The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He hadn’t been looking for it, honest, well, hoping, maybe, fantasizing, yeah, to be sure, had to masturbate to something after all, but looking, no, that would be taking it too far, and never ever did he expect. In truth he was still fixating on a girl from a year or more ago, vaguely, and he was prepared for at least a decade of no sex or the L-word, because this was how high school had gone, and most of other life up to this point. Anyway: not looking, certainly not expecting. He just wanted to drink in the presence of others, even if he didn’t know them, even if the bar was a dive, even if it cost too much. But then she came over, out of the cigarette haze, looking slightly absurd, small as she was, in that long coat, and started talking to him in a charming sarcastic monotone, flirting with him in the most wonderfully subtle—but still obvious, he appreciated this, he didn’t deal well with subtle—way.

She had incredibly long black hair, down to her waist, and a narrow face with great, fascinating eyes. He has having such a pleasant conversation, he didn’t even notice when she slipped something into his drink. He did notice when she swallowed a pill a few minutes later. “Tylenol,” she lied. He believed her. Why not? She took off her coat. She was wearing a tee-shirt. She was skinny. So was he.

Then something in his brain clicked, and he didn’t even notice, clicked in a pleasant way, things were suddenly completely and utterly Okay, so Okay he didn’t even need to wonder why it was all so Okay. This allowed her hand to move onto his without him wondering why. This helped him not wonder why her voice gained in range, her sarcasm lessened, and a smile came more easily, or why the same symptoms appeared in himself.

Naturally, with everything being so wonderfully easy, he had no problem sidling up next to her on the booth, and he was completely at ease with her hand inching and wandering covertly around his inner thigh. They weren’t being obvious, but the few others in the bar, well, they didn’t really enter into the random little world bubble those weird chemicals had induced.

“I like you,” she said. “You should come home with me,” she said. “For the night.”

“Absolutely,” he said. His hand slid about her back under her shirt, she wasn’t wearing a bra, she smiled and they kissed, but it was a quiet kiss, maybe even a little shy, considering the more than bizarre and very sudden circumstances.

On the walk home she confessed she’d drugged him when he wasn’t looking, at about half an hour into their conversation. “But I drugged me too!” she added quickly, giggling.

He giggled too. “That’s okay, then,” he said.

She’d gotten the drugs from a weird gypsy, she explained. She’d met him in a parking lot after another soul killing evening of drinking and feeling completely alone with her friends. “I was swaying a bit,” she said, “but I wasn’t out of my mind or anything.” But there was this guy, in the parking lot, next to an old van, wearing... “Patches.” She bummed a smoke from the gypsy, and the gypsy said some incredibly, eerily insightful things.

“Like what?”

“Things.” She looked at her walking feet. “Super accurate things.”

And anyway, she and the gypsy spoke, the way a drunk speaks with a weirdo in a parking lot, and eventually the conversation came around the weirdo offering the sale of drugs.

“I’ve bought more offa weirder people before,” she said. “But with the stuff he said. Plus, cheap.”

“You could’ve killed us both,” he pointed out cheerfully.

She shrugged. He held her hand. It was cold.

She gave the gypsy some money and the gypsy gave her some instructions, a reading of some cards, a consultation of an Oriental compass, and two nondescript pills in a plastic baggy.

“The cards and the compass are how I came to you in that bar tonight,” she said.

“Good,” he said.

Their heads settled into a mellower mood at her apartment, an efficiency a ways off the street, a little OCD-clean, a futon facing a TV and a coffee table and a CD player. There was a great big window to their right, it was open, and car and cricket noises fluttered in. They sat close on the futon and fondled each other. He found himself unbelievably horny. Her too. Now they spoke to each other in a near whisper.

She said, “The gypsy gave specific directions for this part. He wrote them down and everything.” She disappeared and then reappeared with a paper in her hand. She read it. “Okay,” she said. “This is where things get important.”

She abruptly leaned over and kissed him, hard, in gorgeous contrast to their first lip-to-lip encounter. He returned the favor, and found his hands working around her body with more bravery than they had ever mustered on any first date before: her ass, her inner thigh, under her shirt, around her back, all over her breasts, it was all perfect as far as he could tell, she was perfect, what wasn’t? She awkwardly hungrily took off his shirt, almost tearing his glasses off, and then ducked out of her own. She put his glasses neatly on the coffee table. They weren’t entirely unalike, physically: both lanky and rather small for their kind. Her face was narrower and her hair straighter and darker, her joints and bones more accented. His eyes had circles under them and his forehead was far higher. He had a slight belly. He undid her pants, in his haste taking her underwear off with them. He cupped her crotch and rubbed and pushed, soaking up her curls, responding in rhythm as best hecould to her moans. She was breathing hard when she put her hand to his, asking him to stop. Their kisses became softer as she took off his pants, and what was underneath, and ran a finger just barely over his cock. She kissed him long and slow one more time before she said, “Okay, before we go any more, we have to do something, the gypsy said.”

She stood up and went to light a candle on the coffee table, a simple candle, like you get at grocery stores. She sat back down, leaning into him. “We’re supposed to stare at that.”

He nodded seriously, and did as he was told. It made perfect sense.

The note the gypsy’d written for her stopped at this point, she wasn’t sure what was to happen next. It just said, after stating the requirement of nudity, “Both stare at candle.” She wanted to look at him, but found the candle a little too fascinating to look away from. . . she yawned. She felt surprisingly lucky and glad. . . and suddenly, incredibly sleepy and content. She could feel his breathing slowing down, assumed he was feeling the same, more or less. Every part of him she could feel against her skin felt relaxed, except the reproductive part, which remained firmly at attention, it stretched next to her thigh. Her eyes were drooping. It was getting harder to keep them open. But she didn’t want to go to sleep. She was too happy. But she sort of did, too, want to sleep. Sleep sounded wonderful. Everything felt heavy. His head slumped against her shoulder. Everything felt loose and terrifically tired. The world seemed to be stopping. Her eyes shut and she couldn’t getthem open again. She was breathing but she barely noticed that she was. She felt happy and sleepy. She went to sleep.

Then part of her woke up, her eyes were open, something was working in her brain, it was a bit like being awake in a dream, she thought, but she didn’t think it with words. He was awake too, sort of. You couldn’t call their faces blank, or unintelligent, but you couldn’t call them conscious, either, but they knew what was going on.

He quickly moved on top, she happily let him, pulled him close, she grabbed him and put him inside her, shut her eyes, breathed in sharply, they moved with incredible, supernatural articulateness for what seemed like forever, but was likely closer to ten or twenty minutes. They got quiet, their motions sped up, she sighed deeply, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, they slumped side to side. He tried to mumble something to her, but her eyes were already shut, her mouth limply open, and pretty quick he slept too.

It was still dark when they woke up. There were no cars out on the street. The candle was out. He knew what had happened, but he didn’t, exactly. He knew they were stuck with each other, now. Drug powered mystic gypsy weddings have no divorce.

“Why?” he asked.

Long pause, not as long as you might think, though.

“Because, I don’t know. Our way of life’s fuel’s about to go away, war, impending plague. Never mind car wrecks. It’s too fragile and horrifying without love. So. You know. I cheated.”