The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1.

The fog was lifting over the San Francisco Bay. The sun was laying down a stripe of light over the surface of the water. The red girders of the Golden Gate Bridge were glistening.

Hiroko was walking. Her head was down. She was violently ashamed of what had happened. It was more than four years ago. She had been incarcerated. In America. In what she had thought was her America. They took her, incarcerated her. For nothing. For the texture of her hair, the shape of her eyes, the cast of her skin. Those were things she had valued. Those were the things that made her valuable, that made people, especially men, look at her, desire her, wish to be served by her.

Then with sirens wailing, they took her. There were others, too. She knew they were there, but she scarcely saw anything. They made her nothing in everyone’s eyes. They made her nothing in her own. They took away from her the freedom to will or to do. She became a slave, but there was nothing thrilling about obedience anymore. Nor did it follow upon ecstatic surrender. They did not care whether she surrendered or not. They had her confined. That was enough. She had ceased to exist. She was ashamed of it. She had betrayed herself. She could not look at anyone else.

What now had set her free to walk on the street like anyone else (except that she had the kind of shame no one else could know) was more of the same—even worse. The blasts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which consumed hundreds of thousands of people and the worlds around them—it was because of that grotesquely unimaginable, concentrated destruction that she was free.

2

She stood hesitating before she approached the entrance. She did not have to look to see what bell to ring. Before the war she had reached for it often, many times in the fallen light of late evening or the missing light of midnights. But now she looked with her eyes, too. So much had happened. It would not be improbable if Martin were no longer living there either.

But his name was on the bell, and she rang. Instinctively, her head bent as she saw the door open.

Martin stood there. Immediately she felt the strength of his presence.

She stood on the doorstep, unmoving, unspeaking, looking downwards, awash with all her shame, yet desperately, defiantly presenting her self to him.

3

He took her hand and led her inside.

I knew what had happened, he said. But there was nothing I could do about it.

I do not reproach you, she said, eyes lowered.

Of course not, he said.

I reproach myself, she said, following behind him up the carpeted staircase.

I understand, he said.

I am not worthy anymore.

I know, he said, opening the door to his apartment.

Will you have me and do with me as you wish?

Don’t stand there, he said. Come inside.

4.

He prepared a pot of green tea and put out a plate of rice cakes.

She sat facing him, slowly sipping her tea and nibbling on a wafer.

I do not know what I will do, she said in a voice hardly audible.

You can’t stay here, he said.

It was what she expected. It was inevitable, but now that it had been said, she felt the wound for the first time. The pain registered on her face.

He got up from the table.

She kept her head down, but raised her eyes, holding her tea cup inches from her lips. She knew it was impossible to ask him why or to beg him to say otherwise.

If it were only a matter of my feelings, he said, but it’s nineteen-forty-six; it’s not nineteen-forty-two anymore.

I have become old.

That is not the point.

I have become old and you have grown up.

Such talk is foolish; you know better, or you should.

He allowed for a silence and then he changed his voice and asked, What have you gone through?

Nothing, she said. I have gone through nothing, and now when I emerge, I am still surrounded by nothing.

5.

Her eyes were as penetrating as ever and he locked his heart against them. Her skin still had the gleam and smoothness of ivory. He stroked her flanks and held her head by the hair, once long and among the world’s luxuries but now hardly longer than a boy’s.

You have always wanted to suffer, he said.

She knew what he was talking about.

Then it was inside love, she said. I offered myself to you because I felt the stirring of a great desire for devotion. It came naturally to me whenever I saw you or thought of you. I wanted to surrender myself to you. When the time came when I could have done so, I was held back by pride. I needed you to break my pride. It was only by force that my love could be released because pride inhibits love. And it is only by force that pride can be eliminated. Everything that happened was for love. Where I have been now everything was force, but there was no love.

She gasped as she felt him pierce her again. She pulled him by the neck and insinuated herself into him by serpentine movements of her tongue in his mouth.

Never underestimate the power of the dragon, she said, pulling herself away from him.

I don’t, he said, pressing again into her from nearly all the way outside her.

We have been in the same place, she implored, their current simultaneity giving her hope.

No, he said, surging in and out of her again and again.

Their words turned to cries and groans and whispered secrets screamed incoherently.

6.

You have lost something, she said, even if you try to deny it.

Neither of them could say what, but his heart was pained.

7.

She poured strong coffee into a willow cup from a midnight blue enamel pot flecked with white spatters like stars.

He stirred a level teaspoon of sugar into his cup till the aroma penetrated and then he sipped. He looked up at her without speaking. She met his gaze and did not avert her own. Slowly she put the pot down on a Dutch tile on the oak table, and slowly lowered herself to her knees as if brought there by his gaze.

You can hear me.

Yes, she said.

A surge of heat rushed through her loins. She knew what she had to do. The idea of serving him thrilled her.

She bent forward to kiss his bare foot. Before she could deliver the kiss, he kicked her away.

I won’t have it, he said. Get up. Now.

She stood, submissive, nevertheless.

The expression goes, too, he said. That’s finished. You can’t drag me back there. Haven’t you seen where it leads? I won’t go.

She said nothing but kept her eyes cast down; she remained still. Something for the future was beginning to prepare itself now.

I don’t want your burden. Don’t look to me for expiation.

She looked up and into his eyes, offering herself to him despite what he said.

No, he said. You must leave.

I have no where to go. I am no one. You are cold. You are cruel.

You are melodramatic.

If I meant something to you, you would…

You don’t tell me how I’m supposed to be.

She fixed her eyes upon him and called up all her grief and offered herself to him with all her desire flaming in her eyes, trying to twist him to her will by the intensity of her surrender.

She gazed at him.

He saw it; he saw her; it didn’t matter.

I won’t do it, he said, and she struck at him.

He grabbed her wrists. She writhed. She screamed, are you going to be like the other Americans who have used me and restrained me? Do you want to put me in a detention camp?

A flare of red anger blew in his head. His muscles tightened. He held himself back. Giving vent to rage was a temptation. But if he showed rage, it was surrender to passion as much as if he were lipping her cunt and begging her to hold his cock and kiss its tip before he began to fuck her.

He pulled back.

No, he said. You must go.

8.

But she did not go.

When she told him she was pregnant, at first he wasn’t sure he should believe her. When it became clear that she wasn’t lying, he realized that he had woven something with her which inextricably bound them to each other. It saddened him much more than it made him glad.

He raged sometimes. There was, after all, nothing between them. They were strangers blocking each other. He had been a fool to let her get a hold on him.

And unwittingly but surely he had trapped and hobbled her.

They were angry with each other. Each blamed the other for the distance away they each felt they were from what they really wanted.

9.

He was moved more than he’d expected to be by the baby. He resented the way it exploded with joy when it became aware of Hirko’s presence.

10.

Thank you for telling me what you think, but I didn’t ask.

Everyday it became more difficult. He could hardly speak to her.

Why are you angry?

She made no sense. She was filled with a rage that had frozen inside her. When it emerged, it cut like ice. But the blood it drew was red and warm. When she sensed the damage she was doing, she hardened herself even more to block out awareness of her cruelty.

Seventeen years have passed. It is almost 1965. Hiroko’s eyes reflect the world back into her soul and she wanders throughout herself as if exploring a strange landscape, lost in an internal rumination that removes her entirely from the day-to-day world where nevertheless she has left her body as the burden for whoever will bear it.

It is Pablo who bears it now. Martin left this Amerasian boy a Spanish name and went to live in Barcelona, cheap and comfortable under Franco, leaving the apartment to the boy and his mother. The boy is seventeen now, tall, but not overly, lean and wiry, rippling with muscles which seem to sculpt themselves regardless of whether he works out or not. His head of hair is a silky blue-black, his eyes a warm blue. He is worth looking at and a reason for staring.

After Martin left, they sold the apartment and took the train east. They arrived in New York City when it was still the black and white city of the noir films. Its buildings were of brick and stone. The rounded bumpers of boxy Buicks and Packards graced the streets. Lamposts were still round, too, and fluted with decorations, and lacquered dark brown. The light their bulbs cast was amber. That light covered everything with romantic longing allowing night its darkness. Not yet had those civil bulbs been replaced by the authoritarian flares of mercury arching from dirty steel girders over a street they blanket in a violent light, like a prison yard.

11.

Pablo took the suggestion and sold pot beside the barber pole, which kept its red white and blue spirals turning all night.

Nick was a regular customer, and Pablo trusted him. That was a mistake, but Nick had won the boy’s confidence.

Nick was a knock-out. Tall, ripped, straight out of a Tom of Finland drawing, but more delicate, sandy blonde hair, green eyes, white teeth. He wore leather jeans that bubbled in the rear and drew attention at the crotch.

It was inevitable, it was deliberate, it was Thursday night and Nick was standing with Pablo. They were smoking a joint together, handing it back and forth until the roach stung their fingers and when there was almost no more of it, as they exchanged it they dropped it. Then their fingers did not part, but at that moment absorbed all the rest of their sensibility. They laced their fingers together and, just like in the movies, they breathlessly drew together until they were touching lips and then lost in the cavity of each other’s mouth and then their bodies became one molten volcano. The spume of its eruptions made the night sky blaze red fire.

Nick filed the charge the next morning.

Pablo was arrested that day.

12.

Hiroko understood what had happened and suddenly was surprisingly present. She got him bail but could not get him released till morning.

What are you doing? she screamed. You want them to lock you up behind bars with guards watching everything you do? They can do what ever they want to you. You can’t do nothing. You have to say yes sir and no sir all the time that’s all.

He was growing hard as she described it. He was frightened.

Nevertheless he understood what she was saying. But it was probably too late.

13.

Judge Brock was excoriated in a Post editorial and he served the right-wing radio talkers for several programs and was the object of repeated outrage and derision.

Harry Brock had decided that he would either resign from the bench or judge like a real judge and not like a bureaucrat whose job is to crush people with regulations. So when Pablo Hiroko appeared in his court, charged with selling marijuana in front of the barber shop, he told the boy he could, and, in fact, that the regulations said he should, send him to prison for a minimum of five years. He thought it was wiser to let the boy go. He let him understand he had touched fire and that next time it would consume him and that he should give thanks every day that it didn’t consume him this time. He had just gotten a second chance. So start again, but don’t finish the same way.

Pablo said yes sir. The judge smiled. He saw that the boy understood. There was no risk that a smile would undo his lecture. On the contrary it gave it support.

14.

It was not easy for Nick. He knew he loved the boy, that he’d made the wrong choice. But it was too late, impossible. Pablo would never trust him again or even look at him. Kissing him, that would be out of the question; yet since that night with Pablo, before the morning of betrayal, thoughts of that night have swum into his head and stiffened his cock.

15.

With Pablo it was quite different. What Pablo was to learn in the next few years was to hold back his cock. He became good at it and it put a strut in his step and assertiveness in his character. It served him well, got him through probation, night school, odd jobs and matriculation in the Urban Studies graduate program at NYU. He had mastered a self-discipline the majority of his classmates knew nothing about. For his doctoral thesis he chose as his subject, “Urban Psychology: The Identity of Pleasure and Pain in a Risk-Intensive Environment.”

He wanted it to be more than a rehash and revaluation of theories in the field. It had to be based on original research. He drew up a protocol, and at the beginning of April, he started hanging around the South Bronx, Bed-Stuy, Harlem, and East Harlem.

He picked up a motorcycle jacket and boots in a second hand store on the Lower East Side, got a worn pair of tight-fitting jeans and a tight black t-shirt with real short epaulet sleeves, slicked down his hair and combed it back fifties style.

16.

It won the Philaro Prize in Urban Sociology, which carried a twenty-five thousand dollar cash award with it.

Hiroko was mad again. No emergency required her sanity. Pablo was fine. From within her madness she looked at him with approving eyes. Then she closed her eyes.

She was cremated. He threw her ashes into the Hudson River from the Morton Street pier. It was a gray September morning. He walked back along Christopher Street lashed by the wind.

There was a stirring of life in his groin. He remembered Nick and how he had been betrayed and wished it had not been like that.