The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

‘I think it is a dark knight storming a castle, Holmes. Look closely. You can barely make it out, but a swarthy figure wearing armour, perhaps a Turkish warrior, is riding a horse uphill. The crenulated parapet visible in the background, on the crest of the hill, suggests, metonymically of course, that his destination is a fortress.’ Holmes and Watson stood in the narrow passageway shielding their eyes against the bright daylight and squinting at the signboard over the door. Both were dressed in serviceable tweeds, but they had taken the precaution of putting on wellies before leaving their motorcar. The village paths, one could hardly call them streets, were deep with mud from the storm of the previous evening, and their feet plunged into the mire with each step.

‘And from this you would deduce what, Watson?’

‘That we have arrived at the inn. The British Motor Club’s guide to the Carpathian Alps says that the inn in this village is called the Dark Dragoon. We confront a sign showing a mounted figure attacking a castle. I believe this sign confirms that we have reached our destination for today. That, and the small sign beside the door that says “door to inn”.’

‘That is quite brilliant, Watson. Of course, when you write this adventure up, I will make that deduction.’

‘Of course, Snugglebunny. You are my knight in shining amour. You know that.’ Watson stepped closer to Holmes and looked deeply into the famed detective’s eyes. ‘As you know from the segment I wrote last night, I always give you the credit, Locky.’

‘I just haven’t read it yet, Hamish.’ Holmes slid a hand beneath a lapel of Watson’s jacket and cupped a pec in his hand, gently stroking the hard nipple with the ball of his thumb. ‘I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep in the car. That wooden folk sculpture we bought yesterday at the tourist shop must have inspired you last night.’

‘It certainly was suggestive. “A Maiden’s Prayer,” indeed. I wonder if there really are mushrooms that look like that. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Or off of you and your “maiden’s prayer”—the living one is much better than that carving.’ Watson put an arm around Holmes and drew him closer. ‘Perhaps since you’re so tired today, you’ll just want a quiet night.’ Watson nuzzled Holmes’ neck and gently tugged at an earlobe with his lips.

Holmes smiled and drew closer to Watson. ‘I think not. Time enough for quiet nights when our vacation is over. I will display that carving where we can see from the bed. I suspect that it and the sight of your manly body will keep me awake.’

‘Locky, you are so wonderful to me.’ Watson kissed Holmes tenderly. The two of them sank deeper into the mud in the alleyway. They were so engrossed in their embrace that neither heard the door to the inn swing noiselessly open on its well-oiled hinges. The innkeeper regarded them tolerantly. The English gentry—what they got up to in public buggered belief.

‘You rang, Sir?’

Watson’s left eye drifted open. Holmes’s tongue filling his mouth and the strong hands wandering up and down his chest had transported him. As usual, Holmes’s attentions, the feel of those muscular arms wrapped around him, had driven all thought from Watson’s mind, and at first, he could attach no meaning to the scene over Holmes’s shoulder. The well-built figure filling the door of the inn, the cheery room behind him, the colourful and intricately patterned turkish rug glowing in the flames of the welcoming fire, the polished wooden furniture gleaming, the comfortable-looking three-piece suite upholstered in a tasteful striped sateen surrounding the fire—none of that made any sense to him. Holmes was the first to recover.

‘Thank you, Watson, I think you have removed the mote from my eye.’

‘Ah-humpf. Cough. Cough. Of course, Holmes, my pleasure. Any time you need help.’ Watson gave Holmes a manly pat on the shoulders. The two turned toward the innkeeper. ‘We made reservations for the night. Holmes and Watson. A single.’

‘Yes, gentlemen, I have been expecting you. I deduce from your arrival that last night’s storm did not wash out the roads or render them impassable. Come in. Come in. I am Ygor LaCruda, your host. Welcome to the Squire’s Rest. Do you have any luggage?’

‘We left it in the motorcar. Is it all right to leave it at the end of the passage?’ Watson pointed to the end of the alley, at the black shape blocking the entrance.

‘Good lord, is that what I think it is? I’ve seen pictures of the newest cars from Christie Motors, but I never thought I would see one in person.’

‘Yes, it’s the new air-cooled Poirault. We bought it on a whimsy. As soon as we saw it, we knew we had to have it.’

The innkeeper bounded down the alley, undeterred by the mud sucking at his feet. He hoisted the heavy steamer trunk from the boot of the car and, holding the luggage above his head, nimbly skipped back to the door of the inn. ‘I will look at the more closely later, if you don’t mind. Now, gentlemen, please come in. If you will register, I will show you to your room. The hot water is ready for your bath, and there is time to relax before our dinner service begins at 8:00.’

Holmes and Watson followed the innkeeper to the registry desk. Watson took the pen from Ygor and signed his name with aplomb at the top of the blank page. ‘Dr John Hamish Watson, London—please pardon us if Holmes doesn’t sign. We have learned to our regret that autograph seekers will deface any document in order to get an authentic Holmes signature.’

‘That will not be a problem, gentlemen. It has been years since the Gendarmerie visited this village to inspect my registry book. Now, if you will follow me.’ Ygor picked up the trunk and began walking up the grand staircase that led to the upper stories. Holmes and Watson followed him appreciatively, a few steps below him on the staircase, their eyes glued to his body.

‘Did you enjoy your trip to the Eiffel Tower?’

‘Yes, Dr Watson, but, that is astonishing. Tell me, how did you know that I just got back from Paris?’

‘Yes, Watson, what clues led you to that inference?’ Holmes’s voice was bursting with amazement at Watson’s latest deduction.

‘Alimentary, my dear Sirs. There is a spot of sauce béarnaise on Ygor’s tie. Since that is the only blot on his otherwise immaculate appearance, I deduced that he had not had time to clean his tie yet and that the stain was recent in date. Of course, the spot could have been made anywhere. But as he was striding down the passageway, I could not help but notice the way his buttocks filled his tight pants. Visible through the tautly stretched fabric were the distinctive seams of Pour les Hommes underwear. As you know, Holmes, I have made a study of French undergarments, particularly les briefs and les y-fronts. I now have catalogued 384 different varieties. Since Pour les Hommes is sold only in Paris, it was clear that Ygor has visited that city and the stain on his tie was the result of a recent visit to one of the culinary palaces for which the city is famous. The next step in my impeccable logic was, admittedly, a leap. But since every visitor to the City of Lights finds himself irresistibly and obsessively drawn to the tower that stands at the heart of it, I guessed that our most esteemed and incredibly well built host had not been immune to the attractions of that magnificent erection.’

‘Bravo, Dr Watson, bravo. Correct in every detail.’

‘Well done, Watson. You will work that into the latest account of our adventures, I trust. Although perhaps not the remark about the underwear. My fans would not appreciate that brilliant demonstration of my prowess. You will need to find another clue for me to decipher with my usual acumen.’

‘A pity, Holmes. Perhaps in time your readers will accept that the World’s Greatest Detective neglects no clue in his pursuit of the truth.’

‘Here, gentlemen. This is our finest room.’ Ygor opened the door with a flourish. A blood-red duvet was folded back at an inviting angle to reveal the snowy white linen on the king-sized four-poster bed. Plump pillows promised a plenitude of peaceful repose. Ygor followed Holmes and Watson into the room and set their luggage gently on the ancient wooden coffin at the foot of the bed. ‘This cabinet contains a variety of entertainments to make your stay more pleasant, Gentlemen.’ Through the door that Ygor swung open was visible an unusually complete assortment of ropes, harnesses, chains, whips, paddles, masks, restraints, costumes, gags, plugs, and dildos. ‘And through here is the bathroom.’

‘Lovely. This will suit our needs perfectly. The bolt holes in the bed posters are a thoughtful touch.’

‘We at the Mounted Rider aim to please, Dr Watson. If you require anything else, you have only to ring through to reception.’

‘Holmes? No? Then I think that will be all for now, Ygor. Holmes and I need to rest after our journey. There are four hours until dinner, I believe.’

‘Yes. Plenty of time to relax.’ Ygor bowed himself out of the room. The door closed firmly and the sound of the latch clicking home was very audible.

Holmes checked his appearance in the mirror that filled the wall opposite the bed. Clearly it would give the two of them an unrestricted view of themselves from anywhere in the room. Watson was casting a judicious eye over the contents of the cabinet. ‘Nothing we need, I think, Holmes. You have more than enough equipment for me.’ The two men smiled at each other in the mirror. Watson closed the door to the cabinet firmly and glanced into the bathroom. ‘The tub is large enough for two. Perhaps a long hot soak? I could give you a soapy hands massage, if you like.’

Ygor waited until he heard the bath water running before entering the room behind the mirrors. The ancient plumbing made so much noise that his entry would go unheard. The mirror into the bathroom was steamed over, but he could still make out the figures of Holmes and Watson. The two were very different from their reputations. Holmes was much younger than the stories about him implied and much the more conventionally handsome of the two. Watson was clearly the brains of the operation, and Holmes the front man. Watson was also to Ygor’s taste the more attractive of the two. His masculine build, the spread of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, his soldier’s posture, the thighs that obviously were no stranger to controlling a mighty stallion in their grasp. To judge from the squeals and moans that Holmes was beginning to emit, Watson was putting his medical knowledge to good use as he ran his soapy hands over Holmes’s body. As the steam began to settle in the room, Ygor could see the muscles in Watson’s back bunching and gliding underneath his well-tanned skin.

‘Just relax, Holmes. The more you relax, the better you will feel. And the better you feel, the more you relax.’ Watson’s voice murmured gently as he stroked and massaged each part of Holmes’s body. The younger man was almost limp when Watson finally arose from the bath and lifted Holmes from the tub. Watson gently towelled Holmes dry and carried him to the bed. The look on Holmes’s face shifted from simple ecstasy to lust to oblivion as Watson reduced him to a quivering mass of desire conscious only of Watson’s touch. Ygor felt privileged to watch another master of the technique of ego-death at work. Watson’s years in the east and his studies in Tantric Buddhism had forged him into the bodhisattva of the way of all flesh. The way Watson adjusted the beating of Holmes’s heart to the rhythms of his thrusts was superb. Ygor knew that he would have to experience this. Perhaps he had finally found his mate. Holmes could be milked of his blood for the elixir, but Watson—Watson was a candidate for initiation into the undying.

‘That was simply superb, Ygor. One would not have expected to find cuisine of this calibre in Carpathia.’ Holmes looked dazed and stuffed from his hours at the inn. Even Watson looked sated after the meal.

‘Dr Watson is too kind. One finds the best ingredients and lets them speak for themselves. Perhaps if I could be so bold, I would suggest that you finish up with some of our local brandy. The recipe has been in my hands, my family’s hands I mean, for centuries.’ The brandy glowed golden in the fire light, liquid amber, the fabled nectar of the gods. Holmes stared deep into the glass, his oblivion to his surroundings growing with each sip. Before he had finished half his glass, he had folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. Soon his light snores could be heard over the crackling of the wood in the fireplace.

‘We should let him rest, Ygor. This trip was intended to help him recover his health. He has been overworking himself. If you will join me in a glass of this excellent brandy, perhaps we could adjourn to the chairs before the fire in your lobby and let Holmes sleep for a while.’

Ygor stirred up the fire and poured another generous measure of brandy into their glasses before sitting in the chair opposite Watson. For a few moments, the two men stared into the fire and silently sipped their brandy. It was Ygor who finally broke the silence. ‘A drachma for your thoughts, Dr Watson.’

‘I was thinking of anagrams, Ygor LaCruda. Or should I call you by your proper name, Count Gory Dracula?’

‘I thought perhaps you had guessed my identity, Dr Watson. As you can appreciate, my ancestry would prove a hindrance to innkeeping if it were known. I might lose what little trade I have if my patrons suspected they were about to be drained of their blood. These silly legends have plagued my family for years. What we have suffered because of that wretched novelist and his imagination, I cannot begin to tell you. My own father deserted my mother and myself when I was young in order to escape the stories and begin a new life elsewhere under a different name. He left us only this inn, from which we have derived a precarious living. Van Helsing’s persecutions deprived my mother of peace during her final days. I am not a violent man, Dr Watson, but if he were not already dead, I would murder Stoker without compunction or mercy.’

‘I do understand and sympathise, my dear Ygor. I, too, have suffered from the slanders of a mendacious scribbler. I trust what I say will go no further, but you must have seen the situation between Holmes and myself. He is a dear man, and his heart is true. I am fond of him, deeply fond of him. He means no harm, but it would take a man of far stronger character than he has to resist the blandishments of the picture painted of him in the popular press. He has even begun to believe these tales himself. I tell you, Sir, it galls me at times to have to pretend that his is the stronger intellect, that the coups of detection, for which I alone am responsible, are his.’

‘Does he suspect your mental powers, Hamish?’

‘Ah, so you saw that as well. No, the techniques I studied during my years in the Himalayas—well, suffice it to say that they are not something that is dreamt of in Holmes’s philosophy. He appreciates the results but he does not realize that there is more to my abilities than what meets his eyes. I wish I could teach them to him. I long for a soul mate capable of matching my achievements. But I am resigned to my present life.’

‘You hide your discontents so well, Hamish. I had thought you enamoured of Holmes.’

‘I mean him no harm, Ygor. I thought when we first met that I had at last found my dream lover. It is the old story, our lusts, our nine inches of flesh, lead us astray. In any case, our mortality will soon bring an end to even that story.’

‘Not necessarily. There are ways to prolong life, to achieve an immortality.’

Dr Watson raised his eyes in surprise at this statement. Count Dracula was hidden in the shadows of the room, his disembodied voice surfacing at the edges of consciousness. It was almost as if Dr Watson’s thoughts were being spoken aloud. Only the occasional flame from the fire reflecting in the Count’s eyes betrayed his presence.

‘I heard of such things in India and investigated them, but none proved true. Shams and fakery. That is all they were.’

‘Not all of the legends about my family are without a basis in fact, Hamish. My own mental powers are not equal to your own, but my researches have led me to bodies of knowledge whose existence you may not suspect. I can trust in your discretion, Hamish, not to reveal what I am about to tell you to others.’

The Count paused for an answer. He had found Watson’s weaknesses—the desire for knowledge and the longing for someone truly worthy to share his life. Watson thought for only a few seconds, before nodding his acquiescence. ‘Of course, my dear Count. Your secrets will be safe with me.’

Unseen by Dr Watson, the Count smiled. He stood up and refilled the doctor’s glass with brandy. ‘I was born in 1387, the ninth count in our line. Like the other Counts Dracula, I have a taste for the blood of virgins. As you will see from my story, it is what keeps me strong and virile and gives me long life.’ For the next hour, the Count held Dr Watson spellbound as he recounted the history of his experiments, the many failed attempts to extract the life force from his virgin stud. The decades of near triumphs before the final victory, when he had held the vial of life essence in his hands and created the mother liquor from which he replenished his stock of brandy and converted it in the living veins of his victims to more of the ambrosia that kept him alive. His murmuring voice soon beguiled Watson. Unaware that the Count’s mental powers were equal to his own, the Doctor was lulled in a false sense of his own superiority and failed to erect the mental barriers that would have kept him safe. His mind barely registered its growing enchantment.

‘So, my dear Hamish, I offer you a choice of immortalities. You and Holmes can contribute your blood to add to my stock of life essence and thereby achieve a form of immortality in my veins. Or you can achieve another form of immortality, one I have never offered to another before today. I can inoculate you with my seed and you can join me as my partner. I believe it will take only five couplings before you are fully impregnated with my powers. Once you have joined me on this side, however, you cannot go back. There can be no others who penetrate you. That would mean instant death. Except with me, you will have to be an eternal top. We can be fucked only by each other. But if you join me, you will have not only eternal life but eternal youth. The life essence of others will rejuvenate you and make you eternally young. It will also give you powers to control others far greater than those you now possess. The power, Hamish, think of it. Is it not what you truly desire?’

The Count stood up and approached Watson. The Doctor was unable to move. ‘You must decide freely to join me, Watson. Coercion would not work.’

‘And what of Holmes? If I join you, will you allow him to go free? We could reprogram his mind to forget.’

‘You bargain for Holmes’s life? I wonder, will you be able to love me as much?’ The Count examined Watson’s face carefully. He reached out and drew a finger along the line of Watson’s jaw. ‘Very well. I am feeling generous. In any case, I have enough serum to last the two of us for centuries. If you will join me, we will release Holmes to go on his harmless way.’

‘What must I do?’

‘Surrender your body to me. Five times. That is all.’

‘I have never been fucked before.’

‘You will enjoy it. I will see to that.’ The Count released Watson from his control.

‘I have your word that you will do Holmes no harm?’

‘Yes, Hamish.’ The Count slowly began to remove his clothes, until his powerful body was revealed naked before Watson. The blood of thousands of young males had been distilled into him, and from each he had gained in power.

Watson looked up at the Count towering over him. His consciousness narrowed down to the Count’s strong, youthful body, his vigour, his strength, his power. It could be his. He stood up and removed his evening clothes. The room suddenly felt too hot and too small. The air had become viscous and thick. Watson stood naked before the Count. The Count stared into his eyes and slowly began to seduce Watson’s body with pleasure. ‘Do not struggle or resist. The fire is devouring you. Allow it to burn your mortality away.’ Watson’s body rippled with the force of the Count’s desire. Waves of oblivion carried him off. He was only vaguely conscious when the Count penetrated him and began thrusting into him.

Ending no. 1

Holmes awoke with a headache. For a few seconds, he was totally disoriented. Dirty plates and dishes surrounded him. He couldn’t remember where he was or why he was sitting at this table. His hangover had already started. Not for the first time, he chastised himself for his weaknesses and addictions. You think by now he would know to be careful about how much he drank, but he was weak. Once he started drinking, he couldn’t stop. The evening was coming back to him. Ygor had given him that large glass of brandy. He had been all right until then, but he should have stopped then. And where was Watson? Probably gone off to bed in disgust at another evening ruined by his drinking.

What was all that noise? Someone was moaning in the next room. Moaning with great pleasure by the sound of it. Holmes gingerly stood up, bracing himself on the back of a chair. Something hard in the pocket of his coat swung against his hip. He reached down into the pocket and pulled out the wooden carving of a mushroom that he and Watson had bought earlier that day, or was it yesterday by now? The carving that looked so much like a gigantic dildo. He had brought it downstairs to ask Ygor about it and then had forgotten about it while they were eating dinner and then drinking.

His head was clearing a bit. He thought he could make it up the stairs and into bed. At least he would try. Perhaps whoever was moaning in the next room would lend him an arm and see him to bed. Holmes’s path to the door was marked by lurching from side to side, but he eventually made it, not without a few spells of dizziness and nausea, but he was gradually beginning to have more control over his movements.

In the dim firelight in the next room, he could make out two figures struggling. No, not struggling, they were copulating. And the figure with his back to Holmes doing the fucking was, if he was not mistaken, their studly innkeeper. And my god, the man had a magnificent ass. He had felt a twinge of jealously earlier when Watson had guessed that Ygor had just returned from Paris. Watson should not have been paying attention to another man’s rear, but Holmes did have to admit that Watson had excellent taste. The curves Ygor’s ass was describing as he thrust repeatedly into the other man, it was a man now that Holmes looked closely, inflamed Holmes. He seldom wanted to fuck someone else, but now he could think of doing nothing else. The alcohol had taken a toll on him, however. His cock could not be persuaded to get hard. He tried to arouse it but it was no use. Ygor’s buttocks beckoned to him. He felt pulled into them. Holmes lifted the wooden carving and thrust it deep between Ygor’s cheeks just as Ygor released his first load of cum into Watson’s body.

The Count’s scream instantly sobered Holmes. Watson fell to the floor as the Count released his body and tried to remove the wooden stake impaling him. ‘Noooo.’ The Count’s look of anguish and regret would haunt Holmes and Watson for the rest of their lives. The two looked on in horror as the Count aged. Within a few seconds, his body withered and his bones fell to the floor. Then even the bones quickly disintegrated into dust. The wooden carving rolled slowly across the floor, the sound of wood against wood the only sound in the room. In the dawn light creeping through the window, they could see no trace of the innkeeper.

‘It isn’t what you are thinking, Holmes.’

‘Explain yourself, Watson.’

It would be many hours before Watson persuaded Holmes to forgive his tryst with the vampire. But Holmes would never again quite trust Watson the way he had.

The End

Ending no. 2

In one part of his mind, Watson knew that he was under the Count’s control. But soon, unless the Count were misleading him, his powers of control would be just as great as the Count’s. For now, he surrendered to the power that was vibrating throughout his body. There was death and life here, death of his former self and life, eternal life, with someone who would be his equal, the partner he had always desired. He shuddered as the Count came within him, the Count thrusting deep within him and depositing the seeds that would soon change him. He could feel the heat growing in his body, the overloading of the senses that burned away his former self. The power that was surging through him. He surrendered utterly to the Count and found his freedom there. Would this happen only four more times? That was not enough. This, this, this, had to be repeated throughout eternity.