The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

‘. . . The vampire’s very long and extremely sharp incisors gleamed like wet phosphorescent stalactites in the bright moonlight as storm-wracked clouds scudded across the noon sky. Outside the tempest raged, and the shadows cast by the hurricane lashing the bare winter trees writhed across the bedroom wall like a tangle of serpents trumpeting Armageddon. “Vhat iss disss?” hissed the vampire. “Do I smell garlic? Oh, it isss mein favourite. Garlic-scented boychick sushi. It wassss zo sweet of you to remember, Billy.” Festive bursts of icicles thrust down from the ceiling as a laugh torn from the bowels of hell plunged the temperature of the room into arctic chillness. “And you are wearing a silver cross around your neck, my dear young man. The contrast with your golden skin, the way the chain accentuates the curve of your chest—simply superb. There’s no other phrase for it, simply superb. Now, Billy, let’s see that stake you have hidden under the bedcovers.”

‘The vampire’s primeval eyes flashed green, and the coverlet and sheets dissolved in a shower of molten sparks. Billy’s flesh luminesced as his body was exposed to the vampire’s lubricious gaze. “No, no, back, back,” he cried as he tried—in vain—to use his hands to hide his tumescent tool. The vampire smiled. “You know you want me, Billy. You want me, you want me to nibble those nutty brown nipples.”

‘Billy realized to his horror that was precisely what he did want. He whimpered deliriously as the image of the vampire’s sharp teeth biting into him, piercing him, skewering his perky pecs, filled his mind. The vampire leered and pointed his index finger at Billy, revolving it slowly. ‘And I was just thinking of your backside. How perspicacious of you to mention it.” Billy couldn’t take his eyes off the vampire as his body writhed as he struggled against the fever gripping his body and mind. The bed clattered across the floor as his trembling hands tried to grip the bedposts. But he was helpless against the vampire’s stronger will, which penetrated his mind like a red-hot blade slicing through an overripe banana. He screamed in an attempt to focus his qi energies and defy the foul fiend, but he was powerless to resist. He could not stop himself from rolling over and exposing his rear to the vampire.

‘ “Oh ho ho, someone has been naughty, I see. Very naughty indeed. Painting crosses on your hot buns with a magic marker. Wrong story, Billy. This isn’t The Hairy Potter and the Three Transylvanian Bears.” The vampire’s evil chortles ripped the last shreds of resistance from Billy. “You know, Billy, if I tilt my head, those crosses look like x’s. And you know what they say.” The bolt of lightning sundering the tree outside Billy’s bedroom could not drown out the vampire’s howl of victory. “X marks the spot.” The vampire’s long, wet tongue snaked out between his snarling lips and licked Billy’s buttocks. A flame of lust blasted Billy’s body. He drew his knees up and lifted his hips off the bed to bring them closer to the vampire’s ravenous maw. The vampire raked his sharp claws across Billy’s buttocks and then licked the rivulets of blood that oozed across Billy’s firmly packed and well-rounded glutes and down his balls and cock. Billy twisted his head around and looked over his shoulder. The vampire’s incisors had grown to the nine inches of legend, but the legend did not do justice to their thickness. Billy moaned in fearful ecstasy as he watched the formidable fangs poised above his quivering body. The vampire bent over him and playfully nipped him. He grinned in triumph and then lowered his jaws and began to feast on Billy’s powerless body. Billy suddenly understood Hemingway. The earth moved. It was a night filled with explosive waves of passion that Billy would remember from here to eternity.’

Professor Phillip Martinson laughed out loud as he wrote ‘Excellent’ at the head of the paper. ‘Imaginative exploitation of the phallic nature of the vampire’s teeth.’ He took a sip of brandy as he congratulated himself, once again, on his idea of asking the students in his gay fiction-writing course to come up with an ‘over-the-top’ story. The students were outdoing themselves. Asking them to be ridiculous had allowed them to open themselves up and write for once. Perhaps now that they understood what made prose really bad, they could start to produce good prose.

He set the brandy snifter on the table and turned with pleasure to the final paper. He had forced himself to read the other students’ stories first, saving Simon’s for last. Simon Michaels—the student every teacher dreamed of. Sharp, challenging, inventive, totally dedicated to becoming a writer.

Oddly enough, Simon hadn’t impressed him at first. Students who wanted to take his course had to have an interview and submit a writing sample. Twenty-seven candidates had signed the list posted outside his office door giving the times he was available. Simon had chosen the last slot. Phillip had anticipated that paring the list down to the ten whom he allowed to take his course would be a headache. By the time he had finished interviewing the twenty-sixth supplicant, he was worried instead that he would not be able to find even ten worth teaching. By that point he had found only six with a modicum of talent and intelligence.

It was wrong to judge students by their looks, of course, but the final interviewee didn’t seem promising when he slouched into Phillip’s office. The word ‘nerd’ could have been invented for him. Short, gangly, unkempt, probably unwashed. He looked as if he had spent his teens glued to his computer and hadn’t seen the sun for months. And the dean had been worried that Phillip might use the course to recruit students into some form of gay harem. ‘Of course, Professor Martinson, in courses such as the one you are proposing, the teacher must take especial care to avoid any hint of unprofessional behaviour. “Purer than Caesar’s wife” would be the operative maxim, I believe.’ The idiot had tapped his nose at that point and smirked at Phillip over those ridiculous half-moon glasses he wore in an attempt to look scholarly. “Operative maxim”, indeed—Was it a requirement of the job that one had to sound like one had written a book entitled “Clichés for Bureaucrats”? The dean had obviously had little contact with aspiring writers and the earnest, precious young men who wanted to write novels.

The college authorities had no cause for concern. The sports teams were not enrolling en masse in his courses. ‘More’s the pity,’ Phillip thought as he surveyed the final applicant. Apparently the entire membership of the college chess club had decided to apply for his course this term. He mentally sighed and began interviewing Simon, thankful that this was the last candidate and he would soon be at home, ensconced before the fire enjoying his glass of wine for the evening and listening to the new CD of Mahler’s Sixth that he had bought at lunch time.

Nothing in Simon’s appearance prepared Phillip for the experience of hearing Simon speak. Where did that mellifluous voice come from? Where had he learned to produce such well-turned sentences, seemingly spontaneously? Phillip sometimes felt he could listen to Simon forever. The young man was mesmerising. His enthusiasm for writing and commitment to it were immediately apparent. When Phillip had asked Simon to read the opening paragraphs of his writing sample, he had been overwhelmed. The first sentence conjured up a complete scene, characters were delineated with a telling adjective. Here was a real talent. When he asked Simon to name some contemporary writers and discuss why they appealed to him or not, he had quickly discovered that Simon was also a talented reader. The two of them had talked for over an hour about their favourite authors. Phillip had experience a pang of disappointment when Simon had to leave for another appointment. It was rare for him to enjoy talking with a student so much.

Phillip knew he had been impressed when he dreamed about Simon that night. If the dean were to learn the contents of that dream, he would have felt he had cause to worry. Phillip did not know where his mind found that body for Simon. The moment he had seen those large, soft nipples at the edges of those incredible pectoral muscles he had wanted to lick them, to suck on them, to feel them grow hard between his lips. It was almost as if he were being hypnotised by them. He couldn’t look away. The areolas surrounding the nipples seemed to get larger and larger as he stared at them and Simon moved closer. His lust had awoken him. Even after he had masturbated, he couldn’t get back to sleep. In the end, he had had to deliver a stern lecture to himself about preserving the proper separation between students and teachers.

He liked to think that he had himself firmly under control, but he often replayed the dream in his mind. In his dream, he had wanted Simon to consume him, to take him over, to dominate him. Later Phillip found that aspect of the dream confusing. It was not part of his personality. He had never even wanted to explore submission. Certainly Simon did not project dominance. Why, then, had his subconscious focussed on this so strongly in the dream?

Simon, thankfully, seemed oblivious to Phillip’s mild infatuation. Surely, Phillip assured himself, that was all it was. He was after all only human, he reminded himself. Every few years there would be a Simon. He had always adhered to professional standards. He would continue to do so in Simon’s case. That resolve did not, however, keep him from finding Simon outstanding. His writing continued to amaze Phillip. Simon was simply in a class by himself. The most Phillip could do for him was to be an informed listener for his ideas. Simon turned the class into the high point of Phillip’s teaching career. He even seemed to inspire the other students. Phillip had grown to look forward to Simon’s attendance at his office hours so much that he had felt an almost physical pain on the one occasion Simon didn’t show up.

Phillip took another sip of brandy. There, too, he had misjudged Simon. Who would have thought that someone barely twenty-one would know of this excellent Rumanian brandy? He picked up Simon’s paper. He had imposed only one requirement on his students. Each paper had to begin with the same sentence.

Acquiescence

Simon Michaels

‘It was a dark and stormy night. The village was apparently deserted. Not even a rabid cur raised its voice to warn of the approaching stranger. No lights shone from the hovels. Brambles filled the yards, and their wind-lashed canes whipped against the walls of the houses like demonic vegetative demolition crew bent on tearing the few remaining tiles from the roofs of the houses. In the middle of the main intersection, a wagon sagged on decaying wheels. Whatever it had been carrying had long ago mouldered into an unrecognizable heap of refuse. A sudden gust pushed open a door and revealed only sticks of broken furniture and a cold hearth. Professor Moriarity carefully picked his way around a pile of broken bricks from a chimney that had fallen into the street. He leaned into the wind and pulled his hat lower on his head. The icy rain pelted his face as he search for the inn that the hikers’ guide to the Carpathian Alps assured him could be found in this village. He had almost resigned himself to finding shelter that night in one of the abandoned huts when he heard the screech of metal against metal. Down a narrow dark passageway, the edges of a sign mounted on a pole over a doorway flickered in the bolt of lightning that flashed overhead. The wind swung it back and forth on its rusty hinges. A light winked into view as a curtain stirred next to the doorway. Moriarity hurried down the alley. On the sign, he could dimly make out the figure of a mounted cavalier, his cape billowing behind him as he galloped past the viewer and swept his plumed hat aloft in a gallant greeting. The guidebook claimed that the inn was known as The Laughing Hussar, and the sign seemed to promise that Moriarity had at last found his destination for that evening.

He pushed against the door, but it was either locked or swollen shut by the humid night air. Moriarity pounded on the heavy wooden timbers and shouted above the howling wind. He thought his cries had gone unheeded until he heard the sounds of bolts being unfastened. Whoever lived inside the inn must have felt that stout protection was needed. Moriarity counted eight bolts being pulled out of the hasps before the door finally eased open an inch, and a narrow strip of a pale face became visible in the crack. A voice was barely audible over the shriek of the wind. ‘Is that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson? I had given up hope of your arriving tonight.’

Moriarity could not tell if the speaker was a man or a woman. To his surprise, though, the English was good and almost unaccented, only the slightest hint of a ‘v’ on Watson. ‘No, no, my name is Moriarity. For the love of god, let me in. I’m soaked through from this rain.’ The speaker opened the door wide enough to let Moriarity in and then quickly closed and locked it. The embers of a banked fire provided little warmth. A solitary candle guttered in the draughts that came through the windows and provided the only illumination in the room.

‘Welcome to the Laughing Chasseur. We can provide accommodations by the night or by the week. Breakfast and dinner are included.’ As Moriarity’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the wide shoulders of the speaker. Out of the wind, the voice became masculine. The pale face visible in the fitful light appeared to be that of a young man.

‘I need a room for the night. Longer if this weather holds. And a brandy and a hot meal.’

‘Before the electricity went off, I was listening to the weather report on the wireless. The storm is due to last for another day before it blows off. If you will step this way, Professor, and fill out the registry card, I’ll show you to your room.’

Moriarity experienced a sudden chill. He halted in his tracks. He had been careful not to disclose his identity during this trip. His fame sometimes made it impossible for him to do research. ‘How do you know my title? I did not introduce myself.’

‘Elementary, my dear professor. I recognized you from the author’s photo on your books. I can assure you, however, that the employee of the Heedless Horseman is the very sole of discretion. I tread very lightly. No one will ever know you were here.’ The man lit a lantern standing on the reception desk. The warm glow of the light revealed him to be one of the handsome studs for which the region was famous. Curly hair framed a face that was manly but finely featured. His broad shoulders were set above an impressively wide chest that tapered down to impossibly narrow hips. His robust thighs stretched the fabric of his trousers. His tuxedo was only slightly less black than his hair, and the whiteness of his shirt matched the pallidness of his face and hands. He was a study in black and white. Moriarity felt a familiar tug in his groin, the signal that the elusive quarry that had drawn him to the Carpathians was in view.

The innkeeper opened the registry book and held out a pen to Moriarity. As Moriarity took the pen from him, his fingers ‘accidentally’ brushed against the young man’s hand. He dropped the pen in shock. It was if a grave had suddenly yawned open at his feet. ‘Get a grip,’ he thought to himself as he signed the register. He was so preoccupied by the shock to his senses that he did not notice that although many people had checked into the inn, none seemed to have checked out.

‘Very good, Sir. I’ll show you to your room. Allow me to take your knapsack. Is this all the luggage you have? Dinner service begins at 8:00. Tonight’s offerings are bisque d’ecrevisses followed by canard braisee aux marrons with two veg and mash. The sweet is a local specialty—gateau avec champignons glacee. Of course, we feature our local wines. I think you will find them quite intoxicating.’

Two hours later, Moriarity sighed in contentment as he pushed back from the table. His room would not have been out of place at a four-star hotel. The hot water was abundant, and when he emerged from his bath, his skin glowing red with warmth, he discovered that his mud-caked clothes had been washed and ironed and his boots had been polished to a lustre they had not seen since the day he purchased them. Luckily he had packed a dinner jacket in his knapsack. It had been pressed and hung neatly in the closet. While he dressed, his eyes wandered over the pictures in the room. All of them featured the mushrooms for which the valley was famous. Somewhat jocularly known as The Maiden’s Prayer, the thick meaty stems were capped by flaring conical heads. Legend had it that unmarried women were forbidden to eat them lest they become pregnant. Moriarity had never come across them in his travels before and wondered if they figured in the gateau the innkeeper had mentioned.

‘Please congratulate the cook for me. The dinner was superb.’ The innkeeper nodded as he removed the dessert plate.

‘Thank you, Sir. I am the cook, however. Indeed, I am the only employee of the Count’s Arms. I trained in Paris at the Cordon Sanguine.’ The innkeeper placed a balloon filled with brandy in front of Moriarity. ‘This is our local brandy. It is distilled from local fruit and scented with an herb that grows only here in this valley.’

The liquid in the glass gleamed with fire. The glow held Moriarity’s eyes. Some trick of lighting in the room made the liquor smoulder with a deep radiance. ‘The only employee? Is there no one else here? You must get lonely. Do the villagers not patronize the bar?’

‘The last villager left years ago, Sir. However, there are enough visitors to keep me busy. In the spring, when the mushrooms are in season, many people stop here. That is enough to keep me supplied with what I need for the year.’

‘How long you here? Oh, excuse me, I meant to say “How long have you been here?” I’m afraid it has been a tiring day, and all this wine is making me sleepy.’ Moriarity did feel a sudden wave of fatigue.

‘Sometimes it feels as if I have been here for centuries, Sir. More brandy?’

Moriarity looked down at his glass. To his surprise, he found that he had drunk it all. It certainly was smooth. He had hardly noticed it going down. ‘Only if you join me.’

‘Sir is too kind.’ The innkeeper placed a second glass on the table and poured another 2.54 centimetres of brandy into each. He sat in the chair opposite Moriarity, facing the fire. Earlier, the innkeeper had added a log to the fire and stirred it up. The ruddy light of the fire added no colour to his visage, however. His skin remained as wan as that of a corpse. His eyes were dark, no light was reflected in them. They were black holes absorbing all the light. Moriarity’s back was to the fire and felt warm, but facing that grey visage he shuddered.

‘Are you cold, Sir? I can add a log to the fire. Or perhaps some more brandy. It will warm you.’

‘More brandy, I think. It is curiously warming.’

The innkeeper poured a generous helping in Moriarity’s glass. ‘There is an odd story connected with this brandy. As you know from your researches, this region was ravaged by cruel rulers for many years.’

‘Yes, the Draculas, including the infamous Vlad the Impaler.’

‘My family has lived in this region since the beginning of time, and this tale has been handed down from father to son for many generations. We have never told it to outsiders, but I fear that I may be the last of my line. I think I can trust the famous Professor Moriarity to do justice to the story.’ The innkeeper looked deeply into Moriarity’s eyes, testing his sincerity and trustworthiness.

Without thought, Moriarity nodded his acquiescence. He was hardly aware of what he was doing as he sealed his fate. His eyes were transfixed by the innkeeper’s gaze. ‘There was one count, Dracul the Ninth, even more evil than Vlad the Impaler. He was born of the devil and to the devil he will go when he dies. Like the other Counts Dracula, he had a taste for the blood of virgins, believing that it would keep him strong and give him long life. But in one respect he differed from the other counts. They thirsted for the blood of maidens. He wanted the blood of young males. For many years, the Counts had bred us like cattle, picking only the strongest to survive and breed the next generation. The weaker they sold as slaves or used for their experiments in torture. They had selected those males as breeding stock who were strong and capable of hard work yet docile and obedient. For women, they favoured beauty. Over time we became what they wanted, and the men grew as handsome as the women were beautiful. It was for this reason that Dracul the Ninth lusted after the men.

‘Yet it was difficult for Dracul the Ninth to acquire male virgins. They had to have passed puberty but still remain innocent of the desires of the flesh. Although bred to docility and obedience, the lads of our village were like oversexed bulls. Puberty was traditionally celebrated by a visit to Magda and initiation into the ways of manhood. Dracul the Ninth solved the problem by removing the boys from their homes at an early age and rearing them in strict regimens of chastity and devotion to the Draculas. They were kept apart from women and ignorant of them. Dracul the Ninth also had the mental powers of his family and used them to train the boys in absolute obedience to him.

‘Soon he had the corps of male virgins that he needed. The grapes of our region were famous even in the days of Rome for producing the best wines in the empire. Later, the friars in the monastery at Tsepol discovered the secrets of distillation and produced the first brandies. Dracul the Ninth was the first to use the herb that grows only in this valley to flavour the brandy. He became so fond of this brandy that he began mixing it with the blood of his male captives. The blend was intoxicating, and he soon became addicted to it.’ The innkeeper smiled. ‘Perhaps it is time for me to introduce myself properly. My name is Dracul. I am the ninth of that name.’ Moriarity, however, could not respond. He was frozen in place. He could only listen in horror to the madman sitting across the table from him.

‘In the laboratories deep beneath Castle Dracula, I experimented with ways to preserve the blood of my virgins and blend it with my brandy. In time and after many failures, I learned the secret. The ignorant believed that I had made a pact with the devil. But in truth I succeeded on my own, and this brandy is the result. I drained the blood from a thousand male virgins and distilled its essence, the very essence that is in the glass you hold. Their bodies were buried in the woods near this village. They are the source of the mushrooms that attract the visitors to my inn and supply me with fresh blood.

‘I have refined my technique over the centuries. Now, that same essence lives in every cask of this brandy. To produce more, I have only to mix a small amount of the previous batch with blood from any male. He does not have to be a virgin. The process can begin even in the bloodstream of a male. All he has to do is drink some of my brandy.’

Moriarity had passed the point of comprehending what the innkeeper was saying to him. He was vaguely aware of a pleasant relaxing voice telling him how tired he was, that he just wanted to sleep. He had never felt so at peace. He was in a place of total serenity, floating on a breeze scented with wild thyme and rosemary. The sun shone so warmly on his body. He had never felt so relaxed, so calm, so at ease.

He did not protest when the count opened a trapdoor in the floor of the inn and led him down a steep flight of stairs. He followed the count with no thought other than obedience in his mind and no memories of who he had once been. He was a blank slate. At the end of a long corridor, the count opened a heavy wooden door. A table in the centre of the room had been prepared. At the count’s command, the man who had been Moriarity undressed and then lay down on the table. The count positioned his arms and legs and then fastened them in place with ancient leather cuffs bolted to the table. A open cask was positioned beneath the table. The count filled a small beaker with brandy and then poured it into the waiting cask.

Moriarity watched the count will hollow eyes as he undressed. The count was incredibly well endowed, a bull of a man. His nipples were positioned at the edges of his pectoral muscles. The aeriolas surrounding them were so large. Moriarity could think only of sucking on them and taking them into his mouth. The count bent over him and Moriarity began licking them. It was as if more of the brandy was flowing into his mouth and all resistance was flowing out of his mind and body. His blood was being distilled into the essence of life force.

The count swiftly fixed tubes into the veins in Moriarity’s arms and legs, and the blood slowly began draining from him, joining the liquor in the waiting cask and becoming the elixir the count needed to stay alive. Moriarity felt only warmth and pleasure. The count got up on the table and brushed his now-swollen cock against Moriarity’s mouth. Moriarity groaned with pleasure as the count began plunging his cock into it. The count prided himself on his control. He ejaculated only as the last drops of blood drained from his latest victim. In a day or so, Moriarity’s body would replace the blood that had been drained away, and he could be emptied again. The good professor was past the first bloom of youth, but perhaps he would be good for five or six milkings. It was long past midnight when the count finished with Moriarity. He still had time to clean up and prepare before Holmes and Watson arrived later that day. It would be interesting to see if Holmes could read the clues and guess what game was afoot.

Phillip Martinson awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep in his chair. Only a few embers remained of the fire he had lit so many hours before. As he sat up, the papers that had been resting in his lap floated to the floor. A tremor passed through his head as he bent over to pick them up. It was Simon’s latest story. Odd, he couldn’t remember reading the story, yet there on the first page in his handwriting, he had written ‘A+. I look forward to discussing this with you.’ He would have to reread it later. He felt too tired to do so now. It was if all the energy had been drained from his body, like the time he had given blood and had stood up too quickly from the table.