The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sometimes Marc was hounded by a mood of petulance. Feelings of rebellion took hold of him, would not let him go, just about made him ill.

He lay sprawled on the couch beside a great window looking out over the vast Hudson, rippling and elephant-backed, remembering the neon signs, when he was a boy, reflecting in the water. Their shimmer fascinated him and set aflight his longing as his father’s car skimmed over the Triborough Bridge. The intense over-cooked coffee smell of New Jersey’s pollution was pungent in his nostrils.

He sipped green tea, in a grim mood, and wondered what he’d gotten into, how somebody had managed so thoroughly to take control of him, to dominate him. He felt ashamed of having surrendered, of having had to surrender. Because he also knew it was inevitable, that there was nothing he wanted as much and nothing he resisted as much. He knew the locus of the inevitability of surrender was centered more in him than in any power of Julian’s.

It was in the very nature of things that he was subordinate to Julian. He knew it the first time Julian looked at him, and he knew at that moment that Julian knew it too. His knees grew weak and he trembled as the older man’s eyes met his as he posed in front of the leather store on Christopher Street for the spread in Leather Bonds.

The black leather jeans he was wearing clung to him. His chest was bare, buff and oiled, and his silver nipple rings glint rose from the neon sign in the window.

Julian locked onto his gaze and he had to drop his eyes in modesty. The camera caught it and it gave an erotic frisson, a vital electricity to the spread which made it legendary. The magazine sold out nearly before it hit the newsstands, became a collector’s items, and copies of it were fetching as much as $425 on e-bay.

Don’t be afraid, Julian had said. He had stopped and stood watching until the shoot was over, and then approached him. With quiet authority, oblivious to the camera crew packing up, he said, Give me your hand. Come.

Marc knew he had no choice. Julian’s green eyes had pierced him. His broad shoulders and tapering waist made him feel like kneeling was his destiny.

They walked slowly toward Hudson Street. A big November moon hung over St. Luke’s. Julian summoned a cab and they sped down to Tribeca, sharing the joint the cabbie offered them.

Marc was dazzled by Julian’s loft. But that wasn’t it. The loft was only the extension of something he had already seen in Julian, of the mastery, the confidence, the power, the absolute being-in-the world, no, the absolute possession of whatever he wished to have, that clung to Julian with, with a certain adoration, as if beauty itself were in love with him.

Inevitably, as if it were the only thing possible and the only way it was meant to be, things went with a furious force of sexual exhilaration he had never known before.

That night Marc surrendered himself entirely to rapture he had never before felt but knew existed, and feared he would never experience. His cock had never been harder, his body never tighter or more yielding.

Julian had pressed the boy to him and drawn out his soul with kisses and brought him to his knees. Under Julian’s power, Marc’s eyes became an organ of feeling rather than sight. First his mouth and then his anus found their meaning and fulfillment as the places Julian’s cock was made to be. Marc had never known such rapture before as the boundary between desire and satisfaction dissolved and the two became identical.

I want you inside me all the time, Marc said. The only thing I want to do is to please you, Marc said, a week after their first night together, as he gazed into Julian’s eyes as Julian gently fondled his nipples.

You please me very much, Julian answered, and kissed each eyelid.

Marc shivered. I want to belong to you. And then he became frightened. I don’t know what I am saying.

Be quiet, Julian said in a whisper and Marc obeyed. You do belong to me.

Slowly, Julian blew a warm breath in his ear and traced a line with his forefinger from the boy’s clavicle along the slope of his slender neck to the lobe of his ear.

Marc shivered.

With his other hand Julian caressed the muscles of his inner thighs until his finger pressed against the boy’s hole and entered him. Marc gasped and pressed his lips to this man’s and sucked in his breath and brought Julian’s spirit deep inside himself where it turned like the whirlwind.

What is it you want? Julian asked the first time he saw Marc shift in the middle of one of their evenings together into a fit of unresponsive sullenness so different from the eagerness which had until then characterized him. It was early January. The high times of December were past and everybody was going through the Monday of the year.

But the boy raised his chin and lost his gaze in the distance, in the night sky’s cloudy blanket covering the skylight above the bed. He would say nothing, and Julian gave up prodding and said that he ought to leave if he was going to refuse to be present as nothing more than a bleak shadow on his spirit.

Marc became frightened as Julian slipped into a dangerous remoteness, an ungraspable image of a beautiful muscular stranger, not at all naked, even though wearing only skimpy, silky black bikini briefs.

Marc became dizzy with confusion. He was afraid of losing Julian. He wanted to break away from him. He couldn’t. He did not know what to do, what he wanted, and the choice between the two frightening alternatives, staying or leaving, immobilized him.

He was alone unless he could hurl himself through the distance.

I don’t want to go, Julian, he cried, throwing his arms about Julian’s knees falling to his own.

I don’t believe you, Julian said. This is melodrama.

I don’t know, Marc said hesitantly.

Yes, you do, Julian said. Stand up.

Marc obeyed, but all he could say was, I am frightened. And Julian saw he was telling the truth, for he was trembling and his breathing was shallow.

Be still, Julian said, gently running his hand over the boy’s smooth chest and gently caressing his genitals, teasing the silken sac of his shaved scrotum.

Relax, Marc. Breathe easily, slowly. Take long slow deep breaths and feel how your diaphragm begins to rise and fall, slowly rising, gently falling.

Feel how you are sinking into yourself, becoming very relaxed, very still.

No trembling, no fear. You feel gently rocked by the rhythm of your own breathing. Rising and falling, rising and falling. Your eyes want to close. You want to close your eyes.

Go ahead. It’s alright. You have my permission. You want to close your eyes. You want to do as you are told. You want to do what I tell you. You want to obey me. It feels easy to obey me. It feels good to obey me.

Marc was drifting and falling and felt the rush of the ocean pulling and ebbing inside him. His cock stretched hard and he reached his arms out and took Julian around the neck and drew him to him.

I love you, he said. That’s what the matter is. I’m afraid of it. I don’t know what to do with the intensity. It is like a great precipice to which I am drawn, a height from which I am drawn to hurl myself. I am so tempted by the edge that I must run away from it or meet my doom.

His doom came several months later on a hot Spring night in the form of a police officer who had struggled against his love of men since he first beat up one of the boys in the cast of his high school production of Julius Caesar when he was working on the stage crew.

He saw Marc at first out of the corner of his eye the night he walked into the Iron Rod on Cornelia Street to collect the monthly gratuity the bar owner was required to slip him and his partner.

The cop became dizzy. The boy’s beauty made him sick. In his bones he knew what immorality meant, and this was it. He could feel the passion of anger and disgust the boy’s father would feel if he knew this is where his son spent his nights, if he could see that this was the kind of world that his son had chosen to live in.

He knew why he was a cop. He knew he had to rescue him.

With his partner, he cruised the neighborhood and at two when the Rod closed, the car passed by and he saw the boy walking arm in arm with another guy in leather hot pants, stiletto heeled boots, lipstick, mascara, bare chest.

Whoa, the cop cried, pulling the cruiser to a halt as he swung to the curb.

Cover me, Larry, he said to his partner, who tensed up.

Doors flung open and the men sprang out, guns pointing.

You boys have identification?

We’re just going home.

Marc stiffened and felt something like the trickle of ice water start to run in his belly.

I didn’t ask you where you were going. I asked if you had identification.

Marc fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet as the cop spoke.

Easy now with your hands. I don’t like sudden moves.

I’m getting my wallet, Marc said, and the words Amadu Dialo flashed through his mind as he cautiously drew out his City University I.D.

And you?

Buzz showed his cabaret card.

What’s this?

I play piano at the Iron Rod weekends, he said.

Ok. Get in the car. Both of you.

What did we do? Marc asked.

Are you resisting me?

No, Marc said, and they got into the squad car.

Marc learned nothing from the night he spent in a cell in the Sixth precinct that he had not already known beforehand, and was glad when it was over.

The cops were vociferous, vulgar, and threatening, and there was one moment when he felt the possibility of real danger. That was when his arresting officer was alone with him and Buzz, both of them with hands cuffed behind their backs in the corridor of the station house, as they were being taken to the court house on Center Street.

Suddenly, Marc felt the cop’s hand grabbing his testicles and squeezing. The words Abner Louima passed through his mind.

If you get one thing out a this, the cop said, I want it to be this, that you learn what these are for. (Squeezing harder.) Making babies, you understand, not for the filthy things you do.

Buzz was fortunate in his misfortune. Such great contempt had the cops for what they imagined him to be, a man wishing to be a woman, that they disdained to notice him, but, ironically, treated him just as they would a woman, by ignoring him and making Marc the focus of their concern. You see, such is the confusion of the world: by their harassment of him, they intended to do him good.

Jacob Glendenis was a canny, fat, bald Scott in his late fifties who had been sitting on the bench nearly twenty years and he had no patience with the cops. The charge brought against Buzz—masquerading without a permit, an actual felony in New York dating back to the Revolutionary War—he dismissed as frivolous. He simply could not understand what Marc was doing standing before him at all.

Since it is his habit to wear eyeliner and lipstick, Glendenis said referring to Buzz, it is not a masquerade but an integral part of his daily identity, which it is neither yours nor mine to approve or disapprove within the framework of the law, whatever aesthetic or psychological responses it may cause in us, the judge told the cops. He allowed himself a degree of irritation he hardly masked with a sardonic smile.

Julian, who was in the court, having received a call from Marc that morning, was greatly relieved.

You were lucky he said, aware of the irony. They might have beaten you both and used the bruises to prove you were resisting arrest.

August’s late afternoon light blanched the stone facades which loomed over the Seine by the Ille Saint Louis, and the Paris streets were nearly empty.

The melancholy pair stared, leaning against a parapet, at the river as it bifurcated. Julian was silent, and Marc had lost his vitality.

They took a cab to Montmarte, where Julian kept a pied a terre and they climbed the long flights of steps rather than taking the funiculair up to the Sacre Couer.

Inside, the air was heavy with frankincense and the waves of organ sounds reverberated solemnly against the dark stone interior of the basilica.

They walked slowly along a side aisle, and Marc began to tremble with a sense of a penetrating spirit spreading inside him. He gasped as if he had been startled and grasped Julian’s hand in fright.

Paris was below them as they emerged from the Sacre Couer, gilded in the late afternoon sunlight. Marc felt calm as he had never before and Julian saw an inviting softness in his eyes which made his desire flame. Gently he kissed him, but when Marc swooned in his arms and returned his kiss, the boy’s surrender transformed the kiss into a long journey into passion.