderful, is it not perfect and is it not fun? You have been ungrateful, unfriendly and nasty to me.”

“YOU brought me here against my will. You did not invite me: no, you abducted me. I want to go home.”

A slow smile crossed Conrad’s face. “Go home? Oh no, Lizzie, far from that, quite the reverse. You are going to be imprisoned, really imprisoned. How will you like that? Oh yes, I can do that. You think you have me locked up and safe here, but I can seek you out, Lizzie, even from here I can seek you out and have you locked away. You think you’ve imprisoned me, me who thought all this up,” his arms swept about him, “well you will soon know what it is like to be really imprisoned.” He smirked and pointedly turned his chair away from her.

It had not, after all, been a good interview.