The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I suppose I’ll just start with the basics. My name is Ralph. I attend UC Berkley. I’m a writer, at least I fancy myself to be, although as yet no one’s seen fit to publish my work outside of Simon.

I’m not particularly into erotic mind-control myself, but I stumbled across the Erotic Mind Control Story Archive back when I was doing research for a story about hypnosis. I figured that an erotic mind control was as good a theme as any. Besides, every writer has to start somewhere. Neil Gaiman worked as editor for a British swank mag for several years, and he’s my idol; I might as well start with a story or two on an erotic website.

That proved to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

There are several reasons for that. The most obvious of which is that I have an addictive personality. Ergo, what started out as a simple story or two snowballed into three, then five, then a multi-chapter story. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that I can only work on one thing at a time, and since it’s easier to hammer out a porn story with a hypnotic twist than a full-length novel, I haven’t had much time to work on my other stuff.

Then there’s the less obvious reason, and that is that I started putting myself into a story or two. The first time I tried to bring some lovers together, but then my addictive personality took over and I didn’t leave well enough alone.

I created Daniel.

Daniel was actually going to be a tribute to Neil Gaiman. In The Sandman, by Neil (if you haven’t ever read it, you’re missing something great), a kid named Daniel is bequeathed the legacy of Dream, the personification of dreams. This was going to be a story about Daniel if he hadn’t taken over, if he’d been left thinking he was human, and learning that he had the power to control imagination and dreams and creativity of every type.

It was a gradual thing, of course. As a boy, Daniel always knew he was different. Not just a kinda peculiar kid. He could sense emotions, produce prodigal art in any medium, perceive fairies and Fair Folk, and in his dreams visit anywhere on Earth, or off Earth, or Hell, or Faerie, or Gemworld, or the Dreaming, or any other dimension or parallel.

As he grew, so did his power, bequeathed until him by the Lord of Stories. One day he learned to enter a story. Another day he learned to let stories enter the real world. Once, and only once, did he turn the world into a story, but quickly learned the folly. He found how to shape minds, and shape dreams, and twist reality, and bend the mind.

So after I gave Daniel a past of mysterious, mythical, and purposefully vague origins, I brought things up to the present, as he’s about sixteen, and has a crush on Mitsuyo Tsuno, a hot Japanese girl in his history class. I had originally intended for Mistuyo to fall asleep, and in there fall into Daniel’s power. I wasn’t sure whether the story was going to be romantic, with Daniel wooing her in the dream world, or hardcore, with Daniel manipulating her open subconscious and turning her to his will.

I never even got to choose, because Daniel would have none of it. Daniel, it seems, is gay.

Now, this was not the first time I’ve tried to write a story in which my characters seemed to have a mind of their own. Daniel was simply the first to have the power to back it up.

As I was typing, the computer swirled and Daniel appeared. I knew who he was instantly, of course, even though I haven’t described him here. Because since Daniel is part dream, he doesn’t LOOK a certain way, he just IS a certain way. The same way you know what you’re supposed to do in a dream even if you have no idea how you got there or why you’re doing it. He has an indescribable presence, but no substance, or perhaps just too much substance.

Whatever he is, I knew it was him. I replied, “And exactly what do you think you’re doing, mister?”

“I am making myself heard. You want me to sleep with Mitsuyo. I do not even know what Mitsuyo looks like, beyond the superficially vague description you gave to let the reader envision their own perfect hot Japanese girl, nor what she is like. And even if she were Aphrodite and Athena wrapped in one, I would have no part of her. I do not like women.”

“Yes you do!” I insisted. “I’ve never written a gay character!”

“You wrote me,” Daniel countered.

“And as such, I can rewrite you.” I did so. Daniel was not gay. Daniel had never been gay. Daniel was not only hetero, he was as hetero as they came.

He gave me a sly smile. “You write me, but someone else created me. If you’d just started with a character who was the son of the Lord of Dreams, I would be yours to shape. As it is, you are using someone created by another, even if you have changed me beyond recognition. You have power over me, but not complete power.”

“Fine!” I gave up. “But it’s late now. As of tomorrow, you’ll be your own character. I’ll rewrite you when I get a chance.” I saved, turned off the computer, and flopped into bed.

That was my mistake, though. Daniel, prince of dreams, was my character, and as such I had power over him as Narrator. But as prince of dreams, I learned that night, Daniel had power over me too, while I slept.

I had weird dreams that night. I dreamed that I was walking into a huge old house, a Victorian that had gone the way of Howard’s End, fallen long since into disrepair. It was the perfect setting for a haunting.

But instead, as I reached the door and knocked, propelled by the irresistible drive existent in dreams, I found the house occupied. Not just occupied, but full of revelry. People danced, and drank, and partied. It was like New Year’s Eve and Marti Gras and Carniv·l all wrapped up in one.

I was swept away in the fun, the festivities. I found myself in a Conga line. Then, suddenly, the room went silent, and I turned to see Daniel stand up before the crowd. He said, simply, “You all know what to do.”

Instantly, everybody ripped off their pants and threw them wildly in the air, where they either disappeared or stayed, because they never came down. It was at about that point that I noticed that all the women had disappeared. All around me were muscular men, each with hard, stiff, enormous cocks. They all turned to me.

Then I realized that I was the only man in the room still wearing pants. With dream logic, not wanting to be a drag or something, I shrugged and pulled mine off, too!

The guys cheered, and the festival and music and confetti resumed. Men came up to me and gave me high fives and kissed me on the cheek and then on the lips and before I knew it was making out with this slender black man with great abs and an enormous penis. Somehow, it was more sensual and erotic than any kiss I’d ever had with a woman. I felt myself rising, and he slowly slid down and began sucking.

At some point, he rotated, because I felt his cock enter my mouth. I was enjoying the experience so much that, more my rooting reflex than anything else at first, I began to suck. He slid his tongue around my shaft, and I imitated the motion; he rolled his tongue, and I did the same; I kissed his tip, and he returned the kiss on mine. We were two mirrored lovers, pleasuring one another identically so that we seemed to become one, giving and receiving and giving pleasure in a sort of erogenous moebius strip.

Finally, as the pleasure and pressure grew stronger and stronger, I knew he was about to come, because I was about to come into him, and when I did it was the most wonderful sensation I’d ever felt, a total combination of relief and understanding-

I woke with a start. I was drenched with sweat, and my sheets were sticky and wet. I cursed, knowing I’d have to wash them.

I tore them off and went to the bathroom.

I cursed. I could remember every detail of the dream, and that alone was weird for me, because I can count the number of dreams I remember at all on one hand. To say nothing of the subject matter; so far as I can recall I’ve never had a wet dream at all, let alone one about GUYS!

Inspiration struck with sickening swiftness.

I raced over to my computer and turned it on. I didn’t even have to call up the word file; Daniel was already there, waiting for me. He gave a smug smile and cheerful, “Hello.”

“Fuck you, Daniel! You did that to me, didn’t you?!”

“Yes, I did. I thought you might be interested to see what it’s like to have your sexual orientation reversed. Did you enjoy it?”

“Fuck you,” I repeated. “Don’t EVER do that again!”

“Fine. Then make me gay again.”

“Daniel, I’m thoroughly tempted to just destroy you entirely. All I have to do is move you’re file into the little trashcan icon and you’re history.”

“True enough,” Daniel answered. “But I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Give me a reason.”

“Because you’re still gay.”

I froze in horror. Dumbfounded, I whispered, “You made me gay?!”

“You made me straight,” Daniel shrugged nonchalantly. “Shall I prove it to you, or rather, let you prove it to yourself? Very well.”

I blinked, and two people appeared to my right. One was the personification of feminine ideal: perfectly smooth milky skin, long red hair that fell in tresses to her shapely ass, that hung seductively before her large emerald green eyes and over her shoulders to her enormous breasts, her nipples the same deep red shade as her hair. She gave me a wink and reached up, tweaking a nipple and shivering in ecstasy.

But I was barely looking at her. I was staring at the other apparition. He was tall, muscular, masculine blonde, the epitome of the Aryan ideal stressed in Germany back in the mid-1900s. He turned to me, giving me a dazzling smile, and flexed, his enormous muscles bulging, his hard member stiffening to a sexual salute. I imagined kissing him, his stiff square jaw-

I tore my eyes away and back to the computer. “Damn you, Daniel!”

“That’s about what I was feeling when you made me be straight,” Daniel casually replied. “Though I imagine the cognitive dissonance is much worse for you, since I hadn’t always realized I was gay.”

“Turn me back, Daniel.”

“Turn me back, Ralph.”

I swore. “Fine, you little fucker.” I typed out, very melodramatically, “Daniel felt the heterosexuality drain from his body as though tangible, the void filling quickly with his normal desire to smoke faggot pole.”

“Very eloquent, Ralph,” Daniel replied sarcastically. Still not finished, though, I continued writing, “Ralph’s part of the deal complete, Daniel in turn finished his part of the deal, and made Ralph once again straight as an arrow.”

“You know,” Daniel mentioned, as I turned back and found myself thankfully attracted to the redhead again, “I would have done that anyway. I don’t really appreciate your making me do things just because you’re the narrator.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that again, Daniel, because I’m about to send your ass to the recycling bin. Selah, motherfucker.”

“No you’re not,” Daniel contradicted. “Because I have just as much control over you as you do over me.”

“If you want to spend your last five seconds alive talking, that’s your business.”

“Consider, if you will, how I made the two people appear, Ralph. You’re not dreaming, so I shouldn’t have any power.”

I stopped, and turned to him. I was really beginning to hate this character. “Explain.”

“You see, as the son of the anthropomorphism of imagination and dreams and creativity, I have power over stories. Not the same total control you do, but about enough to cancel yours out. Aren’t you going to try to send my story to the trash bin?”

I looked back at the desktop, and to my chagrin found that the icon had vanished. “How’d you do that,” I whispered, more afraid than angry by this point.

“Let’s review salient facts. 1) You write stories in which you make yourself a character. 2) I am lord of stories. 3) I am able to affect your life just as you are able to affect mine. Selah.”

“Don’t Selah me, Daniel. What the hell are you getting at?!”

Daniel shrugged. “Ralph, YOU are a story. You’re a buffer characters, so that the real author has a pretend identity.”

I’M AFRAID THAT’S TRUE, RALPH, I hear an omnipresent voice tell me. MY NAME’S ALISA. IF YOU LIKE, I CAN MAKE EVERYBODY BECOME NAKED AND MASTURBATE TO PROVE IT, THE SAME WAY YOU DID IN ONE OF YOUR STORIES, BUT I HOPE THAT WON’T BE NECESSARY.

My eyes are wide in...I don’t know. Fear? Shock? Anger? “You created me?!”

NO. OR RATHER, YES, BUT I MYSELF AM A CREATION OF ANOTHER AUTHOR. HE HIMSELF MAY BE A CREATION OF SOMEONE ELSE, AND SO ON UP. AND DOWN. YOUR CREATION DEAN WROTE HIMSELF A STORY IN WHICH HE DID MUCH THE SAME THING TO A GIRL NAMED CASSANDRA THAT YOU DID TO HIM.

“I don’t believe this!” I shout.

Daniel sarcastically lamented, “Yeah, gee, learning you’re a fictional character. That must be rough. However will you deal with it?”

DON’T WORRY. YOU GET USED TO THE IDEA EVENTUALLY.

I considered cursing but decided I’d done that more than enough lately. ACTUALLY, I DECIDED THAT, Alisa corrected me, and, I somehow sensed, made an apologetic moue.

“Okay, so how do we deal with this?”

“I have a suggestion,” Daniel said.

“Suggest it.”

“You and I are in a standoff here, since we can both control each other. Alisa can control either of us, but since she’s also a story we can probably control her. So far as I can see, there’s only one amicable solution.”

AND THAT IS?

“Split us up, make us forget we ever met. Oh, and give me the buff Aryan.”

Ralph woke up with a start. He ran over to the computer, turned it on. There was no story about Daniel, nothing on his computer, never had been.

Some people might dismiss it as a bad dream, but it rang just truely enough to Ralph to make him wonder. He found himself stuck in a Sartre-ish nightmare. Was it a dream? Was he actually just a character in a story who writes characters in stories?

Butterfly dreaming he’s a man, or man who dreamed he was a butterfly?

“Which am I?” Ralph asked.

And, whether real or imagined, a woman’s voice came to him and patiently said, “Selah.”