The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dale and I knew from the day we took John into our home that he was different from other 16-year-old boys. For one, he’d been in and out of eleven foster homes in the last two years alone. Three of the foster home cases had been tragic, according to John’s case worker, Eric: a double murder in one, leaving both custodians dead, and two others where mental illness precluded the family from keeping him. “But John is a very good boy,” Eric told us. “And it’s a shame he’s had the breaks in life that he’s had.” Being a gay couple, Dale and I weren’t about to complain. Although we’d wanted to adopt a younger child, we decided Fate had put John into our hands for a reason. “Besides,” Eric said, “it’s beginning to become obvious that John himself is gay. So the two of you are really the best home for him.”

Right off, there was John’s temperament, which had faster swings than the Yankees’ spring training. One moment he would be talkative and engaging; the next, he would disappear into his room for hours. He hadn’t been in our San Francisco home for more than a week before announcing imperiously one morning that he wanted to go on vacation before his school classes started the first week in September.

I looked at Dale. Dale looked at me. “Maybe just someplace close by,” Dale said. As Dale is eight years younger than myself, John seemed to gravitate towards him almost instantly, so it was a natural choice he should take him. I myself couldn’t leave town; I was going into litigation the next week and had to prepare my client. So Dale decided to take John to Los Angeles, and I stayed behind.

Upon arriving back, I couldn’t help but notice the amount of stuff Dale had bought for John: a portable CD player, over two thousand dollars worth of new clothes, mostly T-shirts, an expensive camera, even a laptop computer. I made good money as a trial lawyer, but there was no sense in spoiling the kid before Christmas.

“He’ll need a new computer for school,” Dale assured me. “And new clothes. Okay, the CD player and camera were splurges.” I should have known then that something was wrong. Dale had been raised poor, and for the eleven years we’d been together hadn’t splurged on anything except a rosewood dining room hutch and the small Matisse etching that hung just above it. It was completely out of character for him to spend even four hundred dollars in the course of a weekend, to say nothing of several thousand. But I overlooked it. I thought he just hadn’t learned to say no to John yet.

Nothing prepared me for when school started, though. Dale and I worried about sending John into public school, as progressive and qualified as the area schools were. He was, after all, a small, somewhat effeminate young boy, with fine, delicate features, living with two gay men. Dale thought about home-schooling him, but we decided not to shelter John. Dale had a career as an artist to consider as well, and he didn’t need John around the house all day. Still, we couldn’t help but to think of all the hell we’d gone through as gay teen-agers and prepared for the worst.

Of course, we were not prepared for just the opposite: almost immediately, John seemed to be the most popular guy in his class. The first day of classes, Dale called me at the office to say that John had come home with a handsome young guy almost twice his size and went straight up to his room without introducing us. We even joked about it. “Looks like he’s found a friend,” I said, although we never suspected the joke to be anything more than that: a joke. Every day for two weeks, according to Dale, it seemed to be the same thing: he would come home after school with somebody, go up into his room until dinner, whereupon his friend would leave, usually shortly before I arrived home. Then suddenly, according to Dale, the visits stopped.

“Does he go over to other kids’ houses?” I asked.

“No,” Dale said.

“Well, what does he do?”

“He comes home and does his homework,” Dale said woodenly. “John’s a very good boy.”

“I never said he wasn’t,” I said. “I just find it odd that one day he’s bringing home a new friend every day, and the next, he’s the class wallflower. It was odd in the beginning. I know times have changed since we were young, but he’s not exactly the most masculine kid. I just hope all the other boys haven’t figured it out and now don’t want to hang around with him.”

“I think he’s just more interested in his studies now than making friends,” Dale said.

Which I believed, after the first grade card. John received A’s in every subject, although he was always finished studying by the time I arrived home from the firm and spent the rest of the evening watching TV. I was beginning to suspect he was the world’s best cheater until parent-teacher conferences, when all of John’s teachers echoed a glowing and familiar sentiment: “John’s a very good boy,” they said, nodding emphatically. “A delight in class. All the other kids love him.” Riding home in the car that night, Dale patted my hand. “I think we’re very lucky,” he said.

It wasn’t until that Friday afternoon in December that I knew what was going on. After an early, triumphant day in court, I came home in the late afternoon in a wonderful mood. I thought I’d take Dale and John out to dinner to celebrate the victory I’d won for a major client, a victory which would net me one of the best fees of my law career, not to mention the admiration of the partners in the firm. When I arrived home, I didn’t find Dale downstairs in his art studio, where he usually spent the day. He wasn’t in the kitchen, either. So I went upstairs.

There are a lot of things in life we regret, that are wrong turns, that we wish we could somehow undo. But of all the things in my life, if I were able to answer you honestly, I would tell you I wouldn’t have opened that door. I wouldn’t have saw what I saw.

I hadn’t heard anything as I made my way to the door. I called out before reaching for the door handle; I don’t remember what I said, maybe “Hey, you guys!” or “Guess what?” or something innocuous like that. But when I opened the door, I found Dale, John, and another young guy, all naked, Dale on top of the young guy, thrusting his cock into the guy’s ass while the muscled boy moaned in ecstasy.

John sat leisurely back from the scene on a high-backed chair, stroking his erect cock with his right hand, extending the left hand towards me in the air. The area around his hand seemed to glow and sparkle, like bright jewels reflected in a shimmering pond. For all the shock of the scene in front of me, I could not take my eyes off John’s hand. I could not stop staring at it, drawn to it, until I stood in front of him, motionless. My entire body was numb.

“So now you know,” John said, barely looking up at me. “And I imagine you’re not happy, down in there. But don’t worry about it. Relax. Relax. Everything will be fine from now on. No more secrets.” The sound of his voice moved over me like a warm wind. “No more secrets.”

I actually felt my lips murmuring the words, “No more secrets.” There was a wave of terror that seemed to rise up in me and then quickly subside, like the sense of falling in a dream. I continued to stare into the glowing orb around John’s left hand.

“Watch with me,” John said, motioning to Dale and the boy and smiling. It was a wicked smile, a knowing one, the kind a boy his age should never have on his lips, and yet, without hesitation, I turned. I watched my partner of eleven years fuck the tight ass of the third guy until finally, excitedly, Dale pulled out and shot a prodigious load of cum across the boy’s glistening, sweaty buttocks. Released, Dale fell on his side and closed his eyes. Immediately after, John called to the young man, who was still on all fours.

“Andrew!” he said forcefully. “Come to me. Suck my cock.” The boy turned, slipped, got back onto his knees and scrambled rapidly to John, who stood up from the chair and slipped his penis into Andrew’s waiting mouth.

“Ah, yes,” John moaned, lolling his head back. “You love my cock. You worship my cock. You close your eyes and think of my cock, always, every moment you are asleep or awake. You are a slave to my cock.” The boy moaned in agreement as John jerked in and out of his mouth. After less than a minute, John pulled his penis from Andrew’s mouth and ejaculated onto the bedroom’s blue carpeting. “Lick up the semen, Andrew,” he instructed, as if talking to a dog. Andrew immediately clambered to the spot on the carpet where the bulk of John’s milky semen had landed and applied his tongue rapidly to the job of removing it. “Lick up my juices. Feel them make you strong. Feel them turn you into a man. Feel them make you sleep, make you sleep.”

Like a toy at the end of its batteries, Andrew stopped licking up John’s semen and dropped sideways, already asleep. John now turned to me.

“It’s harmless,” he said. “They wake up, they feel great, they don’t remember anything. Until I put them under again. I can’t train them all over again every time!” He looked away and giggled, a high, girlish trill that betrayed his youth. When he turned back to me, though, his eyes were filled with intent and power, and when he placed his soft left hand on top of my face, the aura around it grew brighter, blinding, so dazzling I could not help but open my eyes as wide as I could manage.

“Dale is mine now, " he said in a voice that seemed to echo through my head. “You will forget about him sexually. You are content to stay together with him and provide an excellent living for us. You will work harder and harder to succeed, so you can provide us with every comfort. Every comfort. Whenever you feel tired, you must remember you have a son to provide for. You must provide me with the best of everything. You will work longer and longer hours to achieve this. Longer and longer.”

“You will remember what has happened only in dreams, and pleasurably. Every dream will fill you with delight, until the point at which you will ejaculate. After you cum, you’ll awake and forget. Awake and forget. Awake and forget. Your first thought in the morning will be of me, and what a wonderful son I am.

“If anyone should ever ask you about me, you will tell them that you are very proud of me. That I have made your life with Dale complete. That you love me like a son. You will tell everyone, ‘John is a very good boy.’ Now sleep. Sleep!”

And so it has been every night since that night. I remember all of this now, in the dark comfort of dreams. I am shocked and then frightened, aroused and then satiated. Sometimes, along the way, I try to make myself wake up, so I’ll remember. Like now. I want to remember. I want to fix things when I awake, to get John the psychiatric help he needs. I want to—

I want to get out of bed and go to work. I want to provide an excellent living for Dale and John. I have a wonderful son to provide for, and John is a very good boy.