The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

William had spent most of his day completing the preparations for the forthcoming baptism of baby Howlett, soon to be Martha Howlett. He always enjoyed the process of welcoming a new small soul into the family of god. Even this could not maintain his mood, as gradually the memory of the previous night returned to haunt him. William recoiled when he recalled his barely-provoked attack on Mary. What must she think of him? The poor woman must have felt he was denying her this morning, what a Judas he was!

The Reverend locked the door of the church and sullenly walked away. At least Mary would be gone now and he need not face his sin. Cowardice had persuaded him to put things right in the morrow. His mind turned to the cause of his behaviour, he was certain that this had something to do with the accursed icon. Since he’d first laid eyes on it, he had detested it. William’s mind took him back to that fateful happening in his childhood.

The night had been wild, storms lashed at the vicarage and the insistent tapping of the branches on Will’s window had filled his head with unwanted images. In his young mind, witches flew and the dead whispered from the adjacent graveyard. A loud peal of thunder was the final straw. Will left the scant comfort his bedclothes had provided, and headed off to find reassurance.

His quest eventually led him to his father’s study. The room lay in darkness but Will could just make out his father’s figure. He stood on this side of his desk facing the window, his head bowed as if in prayer. Will hesitated, he did not want to interrupt his father’s commune with god, even at his tender age he understood its importance. That was when the lightning struck and young Will learnt of the icon.

Multiple flashes of intense blue light rendered a nightmarish scene; the icon, the virgin Mary, the beast, his obscenely large appendage, the look of hatred in his father’s eyes. More flashes; the staccato motion of his father’s hand, his grotesquely large organ. The spurts that issued from it. The pool of seed on the icon. Will fled, his young mind sure that he had just seen the devil incarnate, both in the icon and in his beloved father.

Will never spoke of this; neither as a child nor as an adult. Over the years he saw his father’s health fail; the doctors called and named the illness, consumption. But William knew that although the name was apt, it was not the disease that consumed his father, burnt his youth and laid him to waste.

No, he knew the true source. He had seen it. The irony became complete a year ago, when finally his father’s brave struggle ended; William took over his job and his responsibilities. One of these was most sour; to guard the very icon that had corrupted and killed his father.

William stopped walking; he had reached the door to his manse. He opened it, and crossed more than one threshold.

Hove had walked briskly on, not even, as was his habit pausing in Green park for his favourite stroll up Constitution Hill. No, on this day, Brighton strode on by making his way rapidly along Piccadilly soon he turned left, finding his way through to Saville Row and finally into the heart of Regent Street.

His pace slowed, he was unsure of the precise location of the shop but he was fairly sure it was a quarter of a mile or so further, on this side. He scoured the shop fronts as he walked, then he spied it—just the other side of Prince’s street; J Brown and Brothers, Purveyors of Fine Maps, Charts and Astronomical instruments.

Brighton smiled, his sense of direction had not failed him, it was innate, but Infantry training and the pressure of the Sudan had honed his skill to perfection. He sighed, damn it all, he was getting as bad as Ned, the Sudan and the Mahdi were long gone. This was civilisation not the killing fields of Abu Klea. Sadly he shook his head and crossed Prince’s Street.

Once in the shop he approached the vendor, a largish gentleman with a handlebar moustache. “I wonder if you can assist me. I am looking for maps of a very specific area of Buckinghamshire. They must be highly detailed. Oh, and before I forget both ancient and modern. The places of interest are West Wycombe, Henley and...” Before Brighton could complete his list the moustachioed man did.

“Medmenham! How odd. Very specific but identical to the last gentleman. What a co-incidence.”

“Incredible yes. Erm, the last gentleman was?” Hove felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

“Behind you, the man browsing at the London Street guides. If you will excuse me I will just retrieve your maps.”

“Yes thank you.” Hove replied, then stole a sideward glance at his fellow customer. An unremarkable but clearly foreign chap, squarish forehead and lantern jawed. ‘Could be a Hun’ Hove thought to himself, suddenly Brighton found himself staring directly into the man’s intense, dark eyes. He blinked once, and the man had diverted his gaze concentrating on the guide once more. Hove thought it odd that he had not taken his gloves off to do this, surely it would be easier?”

“Here we are Sir, six maps just as requested.” The shopkeeper did a quick mental calculation, “That will be £2.11s.6p and one farthing, please.”

Ned reached for his wallet and smiled, he handed the shopkeeper a £5 note. Hove heard the bell on the shop door sound, he glanced around and noticed the Germanic man had left. He made up his mind in an instant and rushed to the door himself, ignoring the surprised shopkeeper’s cries.

“Sir! Sir, your change!”

Holmes was gleeful, he enjoyed nothing more than perusing books and discovering gems of information. As an only child, books ad been his one constant companion, they taught him and provided his fertile imagination with lands, indeed whole worlds to explore. Yes he truly loved books, even so, some of the works he delved into today taxed him sorely.

The woodcut illustrations of demons and rituals abhorred him. Not the practices so much, for he thought it very unlikely any of this was true. If anything he was a little ambivalent about god, but as for the fallen angel and hell, these were just tales to scare the uncertain. No, his abhorrence was for the darkness that resided in the human, and the fact that it could be communicated so effectively to others, slowly eroding their morality.

The morality he, and all others, depended on for civilisation. The one true and honourable thing the Empire stood for, the only reason for laying one life down; as he so nearly had. No this was tumour, eating at the heart of civilised behaviour, cut it out—or surely it would spread. Ned suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the very idea.

Ned’s next read was more enlightened, a treatise on the ‘Knights of St. Francis’. Reasonably it pointed out that the ‘Knights’ of Francis Dashwood were men of standing, in politics, the arts and society. As such these men may have a liking for fine wine and women, but that the occult stories were mere fantasies created by the press of the time and subsequently, the product of nothing more sinister that jealousy. Although this cheered Holmes somewhat, it did add weight to the theory of the illuminati being involved. For the illuminati and power went hand in glove.

Holmes lent back and pinched the brow of his nose, for the faded print had taken is toll and his head thumped in furious pain. He concentrated to clear it, decisions were needed, fast, correct decisions. Tonight he would visit the ‘George and Vulture’ the public house where the Hellfire club had been conceived. If nothing else he could gain some background, maybe into the reason for the destruction by fire of the first pub that had born that name.

Holmes stood and made his exit from the library. Once outside he lit his churchwarden. Magically the pain in his head subsided. ‘And Hove thinks this is bad for me, tsk tsk!’ Thought Holmes, as he walked off to find a cab.

Brighton burst through the Cartographer’s doorway and out onto Regent Street almost colliding with a mature matron.

“Sir! Please have some care.” She grumbled.

Brighton muttered his apologies before rushing off in the direction of Buckingham Palace. He left a very irate woman in his wake.

“Really, these young people! Just what is happening to manners these days?”

She was left to wonder, as Brighton in his hurry, was already a good fifty yards away. He dropped his pace slightly as he got within yards of the ‘Hun’. Hove puffed happily, this was his chance to do some real detection, the sort Holmes would approve of. He calmed his urgent breathing and kept a few pedestrians between himself and his target. His stealth was pointless, as his perceptive target was already award of his presence.

The walk was uneventful, the man crossed at the end of the street, to the far side of Piccadilly. Hove wondered idly if the unknown man was heading for Hove’s home base. The idea of course was foolish. He was proved wrong when the gentleman turned left into Green Park. Hove increased his pace to avoid his quarry slipping away.As he entered the park, Hove realised he had failed. The man had simply vanished!

Hove was lifted off his feet, a strong right arm wound around his waist and a gloved left hand sealed his lips. The smell of fine leather drifted up his nostrils. A second later he was dragged into the bushes at the park entrance.

“So my fine friend, what is your fascination with me?” A soft Germanic voice whispered in his ear.

The hand finally relaxed to let him reply, his feet however still dangled.

“Fascination, Sir I have no idea of what you mean! Unhand me now.”

“Oh, an innocent are we?” The voice cracked into a nasty laugh. “Let me see you, I am going to release you. If you attempt to flee, I will kill you Sir.”

For some unknown reason Hove did as he was told, he stood facing his assailant.

“Most pleasant, restful on the eyes. And my, Sir you are well proportioned, are you not. Now be so kind as to undo your britches for me...” Asked the assailant.

The very suggestion broke through Hove’s daze.

“I shall not, the very idea. We have laws in this Country Sir! We...” Hove’s voice was cut off in it’s entirety by a dismissive wave of his assailant’s right hand.

“I know of this despotic Countries opinion of me and my ‘kind’. I know of the music halls and the outrageous jokes you make of us ‘Earnest’s’. But as ridiculed as we are, we can frighten more than the horse’s, Sir. Your cruel Country has something I want and I shall have it. You have got something I want, and I shall see it. Now!”

Brighton found that his mouth would not move, he could not emote the words that burned in his mind. To his horror however his hands would move, and unerringly they proceeded to undo his britches and extract his flaccid organ. The man moved towards Hove and without shame he gripped the shaft of his man-stalk.

“Very solid and attractive, but I am sure it can be encouraged to blossom.” The man spoke quietly.

The assailant tightened his grip and began to manipulate Brighton’s pego with easy strokes. Hove died inside, but in spite of his feelings his member responded to the experienced touch and reared up. The frequency of the gloved hands motion increased, causing Hove to tremble as his desire and erection grew.

Now the assailant laughed cruelly, “Oh dear, I think you will disgrace yourself Sir, how very unfortunate.” The hand now nipped and relaxed, as it polished Brighton’s stalk with urgent friction. Hove felt his shame approaching, try as he might, however hard he fought he could not prevent it.

As Brighton grimaced, long streams of his seed shot forth, coating the surrounding leaves with a thick white deposit. He never recovered to feel the enormity of the sin against him, for as he swayed in the midst of his pleasure, a heavy hand clubbed down on the back of his neck. The world as viewed by Hove swam, and then darkened.

“Farewell Sir, I have what I needed, and you are without whatever it was you desired.” The man smirked, “Just as with you, I shall take your Country and all I desire from it.”

The man wiped his gloved hand with his handkerchief before continuing his stroll. A few minutes later he had a view of Buckingham Palace from the peak of Constitution Hill. He waited while a couple strolled by him, he touched the brim of his hat briefly in apparent respect. Once alone he spoke his oath.

“I, a member of the Sancti of Illuminati, vow to undermine Her Britannic Majesty and usurp her Empire. Or die in the process!”

He stepped back and continued to stroll, he had some time before his meeting with Dashwood. Wherever it was to be. All he knew was he must meet his carriage at the entrance to Green Park at seven o’clock on this very eve.