The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The third thing he asked of me might yet change my life forever. Perhaps it already has.

Earlier this evening, I’d been sipping my Martini, waiting at the bar, wondering what he was planning for tonight, what the third thing was. Perhaps it would mean that I, Katya, would be made his in a whole new way. I very much hoped so, although I would never prompt him. Mister Talv was not a man who could ever be rushed.

The club with the red door is one of those shadowy secret places, where certain men of note are rumoured to gather, allegedly, although they would never admit it. An urban myth, to most people; to a select few, a sanctuary.

“Tere õhtust, Katya.” A greeting from the North, the Old Country. A ritual now, part of our game.

“Good evening, Mister Talv.” Call and response.

I wondered why we couldn’t just walk into the place together like normal people. Why he always made me wait for him, sat at the bar in my dress and heels and other items, a magnet for the eyes of other men. Surely things were different between us now, after Tallinn?

He sat down beside me and signalled for a drink. “How nice your breasts look, Katya. Very succulent.”

This is true. They are an outstanding feature, although only one amongst many.

He lit a cigarette, and nobody in the club batted an eyelid. I know no-one else who could get away with it. Then he gave me the smile. “Would you agree that the last few weeks have been interesting?”

I thought of the weight of his rings, and the chain, and my time on Blodeuwedd’s Perch. “Absolutely.” A strong pulse of desire through my nipples, my belly – coming to life instinctively. I thought of the Secret Garden.

“You choose this.”

Of course I choose. I am strong, independent, in control; I do what I want.

“I relish it,” I said. And I truly did.

“So we come to the third thing I ask of you,” he said.

“What do you have in mind?”

And then he leans close, and his lips brush my ear, and he whispers the magic word from the Old Country:

Ärkama.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

His name is Karsten, but nobody calls him that. The gravitational pull of Mister Talv is like that of a black hole, I think. People look at him. Women are drawn to him, move towards him instinctively, and it isn’t just his flashing green eyes and infectious smile. His ambit of influence is wide, and if you get too close, within a certain radius of attraction, the singularity beckons.

I had long skirted the event horizon of Mister Talv. Although I orbited with extreme care, he was always full of surprises. Sometimes he was cruel; sometimes almost romantic. Sometimes he even made me laugh.

Take that time, not so very long ago. We’d been sitting in a booth and for no reason at all he pulled out a Tarot deck. Who carries such things? He laid the Lovers on the table, along with two more cards, and it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do.

“The Lovers, the Fool, and the Devil,” he said. “Can you find him, Katya? The Devil?”

He turned the cards over in place. The old three card trick. I played along.

“Watch it carefully.” I pinned my eyes on the Devil, determined not to lose this game. Shuffle, shuffle, slide and shuffle. “Now choose.”

Again. And again. And again. Every time I picked up the card that was definitely, absolutely, the Devil, it was the Lovers.

“Inevitability, you see,” he said. “Fate. Destiny. The illusion of choice.”

“And what are you? The Devil?”

“Definitely not.” From nowhere, he pulled out the Hanged Man, and mimed the tug of the rope on his neck, his head lolling sideways.

“That’s terrible!” I laughed.

“It doesn’t mean what you think. It’s about sacrifice, for the greater good. A strange and exotic card.”

Having experienced some of Mister Talv’s needs, I doubted that he forewent their fulfilment very often. But perhaps he was talking about something else entirely.

He looked at me seriously, then. “I only ask three things of you,” he said. “For the greater good.”

I raised an eyebrow, questioning.

“Katya, I will explain when we get to Tallinn.”

And I’d had my doubts too, along the long road from then to now. At times I’d been perplexed, uncertain, and I’d had some strange experiences with Mister Talv. I’d wondered if I should take what he offered, give myself to him – after all, how often did one meet a man like –

—then, from nowhere, a strange warning voice in my head: danger, danger, danger. I had actually frozen, blue eyes wide in the mirror, lipstick halfway to my mouth. What was speaking to me? What was there to fear?—

—and afterwards, I’d had the most terrible dream, and it recurred now, the night before we flew to Tallinn.

In the way of such dreams, I was trapped in a glass case as The Man looked at me. Someone was waiting, a tall woman dressed head to toe in skin-tight shiny black. She terrified me.

In the dream, I was on my hands and knees, at her feet – it seemed the logical place to be—and I looked up at The Man. From that vantage point, he seemed impossibly tall. His face was indistinct.

The other woman was holding something. A red glow reflected in a sheen of black, and then a swift and searing agony in my left buttock. I swear it was real, that pain, and that I blacked out. Can you black out, in a dream?

I’m sure I really screamed, in the quiet of my bedroom.

The woman in the dream was inhumanly strong, and I could not escape as she bore down harder, pressing the brand in place. Pain and pleasure mingled, and were one.

I woke to find my sheets were soaked in sweat. For no reason at all, I remember wondering what Mister Talv’s signature looked like.