The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He flexed a cramped leg, it had taken an age for each of the congregation to receive their blessing. Now the Reverend moved towards the altar, he bent and retrieved something from under the cloth that draped it. It was not until the vicar had finally positioned it that he could see clearly what it was. It was some form of picture, he was far too far away to see its detail, but it was obviously very precious. Why else would the vicar have put on gloves before handling it?

He decided he had been mistaken, it was time to slip away and continue his search for Mary elsewhere. As he slid his hand up to grip the handle of the door the Reverend began the Lord’s Prayer. Out of deep respect Thomas halted his exit.

“Our father, who art in hell,” “Feared be thy name, thy kingdom come,”

Thomas’s blood froze, he listened in mounting anger to the travesty, the mockery that was uttered by William Pearson. His eyes filled with tears of anger as he watched Albert Dashwood stride up to the high altar—and invert the cross. The door of the chantry opened once more, and Mary, his Mary, walked out. She was dressed as he had never seen her, in a sheer silk robe that was gossamer thin. Her womanly delights were veiled but overly visible to all present.

Behind her a line of young women Thomas recognised from the village filed out, all were similarly clad. One girl walked up to each of the self-appointed ‘Knights’ and raising his robe took his upright member into her mouth. As Thomas watched, his own member traitorously beat against his thigh. The next act though stilled it at once, and shocked him to the core. Mary walked up to the woman in the black robe and lifting its hem plunged her face betwixt her splayed thighs.

Thomas ripped his eyes form the depravity, only to observe more. In the pews men openly handled their own and others swollen organs. It was too much—it was all far too much! Thomas gripped the door handle and fled from the church, his mind reeling. He was now certain of only one thing. He Thomas Green would stop this pestilence, or perish in the attempt!

He stopped at the stream, took off his gloves and placed them with care on a small plinth that had been carved from the limestone wall. He gazed at the rough face that had been hewn from the chalk above the plinth. In the dancing light of his oil lamp it seemed to reflect his own distress. Although he was not unfit, the years of plenty had softened him, this proved to be a more arduous descent then he had imagined. He lent low and gathered the waters of the Sytx in his hands and scooped liberal quantities over his perspiring face.

He looked up over the small expanse of water to the darkness of inner temple beyond. He knew the icon awaited him there. Drying one hand on his cape he dug it deep into pocket and confirmed the vials were still safe. Swiftly he swung his still damp face around.

“Who is there? What fool follows me?” he cried. Then he stared intensely into the blackness beyond the reach of his lamp. Had he imagined the noise? Was his sharp mind now playing tricks on him?

He could not take the risk; urgently his fingers sought the precious vials and deposited them beside his gloves for safety. He stood and peered back into the darkness. He saw the paleness of a face, when he recognised it he roared with cruel laughter.

“My fine friend from the park, still following your master then. So what is it my well proportioned Englishman are you back for more pleasure?”

“I shall kill you for your impudence! You devil...”

Hove broke free of Ned’s retraining hand; he raced towards the mocking man. His failing fist swung past its mark, and the enemy, still laughing gripped Brighton’s neck between both his bare hands. With a savage twist, Hove was flung to the ground, the air whooshing from his compressed chest. The membre sancti stared down murderously as Hove choked. Too late he saw the other man; a shadowy figure dashed past him, towards the inner temple.

“No!” Roared the distressed strangler. He threw Hove away violently, ignoring the crack the young mans head made against the wall of the cave. He rushed forward to engage the other, bringing he face into intimate contact with the substance of his own gloves. Struggle as he might he could not hold his breath and the musty fragrance filled his lungs. While he was still able, the membre sancti gripped his assailant in a bear hug and lifting him bodily, turned and threw him back toward his companion.

Holmes landed beside Hove with a mighty thud. Unable to move for an instant Ned could only witness Hove’s brave attack. Ignoring the blood that flowed from his head wound, Brighton staggered forward to protect Holmes. The membre sancti raised his fist to aim a mighty blow at Hove.

It never landed, the outraged Illuminati froze, holding his violent pose perfectly. His eyes darted this way and that, but he was clearly temporarily paralysed. Hove took his chance and drawing back his arm used the last of his strength to plant an accurate blow centrally on the wide lantern jaw.

The membre sancti toppled backwards into the river and disappeared in the flow. Breathing hard Brighton dropped to his knees. “Holmes are you all right?”

“Thanks to you my noble friend I am, what of our assailant?”

“He is gone, the river took him, and it is welcome to the blighter...” Hove swayed, and collapsed.

Ned moved swiftly to his fallen comrade’s side. Quickly he established that Hove was still breathing, just stunned. He picked up an oil-lamp and extinguished the other two. Then Holmes retrieved the gloves, which he donned, before handling the vials and icon. Puffing Ned returned to his fallen friend. Gently he sat a bewildered Brighton up.

“Come old friend, let us away to our hotel and get you some aid. Are you quite able to walk?”

“I think so, old boy.” Hove muttered.

Together, one supporting the other, the team of investigators made their way back towards daylight and air. They left the membre sancti to his well-deserved, damp, dark tomb.

Mary sighed, her breath warming Clarice’s open quim; the former housekeeper relished the rewards of power. True, she serviced Clarice like a paid whore, but others, her underlings—worshiped her a similar way. Soft lips closed around the tip of each of her ample breasts, and a most delightful nibbling brought her nubbin close to spending. She even celebrated the writhing tongue that probed her trembling buttocks, darting insistently across her darkened rosebud.

Dashwood gazed on, his bulbous eyes drinking the debauched scene with very apparent relish. Carelessly he drove his pego into the wet mouth that worshiped him. William was less comfortable, but still happy to be of service to his master. He gagged as the hot seed poured down his throat, he disliked the salty taste, but the other taste compensated. Reverend Pearson had discovered just how much he enjoyed the flavour of power. He even managed to smile as Albert withdrew his now flaccid organ from between his bruised, slimy lips.

“Now, sweet William, we should prepare for our guest’s arrival, your detective should be with us soon.” Dashwood cooed.

“Yes, Holmes and his partner should be with us by now, perhaps they are waiting for the morrow?”

“Partner? Why have you said nothing of this previously! It is the detective the illuminati desire, not his hangers-on.”

“I apologise most humbly master. I did not realise.” William grovelled.

“Never mind, we just need a diversion—tell me does this ‘partner’ seem an honourable fellow?”

“Yes, I would say so—he seemed very gentlemanly when attending to me.” Pearson answered.

“Excellent,” Dashwood cackled, “then we shall provide him with a damsel in distress, Mary should play the part well. But you must too, do you understand dear boy?”

“No, what are you suggesting? Nothing unsavoury I trust.” William frowned.

“Unsavoury!” Albert guffawed his derision, “not compared to what you have already undertaken. You just have to strike her -hard, she will do the rest. I shall brief her.”

“Strike Mary! Sir, I object—I am no woman beater.”

Dashwood grabbed Pearson by the throat, he drew him close -until their noses almost touched. He gazed his contempt into the vicars shocked orbits.

“You, William will do as you are told. No more, and certainly no less. Do not dare to fail me!”

“No, master. I understand master...” William coughed.

Dashwood threw Pearson to the floor violently.

“With power comes responsibility sweet William. You would do well to remember that.”

William said no more, he just nodded his submission.

The night wore on, and a disgruntled individual slowly extricated his body from its trap. In total darkness he stumbled on, splashing water in his blind wake. His unprotected hands clawed their way along the walls, at last he found an opening. Shivering he drew his body from the water and onto the gritty bank. There his sore right hand struck something metallic—a lamp! Urgently he rummaged in his pockets for his tinder box, he just prayed it was dry. A second later a warm yellow light burst forth—temporarily he was blinded.

His tired eyes slowly focussed, the first thing he saw was the empty plinth, and then another lamp laying on the caves floor. Events started to come back to him, in desperation he swung around, almost falling. Clumsily he staggered into the inner temple—the icon was gone!

“No!” Ripped from his parched lips.

He had to get to the surface soon, find the icon and rectify this mess. Just then the lamp spluttered, and darkness returned. Cursing his luck the large man groped his way back to the other lamp, soon it was lit. He stared down unbelieveingly at the damp oily patch soaking into the cave floor. He shook the lamp in his hand, nothing—it too was almost empty.

“Damn this country and its feeble-minded inhabitants!” He screamed to the glistening walls. His rage echoed and returned to him, a mockery of his original outburst. Urgently he started back towards the entrance, fifty yards later the lamp was hurled aside as it too became useless. He crawled on regardless, ignoring the cobs of flesh that were torn from him by unseen outcrops.

Pain and frustration almost defeated him, but his purpose drove him on. He had given it all up for this, his home, his love, his life. All was expendable in his need for, thirst for—more power. Delirium took his mind back through the years, back to his small farrier’s shop in Bavaria. Above the door hung his old name ‘Hans Bueller’, once more he could hear his wife’s voice call him to his tea. He walked into the cosy kitchen, and gazed down lovingly at the small boy. Franz returned his warm smile.

Tears flowed from Hans’s eyes, but with a supreme effort of will he pushed the past away. Back to where it belonged. It was too late, all had been forsaken, and all was gone. Long gone. At last he fell through the entrance to the caves. Although dawn had just arrived hailing the coming day, the exhausted, broken man collapsed—into a deep, restorative sleep.