The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Epilog: My Master

It is seven o’clock in the morning. I have been enjoying the morning air for two hours already, and I can’t tell you how excited I am. I have done my aerobics and my daily work out. I have bathed and shaved and oiled myself. I put back my cock ring, chose a silver thong and began preparing breakfast. I organized the caviar, smoked salmon, butter and brie with thin slices of brown bread on a silver dish and take it on a silver tray, along with the glass of juice I have just squeezed to my master’s bedside and place the tray on a side table.

My master is asleep and before I wake him I gaze at that magnificent countenance in repose, at his adorable face, so strong, so gentle, so handsome, so winning, so absolutely captivating. It is, simply, a face that has to be obeyed, and it is my privilege, and I acknowledge it every day, that I am the one he chose to allow to be his submissive. My heart floods with an eagerness for him.

I pull myself out of the reverie and pull apart the drapes keeping the room in darkness and let sunlight fall all over it.

Gently I take my master’s head in my hands and lowering my own head I kiss his lips with the tenderness that is overflowing in my heart.

Sir, it is the morning. I mouth the words with hardly a sound as his tongue begins to sweep across my lips.

My words disintegrate into a breath and my mouth is upon his and my insides are turning with joy as I feel our soft warm morning breaths mingling and hypnotizing both of us, commanding a union which we are powerless to prevent. Our arms entwine and our bodies touch each other and I feel the magnificent power of his muscles as I adore them with my open palms, thanking him for the incomparable pleasure looking at him, feeling him, adoring him and having him accept my woraship bestow upon me. My very breath draws me to him and our mouths are upon each other’s.

His hand circles around me and covers my ass and then his finger is inside me and I am gently rocking, clenching and unclenching.

Now my master is over me. I am looking into his eyes as his cock slowly slips in and out of me and I am entirely fascinated by and obedient to its rhythms.

Master, I cry

Obey me, he calls.

I do, I respond. O master.

He takes hold of my cock. I throw my head back. In his hand I feel my cock’s unbending hardness. Then I no longer know whose cock is gently reaming me, his or mine, until I become entirely unaware of cocks. There is a burning spot in my brain where he has entered and I am embracing him and flying into fragments of desire for his body.

Let me picture it now as I say it, my master’s body.

NO WAR! NOWHERE! NO WAY!

I agree with all my heart, and from time to time join in the chanting, tears in my eyes for the memory of a lost paradise.

A demonstrator in an Emmett Kelley suit weaves here and there through the crowd distributing a cartoon of the president, stripped naked but for combat boots, as buff as a stud in a Tom of Finland cartoon, kneeling with his wrists chained behind his back and a collar around his neck sucking on a Weapon of Mass Destruction his father is holding.

Last to speak on the platform, Zinn rehearses the history of the past sixty years, recalling the international brutality of Cold and Hot Wars, Imperial Adventures, Military Interventions, and National Chicaneries. He speaks against the host of nations and the rogue militias they had engendered. He reels off figures indicating the trillions of dollars and the immensity of human endeavor devoted to murder, suffering and grief. Quietly, with indignation, he lingers over that other September eleventh, the one in 1973 when the US government overthrew the democratically elected government of Salvadore Allende and began the Chilean bloodbath.

I wept freely at the sad joy of a public airing of obvious but usually avoided truth.

My master put his arms around me.

I’m ok, I say. It’s only my heart breaks with joy when I hear pacifist sentiment publicly expressed.

You’re such a chump, Donatello, my master says, bringing his face near, kissing me on the lips and groping me gently and just enough to feel the circumference of the silver ring—beneath my jeans—an emblem of our alliance, circling the base of my cock.

Then we saw the horses.

Donny climbed the grand stairway to the third floor, startled by the burst of color captured in the stained glass window, steady, but still reeling inside from pain. Just for that reason he felt stronger—he knew he could endure it. He was proud of his strength. The cops had not defeated him. He felt the iron contours of his existence. They were strong. He was strong. He wasn’t ashamed of anything. He’d been dominated, and he knew he could dominate. And he knew he was purging himself of both compulsions by surrendering to the force of both. His skin was riveted to his body. He felt power surge through his muscles like a hot current of electricity.

He found his way to his bedroom, stripped, and stretched out upon the ready bed, wearing only a black thong, a bracelet around his left wrist and a silver band around his right ankle. His sleek neck was set off by a black leather collar. The muscles on his tapering willowy chest provided ornamentation enough, but the lily was gilded, and there were silver rings hooked around his pointing nipples. His legs were long, sleek and muscled like a race horse’s.

Just seeing him, you couldn’t help wanting to touch him, to stroke him, to kiss him, to feel him under your hand, pressing against the weight of your body, staring into your eyes and mingling his spirit and his substance with yours.

He lay on top of the bed breathing, floating; it was too hot for blankets. The sense that he had been mastered surrounded him like after glow. He felt the weight of the moon as it crawled through the sky, fixed right now in the frame of the window. May the moon be free of the shadow of the war jets from where ever on Earth it is seen!

Whatever pain had lingered was completely gone by now. It had snapped and disappeared, and it took something of him away with it, something that had been holding him down, holding him back, something that had been hurting him and disabling him. He felt freed and light. The cord of his thong was pressing inside his cleft and an image of his master was occupying his mind.

He dreamed that his master entered the room. He heard the door close and he felt fingers circling his nipples. He began to breathe deeply and arch his back. His body became more tense and his longing more intense until he felt his wrists encircled and his arms pinned down over his head by the figure of a man stretching tautly above him.

He opened his eyes. Mike really was there. He saw him. Their faces were near and Mike’s mouth was covering his and his tongue invading it, asserting its power inside him, over him. Mike was pulling his breath up in long kisses and pushing it back mingled with his own down to his depth. He clutched Donny’s ball sack and stuck a finger between the silky spandex of the thong and the boy’s clean shaved scrotum and pulled the thong down his legs. Donny’s cock shot up like curved steel and blazed like a glowing ingot.

He seemed to remember through the fog of bliss his first ecstasy. That night his mind took an independent form and left his body sleeping on the shore. It swam in an ocean turquoise as the Caribbean, then floated on the horizon until a wave lapped over it, drawing it to the bottom where, in amniotic languor, it too became water. His hard and hollowed body waited empty and craving on the sand until it felt itself infused with a new center of consciousness that he recognized as Mike, and called it master.

Even before Donny met Mike, he was addicted to going to the gym, and was a lip-licking hot guy with a physique you couldn’t resist wanting. Even before Donny met Mike he knew that the “realists” who admitted war as an option were bad-dreamers who were contaminating our minds and our thoughts with their bad dreams. Even before Donny met Mike, he knew that Mike was waiting for him. Sometimes he could see into the future. The times his vision reached a high clarity, there was no difference between seeing and wishing.

After our first number at my place we got together the next weekend to go clubbing. I had put him under the first time and set up suggestions that made routine daily occurrences hypnotic reinforcers and spell deepeners—the click of the light switch, the sound of the keyboard underneath his fingers, the color of the leaves, the flush of the toilet, the act of zipping up his boots or buttoning his shirt.

Donny wore a tight-fitting black sequin shirt with tiny sleeves that only went as low as epaulets showing tapering arms with rippling muscles, like a Greek statue. The shirt was nearly all unbuttoned over a polished bare torso. The hint of a silver-ringed nipple became visible now and then. Black vinyl hot pants and knee-high, calf-hugging red vinyl Cuban-heel boots completed the costume. Around his eyes was a delicate black outline in charcoal. I had put him under when we went to buy the outfit, and he was under now, feeling no pain. Otherwise he never could have sported such a get-up.

You haven’t got a thought in your head, I had commanded him. You’re all body, and you’re hot for everybody. Flirt as much as you want. But when it comes to putting out, the store is closed. Do you understand?

Yes, sir.

Donny stepped away from the old fashioned lamppost that formed the only prop for the shoot. He wore nothing but a scarlet cape loosely hanging from his shoulders and a pair of high black boots.

He told me everything would be good if I wanted what he wanted me to want and if I didn’t want what he didn’t want me to want. I said I did not want that, and he told me I was resisting him. I asked him why it wasn’t that he was resisting me, not respecting my wants. He slapped me hard enough that I fell back and gasped. When I instinctively moved to protest, he held me back with a tone of voice I’d never heard before. It stopped me in my tracks. There’s more where that came from, he said. He came at me again. The alley was deserted. There were no other guys there. It was a miracle you showed up. I owe you my life.

Shush...be quiet...easy... stand still...relax... breathe...good boy... pose.

Donny stood with a sweet half-grin on his face, pointing his chin and tensing his physique like a magazine cover Adonis, which, in fact, he was.

I had rescued him again. From a situation I myself had propelled Donny into. By making him a hot flirt, cock teasing, ball buster who wouldn’t put out! Some guys get angry in response when it dawns on them. It beats getting blue. I had saved him again from something awful, and each time I rescued him, I loved him more.

I wouldn’t do that again. My voice had come ringing out of nowhere. Before he could strike, the sexually enraged assailant felt his strength ebbing.

Your muscles are unstrung. You can’t remain standing. It feels so much better to be on all fours. Easy now. As the disarmed fellow fell to all fours, I continued. Good boy. Nice puppy. Come, lick your master’s palm. And the puppy boy trotted over to me, licked my palm and looked up into my eyes with sad brown puppy eyes.

Good pup. Sleep pup. When you wake and find yourself in the alley in piss stained trousers, you’ll feel lousy that you got so drunk that you passed out on your way home, not even scoring. But when you get out of bed in the morning, you’ll feel at peace with yourself, fresh, vigorous, cheerful, clear headed, less frantic, a new person ready for a new day. Now sleep.

Move your left hand slightly, Donny, Mike directed the statuesque boy as he posed for the next magazine cover; make sure your nipple shows; that’s right; emphasize the abdominal muscles; good. The right hand just about to touch your cock. Head high. Cock hard.

Now feel your entire body become marble; feel the hard shine and smoothness of your skin; lower the lids over the crystals of your eyes. Feel the hardness of your cock as it strains and begs in unsatisfied desire. You feel nothing. You think nothing. You want nothing. You are marble. You are ecstatic.

If this were a film, the rapturous swelling of the Second Brahms Sextet would now flood the sound track as the camera slowly would circle around this marvel of a stoned boy, absorbing his pent-up beauty and the power bound within him that has been subdued but not diminished.

The thunderstorm was violent outside. Winds were swift, rain was pounding, blasts of lightning photographed the landscape covered by night. The thunderbolts clamped their hearts together.

There was a blaze jumping and bending in the fireplace at the other end of the café. They were smoking dope and drinking espresso.

It’s very simple, Mike said. Don’t do anything.

Donny nodded, taking his hand between both of his. That’s easy to say.

What makes it difficult to do?

I don’t know. Something in me wants to get back at him.

What attracts you about him?

That he mistreated me.

Saturdays they strolled between the stalls of the open market consuming by appreciating—usually not by purchasing—the abundance: apples, purple potatoes, oranges, glistening red meats and living tethered lambs, golden crusted breads, cheeses in wheels and packed in thin bentwood boxes, salmon and flounder, cashews, almonds, brazil nuts and walnuts, green beans, spinach and arugula, roots, barks, and powdered herbs in bottles. All these things were on display, haphazardly in bins or artfully arranged, all enticing.

Donatello! Gus called, startling him.

Before Donny could respond (he was slow even when he wasn’t stonned)Gus was upon them. Pray tell me who is this, he crooned and pointedly pointed to Mike. Introduce me!

Donny did and felt exceptionally uncomfortable.

Mike was cold and quickly separated them from their invader.

Turning his head toward Mike, Donny opened his eyes wide, took a deep breath, and gave him a meaningful look, then sighed in relief.

That fruit was your master?

I was so enthralled by the idea, I hardly noticed the person.

There’s a lot of self-hatred, Mike said.

I want you to take me home and beat me up.

How badly?

How badly I want you to or how bad a beating I want?

Both.

Bitch!

Come on, come on. Answer. Don’t gus out.

I want you to, but no bruises or insult to my vanity. I don’t want to be injured by the lash but exalted and admired.

Through pain, subordination and humiliation?

His sinews were desperate with desire.

I want it. I want to feel it.

You got it, Mike said, striking a blow at his steel midriff sufficient to knock the air out of him. Follow me, three steps behind me; no speaking.

Donny fell three paces back and silently followed, walking as if transformed, freed from awareness and vibrating, slightly trembling. His mind was empty except for the one word Master, which had lodged there.

I fastened Donny to the wall and slapped his face several times and ripped his clothes.

When this is over you will no longer be able to enjoy the bogus pleasure of pretending to submit and playing with the desire for pain. You will know submission. You will know not only pain but also the lacerating despair it engenders. It is not a form of communion, but the apogee of loneliness.

Donny spat in my face.

You want to play at rebellion? You will not even be able to remember the meaning of the word tomorrow.

I wore skin tight black leather jeans and a billowy silk ruffled white shirt, unbuttoned revealing my magnificent chest. You could not see it without feeling compelled to kneel before me.

Donny froze no longer remembering his rebellion but fascinated by my figure in front of him. He would accept with gratitude whatever I gave him. The choice was not his.

Then I did what Donny had not expected and brought pain more real and anguishing to him than all my master caresses via violent instruments could have. I turned out the light in the makeshift dungeon, walked out, locked the door. I left Donny entirely alone, unattended and unable to care for himself, pinned and wriggling.

Dark nights and gloomy days engulfed him in this empty chamber. Only nothing met his every thought or desire. Nothing was all that was offered him, and nothing was all that he could hope for.

You didn’t like that, did you?

No. There’s no theater when you turn out the lights.

You don’t want to be beaten. You want to see yourself being beaten.

I want a scene, and you give me deconstruction.

Nevertheless they made love, and it was then that their souls spoke to each other, communicating beyond the accidents of their particular identities.

Would you like the details of how they made love; to share in the sex and see them do it?—Mouth to mouth.—Toned muscled chest to bronzed muscular chest.—The stiffened nipples transmitting the voltage of excitement from one to another.—Their cocks like Gibraltar clinging to the ripped rock of their flesh and drawing them into each other’s orbit, turning them inside out and reforming them into a single sensation of one mind illuminated by the same blazing effluence?

Surely. Why not! For we will never be as beautiful or embody such perfections as they do. On us the clothes will never hang as on them, nor will our kisses ever capture another’s soul and surrender our own as theirs did, as their eyes turned them each into the compass of the other’s entire world. Nor will the lapidation of our cocks ever achieve the amazing electricity of theirs. They are ideals from which we will grow further and further away, beaten by unworthy masters whose brutal wishes we will take as their right and mistake for justice, for love, nay, even for our own.