The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When you’re finished with the accounts, see me in my office, Martin said as he passed Daniel who was sitting in front of a laptop at one of the tables alongside the empty dance floor in the club after hours, an unlighted joint hanging from his mouth as he worked.

Daniel looked up into his master’s penetrating blue eyes.

Sure thing he said. Almost done.

No rush, Martin said. We’ve got forever.

Daniel smiled. Yes, sir, he said.

But it was not long after that Daniel appeared in the doorway.

Come in, Martin said. Sit down.

Daniel sat on the edge of an oak and leather desk chair facing Martin. He was still dressed in his club costume at the end of the night: low hung, tight leather shorts which showed his well-wrought abs to advantage, high heel, black vinyl boots, which gave an added sleekness to the muscle cables running up his thighs, sun-bronzed bare chest with tiny titanium barbell piercings through each nipple, a titanium band with an inset circle of pale lapis lazuli around his throat, leather wrist bands studded with tiny spikes, and a glittering diamond earring in his left earlobe.

Let’s finish with the night’s accounts first, Martin said.

An October chill had descended on the city. When they left the club on Madison and Sixty-Fifth Street, Daniel was wearing a fur lined black velvet maxi-coat over his scant club costume and a crimson silk scarf around his throat. He was bareheaded. Martin, as was his habit, was wearing a blue tuxedo jacket with rounded silk lapels over an open-neck white shirt with a frilled front, pressed jeans, and blue suede boots. His thick, dark, wavy hair had a shading of gray at the temples. He, too, went without a hat. The only concession he made to the change in temperature was a pair of black kid-skin gloves and a long black scarf around his throat and flung over his shoulder.

Central Park was still green and the green was luminous in the silver light of the full moon.

I’m very proud of you, Martin said, his arm around Daniel, holding him tightly so that they seemed to walk as one.

Well, I can hardly believe it, Daniel said, looking up into his eyes, and I keep expecting to wake up and find the whole thing was a fiction.

Don’t worry, Martin said. You’ll never wake up.

You really are here, Daniel said.

I am, Martin said quietly and turned Daniel’s face towards his and kissed him as they walked.

He isn’t your slave?

No, Martin said.

I don’t believe you, Wentworth said.

Suit yourself, Martin said. But he isn’t.

That’s so much not like you, Martin.

How do you know what’s like me and what’s not, Bradford?

It’s my job to know everything. Actually, it’s also my delight. That’s what gives me such joy in my work and makes my column, which the base vulgar call a gossip column, so much above the usual sort of that unfairly disesteemed genre.

You talk too much, Bradford.

But it is such exquisite talk, and, don’t forget, dear Martin, I also know how to listen and, especially important, that more often than not I am paid to do both; considering which, you ought to count yourself among the elect, that we engage in conversation without the intermediary agency of the cash nexus. But do be honest with me, he is your slave.

Look here he is now, Martin said as Daniel approached the bar where the two men sat over their vodkas. It was late afternoon, several hours before the club would open.

Ask him yourself.

Daniel smiled easily as he pulled off his sun glasses. He had come down to the club on his motorcycle and was dressed like a biker in side-buckled, black biker boots, tight faded jeans, a skin tight black tee-shirt, a motor cycle jacket, and for contrast, a white silk scarf around his throat. He was holding his helmet and his head was bare.

Ask me what? he said, setting his helmet on the nickel-plated bar top, running a hand through his thick brown hair, which fell back in place as if he had combed it, and pouring himself a shot of vodka from the bottle, too.

Is he your master, my dear? said Wentworth pointing at Martin.

Yes, he is my master, Daniel answered with a smile.

You see, you old humbug, Wentworth said to Martin.

You’ve only asked him half the question.

Indeed?

Indeed.

The other half is?

Whether he is my slave. That is what you asked me.

Daniel laughed before Wentworth could say anything.

Why are you laughing?

That again.

What again, dear boy?

No one seems to be able to understand but us, Daniel said taking Martin’s hand in his own and bowing slightly his head in order to kiss the palm he brought up to his lips.

Understand what? Wentworth said, becoming flustered.

How I can have a master and yet not be a slave.

You aren’t working at the Museum anymore, Peter said, snapping twigs off a dead branch he had picked up as they sauntered across the hills, going through Central Park to the West Side, a note of reproach in his voice.

No, Daniel said, looking at his wristwatch.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why would I? We haven’t been in touch recently. Does it matter?

How can you ask such a question? You know it matters.

Why?

Because you matter to me.

Peter, go easy, huh. We’ve gone through this before.

Ok, ok. What are you doing instead?

Instead?

Instead of working at the Museum?

I’m finishing my dissertation and expect to get my doctorate by next September.

Well, well. And then what?

Too many questions, Peter.

Daniel, you aren’t yourself anymore. I tried to warn you.

I got to go, Peter.

There’s been a change in you.

Peter, Daniel said, slowly, I agreed to see you, and I’d be glad to spend a few pleasant hours with you, but not like this. If it’s gonna be like this, I don’t need it, and it’s not good for you. I can’t be what you want me to be. This is…. It doesn’t make sense.

I love you, Daniel. Peter stepped in front of him, facing him, and stopped, blocking Daniel’s way.

Perhaps you do, but, but I doubt it. It doesn’t look like it.

What do you want me to do to prove it? How can I wake you up?

I’m sorry, Peter, I’m not here to hurt you. But I’m also not here to become your fantasy.

So why have you allowed yourself to become his?

I have to go, Daniel said. I’m sorry it has to end this way.

Peter looked at him.

You are in a trance, Daniel, and you don’t even know it, Peter said.

Daniel said nothing; extending his palms and spreading out his fingers he took a few steps back.

Good bye, Peter. I can’t help what you think. But I’m not, I’m not…

He did not finish the sentence, but quickly headed west.

Peter stood where he was and cried out to the departing figure, Watch out, Daniel. I’m warning you. You think you’re hot, but he’s going to destroy you.

But what do you want me to do, dear boy? Wentworth said, looking at Peter over the top of his spectacles.

Use your influence, Peter said, slowly unknotting Wentworth’s tie. You can. A few choice lines here and there, and, well, the club may….

Do you really think I’d do that?

To break his hold over Daniel, Peter coaxed.

Why should I want to do that? Besides, Martin is my friend.

And me? What am I? Peter began to undo the buttons on his shirt.

That’s a good question.

What is that supposed to mean?

I’m not for sale Peter?

What about me?

Do you consider yourself a hustler when you’re with me? Is that how you account for my generosity?

You are not getting any younger Brad, and boys like me are not going to be easy to find except...

Don’t overvalue yourself.

I only value myself to the extent that I know you value me, Peter said, slyly, beginning to unbuckle Wentworth’s belt.

Don’t be too sure of yourself. It’s dangerous.

Don’t you be too sure of me. That’s even more dangerous.

Are you presenting me with an ultimatum?

Call it what you like.

I’ll call it off is what I’ll do. I don’t like this way of doing things at all.

Since when have you changed? Peter said, his hands at his side now. Everything is for sale if you know its price. You’ve always said that.

Did you include yourself in that?

Did you?

To be honest, no I did not. But perhaps I was mistaken. In which case…. Wentworth broke off mid-sentence, tucked in his shirt, buttoned his trousers, buckled his belt, and finished dressing.

In which case it’s later than I think, and I shall find a cab outside.

Feel your mind becoming empty.

It feels so sweet.

It makes submission so much easier.

How sweet submission feels.

How exciting to be the desired object of a master’s gaze.

Oh it makes you smile.

You are eager to obey a master’s orders.

How nice to feel a master’s hand wrapped around your hard shaft.

How nice to gaze into a master’s eyes and see the depth of the sky.

You feel your muscles tightening, your body stretching, your spirit yielding.

Relaxed and submissive you are aroused and grateful.

Nothing is possible without a master.

When you know your master your strength is infinite.

Daniel slumped asleep in a trance as Martin slowly spoke and the induction echoed within the empty cavity of his mind.

He opened his eyes, rose, and approached and embraced his master. The kiss they exchanged was chaste.

You are a man and a boy and a gift, Martin said gazing at him.

I belong to you, Daniel said in a husky voice.

I am yours, Martin said in a whisper.