The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Irish Spring Break

This is a work of fiction, intended for mature adults who enjoy hypnoerotic fantasy. This story contains adult language and themes, including hypnosis, masturbation and sex, all of which (as you know) will rot your mind and cause hair to grow in unlikely places. Proceed at your own risk. If you’re under the age of consent for your area, we’ll all just assume that you’re here by accident. Just keep hitting the back button on your browser; I’ll let you know when it’s okay to stop.

Permission granted to copy this story for personal use, or to re-post it on any non-commercial adult site, in its unaltered form, including my pen name and e-mail address, and this full disclaimer. If you are planning to post this, please drop me a line; I’d love to visit your site.

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The half-naked leprechaun looked up from his banana daiquiri. “Cyril! It is ye, by Queen Mab’s broad and bouncy bosom! Fancy our meeting here, in this sunny clime so far from home; moreso since I haven’t seen the likes o’ ye in at least a century!”

“Two, morelike.” The newcomer, still fully clothed, snapped his fingers once, and then settled in to the empty chaise that had suddenly appeared on the boardwalk, beside his friend’s. “What be that ye’re drinking, laddie?”

Seamus took the opportunity to take a loud and satisfying slurp. “A sweet frozen concoction made with a tropical fruit and something called rum; would ye fancy one?”

“I would, at that.” One snap and one slurp later, he added, “It be nae whisky, laddie, but I’ll give ye that it does hit the spot on such a warm and sunny day. Speaking of which, tis more than passing strange to see ye quite so underdressed; why nae simply magick up a giant brolly, like the ones I spy upon yonder beach?”

Seamus chuckled. “We’re in the colonies, me lad; they call them ‘umba-rellas’ here. As for why I’ve doffed the better part o’ me kit, why, I’m curious to see whether faerie creatures such as we, can acquire what the natives call ‘a golden tan.’ ”

At that, his clean-shaven companion had to laugh. “Aye, I should have known! Always after more gold, are we? I suppose it cannae be helped; t’will always be the leprechaun’s way.”

“Speaking of which,” Seamus countered, “be ye comfortable in that heavy kit? Strip to yer own undercrackers; ye’ll blend in better, as well.” As if to prove his point, he lifted his arm and waved at the exuberant Daytona crowd, most of whom were wearing less than he was—after all, he had kept his full beard and traditional green hat.

The other leprechaun snorted, even as his heavy clothes transformed into a simple green tee shirt and shorts. “Babies, the lot o’ em! Except for the vendors, there’s nae a one past their quarter-century mark. Surely, ye’re nae interested in the cavorting of such children, laddie?”

“Aren’t ye, Cyril? If nae, then by Queen Mab’s round and regal rump, why be ye here in the first place?”

His companion frowned sharply, then suddenly grinned. “Well, t’be sure, I was feeling right narky, I confess—and in me boredom, I happened to ‘accidentally’ cast a serendipity charm upon meself.”

It was Seamus’s turn to laugh. “And it led ye here, did it, to the sweet Florida sunshine—and t’me! Well, since ye’ve found yerself here anyway, Cyril me lad, mayhap we can have ourselves a bit o’ . . . fun?”

Cyril looked at his friend sharply. “And by fun, ye’d be meaning. . . ?”

“A wager, o’course.”

“Aye. And the stakes?”

Seamus stroked his beard. “One gold coin?” At his friend’s frown, he quickly amended it to, “Two?”

“Mayhap we can play for higher stakes, laddie?”

“Higher stakes? Be ye daft from too much sun, Cyril me lad! What stake could possibly be higher than gold itself?”

Cyril’s grin threatened to split his face. “Why, that one’s a right doddle, laddie! We’ll wager ourselves!”

“Be ye serious, leprechaun, or has the rum already addled yer brains?”

“Seamus, Seamus, Seamus. I’m always serious about me wagers; ye knew that. We’ll play ourselves a game, and the loser shall serve the whims o’ the winner, for . . . shall we say, a decade?”

“Ye have me interest. What be the game?”

Like his friend had done earlier, Cyril swept his arm across the beach—spilling a bit of his daiquiri in the process. “We’ll play with these nippers, these lust-filled children. Whichever o’ us can effect the largest change, with the smallest amount of magick, shall be the victor. Agreed?”

“Aye; tis the most interesting wager I’ve had in ten centuries! How many rounds?”

“Would a brace be acceptable t’ye?”

“Only two? Indeed; that makes for more of a challenge. And who’ll be the first?”

“By all means, Seamus m’lad, take the lead.”

“Me thanks.” The bearded leprechaun turned to scan the crowd. As his friend had pointed out, the beach was packed with attractive young men and women, most with tight and well-tanned bodies, and almost all wearing as little as the local laws would allow. Despite the fact that it was just past midday, a good number of them were already enjoying a state of inebriation; for some, it had been days since they had last been sober.

His magick allowed him to scan their thoughts; as Cyril had made clear, the vast majority of them—boys and girls—were thinking about sex: or at least, about each other. He’d seen little like it since the joyful Beltane dances of the olden days, before science, man’s magick, had begun to pollute all the world’s lands.

After a moment, he selected a strapping blond lad, who was trying to play something the locals called ‘volley-ball’ with his companions: three ladies he was desperate to impress. He’d been impressing them, all right, but not with his prowess—as he was, to put it simply, too blind drunk to determine which of the three balls coming toward him was the right one to hit.

With a snap, the mischievous leprechaun sent forth a double whammy: at the very moment the towheaded youth suddenly found himself stone sober (while in midair, in fact, attempting something his mind called a ‘spike’), his shorts came undone—and the swimsuit that had been beneath them simply disappeared.

It took the lad a moment to realize his predicament; he was attempting to deal with the irony of being confused about once again being able to think. The giggling of his lovely companions was, finally, enough to capture his attention—and he quickly looked down, curious as to what had captured theirs.

Had he still been intoxicated, the young man would almost certainly have taken the sudden exposure in stride; he might even have tried to capitalize upon it. But sober, he failed miserably. Worse, instead of wilting, his newly-exposed John Thomas had decided on its own—without magickal encouragement—to stand up and insist on not being ignored. It was, in fact, just about as purple as his face.

Fortunately, and again without faerie intervention, the trio of bonnie lasses had all decided that they very much liked what they were seeing—and that the volleyball game should immediately be postponed, in favour of more (ahem) pressing matters.

As they gathered their belongings and beat a hasty exit, Cyril laughed so hard he belched. “Good show, laddie! With but a pair of tiny magicks, four lives are certainly altered for the better. T’will be tough to beat; allow me a moment to think on’t.”

“With pleasure,” Seamus conceded, beaming with pleasure—and warm from the glow of multiple daiquiris.

The barefaced leprechaun finished his drink and snapped the glass away; there was a time for the joys of alcohol, and a time for being serious. Extending his senses to their limit, he quickly scanned and sorted the minds of all within his range, looking for that single spark that he could use the smallest of his magick to nudge.

At last, he found it: hidden deep within the mind of a somewhat inebriated young lady, treading water by herself barely fifteen yards off shore. She’d come alone to this parade of flesh, apparently (though not intentionally), from someplace called Montana, up in the frozen north. Looking more deeply, Cyril ‘saw’ that the raven-haired lass—whose name was Julie—had been planning to attend this spring break ritual with her sister and her best girlfriend, both of whom had had sudden illness cancel their plans.

Julie, though quite a fetching lass, was unbelievably shy; despite having experienced the carnival atmosphere of Daytona Beach for four days now, she had yet to so much as speak with a boy her own age. Her lusts were nearly overwhelming her by this point, as was the looming embarrassment of facing her companions a few days hence, and admitting her continued virginity.

“Well, we cannae have that, can we?” Cyril thought, and allowed his faerie sight to look even more deeply. In but a moment, he found what he’d been searching for—the tiniest of dark spots deep within her brain that, incredibly, was of and by itself somehow able to dam the roiling tide of her emotions. With the softest of chuckles, he lifted that spot, and with it the better part of her inhibitions.

The effect, while immediate, was hardly noticeable—least of all to Julie herself. The two leprechauns were eager voyeurs to the subtle changes that began to sweep over her: first, her thoughts, which had been travelling in tight circles betwixt her desires and her shame, turned instead to a growing yearning for some of the young men she’d been admiring from afar the past half-week. Then, almost of its own accord, her left hand had begun to press, and then to rub, her most intimate spot beneath the fabric of her conservative single-piece swimsuit.

At first, the only ones who were appreciating the show were Seamus and Cyril themselves; Julie was far too caught up in her lusts to be aware of her own manipulations, and distance and water screened her from the prying eyes of the other bathers. But then, even as the young lady became dimly aware of her own act of self-stimulation, another far more devilish thought seized her: if she were to permit herself to doff her swimsuit completely, in the relative privacy of the ocean’s waves, she could enjoy the far greater stimulation of flesh directly against flesh.

And so it was thought; and so it was done. Before she could reconsider, the comely lass slid the stretchy red fabric off her shoulders, freeing her ample bosom with its pair of perky brown nipples. Another moment’s squirming, and the suit was pushed down her legs, to float freely around her ankles even as she attacked her newly-exposed quim. Moans and gasps escaped her, as she rubbed her clit in tight and rapid circles, even while the other hand was tugging at both of her erect nips. Lost to pleasure, her body’s lusts quickly rose, and then spilled over; luckily, she was a fair enough swimmer that she swallowed very little water, even while caught in the throes of her very first public climax.

A moment later, it became clear that she had lost more than just her inhibitions; her swimsuit, kicked free in her thrashings, had floated off to parts unknown. Strangely, instead of blushing and covering herself, the new Julie took this development as a sign (or possibly a challenge); she immediately headed toward the beach, strangely unconcerned with local nudity statutes and with only one thing on her mind: divesting herself of her pesky maidenhead at last.

“Bravo, Cyril!” Seamus was moved to applaud. “By Queen Mab’s knackered and naughty knickers, that was indeed well-done!”

Cyril turned to face his bearded companion. “Me thanks, o’course; however, it concerns me, laddie, that ye take the name of our Lady so freely in vain. Have ye lost respect for the royal traditions, then?”

His bearded companion laughed, even as he snapped himself another daiquiri—strawberry, this time. “Oh relax, me lad, ye’re like a doddering mother hen; our fair queen be nae within five hundred leagues of this decadent beach; she’s nae been known to ever leave the land o’ Erin!” He took a long pull of his drink. “More’s the shame; she still be right comely, even after so many centuries.”

“Indeed?” Cyril’s expression was impossible to guess.

Not that Seamus bothered to try; he was too taken with himself—and with his liquor. “Quite so; far more womanly and complex than these simple children: though at the moment, hardly as entertaining. Shall we begin the final round, then?”

The other leprechaun waved his hand; and once again, they both turned to the drama before them. At one of the nearby hotels, out of sight but not beyond faerie sight, there was an altercation brewing. A local officer of the magistrate was attempting to disband a group of hooligans that had decided to hold an impromptu ‘wet tee-shirt contest,’ an affair where comely colleens flout the local restrictions against public nudity by dousing their thin clothing with large quantities of water. Some of the lasses, in the spirit (and in the spirits) of the moment, had removed their tops completely: this was what the lass—pardon, the officer—was trying to rectify.

“What’s the local expression? Ah, aye, a ‘wet blanket.’ Ironic, that,” Seamus thought, even as he borrowed his partner’s own trick of the mind. The officer, who was nearly as comely as the contestants (though almost a decade older), quite suddenly found herself thinking that the best way to beat these youths at their game, just might be to join with them instead. . . .

Even while still continuing to argue, she threw her hat aside, exposing her freckled face and releasing a cascade of long red hair. “So much the better,” Cyril interjected, “A true daughter of Erin.”

The Irish lass began fingering the buttons of her uniform top, as if deciding how much to show. A moment later, even while still arguing with the tallest (and loudest, and easily the most plastered) lad of the lot, she grabbed the leaves of her shirt firmly and yanked them apart; even as the buttons burst and fell away, her surprisingly feminine demi-bra burst into full view.

The youths all stopped arguing and stared, their mouths hanging open in shock—even the lasses. Now that she had their attention, she slipped off her shirt, followed quickly by her shoes and shorts. Finally, a wave of lust washing over her, she threw caution to the wind—to be quickly followed by her womanly undergarments.

The lad she’d been arguing with—just sober enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and easily drunk enough that the consequences be damned—stepped forward and seized her, his lips pressing into hers. She threw her arms around him, and wrestled him into a horizontal position, somehow also slipping his swim trunks down to around his knees. Even as he slipped his pink oboe betwixt her nether lips, the others felt compelled to join in the sudden orgy—by simple lust, rather than faerie ‘encouragement.’ In but moments, a dozen strong were enjoying the benefits of coupling, and a dozen more were pleasuring themselves to the sight.

Satisfied, the bearded leprechaun turned to his companion. “There ye go, Cyril; nearly one and a half score done, and by the barest minimum of magicks. I doubt ye can beat that; if ye’ll concede now, I’ll offer to halve the terms of yer service.”

“Full o’ ourselves, are we, me lad?” Cyril chuckled. “We may well be small, but that’s nae reason t’ think small, now is’t?”

With a gesture, he called his companion’s attention back to the comely lass Julie, now sprawled upon the shoreline with a self-satisfied look upon her face. Nearby were two exhausted but lucky lads, who happened to have been the closest ones when she’d emerged from the water like the goddess Aphrodite herself. Their interactions had drawn a crowd; two more buff youths were approaching the dark-haired colleen, intent on sampling her freely-offered wares.

“Given the time, Seamus me lad, me bonnie lass would surely work her way through several score such youths, and continue the fun even as and after she returned home. But who’s t’say that your magistrate would fail t’do the same?”

He snapped his fingers. “So, let us speed up the process a wee bit, then. Observe.” Another snap, and a daiquiri appeared in his other hand, from which he immediately took a long pull.

At first, Seamus couldn’t quite tell what changes his companion had made; the lass was still just as eager, and the two lads had reached her and quickly gotten down to business. It was only when he widened his faerie sight to encompass the watching crowd, that the effects of his companion’s subtle magick became clear.

The throng, which had before been mesmerized by Julie’s audacity, was starting to stir. Even as they kept their eyes upon the source of their inspiration, lads and lasses—and in at least two cases, lasses and lasses—began rubbing up against each other. In but a minute more, clothes were shed along with inhibitions: and groups of two, three, and even five began copulating, in a great wave that travelled with amazing speed across the beach.

Seamus sat amazed, his mouth open, his drink all but forgotten. “What—how? Ye only ‘touched’ the lass, and barely; what magick did ye wring that could subdue so many, and so quickly?”

“Why Seamus, me lad, tis but the magick of pheromones! The colleen now throws off an odour that seduces and subdues all within her range. While ye prattled about with the children hither and yon, I used the first change to draw a crowd together, and the second to affect them all at once. Look! Tis already two score at play, and more by the minute; in an hour it’ll be a gross or more!”

“Pheromones?” He eyed his companion with suspicion. “Tis man’s magick, Cyril. Where would ye have learned o’ such stuff?”

“Does it matter? Ye lost the bet, fair and square. Will ye accede t’ the terms?”

“Nae, I’ll not!” With a forceful snap, drink and chair disappeared; Seamus stood, in full regalia, and stared down upon his companion. “Cyril MacCraith, I accuse ye of cheating! Nae leprechaun would think t’manipulate the scent o’ a woman, or even know the how of it!”

To his surprise, Cyril met his rage with laughter. “Aye, I suppose that’s true, Seamus me lad, at least as far as’t goes. As with all things male, nae leprechaun would likely know a woman’s body so well as to make such a subtle alteration.”

Without so much as the drama of a loud snap, Cyril’s drink and chair also disappeared—as did the glamour of Cyril himself. In his place stood the most beautiful of women, tiny but with a full and perfect figure, and hair the colour of the setting Irish sun. Her robes and tiara betold her true heritage, at least to poor Seamus, who was the only one with the faerie sight to spy her.

He immediately fell to one knee and bowed his head. “M-me queen.”

“Nae within five hundred leagues of this beach, eh? Never leaving the land o’ our mothers? And, o’ all things, that I’d let me royal knickers ever become knackered? Well it would behoove ye t’be surer of yer statements, Seamus FitzNeall, before the making o’ them.”

She paused, considering; a tiny smile flitted across her full and red mouth. “But in yer favour, I need admit that ye were most appreciative of me physical charms, and there’s nae a lady alive that’s immune to such heartfelt flattery. I think this coming decade shall be most—informative—for the both o’ us.”

Her hand extended over his head; a golden glow was cast from it. “I charge ye, Seamus FitzNeall, with compliance to the terms o’ our agreement—by the ancient compact between all the creatures o’ Faerie! For a tenspan of years, yer body and yer mind, but nae yer gold, are subject to the whims of me body and me heart. And, since when ye thought ye were winning, ye were willing t’be fair with me, I return the favour: at the end of yer service, I’ll double yer pot o’ gold with me magic—and nae faerie gold either! D’ye accept?”

Seamus’s eyes remained cast downward; he dared not look upon his queen without leave. “O’ course, me Lady. Ye have but t’ ask, and it shall be done.”

“Then rise, me servant and me lover, and let us quit this place for lands more appropriate t’ our compact. Leave me an hour t’ prepare, and then meet me at m’royal bower, in the ancient hills of the Sidhe. Be not late.”

Two loud snaps, and all that remained of their presence was an empty space on the boardwalk—and two naked and comely lasses, inhibitions forever cast aside, working their way through as much of their crowd as their endurance would permit. Having tasted deeply of the fruits of Eve, neither one would ever be the same again—and (like all those blessed by the luck of the Irish) wherever capricious Fate would happen to carry them, neither would ever be given cause to regret that fact.

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