The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Hunger’s Eye

by Wrestlr

5. The Eye

At the threshold, Anthoc stepped into the room, ready to fight or flee in an instant. This was an impossibly large chamber with a high domed ceiling. Most of the light came from a yellow-white orb suspended in a woven sling around the chest of a man, black-haired and naked and muscular, arms stretched upward and chained inside a framework like a torture-device, an upright square made of thick and strong ancient wood beams reinforced with metal bars at the corners. The beams themselves were carved with intricate symbols, and looking at them made Anthoc’s eyes itch somehow, as if these symbols carried some powerful force.

Inside the frame, the dark-haired man’s head hung forward, and the low singing came from him. From the size of it, Anthoc knew this orb slung around his neck must be the Hunger’s Eye they had come to find—but did wizards chain themselves like this? Having never met one, Anthoc thought such unlikely but considered the possibility. Too, this man looked only slightly older than Horsus, and did not appear to be ancient as the Wizard was rumored to be. Anthoc was struck by the sense of the trapped man’s force, as if the man could have easily broken free if something, perhaps the orb, were not sapping his strength.

Beside the frame and facing it stood Horsus. He stood passively, swaying slightly, arms hanging limp at his sides, face slack, as if spellbound somehow. Anthoc tightened his dagger-grip. Had the Wizard ensorcelled Horsus in some way? Anthoc crept into the room; surely the chained man was not a threat, and Anthoc saw no other, but his senses were screaming at him to leave this place and run far away.

Anthoc moved closer his cousin. “Horsus?” he whispered, nudging his cousin with his shoulder. Horsus gave no sign, simply continued to stare at the prisoner with half-closed eyes that somehow still managed to convey lust and attraction. Anthoc remembered nights, summers ago, when his handsome cousin had looked at him with eyes like that and had introduced him to the pleasures of—

“Another yellow-haired northerner?” A masculine voice, rich and melodious. “And you survived the guardian? Good, for I am very hungry.” The prisoner’s head slowly raised, smiling, staring directly at Anthoc, and something about his voice, the quiet lullaby he sang almost too softly to hear, seemed to coil like a serpent through Anthoc’s ears and deep into his thoughts. “Don’t worry about your friend, boy; he serves a new master now, as shall you.”

Anthoc’s thoughts seemed to slow and a haze seemed to come over his senses. Everything became distant, less important; only the prisoner’s eyes, sparkling like dark pearls, and his honeyed voice seemed to matter. Anthoc felt a seductive wooziness spread through his head and limbs, which seemed too heavy now for him to move of his own volition, except for his cock; that stirred and began to stiffen within his trousers. The wooziness and a tingling arousal mixed into a feeling that was both a calmness and an intense focus on the man, as Anthoc’s cock continued to harden. Something about the prisoner’s voice, his gaze—the touch of magic?—some spell being woven around him? “Wizard,” Anthoc began, his tone a warning.

“Feh,” snarled the prisoner. “I am not that fool! No, I am far more powerful than that charlatan can dream of being. Or I would be, were he not always draining my magic with this infernal orb of his in this cage that prevents me from working spells. Once he was my apprentice. He sat at my feet and learned my teachings. But he wished to enslave kings and glut his fiendish ambition on the world and its riches. Through his treachery he created this orb to pull my magic from me and I have been his prisoner for a hundred years or more. And now you are my prisoners. For my song takes little energy, hardly more than a charm but no untrained mortal man can long resist it. Just look into my eyes, and listen to my voice.“

Something buzzed like a thousand distant summer cicadas in the back of Anthoc’s mind. He shook his head, failed to clear it, and stumbled back a step. The song made thinking difficult, caused the strange torpor to deepen through his head and limbs, threatened to paralyze him where he stood. Anthoc took another step back, in horror, realizing he was face-to-face with a captured thing of darkness and the wastelands, a Hunger, and the terror in that realization threatened to rob him of his senses.

“Stop fighting and accept your fate, pretty one,” the human-shaped thing cooed. “Do not run from me. You are mine and I will quench my great hunger on you, and your last moments will be filled with an ecstasy such as you have never known before.” The song changed ever so slightly, and Anthoc felt all fear and repulsion slowly begin to ebb from him, to be replaced by a heavy drowsiness and an urge to sleep, a heavy arousal making his cock begin to rise and harden in his trousers.

“I am not yours, monster,” he said. “I ... I ...”

“Come near that I may touch you,” the creature said, “and kiss you, and feed my hunger upon you. Don’t you want to pleasure I offer? Part of you does—I can smell your arousal from here. It smells delicious. I am so hungry, for the Wizard takes too much and does not feed me enough in return.”

Anthoc felt the odd, insistent buzzing in his head increase, to be answered by an eager tingle in his balls that spread to his asshole and fattening cock. The sensations were insistent. The stranger was some comely, as handsome and sensuous as Horsus—no, more, much more, increasingly more. Anthoc’s cock was aroused, and it—he—needed to cum, wanted to cum, wanted ... what? His feet, to the command to come closer, took a faltering step forward. No-no-no! Anthoc screamed in his thoughts, as his feet made a second step. He managed to fight off the urge to take a third, though he feared he might not be able to hold back for long.

The prisoner tilted his head. “How do you resist me? No mortal man can resist me unless he has magic in his blood ... Ah, I see it now! You do have a spark of magic—a small one, but it can be nurtured and fed until it becomes a fire. The Wizard never brings me men with magic, for fear I might ...” He glanced at the table whereupon something sat. “That orb and these bonds—they defeat my magic. I cannot free myself directly, but I have enough that I can work through someone who has a thread of magic in him. But do you have enough to be useful? I must know! Boy, give yourself to me—now!“

Anthoc felt the force of the prisoner’s will clamp around him like a vice, compelling, threatening to crush, and he grunted from the strain of holding back.

“Do not resist me, boy. If you will not obey, I have other tools at my disposal. Your friend here has no magic to protect him, and he is mine utterly.”

“Anthoc,” Horsus said quietly, voice tight with fear. Anthoc turned to see that his cousin had drawn his dagger, held the blade pressed to his own throat. Though his expression was still spellbound and slack, staring at the prisoner, Horsus’ voice quivered: “Do what he says. Please! I—I don’t to die. Don’t make him ...”

Anthoc felt his stomach twist at the thought of his beautiful cousin, bare-chested and barefooted, slashing the dagger across his own throat and dying helplessly as his blood spread along the crystalline floor. No!—Anthoc could not cause Horsus’ death. He had to find another way. Perhaps ...

Anthoc drew his own dagger and hurled it at the prisoner’s chest; the blade flew true—until mere finger-lengths away the orb flashed and the dagger veered aside, as if knocked away by some unseen hand or shield.

The prisoner laughed. “If my death were so easily achieved, boy, I or some other would have done that years ago. The Wizard has seen that I remain beyond harm, except that he uses this infernal orb to drain my magic, and these bonds of silver to defeat my strength. Now, stop your useless resistance, or your friend will ...”

“Don’t hurt him. I’ll do what you say.” And though everything he knew told him to continue to fight, to find a way, Anthoc made himself relax and wait.

The conquest came as a pressure squeezing his mind, and his instincts called for him to shout and resist, but Anthoc willed himself to wait and allow this, and then—then—

A sense of being pierced by a frigid coldness, like ice blades cutting deeply, followed by a pervasive feeling of peace. Of focus and obedience. Of absolute certainty.

And horniness, as his already hard cock became impossibly harder, pulsing, craving release.

“Come closer, boy. First, look to that table. Do you see the key?”

Anthoc looked. “Yes.” On the table near the framework was a key, oddly shaped but recognizable as such. A trick of light like an inverted bowl covered it, iridescent as a soap bubble. The table’s top was thick with dust, but within the bowl and around the key was clean. This key had remained undisturbed for a very long time, temptingly close to the prisoner but beyond his ability to reach.

The prisoner’s voice had an undertone of eagerness, perhaps hope. “Put out your hand. Can you touch it? Pick it up? None but those with magic can reach the key. Do you have enough to touch it?”

Anthoc reached. The bubble tingled as his fingertips made contact, and the iridescence resisted his pressure at first, and then his fingers passed through the bubble as though reaching through a shaft of light. His hand closed around the key.

“Excellent, boy! Quickly!—Bring it here! Unlock these bonds!”

The key in the first lock turned with difficulty. Anthoc had to obey the order, but he feared breaking the key. Would the prisoner then unleash his wrath on Horsus? But at last the key turned, and the first lock opened. Then to the second lock—

Soon the naked man stood freely, a prisoner no longer. “Give me your hand.” Anthoc offered his hand and the man gripped his wrist, pulled Anthoc’s hand closer until the youth’s palm touched the cold orb. He felt something crackle in the air, in and around his hand, and something that felt like a hundred pricking needles seemed to pass through his flesh and into the orb. He recalled the tales that, after the gods’ wrath, Hungers must work through men with magic. The orb’s glow diminished for a moment, some connection being severed.

“At last!” The man released Anthoc’s wrist. The former prisoner pulled the Eye from its hammock around his torso, and he placed the orb on the table. “After so long! I am finally free of this infernal thing. My former apprentice, the one you call Wizard, caught me unaware and bound it to me, and it has drained me until I am a shadow of myself.” The man shrugged out of the hammock-weaving around his neck and chest that was his only vestment, if it could be called such. “No matter—once I escape this infernal tower, I will feast and regain my strength.” The man looked at Anthoc and smiled, revealing needle-like teeth. “You have little magic but perhaps, if properly used, you will have enough that I can use you for a last errand before I leave this thrice-damned tower—”

“No—” Anthoc began, for he understood now that this thing that looked so like a handsome man was nothing of the sort, a dark and insatiable thing that took the shape of a man to consume the lifeblood of the unsuspecting and the strong alike.

In a rush almost too quick to be seen, Anthoc suddenly felt the prisoner behind him, cold body pressed against his back, the prisoner lifting him from his feet. One chilly arm around Anthoc’s torso pinned him in place, his back against the man’s chest, while the man’s other hand wrenched Anthoc’s head back and to one side, exposing his vulnerable throat.

“—And that means I must ensure your compliance. Be still, pretty one. I am told this hurts at first, but then it will bring you bliss such as you have never known.” Anthoc felt the thing-that-was-not-a-man’s lips against his vulnerable neck, a quick flick of the man’s tongue against his skin there. The Hunger’s skin was cold, as if wanting to steal the very warmth from Anthoc’s bones. “Don’t be afraid. Trust that I need you and your spark of magic to remain alive, at least a little while longer.”

“No!” Anthoc whimpered, less forcibly than he meant, for in their pose so like lovers embracing, he felt an odd influence flowing from the man-thing and into him, urging his limbs to leadened stillness, and he could not effectively struggle. He knew how to free himself, a leg driven back, or a quick bend forward, or an elbow thrust into ribs, but he could hardly make his limbs twitch. Worse, this will-deadening torpor had an opposing effect too, for it made his skin feel extremely aware of every touch, every movement of air. An odd arousal filled him, and inside his trousers his cock had somehow hardened still more and pushed at the fabric in a rough friction that was almost more pleasurable than Anthoc could bear.

“You there—thrall—come here.” The man-thing was speaking to Horsus, who shuffled over with entranced eyes. “Your friend here,” the man said to Horsus, “is going to soil himself in a moment. Perhaps you should give him a receptacle for his spend as a distraction? I believe such acts are common among your northern tribes, yes? Kneel, and take down his trousers.”

As if from a distance, Anthoc watched as Horsus slowly went to his knees, watched as his cousin reached for and untied the drawstring knot at the waist of Anthoc’s trousers pants. Anthoc had dreamed many times of his cousin performing just such acts upon him, but now?—No! Anthoc saw his cock spring free of his trousers, hard and needful, and saw Horsus open his mouth to capture the head. His cousin’s familiar mouth began to suckle, and the familiar rush of pleasure filled his cock and then his body. Anthoc, too aroused, knew he could not long hold off the inevitable.

At his neck, the man-thing’s tongue flicked across Anthoc’s skin, a reminder of the danger, and that stimulation pushed Anthoc past his limit and he felt himself tip into orgasm, his seed rising through his shaft and into—

The man-thing’s needle teeth pierced Anthoc’s neck—

And Anthoc cried out in orgasm and agony that seemed to tear his body apart from opposite ends—

And then the ruckus at his neck turned into something wonderful, a bliss even stronger than his orgasm, pushing the mere sensations of his climax far away as this new feeling skewered him to his core, sending him flying and drowning in something both dark and bright, almost too strong to recognize as pleasure, but too ecstatic to be anything except.

Anthoc wasn’t aware of having fallen into a semi-conscious state until he began to rouse, finding himself standing, trousers around his knees, in front of the table where the man-thing had placed the Eye. The man-think stood close behind him, one arm around Anthoc’s torso and pressing his chest, so that his back was pinned to the thing’s chest, and the other arm woven around him so that the thing’s hand fit around the side of Anthoc’s skull. Anthoc could feel something of himself inside the man-thing, and something of it inside him, like a veil over his thoughts, compelling him to wait to be told what to do, a puppet without the puppeteer’s attention upon him. Surely the thing had not drunk much of his blood, for he still felt strong, but his strength was not at his command and he could make no action without instruction to do so. Surely this would be only temporary? He had but to wait until the effect of the feeding wore off and then he would be able to—to—

Something inside him screamed and twisted again, the feeling that had snapped him from his stupor a few moments before. Some force seemed to flow into his body. A part of him was being forced to awaken and perform—but what? And why did it feel so good, so seductive?—A growing pleasure that began to drown the screaming inside of him, until soon only the pleasure would be left. Was this what wizards felt as they went about their magic? He stopped trying to resist and let the flow happen as it wanted, a conduit forming. Anthoc’s hands were upon the Eye, and a feeling flowed down his arms and hands and into the orb, working some evil with the Eye, a weaving in the magic-heavy air that made the Eye’s glow dim from yellow-white to a paler blue. In spite of everything he knew about magic and its users, Anthoc wanted more, to feel more, to weave more.

Abruptly the flowing stopped, and the man-thing stepped away, leaving Anthoc feeling an odd emptiness. “Replace your clothing,” the man-thing said. As Anthoc pulled up and retied his trousers, which had still bunched around his knees, his master mused as if to himself, “Men with magic are rare. Perhaps I will take you as an apprentice, but I must take steps to make sure you never betray me like my last.”

The man-thing lifted the Eye and examined it, then handed it to Anthoc. “Take this. In a chamber below, one level or two perhaps, you will find the Wizard dreaming his dreams. Place this before him, and return here. Do not tarry, for time is short, and we must escape this thrice-upon-thrice accursed Tower quickly.

Having been told, Anthoc found he could move. His hands reached, and he took the great round Eye from his master.