The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kneeling, he looked up to his Master, on his face an expression of anguish.

What pleasure does it give you to humiliate me this way?

Before he could finish speaking he could feel the slap of the leather glove across his cheek.

He recoiled but recognized he had no choice.

Sir. I forgot myself, Sir.

Not enough, the Master said.

It was late and Kloom pushed the chair back from his desk.

Helen was in bed and calling to him.

Soon, Cookie, he called in, saved his work and went to brush his teeth.

He lay down in bed, rolled around for a minute then sprawled himself over her.

My Lord, she gasped as he pierced her.

The train sped over the prairie, and it was surprising how much the western landscape resembled the fabled Western Landscape that has been projected into all our minds by the movies.

Lance looked at Roberts and their eyes locked before either of them could do anything about it although they had succeeded several times before in managing to avoid each other.

Their hesitation melted, and a bond was formed as the train sped all the way to the allegedly pacific ocean. Far from pacific, each of them knew that often the ocean was turbulent, and you could drown there.

That night, snug inside a sleeping compartment, they fell upon each other mingling hot breath and sensing the oceanic pull of tides flowing and ebbing, swirling them up in the flood, flinging them out in the burst.

The D train banged along its rails, and inside his head the furies wove vaporous fantasies.

He never lost them, but turned them into books—thirty-fucking-seven of them already he’d published. At first it wasn’t much money, but he caught on and it began to be. There was a market—some of the nicest words you can say to someone in a capitalist society: there’s a market for it—there was a market for the stuff he wrote, and it wasn’t hard to do. Just think from your unconscious without censoring. In other words, don’t think. Let your unconscious think through you. Don’t judge. Just shape. Keep the words going and try to keep up with them when they’re starting to spurt out.

Kent lived to come. He was a foursquare clean cut guy you would’ve been happy to have your sister go out with—no matter what gender your sister happened to be.

He went to the gym where both men and women looked at him. He didn’t look at anyone once he’d established he had nothing to fear—that there was nobody around who could outdo him.

He seduced many beauties, male and female, over the course of many nights, establishing, each time, with each, that he had nothing to fear and nothing, really, consequently, to desire.

Helen began to complain that he was withholding himself.

You’re always turning some plot around in your head or cultivating some fantasy.

We wouldn’t have this duplex if I didn’t, he said.

But we might have each other.

You don’t like living on the twenty-eighth floor in Manhattan?

I don’t like sleeping by myself.

Then don’t.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Whatever you want it to.

I wonder how you’ll manage if I decide to leave.

I’m not holding you.

Exactly!

He sold the duplex and gave her half of what it brought.

She bought a condominium in Inwood.

He bought a house in Williamsburg, a four-story brownstone with an intact stone and brick stoop, with trees on the street and a view of the river.

The Chasidim did not dominate the neighborhood as they once had. Artists, writers, painters, bohemians, all kinds of queers were flocking to the neighborhood. Real, independently owned coffee shops and bookstores, galleries and performance spaces were opening on every street, and something was going on down many an alley.

In the warm June night he wandered through the streets of this old and transformed section of Brooklyn, wondering how Hopper would have composed the surfaces and angles passing his gaze.

Brad knew who he was, for his picture appeared on the back flap of his books, and had first noticed him a few days ago as he was banging away on his laptop at the Internet Café.

He was on his way to The Duck, where he tended bar till midnight. But he stopped when he saw Kloom.

I dig your stuff, he smiled.

It took Kloom by surprise. He turned his gaze from within to the world around him. A smile that warmed your heart greeted his reentry. But he hadn’t heard what Brad had called, and Brad repeated.

I’ve read your books. You’re Adam Kloom.

Adam extended his hand.

Bloomberg, actually.

Brad laughed.

Brad Philips, actually.

They shook and did not let go quickly, and by the time they did, everything had been determined, decided. They saw eye to eye.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the evening stars through a skylight. Straightening, turning to the window, he saw the stretch of the bridge illuminated by a necklace of copper yellow light spread across the throat of night, suspended above night’s watery body.

The spur of desire is suppression. The more desire is opposed the more insistently demanding it becomes, but because it is not wanted, honesty can only show its true face as a mask, as a series of masks.

The doorbell rang. He saved his work. It was Brad.

Do you live like the characters you write about? he asked as they shared a joint and sipped Gerolsteinersprüdel.

Each confessed a fascination with the ideas of domination and of being made to serve. From early on each had erotic daydreams about demands for obedience.

We were the lucky ones, Kloom said.

What do you mean?

It was the sand in our oyster that made the sensibility we have.

You certainly made something out of it.

Well right now I’d like to make something out of you.

Brad smiled and said, I’m here to be made.

Show me.

Brad fell to his knees and looked up at Kloom questioningly.

That’s good, said Kloom.

How may I show my subjugation?

By being completely obedient.

Brad said nothing, but looked questioningly, full of desire but ignorant of the practice by which it could be expressed. His look said, what do I do now? He was willing, but he wasn’t caught.

Say Yes Sir, Kloom said.

Yes Sir, he repeated.

Kloom made him do it several times until he saw that it was beginning to catch.

Strip down to your underwear. He’d see what the kid wore underneath his clothes, next to his skin. Then he’d know what he’s about.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Brad wasn’t wearing any undershirt, but little gold rings pierced his nipples. His chest was smooth. He was lean and well ripped. His skin shone with vitality. His muscles were exquisite. You could tell he’d been devoted to chiseling himself. He was waiting to be admired.

He pulled off his jeans and remained standing with a newfound pride, daring in his obedience, wearing only a black microfiber thong.

And now Adam got down on his knees and delicately cupped the pouch with cock and balls in his palms, pressed his head against the boy, bit the cloth and blew a soft hot breath upon the cock which stirred and stretched and jumped when he pulled the thong down, and landed in his mouth.

Helen gazed at the rising morning and saw dawn’s shadows lift night’s fog off the breast of the Hudson.

Rachel quietly came and stood beside her. She traced an arc with her finger like a feather across the sweep of the small but pronounced muscles on her slim upper arm until by degrees she came to cup her hand upon one of Helen’s square shoulders, pivoted and was face to face with her.

She drew close to Helen and their lips met.

Brad gasped as Kloom’s fingers tortured his nipples. The rage of his cock to shoot was more alarming every second until all the breaking passion of long-confused desire crashed about him shattering everything that had held him back and with lifted wings he sailed into the sun and saw it burst into innumerable stars.