The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It has often seemed to me that I should greatly prefer a life of adventure, a physically challenging life, an out-of-doors life, perhaps, to the sedentary one I was living, bound routinely to desk work—in the winter as a graduate candidate for an MBA, and during the summer cooped up in a cubicle with a head set over my ears and a microphone covered with a prophylactic foamy hardly an inch away from my mouth.

I crammed at school and up-sold at work and hardly had time for anything else. Perhaps an occasional beer with Jon at Crazy Benny’s, but hardly ever even that.

One of the few nights I did pass at Benny’s, a balmy one late in June, I became plaintive about my plight after our third beer, and Jon finally said, I never realized just how big a fool you are.

He was smiling, and naturally, I responded asking him what prompted such an unflattering observation.

Well, he said, I didn’t know how much you hated what you’re doing and….

Typically, I did not let him finish his sentence.

Hate it? I said. In the immortal words of Jean Hagen, I can’t stand it.

Instead of whining and camping do something about it, he answered.

Like what? I retorted.

If that’s going to be your attitude, he said, you deserve to get a fat ass, a swollen gut, an empty head and a limp prick sitting in cubicles the rest of your life and dreaming about things you can’t let yourself remember you’ve dreamed about. Maybe every now and then scribbling down a fantasy and thinking you’ve written a story.

I went home to bed that night drunk enough not to have to think about what he said.

In the morning, Joel, one of the guys I shared an apartment on West 74th Street with woke me saying there was a call for me.

With a full bladder and a piss hard-on tenting my jockeys I sat up and took the phone.

Hello.

Are you ready to jump ship?

It was Jon.

What the fuck you talking about?

Call in sick, today and meet me in an hour at the entrance to the park at Columbus Circle.

Are you crazy?

No, you are. Do as I say.

It was a warm morning and the sky was a bright azure.

Ok, I said. But this better be good.

Be on time, was all he said and hung up.

“Bound by circumstances of life—but not enslaved to a Master in the submissive devotion and erotic obedience that has been a never-realized dream.

“Lean, muscular, but not bulging, need training and breaking in, need Master to erase mind as is and fill it with Himself. No desire but His, no consciousness but His.

“Crave loss of identity, obliteration of will. I want to become truly identified as Master commands. Slavery is freedom. Submission is assertion.

“The one essential: to be pleasing to Master. The one desire: to be dominated by Master.

“Pierced nipples, ringed cock, collared neck, clouded mind, eyes set staring wide = devotion; obedience always to Master’s will.

“Reality for slave is whatever Master causes slave to believe. Anything else, no matter how ‘real,’ is false.

“Bowed in submission,

“steddieslave”

How the hell did you get that? I said, crumpling the sheet of paper he had just shown me after I read the first lines.

You don’t deny you wrote it, he said.

What’s that to you?

Better question: what’s it to you?

Jon, we’ve known each other a long time…

And you’ve been holding back telling me about stuff like this. So much for trust and friendship.

I don’t understand this, I said. How did you get this? What gave you the right…

Shut up now and listen to me, Stedman, and listen attentively, he said with an authority that took my breath away. Nothing gives me the right. I have it because of who I am. And from now on, you’re going to do just what I tell you to do because of who you are. And there will be consequences which you won’t like if you resist. Or, at least, at first you won’t like. Because when I’m finished with you, you’re going to like whatever I say you do.

For the first time, after so many years of knowing him, for the first time, I noticed Jon. He looked at me, and I saw him, and I was unable to break away from his gaze. I knew I belonged to him.

I quit my job and I dropped out of school. I never got an MBA. I became Jon’s houseboy and lived like that for more than three years until he dismissed me from his service.

I first saw Tom at a distance, working bare-chested at a construction site on Ninth Avenue not far from where I’d gotten a job. He was sun bronzed and beautifully muscled. I was fascinated to watch the pull and swing of his arms and torso as he worked with a pick-axe.

It was the first bright image I had enjoyed since Jon had dismissed me. I had walked around the city at a loss. I had applied at Pinchon and Broadfells to be a stockbroker’s clerk, glad to have that rut to fall back into, in exile now with a broken heart, but they wouldn’t be taking anybody on-board for at least six months. Things were precarious, indeed, so until I’d hear from them, I had taken a job in a diner on Ninth Avenue as a short order cook.

I watched him. I didn’t know his name then. He kept his long tawny blond hair out of his eyes with a red bandana knotted high around his forehead. His bare chest was honey bronzed. His jeans were cut-offs and he wore ankle high work boots and thick gray socks with orange stripes circling around the tops. His legs were bronzed like his chest and muscled gracefully like a champion race horse.

Then I spotted him several times in a straight bar across the street from Crazy Benny’s where I used to hang out now and then with some Village poets I’d met wandering around, not friends exactly. They thought macho was hip and didn’t want, just because they wrote poetry, to be mistaken for pansies. They didn’t know about my past with Jon.

They weren’t very good poets, which I pointed out to them when we were all drunk—not first rate, and we had some pretty convoluted arguments. They hated when I told them they’d never write anything approaching worthwhile until they surrendered up their male vanity. I admit it was a waste of time and maybe even a foolish thing to do, but, truth be told, there was one among them I thought was really a sweet guy underneath it, and I was queer for him. I had convinced myself that he could be turned around if I had just the patience. But that’s another story. I was trying to be Jon.

Tom was not a part of this group. He was a solitary.

Buy you a beer?

Sure, he smiled. What’s in it for you?

Conversation. Company. Getting to know what life is like for somebody else. Cheers! I banged my stein against his when the beer came.

You work construction long?

How’d you know I work construction?

I’ve often seen you on Twenty-seventh Street.

Yeah, well, it’s only temporary.

What’s permanent?

I’m afraid nothing’s permanent.

That’s the second cynical thing you’ve said in the space of less than a minute.

Yeah. Hey I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. It’s just the way it is. I should go home. I have to get up in the morning. And my neck is sore.

He was actually whining. The discrepancy floored me. I could identify.

I know about cynicism, I said. Go ahead, complain.

I began massaging his neck.

That feels good he said, moving his body away from my hands.

I got to go.

I’ll walk with you, I said. And we left.

He was tall, well built. His jeans fit nicely. His skimpy t-shirt showed his muscles. He wore knee-high boots over his jeans. I was worshipping him in my mind. I wanted it to be real, too. But I had a sense he wouldn’t let on he knew what I was talking about if I told him.

He was cold, indifferent, self-absorbed and unavailable. That made him all the more desirable to me.

I gotta get up in the morning, and this is where I live. Good night, extending his hand. I shook it and before I knew it, he was gone.

I worked in the diner till eleven most nights, and then I’d trek south past the meat market and onto Christopher to try my luck.

Stepping out from between two trucks, I saw him and a fire began to burn in my bones.

He approached and took hold of me by the eyes.

He offered me a joint.

On the street?

On the street.

But…

There’s nothing to be afraid of when you do what I say.

I inhaled and handed him back the joint.

How are you called?

You mean my name?

How are you called?

Steddie.

Steddie, he repeated.

It’s short for Stedman, which was my mother’s family name and to keep it in the family it became my first name.

I’m called Sir, he said.

Sir?

Sir, he repeated.

Sir, I said.

What do you do?

I’m a stockbroker’s clerk going for my license. It was only a half-lie. I’d gotten the news that afternoon I’d been accepted, and given notice at the diner.

Sir.

Sir.

Do you like it?

No, Sir.

I’m a collector.

A collector, Sir?

A collector. I collect boys like you. Would you like to be part of my collection?

I don’t know.

Sir.

I don’t know, Sir.

It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to.

And then he leaned in and kissed me and blew his smoky breath into my mouth and I swallowed him. I was dizzy and rigid with excitement. I had not felt this way since living with Jon.

Come, he said. Come with me. I want to show you my collection.

He put his arm round my shoulder and we walked down Hudson like that until we came to an old converted factory loft.

This is it, he said.

Outside it looked like a warehouse. Inside, well, it dazzled me.

I have been to places on Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue and Central Park West before my family disowned me. But I have never been so overawed by décor as I was then.