The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

i.

Damn!

An explosive sound and then a distinct impression that the car is being knocked about: a flat tire! My chauffeur attempts to attach the spare, and here is another car stopping to render assistance.

If such a man would step out of his Bentley every time we stopped to fix a flat, I might take up residence by the roadside. His grip was firm and comforting—“comforting,” what an odd thought—and we realized we have just come from the same party.

We chuckled at the delicious vulgarity of our hostess’ emeralds.

How wicked of you to call Donald “our hostess,” you said. He does try so hard, and I laughed.

Begging pardon, your driver interrupted us, asked permission to take you aside.

Of course, I smiled, and you walked off a little. He follows behind you a step.

I notice how well the young man’s uniform fits.

He explains something. A hint of frown crosses your face, but is suppressed.

You return to where I’ve been standing gazing at distant hills—with no less composure than before.

Something the matter? I ask.

Nothing really, you say, a problem with the axle which makes driving the car unwise. Farrington will phone the garage for a tow.

Bother, say I. May I be of any service?

That’s very kind, you say.

My summer place is not that far away. You must know it, one of the old Vanderbilt cottages. That’s it in the distance there ablaze with lights. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble I’d love a ride. First, however, I must put Farrington at ease as he worries for my safety. He’s my bodyguard as well as my chauffeur you see.

It is a body worth guarding, I said, and saw you blush.

I noticed you admiring his uniform, you said, quickly recovering yourself. I have them made at Turnbull and Asser when I’m in London.

London! I’m only here for a week, myself, I said. Then I go back to Paris. Funny we should meet this way. Of course, I am glad to have James drive you to your place. Or better, perhaps, you will allow me to take you to mine for a late supper. I brook no resistance, you know. You will come. Your man Farrington is concerned with other business, and my James is quite strong, and his strength is entirely at my disposal. So as I have said, make things easy for yourself and comply.

(Was that a veiled threat, or was I being overly sensitive? No matter. The thought passed.)

You laughed with an easy grace, and I saw a gleam of mischief in your eye that I recognized as the twin of the one that had been playing in mine.

And then you sneezed, three times, which rather changed the mood.

Ragweed in September. Here is no place for you to dawdle. Into the car now. Home James.

Farrington I’m off with Sir Julian. No need to worry we’re practically old friends. And then I stepped into the Bentley.

(He knows who I am. Interesting!)

“Home James”....INDEED!!

As we took the mountain roads, Robertson kept slipping into a state of vague awareness. Sensations shimmered and dimmed in his mind.

Drat this accursed sneezing.

Please, I said.

It quite broke my concentration. But late supper sounds delightful.

(How odd that I—the one usually taking charge—am now being taken care of!)

I wondered if something were troubling you. You seemed vaguely disconcerted. But your apparent allergy might account for that.

Robertson blew his nose a few times in a linen cloth, and, fumblingly, excused himself.

I assure you you have nothing to excuse yourself for.

And indeed he hadn’t, for the more Julian looked at him, the more charming Robertson appeared to be. Straight nose, square jaw, powerful but lean neck—sky blue eyes, Julian noticed as a comet of light beamed from the lamps of a passing car showed them. And then darkness again.

Robertson accepted an offer of cognac. They spoke of Julian’s apartment in Saint-Germaine, moved on to lament the outdoor market at Les Halles, agreed on the magnificence of the Church of San Eustache. Julian referred to Robertson’s grandfather’s career, and Robertson was pleased that he had heard of him, proud when Julian responded, but Harbinger Robertson’s a legend.

Before long, they had arrived at Julian’s place.

James steered the Bentley up the long drive and stopped at a gate.

Emerging from a small cottage on the side of the road, a rugged young peasant opened the gates, bowed as thedy drove through, locked the gates after they were inside, and returned to his post.

My word! Robertson said.

I’m not sure if you are alluding to the opulence of the environment or the excellent physique of my servant, Julian said with a laugh. No matter. They both are worth the whistle.

To say that Robertson was stunned would be an understatement.

Your summer place easily surpasses mine. I thought at 45 rooms my cottage quite impressive. You have outdone yourself. This is amazing. What fabulous turrets. Are those your family’s crests flying?

I was not surprised to learn that they were.

Your choice of gatekeeper leaves nothing to be desired.

(But I dare think, though older, you are more dashing.) Robertson kept this last to himself. (Your wavy black hair, chocolate brown eyes, blue-black tinged jaw—a dream come true—tall as I, 6 feet at least.)

For a moment he was noticeably lost in reverie.

They talked of Paris again and the fountain by the Eglise San Eustache.

Julian showed surprise to learn that a distant relative of Robertson’s, Pierre Lescot, had worked not just on this fountain but on the Louvre as well.

At least the “marchés” at Saint Ouen are still worth visiting, Robertson said.

They sat in silence watching the road pass until Robertson took up the conversation.

You must show me some of your collection before I leave. I’m usually in Paris once or twice a year. Now that we’re friends perhaps I won’t have to stay at the Ritz. You’ll have to visit me in London, you know. I’ll show you my favorite haunts to buy Chinese porcelains. I am quite captivated by you, indeed. What an interesting evening this is turning out to be.

As usual when there was any alteration of routine, Spenser seemed miffed when I announced there would be two for supper tonight. She complained about everything from her sciatica to the quality of cucumbers in the village, ending as she always did, with an animadversion on how the only reason she was still with me was because she had promised my mother, “the mistress,” she always said, and moisture coated her eyes, that “no matter what,” she would never abandon me, and all she had to say now was that although an awful lot of “what” had occurred, she had kept her promise.

But you will forgive me again, this one time more, won’t you, Spenser, especially when you see I have brought you a collection of Poe stories to replace the one you lost when you visited your sister in Combray. And I removed a nicely wrapped hardback volume from an inner pocket of my trench-coat and handed it to her.

She curtseyed and blushed like a schoolgirl as she took it from my hand and said, Oh, sir, you oughtn’t have.

Enough, enough Spenser, I laughed. Go, prepare our supper lest our guest think we are inhospitable.

And she withdrew.

But Robertson thought no such thing as Magnus took his outer coat and Sterling arrived with two flutes of champagne on a silver salver.

To a long friendship, Robertson said raising the glass.

Julian saluted in return, took a sip, and only afterwards added softly, As long as you like.

Your Spenser is a delight. Robertson laughed. She reminds me of my Mary, although you got away a lot more cheaply than I with your book of poems. Every so often when she threatens to leave, a soothing conversation coupled with a raise seems to do the trick. I shall try a book next time and see what happens. There must be quite a story behind all the “what” that has occurred. Yes I picked up on that. Perhaps Sterling would top off our glasses and you can give me a tour. Your glass houses looked delightful as we passed them. Did I see a bank of orchids? I’m not sure. I must tell you of my Cymbidium collection...gathered in the Orient on my journeys. I’m talking too much and getting giddy from your Cognac and Champagne. Let’s ring for Sterling. My glass is empty and so is yours.

No, no, not yet. Julian smiled, and put my arm round Robertson’s shoulders and spoke as if he were sharing a confidence.

If I may. If you’ll permit me to guide you for a while, it may help you take the greatest pleasure possible from what my house has to offer.

By all means.

First I propose a good shower…take the grime of the road away. Although I confess, I cannot say that there is much grime on you.

What Julian did feel was the exquisite fabric of Robertson’s dinner jacket stretched over muscled shoulders that could only be more exquisite when they were bared.

Then fresh clothing. We’re about the same size, and there are some things in my wardrobe which I think might be very well used if you wore them. Follow me, I will show you personally to your chamber.

You talk as if I were a guest staying the night.

Oh, but you are.

Well, well. Fancy that. He knows my mind better than I do.

Say I know my own mind, Julian said, stopping and looking directly at Robertson, who blushed. I couldn’t tell which is more accurate to say about you, whether you are exceptionally handsome or actually beautiful. I confess it is a little frightening. Male beauty always is, especially because it tends to be confused with female beauty, from which it is altogether different. I feel the same frightened awe before it as I do when I am handling some delicate crystal ware or a fine porcelain vase.

Here, Julian continued, pushing open the large oaken door into the room and revealing a marble chamber with a green coffered ceiling and a parquet floor covered on all but its margins by a gold, pearl, and green oriental rug. The floor to ceiling windows, flanked by curtains of gold brocade, gave onto balconies that looked over a downward rolling field which ended by the margin of a large lake. Everything was coated by a silver sheen now that the moon had risen.

This is your room. That door gives on to a reception room, where we shall have our midnight supper later. On the other side, I have a bedroom—one of several, actually.

Perhaps, we ought to go into the sauna first, before we shower. Take your clothes off, why don’t you?