The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I had known Mr. Allen for as long as I could remember, having lived in the same subdivision where I grew up until I went away to school. He was kind and quiet, and I would often see him working in his yard, or walking his beagle, washing his truck, and so on. He pretty much kept to himself and seemed content that way. He wasn’t married, didn’t have kids of his own that I knew of. As I got older, my peers would say that he was a fag, but no one ever caused him any trouble for it—partially because he was neighborly, but also maybe because he was a pretty big guy, hairy and tattooed with a flattop and stern blue gaze: not the kind of person you’d really want to antagonize if you had any common sense. But the rumors were likely true, I thought; I would only notice him entertaining male guests, and there were a few occasions when I would clean his pool for extra money in the summer that I wondered if he was watching me perhaps a little too closely while he smoked his cigar or pipe on the deck. If I was uncomfortable, though, it wasn’t because of anything he did or said that would be considered untoward, but rather my own conflicted feelings pertaining to sexuality, which I mostly tried not to think too much about back then. Besides, he paid well.

One summer I was back from school and Mr. Allen was on his porch as I was jogging by, and he waved me over. “Morning, Scottie,” he said. “How’s school?” We chatted briefly about my studies and life on campus, and then he said that he needed to be out of town for the weekend, and would I mind looking after Rufus (the beagle, now elderly)? I agreed and he gave me the code to his garage, and off I went. I had never been inside his home, and part of me was curious about what it would look like, and I was also pleased to have a place I could enjoy a little weed—a vice I had only recently discovered—without having to risk a worried lecture from my Puritanical parents.

Friday night I entered the garage and went through the unlocked door to the kitchen. Rufus shambled over to greet me as I read the instructions Mr. Allen had left on where to find the kibble, how much to give him, which plants needed watering, etc. I fed the dog and watered the plants, attached him to his leash and took him around the block to do his business, and returned to the garage to smoke a small bowl. I noticed that Mr. Allen had a number of tools, spools of wire, and various little gadgets and gizmos on shelves lining the walls, and I ventured that he had been an electrician or repairman prior to his retirement, or maybe he was a tinkerer as a hobby. I really didn’t know much about him at all.

Saturday morning, after taking care of Rufus, I decided to poke around the house a little bit, just to get some idea about how this “old fag” lived, and what kind of person he was behind closed doors. I didn’t go through his drawers or anything like that, but I did look at the pictures he had set around—old photos of his family, a handsome picture of him in his younger days in a sailor’s uniform, pretty banal stuff until I got to the bedroom where there was a framed portrait of two men in black leather, one of whom was barely clad, the other smoking a cigar. I looked at it for a long time, trying to make sense of this aspect of Mr. Allen and this unfamiliar expression of masculinity. It didn’t turn me on, exactly, nor did it repel me, and fascination would be too strong a word to describe what I felt… I guess I was /intrigued./

There were more pictures of that nature in his study, along with his collection of pipes and a box of cigars (I’d later learn the term was “humidor”), and books upon books from subjects as diverse as engineering to psychology to ethnobotany to cultural critique. The room smelled pleasantly spicy, recalling to mind those times Mr. Allen supervised my work in his backyard as he smoked. And I wondered: did he employ me because I was a good kid, or because I did a good job… or because he saw something he liked? Did he admire me, did he fantasize about me wearing leather like the men in the pictures…? These thoughts felt strange to me, and I said goodbye to Rufus and went home to distract myself with other things.

I went back Saturday night to take care of the dog and smoke another bowl in the garage. I had tried without success not to think about Mr. Allen, wearing leather, his gray beard wreathed in cigar smoke… It was just so strange to discover a totally unknown side of someone, and it was leading me to reckon with a side of myself I preferred not to acknowledge. I was scared but also excited, like something was calling me out.

With a good buzz going and eager to know even more about the man, this time I decided to see what, if anything, Mr. Allen kept in the basement that might reveal more about his life. I was almost disappointed that it was just the usual stuff: garden tools, hoses, laundry machines, cans of paint, bags of soul and fertilizer, pool chemicals… but then I saw that there was something under a drop cloth in a side room, like a piece of furniture or something. I picked up a corner of the tarp to take a peek and was perplexed by what I found.

It was a metal frame, hoisting some kind of hammock made of leather, with leather stirrups at one end, presumably for someone’s ankles. At the other end, where the head would rest, was a wired helmet with goggles of some sort. It looked like something out of a perverted science fiction story. The helmet was wired to a box, with various knobs and switches.

Against my better judgment, I examined the helmet and decided to put it on. I became very nervous just then, as though I was on the threshold of something that I might not be able to walk back from. And what if I got caught? But no, Mr. Allen wouldn’t be back until the morning, and I could just replace everything as I’d found it. I looked at the box, and turned the power on (the knob was turned to “low”) to see what all this was about.

The goggles began to flash with lights as a low thrum filled my ears. I closed my eyes, and I could still detect the lights flashing rhythmically in time with the humming sound. After a few moments, my nervousness had dissipated completely, and then I heard a recording of Mr. Allen’s voice quietly offering suggestions to relax, to feel comfortable and at ease, to breathe deep and slow. Maybe it was the weed, but it really zoned me out and had me feeling quite good as the recording droned on. After about 20 minutes or so, it stopped and I was just floating in the silence. Also, my dick was hard.

“Whoa,” I said, amazed. So this thing before me was a hypnosis machine of some kind! Weird. But whatever else I knew, I knew I definitely wanted more while I could get it. I retreated to the garage for a little more weed and promptly returned to the basement for another ride. This time, though, I turned up the knob to a little past the midway point and allowed myself to recline in the leather hammock before turning the power on. Again there came the lights, and Mr. Allen’s soothing, mellow voice, and almost instantly I relaxed down, down, down…

The next thing I knew, I snapped back to awareness in the garage as I was orgasming with my dick in my hand and one of Mr. Allen’s cigars in my mouth. OOOOHHHH FUUUUUUUUCK, I had never felt anything so good in my life!

“Oh, fuck!” I exclaimed, suddenly petrified. I was reeling and breathless, rocked from the intensity of jacking off and the strength of the cigar (my first) and feeling really, really freaked out about not remembering anything after turning the machine on. What time was it? I took a moment to get myself together and went back inside the house. It was just after 12pm, so I had only been “out” for about two hours. Whew! I went to the basement and replaced everything as I had found it. I returned the lighter to the study and closed the lid to the cigar box. I wiped up my mess on the garage floor with a paper towel and flushed it down the toilet. The half-smoked cigar I ran under a faucet to extinguish, then threw the remainder down a storm drain on my way home. I bypassed my mom with a quick “hey” then went upstairs to brush my teeth and toss my clothes in the closet hamper, which I resolved to wash before anyone else might smell them. But, boy, did they smell good to me.

That evening I went back to take care of Rufus. The garage still smelled like stale cigar smoke—which I found strangely pleasant—so I left it open to air it out while I walked the dog. I didn’t mess with anything else, and hoped that Mr. Allen wouldn’t notice that one of his cigars was missing.

I saw his truck in the driveway the next morning, and thought it best to approach him like nothing had happened. He thanked me for looking after things and handed me a $100 bill before shaking my hand. “Good job, son,” he said. His grip was warm and firm, and my dick sprung to attention in my shorts. I quickly withdrew my hand and turned away with a lame, “Okay, see ya!” Shit, what was happening to me?

That afternoon I went for a jog, and was running past Mr. Allen’s house when I caught a whiff of cigar smoke. It smelled so damn good that I just came to a stop, and, I dunno, just kind of blanked out as some other part of me turned on. I was practically a passive observer of my actions as I walked through the back gate uninvited, up the deck, and knelt silently before Mr. Allen, who was smoking a pipe, and his burly, cigar-smoking guest.

“Uh oh,” Mr. Allen said, taking the pipe stem from his lips. “Welp, looks like he found the Boy-Bender.” His guest chuckled. “Man, you still have that old thing?”

“It has its uses,” Mr. Allen offered, and sighed. “Ah well, guess he did it to himself. Fuck. Come inside, boy,” and I rose, spellbound, following him easily without protest or even a care in the world, knowing I would do whatever I was told.

“Can you fix him?” The other man asked, still amused.

“Shit, I’d better!” Mr. Allen said. “I don’t know what setting he used. He can’t very well go about his life turning into a horny little slave every time he catches a whiff of pipe or cigar smoke.”

“I dunno, doesn’t sound so bad,” the man said. “Like you said, he did it to himself. And besides, look at him! Grade A hottie. Imagine how he’ll look after we get him filled out a bit more and he stops shaving.” He put the cigar to his mouth, took a deep draw, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke directly in my face. I loved it. My erection loved it, too. “See, he looks pretty happy to me. Aren’t you a happy boy?” He stroked my head affectionately and I got pleasant goosebumps from his touch.

“Yes sir,” I murmured dreamily. I wanted them both in my mouth so bad, I could feel my dick leaking at the prospect. I had never sucked anyone off before, and in my normal state of mind I would have run the other way in a panic, but some hornier, needier part of me was running the show now.

“You’re not helping things,” Mr. Allen said to him. “Look, yeah, it’s clear the kid was curious, and of course we’re gonna have some fun with him, but after that I’m gonna set him right. More or less,” he added. “Take him upstairs and warm him up. Be gentle, now.”

“Follow me, boy,” the unknown man commanded, and in my stupor I obeyed, breathing deeply to catch the intoxicating whiffs of smoke that trailed from his cigar as he led me to Mr. Allen’s study. I stood there as he looked me over, felt my pecs and teased my nipples through my t-shirt with the cherry of his cigar just an inch from my nose. My erection throbbed in my shorts as I moaned and he blew another mouthful of thick, white smoke into my face. I devoured it like a starving man, and he snickered as he cupped his hands around my balls, tugging and squeezing them gently, while my precum began to soak through the front of my shorts.

“Strip,” he said, and I complied. “Kneel,” he said, and I did. He opened up the fly of his jeans and pulled down the front of his briefs to expose his rigid, veiny cock. I stared at it and salivated, rapt. “Go ahead and suck, boy,” he said, bringing the engorged head to my lips, and my mouth opened and took him in. I had no idea what I was doing but just followed my instincts as I looked up at him while he continued to smoke his cigar and offer encouragement, both verbal and otherwise. “That’s a good boy,” he purred. “Fuck, you’re such a hot, dumb cocksucker. What a natural faggot you are. Aw fuck, son, keep sucking that dick. Goddamn your mouth feels so fucking good on my cock.” All the praise went straight to my head, sending jolts of bliss throughout my body as my own erection bobbed below.

At that point, Mr. Allen walked in on us, now attired in a black leather vest, gloves, chaps, and boots, carrying a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured a drink for himself and his friend and walked over to us, his cock already jutting out eagerly from his salt-and-pepper bush. “All right, my turn,” he said, handing the other man a glass and taking a seat in an adjacent armchair. “C’mere, boy, and worship Daddy’s dick.” I crawled over and began to suck anew, burying my face in his crotch and in the musk of his balls while my own dick was almost painfully hard. This, I knew, was my place. “That’s right, Scottie,” he murmured, “take it deep and go deeper for me, deeper under my control.” He prepared a large, bent pipe while I tended to him, and brought it to life as thick, aromatic fog began to swirl in the afternoon light coming in through the window. I was in heaven.

“You want some pipe smoke, son?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes Sir,” I affirmed as best I could with his dick in my mouth.

“Come up here,” he said, and I climbed into his lap. I could feel his cock against my butthole, and he teased my nipples as he blew several fragrant clouds in my face and jetted dense streams of smoke from his nostrils. I couldn’t get enough. He finally took a deep pull and pressed his lips against mine, and I felt his hand against the back of my head and his tongue in my mouth and his beard against my chin and as I took his wonderful smoke deep into my lungs I heaved and shuddered and came all over his furry chest. “Fuck yeah,” he growled as I spasmed and exhaled a thick cloud, “good boy! That’s such a good boy!”

I must have been wearing the biggest, dopiest smile. “Well, go on, clean it up,” Mr. Allen said then, and I licked my jizz off his hairy pecs and belly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah, that’s right, boy, savor the taste of your cum.”

“You got yourself a real smoke pig there, Roger,” the other fellow remarked, stroking his dick with one hand and holding his whiskey in the other. “You sure you gotta change him back?”

Mr. Allen smiled and shrugged. “The night is still young,” he said. Then he asked me, “What do you think, Scottie? You wanna have some more fun?”

“Yes Sir,” I said helplessly as I lapped the last of my semen out of his bellybutton.

“Good boy,” he said. “Get on all fours and suck my cock. That’s right. Put your ass in the air so Uncle Steve can get a good look.”

Steve, the other fellow, pulled another cigar from the humidor and fired it up, and then came up behind me. I felt his hands spread my butt cheeks apart, and then he began slowly rubbing what I suppose was the butt of his cigar against my hole. Fuck, it felt so fucking good! As I continued to suck Mr. Allen, I felt a lovely warmth as Steve stoked his cigar and brought the cherry right up close to my asshole and scrotum and seasoned them with his manly smoke. He got up briefly to fetch an ashtray, and when he returned I felt a completely new sensation as he began to kiss and lick me back there, tickling and teasing the area with his bushy moustache. Holy hell, talk about delight! I began moaning and sucking Mr. Allen with renewed fervor, and was rewarded with grunts of approval.

“Piggy’s hard again already,” Steve observed, devilishly. “Oh, to be young again.”

“Let’s move this to the bedroom,” Mr. Allen said. “Get up and follow us, boy.”

I tailed them to the room where I first glimpsed that picture of two men in leather. At Mr. Allen’s command, I got down on the bed with my head down and my ass up. Steve continued to eat my asshole, and after a good while of that he applied some lube to his fingers and inserted them slowly, one first, and then two. There was some pressure, but no pain, and then I felt another new sensation as he began to massage my prostate. Meanwhile, Mr. Allen supervised and reminded me what a good boy I was, how relaxed and natural and sexy I felt, and between his suggestions and Steve’s ministrations I was writhing with pleasure.

He left briefly to refresh his pipe and when he came back he asked Steve, “How’s he doing?”

“Good and loose,” Steve said. “The way he’s moaning I think he’s ready.”

“You ready to be fucked, boy?” Mr. Allen asked me. “You ready to take some dick, son?”

“Yes Sir!” I exclaimed.

“Flip over,” Mr. Allen commanded, and I hastily obeyed. He lubed up his cock, lit his pipe, and climbed onto the bed, and with strength that made me feel even more his bitch he hoisted me up until my ankles were on his shoulders. I could feel his dick sliding between my cheeks, teasing my hungry boyhole, and smoke jetted from his nostrils as he entered me and I gasped in surprise. “Relax, boy,” he said. “Breathe deep. Focus on the smoke and drift. That’s right, son. No one’s gonna hurt you. I’m just gonna park my dick in your butt for a little bit while you get used to it.” I smiled and stared at him dreamily. He was so mature and powerful, and I trusted him, and I wanted nothing more than to please him. “There you go,” he coaxed, and began to slide his dick slowly deeper. “See how much better everything feels when you relax? I’m gonna own your ass, yeah. Daddy’s gonna fuck you silly and your ass is gonna belong to me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, son?”

“Yes Sir,” I whispered.

“That’s right. You love having Daddy’s dick in your ass, don’t you, boy? You love having a big bear of a man take your ass and feed you his smoke, don’cha? You’re a smoke pig now, aren’cha? That’s what you get for fooling around in my basement, eh boy? You got curious and got into the machine and now you can’t help yourself, can you? You’re such a mindless, hypnotized piggy slut that even a whiff of smoke gets you going, doesn’t it? And you fucking love it, I know you fucking do.”

“Yes Sir” became a steady mantra while Mr. Allen fucked my ass and my mind, the speed and power of his thrusts increasing, the air between us becoming thick with his smoke, and I became lost in the fragrant haze and the ecstasy of being controlled by this powerful, hirsute, commanding man. I wanted him to own me, and own me he did. As his hammering became more urgent, and sweat began to bead on his ruddy brow, he muttered around the pipe stem, “Aw, fuck, boy, here it… aw, AWWWHHHHNNNG!!” He roared as he shot his load inside me, which I experienced as a special, cherished warmth in my guts. He paused briefly to catch his breath, and gently withdrew his cock from my butt. “Wow, son,” he said, “You handled that like a champ. Fuck! Steve?”

Steve, who had been stroking his own dick all the while, said, “Don’t ask me how, Rodge, but I somehow managed not to nut while I watched you go at it. Reminds me of old times. Now, if you don’t mind, I really, really gotta fuck this young stud.”

“All yours, buddy,” Mr. Allen said, and Steve took his place on the bed, the cigar in his mouth now just a nub.

“I’m pretty worked up already and probably ain’t gonna last long,” Steve confided to me, “and neither is this cigar. You want the rest, kid? You ever smoked a cigar before?”

“Yes,” I answered, “and yes.”

“Open up, then,” he said, and inserted the cigar between my eager lips. A few seconds later, his dick was in my ass, already loosened and made slick with Mr. Allen’s cum. I puffed contentedly as he used me, the flavorful, concentrated smoke transporting me deeper into a dizzying place of unadulterated lust, more intense than any weed buzz. Somewhere inside me I knew I should be playing with myself as I smoked the cigar, and I began to jerk my dick and buck my hips in time with Steve’s merciless thrusting. Before long my insides spasmed and clenched as I came again, just as Steve rode me to his own orgasm, throwing his head back and growling, “Aw yeah, boy, fuuuuck, fuuuuck!”

Mr. Allen smiled with approval and said, “All right, son, you know where the bathroom is. Get yourself cleaned up while Uncle Steve fires up the grill and I think of what to do with you.” I rose from the bed and stumbled to the shower, proud at having served these men so well, drunk with the afterglow and warm with the knowledge that I had a part of them both inside me still.

Epilogue

Later, Mr. Allen sat me down and told me to look him in the eyes. In the same low, soothing voice I had heard before, he lulled me easily into a trance, and said that I would be able to remember the answer to anything he asked me and would respond truthfully. He then asked me for all the details of my weekend housesitting, including my misadventure with the machine in the basement. At his instruction, I told Mr. Allen candidly that I had developed an interest in his personal life because he was rumored to be gay and I was probably gay too, but was too afraid to acknowledge it to myself. I told him that I enjoyed looking at the photos of him in his house because I secretly found him attractive and powerful, and that I was also drawn to the pictures I saw of men in leather. I said I had found his machine in the basement and tried it on a low setting out of curiosity, and that it felt so good to be hypnotized by his voice and to accept the suggestion that I wanted to be hypnotized again. I told him that I turned up the intensity the second time I used it, and became programmed to crave cigars, to masturbate while smoking them, to serve cigar and pipe smoking daddies without question, to instantly become a slave whenever I smelled pipe or cigar smoke, and to forget that I had been programmed until it was time to serve. His voice had also told me that I would remain in deep trance until I had found a cigar to smoke and had masturbated to orgasm, so I took one of his cigars from the box in the study, and smoked it in the garage while jacking off and then woke up. I told him that I got scared and put everything back the way I found it, but when I smelled the smoke coming from his back yard while jogging I had no choice but to approach and carry out my orders.

“I figured it was something like that,” he sighed. “Alright then, Scottie, listen to me. What I’m telling you now overrides anything else my Boy-Bender programmed you to do. When I wake you up from this trance, you will remember whatever you want to remember about what happened this weekend, including what happened earlier today, or you can forget it if that would be easier for you. Whatever you decide, you will feel no shame and no fear. It’s completely up to you what parts of the programming you might want to keep and what parts you want to delete. If you like pipes and cigars, you can keep liking them, or you can do without them. It’s up to you if you like leather. It’s up to you if you want to be someone’s boy or slave, and it’s up to you how long you stay in that role. If at any time anyone tells you to do something you’re not comfortable with, you can express your limits and expect those limits to be respected. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said.

“Okay, repeat what I just told you so I know you understand.” I repeated it, and he said, “Good boy. On the count of 5, you will wake up, alert and calm in the knowledge that you are in a safe place.” And then he brought me gently out of trance. I opened my eyes and blinked, incredulous at everything I had experienced over the past few days. I remembered everything and literally had no idea what to say or do next. I stood up awkwardly, unsure of myself.

“You all right, son?” Mr. Allen asked. I nodded, but I was having a lot of emotions. He took my hand and squeezed it, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I threw my arms around him right then and there and began to cry. It was the good kind of cry, though, a massive outpouring of relief and wonder and gratitude, like a heavy weight had been removed from me, leaving me free to finally live my truth.

Mr. Allen and Steve took good care of me that evening. The steaks were superb and they let me have a beer even though I wouldn’t be 21 for another two months. They were surprisingly tender and kind, illustrating perhaps the most key aspect of dominance. I had a lot of questions, and they were very forthcoming about their own sexual awakenings, which happened during a time when homosexuality was even more stigmatized than it was now, and how they came to find a place within the BDSM community.

I visited Mr. Allen many more times that summer, explaining to my parents that he just needed more help around his home. They didn’t ask many questions, which I figured was a product of their own denial, which would be dealt with in later years as I found the confidence to live openly. But those early days were magical, filled with new horizons and experiences most people could only dare to imagine.

I recall late one afternoon, as I finished helping Mr. Allen wax his truck and the sun was just beginning to set. I was feeling mopey because I would be returning to college the next morning and knew I would miss my new friend and mentor something awful. He handed me a small bottle of whiskey as well as a few cigars in a plastic bag “for those special moments” when I felt like revisiting my earlier adventures.

I thanked him, and then he said, “I got one more gift before you go, son.” He pulled a pipe and a lighter from his pocket, and I smiled, anticipating what was about to happen. He brought the flame and tobacco together, and as the garage began to fill with his sweet smoke, I slipped into a familiar dream, ready to surrender myself to him once more.