The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ned sat quietly waiting for daylight to creep into his darkened receiving room. The sole source of light was the occasional, rhythmical glow of Holmes’s churchwarden. A soft footfall made Holmes turn his head slightly to the right, he silently nodded at the shadowy figure.

“I say old chap, up with the lark aren’t we?”

“Before Hove. No dawn chorus. Anyway darkness suits my mood.”

“More bad dreams? What ails you so?”

“Brighton, it is best left.”

“Really? Is it? This drains you Holmes, makes you maudlin. These dreams, and that damnable pipe!”

“The pipe is my solace, my retreat Brighton. Without it...”

“Without it... You would confide in me, your friend.” Hove replied quietly.

“Hove, you know. You were there.”

“I was and the dead are now gone. Try as we might, we can not change history.”

“The dead are very much alive... In my dreams Hove, I see each and every one of them. Every soldier I failed.” Ned’s voice faltered.

“You failed no one! The strategy failed, the General failed, you sir, did not!”

Holmes smiled and then shielded his eyes from the gas mantles which Hove lit. Soon the room was bathed in a yellow light. Hove spoke once more. “It is always darkest just before the dawn. Something will come along to solve your melancholy mood.”

“You are a good egg Brighton. I trust you are right. Now how about some tea? Hmmm, that will wash away the dreams.”

“Tea, capital. I will see if cook is awake.” Hove started to walk towards the door.

“I suppose a camp brew is out of the question then? There is some fresh mint in the yard.”

Hove laughed as the mention of mint tea swept away the years. “Yes sir, Captain Holmes, one brew coming up.” Hove stood to attention and saluted.

“Dismissed,” barked Holmes, in a mock order. His mood began to dissipate behind his grin.

The day wore on. At half past seven precisely the mail arrived. Hove dutifully picked it up. “One here marked for your immediate and personal attention, dear chap.”

Holmes stirred from his armchair for the first time that morning and crossed to his desk. He retrieved the envelope, “Written by a confident hand...” Ned slid the paperknife between the flap and the unknown wax seal. Once open he unfolded the letter and read it to himself with increasing interest.

‘Dear Mr Holmes,

I write to ask your assistance in a most delicate matter. I am the vicar of Saint Peter’s Church in the town of Henley. Our church is one of the oldest in the locale, being listed in the Domesday Book and since those early days, we have been charged with the care and protection of an ancient icon. To our eternal shame, we have failed in this regard; Tuesday last, the vestry was broken into and the icon seized. The fact that it was the only thing taken causes me great concern. If this has been stolen for the reason I suspect, then we are all in great moral danger.

I can not and will not attempt to describe the icon, save to say that what it depicts is an outrage to all god-fearing men. If you forgive my presumption I will visit you to discuss this in person on Monday sixth of May. I will be arriving in Paddington at Eleven-fifteen, and I will travel by cab to your premises at 2C Chester Row in Belgravia. I hope for you forbearance with my presumptive plans.

Yours sincerely.

William Carter Pearson.

Reverend of St. Peter’s Church, Henley-upon-Thames.’

“Hove we should prepare for a visitor, a cleric wishes to engage our services.”

“A cleric? What can the church need from us?” asked a slack jawed Brighton.

“For once I am unsure myself, but there are some minor clues in the letter.”

“The letter was addressed to you Holmes...”

Ned waved away the protest. Hove read the letter and then cocked his head to the left, as was his habit upon being confused.

“What on earth can this icon depict?”

Holmes shrugged.

The long room echoed the shuffling steps in muted tones. Soon the hushed group was fully assembled. They stood erectly with their flowing robes stilled in the silent air. One stepped forward from the ranks, confidently he made his way to the rear of a mock-altar. Once there, he reached up and grasped an unseen cord. An intake of hallowed breath sounded around the room as dark eyes gazed upon their prize, drinking in the depravity depicted.

“Brothers, the ‘Madonna’s fall’ is back with us. The true depiction of Mary succumbing to our dark lord’s caress. Few know that Joseph sired one less of his ‘mortal’ children than he thought. Jude was the child of our own dark lord, the founder of our ancient tribe and the head of the ‘illuminati’. Let us celebrate our lord’s possession of god’s whore. Bring the girl!”

Two more brethren appeared through the door at the far end of the chamber. Between them a woman garbed in a white tunic struggled furiously. She stilled momentarily when her eyes fell on the icon and then her panic increased. It was to no avail; resistant as she was, she soon stood before the altar. It was then she noticed the bulge distorting the front of the robe of the brother behind the altar. Her scream rent apart the still air.

“No, no you can not! Please have mercy...”

Her voice was stilled as soon as the brother’s hand anointed her head, the foul water was dragged across her forehead in the shape of an inverted cross. She stood still, feeling the urgent, unwanted desire course through her. She was determined not to be led into temptation. Then the chanting began.

“Our father, who art in hell,”

Clarice moaned as her nipples hardened into stiff peaks.

“Feared be thy name, thy kingdom come,”

Clarice felt the flow of want spill down her thighs.

“Give us this day our darkest need,”

Clarice felt her clitoris part her lower lips in insistent erection.

“Support us in our trespasses, and smite those who trespass against us,”

Clarice moved her hand toward the red hotness between her thighs.

“Lead us into temptation, and deliver us through evil,”

Clarice pumped her thighs thrusting her wet folds against her enquiring fingers.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory,”

Clarice ripped the top of her tunic with her free hand and plundered her swinging breasts savagely.

“For ever and ever, worldsend.”

Clarice threw herself onto the altar spreading her limbs and pleasuring herself lewdly. A moment later the brother mounted her, stabbing his hard gnarled pego deep within her. With relentless unbridled passion the brother’s glans pounded against Clarice’s virgin womb. Together the carnal couple acted out the despicable act shown on the icon.

Around them the brothers fumbled under their distended robes, gradually they walked towards the altar continually reciting their obscene ‘Lords prayer’. At the moment of passion each brother ejaculated, depositing his seed on the writhing woman.

Eventually the brother astride Clarice dismounted. He turned to his dishevelled brothers.

“The Whore of Nazareth is reborn!” He called; his brothers broke into wild celebration.

Clarice sat up on the Altar and observed her servants with a lascivious grin. She stood, ignoring the streams of semen that streamed down her lithe body. In a voice dripping with forbidden delights, she spoke.

“All it needs for evil to prosper is that good men do nothing. No man, good or evil, can resist me. Our victory is assured!”

The unnatural orgy began in earnest.

The Reverend walked the few steps to the door of 2C, he paused to read the brass plate beside the door.

‘Holmes & Hove Private Investigators’.

He sighed, gathered his resolve and tapped on the door. The man who answered the door was slightly shorter, and possibly younger than the Reverend. He certainly had an air of military confidence.

“Ah, the Reverend Pearson I presume?” He paused, waiting for the confirmatory nod and then continued, “Pray join us, can we offer you some refreshment after your journey?”

“A tea would be most welcome. Mr Holmes?”

“No, sorry allow me to introduce myself, I am Brighton Hove, his partner.” Hove extended a hand and passed his calling card to the Reverend.

“I see. My business is with Mr Holmes, Mr Hove. I do not wish to appear rude but...”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you but Mr Holmes has made me aware of your circumstances.”

“He has! How very unfortunate, I had hoped...”

“Our discretion is assured, Reverend Pearson.”

Pearson nodded and walked towards the receiving room, two paces behind the striding Hove. Once he entered the room he was greeted by a slightly more mature and taller gentleman.

“Mr Holmes?” He asked.

“Indeed, Ned Holmes at your service, Reverend Pearson.”

“I had imagined someone of greater maturity.” The Reverend stated.

“As had I, maybe it is a young man’s world after all.” Holmes smiled.

William Pearson chuckled and a smile graced his face for the first time in days. “Let us hope that we young men are up to the task. An onerous task as it turns out.”

“Tell me more. I was very intrigued by your letter.” Holmes indicated a chair to the Reverend and duly sat in his own. Hove followed suit, sitting between Pearson and Ned on a less resplendent chair with a pressed cane seat.

“I am happy to tell you more Mr Holmes, alone in confidence.”

“Brighton and I are partners, what one hears—we both hear Reverend Pearson.” Holmes replied, with a kind smile.

“I understand, but this is a most unusual case. The fewer that know of it the better.”

“Then you have a choice, either tell us both, or neither of us. Those are my terms of business.”

“Very well, needs drive, needs drive.”

The Reverend began his long and sorry tale. There were many side discussions and exclamations of surprise. As the conversation wound towards its close, Pearson produced an envelope.

“What the two of you are about to see, you must disclose to no other man. Ever.”

With shaking hands, William Pearson withdrew two pieces of paper from the envelope. One was the size of a normal letter, the other the size of a calling card. With an uncertain motion William turned over the largest piece of paper.

“Good god! That is an outrage, an abomination.” Hove gasped.

“Yes, you see the reason for our concern. This tears at the very fabric of our faith.”

Calmly Holmes interjected. “I would rather see what is on the smaller piece of paper, if you would be so kind?”

With an air of repugnance William flipped over the card. Written on the card was one sole phrase.

‘Monks of Medmenham’

Holmes sighed. “As I suspected. We are indeed in deep water. I accept the challenge of this case, in the full knowledge of the risks.”

“God bless you my son, this is to aid you on your way. My prayers and heartfelt thanks are with you.”

William rose. “I have matters to attend to back in my flock, good day gentlemen!”

Hove escorted the Reverend to the door and from there to his cab.

Pearson gazed out on the busy streets with wonder and concern. How could so many survive in this overcrowded place? What hope was there for their immortal souls? He sincerely doubted there was any. The city lacked the refinement and hope of his home town. William sighed, maybe he should move—reside where god was so clearly needed. Deep in thought, he made his way towards Paddington station. He was interrupted by a beggar.

“Penny for the flowers—Sir?”

William reached in to his waistcoat pocket to retrieve some change. As he dropped it into the girl’s extended hand his eyes met hers. As they did William’s immortal soul fell into the dark depths of Clarice’s bottomless, soulless eyes.

His head hung low like a man aslumber. His craggy, pale features were partly hidden by the robes loose hood. He stared intently at the dark surface of the wooden table before him, his lips moving in a silent incantation. The door opened and she entered.

“Well, do you have news?” He asked, without moving.

“I have news Brother Dashwood. The foolish Reverend has employed a private investigator, he wishes to recover the ‘Madonna’.”

“Excellent, so he believes in our subterfuge—we can use this. An investigator you say, that is of no concern. Our plans are bigger than one man, one country, or even one continent!” Dashwood smiled manically.

“Yes brother, we will crush them. The cleric is strong though, he has a true faith.”

“Faith is good, we just need to shift the object of it, and we shall have him. He will have no recollection of the meeting?”

“No mental recollection, I did leave him with a reminder of our meeting though.”

Dashwood roared his approval “You took the Vicar! You had the man of god?” he guffawed.

“Oh yes, and he has the passion as well as the faith. He needs some training in the ways of lust, but he shows real promise.”

“So he is marked and vulnerable?” Dashwood asked.

“Marked yes, but strong. It will take time and resolve to weaken him.”

“Clarice, you have done well. But your skills of dark seduction are for a more select audience. Do not waste your time on this fool.”

“Brother, I sense he is a strong one. A worthy addition to our flock.”

“Worthy maybe, but not influential. Our aim is higher Clarice.”

“I have needs Dashwood. Needs you gave me, I demand diversions.”

“And I have one for you. One I selected personally.”

Dashwood snapped his long, bony fingers. A panel slid back and two hooded figures emerged, between them stood a teenaged girl. Dashwood nodded, and the trio walked forward.

Another nod and they stopped. Dashwood smiled briefly, he clicked his fingers once more. The brethren each grasped one shoulder of the girl’s tunic and pulled, the garment fluttered to the floor. The blonde girl’s barely mature body was exposed to the cold cave air; her nipples puckered.

“But she is a woman, I have not taken a woman.” Whispered Clarice.

Dashwood smiled sardonically, and closed his eyes for a moment of intense concentration. When his eyelids pulled back his eyes had taken on an electric blue hue. “Do as thy wilt shall be the whole of the law!”

All hesitation left Clarice, she walked directly to the shivering girl and brought her hands up to cup the generous globes of her bosom. Insistently her fingers tugged at the indolent tips.

The girl sighed, shifting her weight slightly and parting her trembling legs. Clarice fell to her knees, bringing her mouth close to the girl’s navel. At the touch of Clarice’s tongue the girl’s stomach drew back. “Oh nooo...” she gasped. Her hands did contradict her words and fell to ruffle Clarice’s auburn hair. Encouraged Clarice swept her tongue down in long, liquid arc’s targeting the fine patch of fair hair. Succulent lips met crinkled labia and fused.

Reluctantly Dashwood walked away from the charming tableau, indicating to his brethren that they should follow. The chamber they left was soon filled with gasps and tender cries.

“Well Holmes! That was incredible. Do you believe him?”

“Which part of our discussion do you reference Hove?”

“All of it I suppose, is he a madman?—That picture was just—impossible.”

“The icon is possible, his description of its qualities I doubt.”

“Ah you doubt what it depicts?” Brighton sighed.

“I really can not comment, I am a man of science, not of religion. My rational mind tells me that the icon is not indestructible. Logic tells me that no inanimate object is capable of renewing itself.”

“But the Reverend told us of its survival through fire, storm and attack. Whatever happened to it, the following day it was all ways renewed, untouched by events—no matter how extreme they were. What does that tell you?”

“It tells me there may be more than one icon.” Holmes smiled.

“More than one? I do not understand.”

“Let us surmise that the illuminati have a vested interest in the propagation of this blasphemous untruth. They would have the resources to replace a damaged icon with a duplicate, knowing it would only add to the images repute.”

Brighton grimaced. “Holmes this is too much, how do the illuminati come into this?”

Ned wrapped an affectionate arm around Brighton’s shoulder. “I apologise, I am not making myself very clear am I?”

Brighton shook his head. “As clear as mud old chap. Maybe the lack of clarity lies in my mind?”

“You know who the ‘Monks of Medmenham’ were?” Holmes asked.

“Indeed, the Hellfire club, but that tomfoolery was done with a hundred years ago. Ned, it is history.”

“Now, I am not as certain as you of this, there was a rumour that Sir Francis met with the illuminati during his ‘grand tour’ of Europe. If that is the case the Hellfire club could have had their blessing. The fabled ‘Monks’ may have passed on but the illuminati are still with us. Still waiting.”

“Sir Francis?”

“Sir Francis Dashwood, 15th Baron le Despencer—the founder of the Hellfire club. A club fabled for its orgiastic and satanic rituals.”

“But was he not...” Hove gasped.

“Chancellor of the Exchequer, yes he was. Only one place removed from the Prime Minister. Such is the power of the illuminati.”

“My god! Only one more question Holmes.”

“Of course, ask away.”

“Who are the illuminati?”

Ned laughed heartily. “The illuminati originate from Bavaria, they consider themselves the ‘illuminated ones’. The holders of the ultimate truth. The hidden force behind world powers. Misguided and dangerous fools, but a real force for evil in the world.”

“And we have agreed to take them on?” Asked Brighton.

Holmes nodded, his expression was grave.