The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It has been two days since my last journal entry, and for this I simply must apologise. The delay has not been entirely due to my tardiness, but rather due to the nature of the mystery that has confront Holmes and I. The events of the last two days have only raised more questions than they have answered. Admittedly, the clues Holmes, Wiggins and I had amassed so far were slim. Namely, a blood flecked sketch book containing a pictorial history of two women and a man (all of who had the most “European” of lifestyles) and the name and address of the creator of the book, a Mister Henry Fox-Talbot.

It was the abode of Fox-Talbot that Holmes had decided held the best avenues for investigation.

Somewhat unusually, although I did not question it until now as I put pen to paper, Holmes invited Charlie Wiggins along with us to Wiltshire. A common young man popular in the neighbour hood as an odd-job man. He had been helping Holmes in his experiments with hypnosis, a field of study I am most dubious to equate the term “science” with. Still, Holmes assures me the results have been most promising. Still, I do not feel, oh, what the hell, he was right about that strangler guy.

Our adventure began the moment we stepped out door of the rooms on Baker Street. A young messenger arrived and informed Holmes that his presence was requested at 16 Tarrow Street, the home of Wenton Pravshire, an MP with a less than savoury reputation.

‘It would do your standing in the community no favours to be seen cohorting with the likes of Pravshire.’ I said to Holmes, fearing that my esteemed colleague would, once again, allow his curiousity to get the better of him.

‘You’re quite right.’ Holmes replied. ‘Besides, we have a train to catch.’ He turned to the messenger. ‘Inform your master that I am unavoidably and regrettably unable to respond to his summons.’

The messenger must have been on a commission, dependent on the success of his message, because he implored Holmes to go to Tarrow Street. Wiggins was about to man handle the youth out of our path when he piped up. ‘Me master says it’s with regards to Fox-Talbot.’

Holmes froze. I could see the gears of his devious mind churning around. I knew then that we would miss our train.

I was mistaken.

Holmes handed me his case and said, ‘Watson, you must go to LaCock Abbey and interview Fox-Talbot while I see what Pravshire wants. Be careful, and watch out for foul play. Wiggins and I will join you in two days.’

Grimacing as I hefted Holmes’ bag, I knew I was in for a rough ride. Still, I felt a glow of satisfaction that Holmes had not paused to consider investing me with such an important piece of the investigation.

I bid them adieu and began the long walk to the station (Holmes had taken the carriage.) Strangely, I felt a pang to see the last of young Charlie Wiggins, his broad shoulders had provided me with a strange feeling of comfort, as feel as though something had happened between us, although for the life of me I could not remember what.

I was sharing my compartment on the train with two young ladies, friends from Gerrand, returning to the country after semester at one of London’s schools for fine young women ... and what fine women they were!

After the initial greetings, Our journey settled down in to a rhythm. I opened Holmes’ bag as ordered and found a letter addressed to me, sealed in an envelope. I opened it and found inside a piece of paper and a small silver fob-watch. The letter was from Wiggins! I did not even know he knew how to write.

“Dear Watson,” It began. “I have given Holmes and you instructions that if you are ever separated he is to give you this letter. I’ve tried to stop me-self” (sic) “causing these sorts of mischief, but I can’ts help me-self.”

Good lord! The grammar and spelling was atrocious, it reminded me of those third rate stories the less savoury elements of society purchase a dozen a penny from illiterate sellers on the street. The stories designed for titillation and the fulfillment of debased fetishes. I continued reading.

“You don’t remember this, but I have hypnotised you to obey my commands over long distances. Please find included with this letter a watch. The next time you are alone with two women, you will become obsessed with hypnotising them. I showed you how back at Baker Street, so you have the ability. Once you have hypnotised them, you will get one of them to give you a blow-job and the other to masturbate herself to orgasm. All the time you are engaged in my instructions, you will rationalise your actions to yourself in a scientifically manner.”

I was disgusted. The correct adjective should have been “scientific”.

I threw the letter down. ‘That Charlie Wiggins has gotten out of hand.’ I thought to myself.

I glanced over at the two young women. I judged them to be in their early twenties.

‘Ridiculous!’ I said out-loud, causing them to look at me. I blushed and quickly pretended something was wrong with my watch. I scooped up the device Wiggins had left me and proceeded to adjust the dialings, muttering things about “wires” and “gears” until the two ladies went back to reading their books.

‘Hypnotism doesn’t even work.’ I thought to myself. ‘Although Holmes swears by it.’ I glanced at the watch and then over at the two girls again. Perhaps this would be a good test. I could try and hypnotise the girls, and if, when, I fail, it would prove conclusively that Wiggins was wrong.

‘I’ll beat him at his own game.’ I mused.

‘Pardon, Mister?’ One of the girls asked.

‘Oh, um, nothing. Tell me, would you two care to help me out in an experiment that will be carried out in a scientifically manner?’

‘Sure.’ They replied.

‘All you need to do is focus on this silver watch.’ I said, holding the time piece in front of their faces and swinging it gently to and fro.

Shortly the faces of the ladies became all dream-like and enraptured. I refused to believe that “hypnosis” had worked. This two women may be part of Wiggins’ game. Cleverly, I decided on a most scientifically method for breaking through this charade. ‘I will ask them to do something that no good lady would dream of doing. They will, naturally, refuse and I will be vindicated.’

‘Kylie, please remove all your clothing.’ I said, with a barely concealed smirk, expecting Kylie and Judith (I had learned their names during the induction) to squeal with outrage and demand a sincere apology. Imagine my shock then, journal, when Kylie stood up and promptly unlaced her dress. As it fell to the floor my jaw went with it. She was completely unaware that she was proudly showing the world her virtue. And proud she should have been! If I was not a scientist, a Doctor and a gentleman, I would said she had a sensational set of knockers! The cool air from the train in motion was already making her nipples stand to attention. Despite my clinical detachment, I felt something else standing to attention.

‘Perhaps Judith is a little more squeamish.’ I said to myself. ‘Judith, take off all your clothes.’

With nary a frown nor a flitter, Judith stood and methodically removed her clothing, until she too, stood buck-naked next to her friend. Two visions of lovely splendour I rarely have seen!

Wiggins had won this round, but I knew that hypnosis must be a fraud and that he would be found out one day. I had to prove them wrong somehow. I thought long and hard and suddenly it came to me. Wiggins himself had provided the method!

‘Judith, start, um, masturbating yourself.’ I was unsure whether a woman could even do this, but Wiggins seemed to think so and since he had been a street urchin, I was sure he had had more experience with bad girls.

Judith gently inserted two fingers in her vagina and began to stroke in and out. After thirty seconds or so her face became flushed and her breathing changed. I was sure it was because of her embarrassment, but it turned out that she was just getting worked up. Her vagina began to lubricate itself and her stroking picked up pace such that it became more of a pumping action.

For some reason, and to this day I do not know why it happened, but I felt compelled to give Judith an order. ‘Judith. You may not cum until I tell you to.’ I’m sure there was a scientifically reason for this, but I can not recall what it was.

Judith, Kylie and Wiggins were proving tough nuts to cracks. I was not sure what a blow-job was, but it sound like unacceptable behaviour for modest young lady. So I ordered Kylie to give me one.

I was expecting perhaps a raucous joke, or even for her to blow in my ear in a most erotic fashion. So, imagine my surprise when she knelt down in front of me and proceeded to undo my belt.

‘What are you doing?’ I cried in alarm. But then the scientifically part of my brain took over. This was a battle of wills, to see who would blink first, me or Wiggins. ‘I can take whatever you can dish.’ I vowed to myself. Kylie reached in to my undergarments and freed my member. It was painfully hard from the battle of wills I was engaging in and it felt good to have it out in the fresh air. It felt even better to have it out of the fresh air. Kylie lowered her mouth over the head and began to gently suck on it.

To say I was in a heightened state of pleasure would be an understatement, but because I a priggish Brit that is the highest form of emotion I could express.

Once again, I felt a strange compulsion. ‘Kylie, make moaning noises while you suck my dick.’ I commanded. Kylie obeyed and began to moaning as she sucked up and down on my penis.

Entirely of her own accord, and perhaps because she was approaching an orgasm she could not have, Judith also began to moan, a hot noise that was almost a grunt.

‘Uh, uh, uh.’ She said, bucking up and down on her fingers furiously.

I felt my automatic reflexes take over as I began to pump Kylie’s face. Shortly I felt my balls tighten and I exploded cum in such an intense way that I saw spots on the edge of my vision. Kylie withdrew her mouth after the first splurt, and so cropped a face full of hot jism when second, third and fourth ejaculation came.

‘Al right Judith, you may cum now.’ I said, basking in the afterglow. ‘Perhaps there is something to this hypnosis thing after all.’ I remarked.

The girls tidied up and I made them forget the incident, in fact, I too forgot about the entire episode until I sat down to write in this journal. Strange.

When the train arrived at my destination, I said farewell to the girls and left. I checked in to my hotel, and, wasting not a minute, headed off to the address of one Mr Fox-Talbot.

I knocked on the door and was rewarded when a strange man answered the door. He was clearly an artist of some kind. His face seemed unnaturally spaced out.

‘Are you Sir Fox-Talbot?’ I asked.

Fox-Talbot stared at me blankly.

‘Are you Sir Fox-Talbot?’ I asked again.

‘Yes I am.’ He replied.

‘I am Doctor Watson and I have come to ask you some questions about a book that recently came in to our possession. It may or may not have been involved in a crime.’

‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ He asked.

‘May I come in?’ I asked.

He stared off in to the distance for a while before moving to one side.

I walked passed him and in to his loft. It was a combination of living space and work space. The whole room was crowded with paintings in various stages of completion. In one corner of the room was a unmade bed, half buried under art.

‘You mentioned my book?’ Fox-Talbot asked, standing so close to my ear that I jumped in surprise.

‘Y ... Y ... Yes.’ I replied. ‘It was found by the police, splattered with flecks of blood.’

Fox-Talbot remained silent.

I glanced around nervously, suddenly aware that I was alone in a room with some-one who was quite possibly mad. I tried to remain calm and to draw the man in to a confessional mood.

‘So, Mister Fox-Talbot, you seem to be quite a prolific artist.’

I held up a large painting of a ghostly woods. ‘I like this sketch.’

‘It’s a painting of a pile of bones ... you’re holding it side-ways.’

‘Ah.’ I placed the image down and picked up jumbled ball of leather and metal, clearly some sort of sculpture. ‘This is clearly some sort of sculpture.’ I said.

‘No, it’s my leather kit. I wear it when I am entertaining lady friends, my fetish, you see.’

I dropped the ball. ‘Your fetish?’

‘Well, one of them, anyway.’ He said. ‘Tell me, Doctor. Did you find the pictures in my book interesting?’

‘They looked very realistic, even though the subject matter, was, ahem ...’ I let my sentence trail off, embarrassed by the images.

‘It was using a new technique pioneered by the Scandinavians...’

‘Well, they are know for their deviant sexual mores...’ I began.

‘No, not the contents of the pictures, the technique for creating the pictures.’

‘Ah!’ I said, relieved. I was afraid he was going to engage me in a discussion of the Swedes.

‘A new photographic technique. Very expensive. It cost the patron that commissioned it for me a pretty penny indeed.’

‘Who was that?’ I asked, interested.

‘He told me, that if anyone came around asking about the book, I was to show him some of my pictures. Do you want to see them?’ He asked. Not waiting for a reply, Fox-Talbot reached behind a cluttered desk and drew out three small paintings. Instantly, I could smell a strange and intoxicating perfume wafting from them.

I looked at them each in turn. What I saw disturbed me to say the least. All three paintings were of two men ... copulating. I’m sorry journal, but the truth must be reported as best one can. One man was clearly dominating the other one. Peering closely I could just make out the features of the man who was being dominated. They were quite blurry, but the longer I stared at them the more and more I became convinced that the little fellow bore more than a passing resemblance to me. It was quite eerie.

I was shaken out of my reverie by the chiming of the church bells. I looked around, the room looked the same, but different. Fox-Talbot was standing in the corner, watching me.

‘Fox-Talbot. What time is it?’ I demanded.

‘The clocks chime at 7 in the morning, sir.’ He said.

I gasped. I had arrived at his door the previous afternoon. I looked at the pictures I was holding again. What manner of art was this, that fogged a man’s brain and dulled the senses. Then it hit me, the strange perfume that the paintings were reeking of. In many of our adventures we had encountered strange drugs and chemicals. It was clear that I was a victim of another.

I dropped the paintings, thanked Fox-Talbot for his time and ran back to my hotel room.

Several hours later, there was a sharp knocking at the door. I opened it to reveal Holmes and Wiggins. I am sure that my relief was plain on my face.

‘Holmes, thank goodness you’re here. How did the meeting with Pravshire go?’

‘Watson, it would not be too much to say that Pravshire provided some facts that have made me see this case in an entirely different light. We were initially suspicious of Fox-Talbot, but what Pravshire had to tell me, oh my, I must see Fox-Talbot immediately.’

‘Why, he’s still up in his loft. I saw him there just this morning. I don’t think he is the mastermind behind this case either.’

‘Watson, when we have finished here, we must return to Tarrow Street immediately. Pravshire is holding a fancy dress party and has invited half the cabinet. We must be there to question some people about the note-book.’

We hurried to LaCock Abbey, on several occasions, Holmes burst in a half job. Clearly, whatever Pravshire had told him had caused him to fear that time was of the essence.

We arrived too late. The corpse was hanging from the rafters by a leather strap. My initial thoughts were of suicide, but then I noticed his hands, mouth and feet had been bound by the same type of leather.

Fox-Talbot was dead. Killed by his own leather fixation. We were no longer dealing with just a suspicious blood-soaked book of tawdry images, we were dealing with ... murder!

‘Tea anyone?’ Holmes asked.