The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

His father stood on the other side of the priest.

He was six years old. It was a bright and beautiful spring day. The weather was warm, but still cool, and white puffs of clouds floated high above his head in a deep blue sky.

But he doesn’t see these things. His eyes stare out at the crowd gathered before him, at the priest standing at his side. A gathering of people standing, their hands folded, an almost sea of black suits and dresses. He was too young to understand who his mother had been. He only wonders at the masses of people that are their to see her final resting.

His father standing beside him, his head bowed, his eyes watching as the gurnees slowly lower the dark mahogany coffin down into the earth. He’s silent. His body rests sunken, his shoulder’s sagging. His body heaves, his head unwavering from its focus.

Even as the crowds whispered in the hot spring afternoon. Even as the priest offered the benediction for the newly departed:

The Lord bless her and keep her. The Lord make His face to shine upon her, and be gracious unto her, the Lord lift up His countenance upon her and give her peace, both now and forever. Amen.

Six years old, the young boy turns his head away from the assembled, away from the dark wooden box being swallowed by the Earth. His young eyes fall on the tortured gasps of his father, the tears running down his face.

It was the one and only time he ever saw him cry.

Somewhere in the past of his life his father sits alone at the table in his study, reading.

The boy is nine years old. It’s a late afternoon and he’s just gotten back from school. He remembers the smile on his face then. He remembers how he almost burst through the front door of the house. How he’d almost run straight up those stairs. He wanted to show him. He wanted to show his father. There’d been the big science test the other day and the scores had just been put up. He’d gotten an A. He’d hoped for an A. He’d studied so hard the days before in order to get it. He remembered the long nights, the repetition of all of those facts over and over again. And it had all been worth it. He was definitely going to finish the year with an ‘A.’ He was going to show him. His father was going to be proud of him.

The door practically launched off of its hinges as his anticipant eyes turned towards the far corner. His father sitting there with his back to him, the book sitting in front of him, the old picture of his mother.

“Father” he exclaimed, panting.

The older man had turned his head up slowly. His body turned in the swivel chair. His eyes looked him up and down carefully.

The look on his face makes the boy stop in his tracks. His father says nothing for many long moments. He doesn’t smile. He barely moves a muscle, just those eyes looking at him slowly, waiting for him to settle down. He doesn’t care. He wouldn’t care until he saw how he had done.

The smile fades from the boy’s face. His shoulders sag.

“What did you get?” the old man finally says with that cold indifference.

He can feel his hand shaking suddenly. Why would he expect him to be excited? But he would be excited by the grade that he had gotten. He had to be. Still his head bows towards the ground, he feels that strange, yet familiar apprehension. He got an ‘A’ but it wasn’t perfect. He hopes that his father lets it go. His grip releasing on the partially scrunched paper in his hands. He feels his father take it out of his hand.

“How did you get those two wrong?” Is all he hears him say.

He doesn’t know what to say. He tried. He really tried. It was the best he could do. Why couldn’t he... “I tried my best,” he says, badly trying to cover the quivering in his voice.

He hears his father scoff, “What would your mother think about someone who can’t...?“

The words continued, lost on deaf ears. His head bowed. The boy knows these words too well. Sure the words were different, but the message was the same.

His hand won’t stop shaking. He’d tried. He’d really tried. Why wasn’t that enough? He can feel his breath shortening. He wasn’t perfect. He wanted to be perfect. It wasn’t fair. He can feel the burning tears. Why couldn’t he just tell him how well he’d done? He did do well...didn’t he?

“This isn’t your best. You can do better. Your mother-“

He screams.“Fuck my mother! She’s dea-”

The slap comes hard and sudden, a seering pain blossoming brilliantly across his face. His head rings as his body falls to the ground.

He barely hear the words as the world around him shakes. His father is standing over him, glaring down. Contempt. “How dare you. Who do you think you are?” -------

Her name was Eliza Cranston. She was fifteen years old, did track and field in highschool, straight ‘A’ overachiever and was gorgeous to a fault. She had the most beautiful smile, the way her cheeks dimpled, her lips parting wide to expose her pearly white teeth. And how her eyes shined as she giggled.

There was more to her of course. Track and field had been good to her body. The skirts she wore offered a sight at a nice pair of legs, an overall toned and athletic physique. He never even thought about her breasts. He didn’t dare. Her face was enough for him. Her bright blue eyes that shined as she laughed.

But all of those thoughts seem lost at the moment. There are two boys laughing at him right now. Two boys standing behind him, pointing at him.

Eliza Cranston’s bright blue eyes turning back and forth down the halls, anywhere else, but the gangly, greasy awkward, fifteen year old boy standing in front of her.

He’s just asked her out. It had been the hardest ten seconds of his life. He’d mumbled some. He’d started and stopped at times. He couldn’t even look her in the face when he’d said it.

And her friends had started laughing. The boys behind him had started laughing. It seemed like everyone around him was laughing or smiling or something else like that. He was an idiot. He was the center of everyone’s ridicule. Why did he have to be such an idiot? Couldn’t they see he’d tried?

“Are you serious?” is all she can say. The shocked, almost contemptuous look in her face sends a chill down his spine. “Andrew I would never date you.”

He can feel himself blushing red. He wants to run away. He wants to cry and run away. He was so stupid. He had been so stupid. The boys laughing behind him had told him that she wanted him. He’d wanted to believe it. He’d gathered up his courage and approached her.

He was such a fool. What was wrong with these feelings? Why could they lead him so wrong? It wasn’t fair. How could she feel so indifferent about this? How could he feel so...

And then they were coming, the tears. The laughter gets louder. The bell rings for classes. Eliza is slinking away, but he wouldn’t let her. His hand becomes a fist. He can’t take it anymore. Why does it always have to be like this. He has to do something.

He slaps her across the face. She winces and pulls away. Her friends swarming around her, crying out. One of the boys is grabbing him by the shoulder. He twirls around and slams his fist into his face. He sees that he’s stunned, but the other one standing next to him isn’t.

The fist comes hard into his stomach. He keels over, the wind knocked out of him. “You little fucking punk!” he hears. The second shot comes hard across his face and sends him flying to the ground. And then they’re kicking at him, over and over again.

He curls up into a ball. They curse and spit at him. The barrage continues to rain down upon him. Flaring shocks of pain ramming into his body. Gouging scrapes of burning fire against his skin. He knows the bruises and scrapes he will be having. He’s had them before.

Fuck Eliza. Fuck them. Fuck the world. Fuck everything. He’s tired of all of it. It’s unfair. It’s unfair. He doesn’t care about them anymore. He can’t care about anyone anymore. He believes it. He has to.

But God... why couldn’t he stop crying? -------

Why can’t he stop crying?

He’s twenty two years old. The room is dark. He’s awake alone in her bedroom. They’re there with him, but they aren’t really there. Just breasts, moist snatches, smooth skin, and sleeping feminine faces. Quiet. The warm naked bodies laying against his.

His eyes stare out into the darkness, aware of the masses of beautiful flesh, but only seeing the boy.

The boy crying on the ground in front of him, bleeding. Dying.

He shot him. No he didn’t...yes... Stop crying. Why can’t he get that thought out of his head? Why can’t he get that image out of his head? The blood. The ruptured skin. The boy crying out. The father standing glassy eyed and indifferent. The despair. The pitiful despair in the boy’s words...

What did that boy have to do with any of it? There was plenty of other ways. He thought it was going to be so easy. But... Stop crying damn you. Stop crying.

He’s sitting up against the bedstand. His head lowers . He grabs at the pillow sitting behind him. His head buries itself into the fabric. The tears fall freely from his face. He can’t let his father see him cry. He can’t let his father see that he’s not living up to his own potential.

He’s weak.

No he can’t be.

But the boy, he was just a boy...what’s wrong with him?

His body bends downward. His face pressing harder into the pillow. His cries are muffled.

Bodies stir around him but say nothing.

Stop crying damn you. Stop crying.

Three days. In three days it will all be over. Just don’t think about it. He can’t let his father see his weakness. He can’t let Daniel. He has to follow through with his plan. It was justfied. It had to be. It’s Daniel’s fault. It has to be. He has to pull himself together.

Stop crying.

Not his fault.

Don’t think about it.

The tears subside. The pillow drops down from his face. The weight in the pit of his stomach persists, but he ignores it.

His thoughts force on Daniel. If he hadn’t been there the whole situation would have been so much easier. Sharon would be his. The police never would have gotten involved and then...

Daniel pushed him to this. It’s Daniel’s fault. It has to be.

It has to be.

<It understands.>

Eyes silently look towards him. Even in the shadowed darkness he can see them. His women. His slaves. His conquests. Naked. Beautiful. Wanting him. Hanging on his every word. Willing to do anything for him. He has everything that he could want, everything that he should want, everything that any heterosexual man should want.

Yet still...he won’t sleep. He can’t.

He ignores it.