The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Hove lay spread-eagled on the undulating bed, silently berating the women who so efficiently divested him of his clothes. He heard their giggles of delight when finally they exposed his throbbing manhood. Then the fingers fell upon him, feather light touches from many soft female hands. Internally he writhed wishing the poison had taken away the sensations as efficiently as it had the movement.

A face appeared above him, it was Mary. She smiled warmly and brought her soft lips down upon his frozen ones. The very warmth of her embrace melted his heart, and yet fuelled his desire. He felt the warmth of her pudenda slip over the top of his pounding member, and the delicate lips dragged against his stalk in frictionless abandon; he was fully home.

In a graceful arch Mary swept her body away from him and began her undulating dance of desire. Despite the poison, or maybe because of it, Brighton could feel every soft, wet detail of the young woman’s body even as it ground unwanted passion out of his. A butterfly tongue hovered, lapping, dancing between Mary’s quim and his stiff shaft. Hove opened his eyes in wonder, this was a truly new sensation, he struggled to hold on to his seed. His determination was strong he would not spill it again, under such a foul trance.

He screwed his eyes tightly closed and breathed hard, the moment passed. When he opened his eyes he saw only one thing. He stared directly at an open quim, he had never seen one in such detail. The beauty astounded him, perfect symmetrical lips glistened before him, between them a dark coral passage beckoned—luring him. Fingers descended and drew the crenulated lips far apart exposing the most delightful pearl nestled high betwixt them. The thighs descended, all was darkness, pungent flavours mixed with delicate perfumes. Ambrosia rained down to fill his thirsty mouth.

Brighton lost his desperate battle, his mighty organ began to twitch and deposit the first blast of his seed deep within Mary. He could feel her own response, she reached crisis—he marvelled at his odd sense of pride. He had made his mistress spend. That was his power.

Two sets of eyes watched the Reverend avidly from their separate locations. Wherever he was headed, two things were clear, his haste and the determination in his step. Neither man felt inclined to prevent his passage. One then made his move, in his haste the Reverend had been negligent, the door to the manse was ajar. Thomas watched as the dishevelled man broke from cover and headed for the door. This was one passage he would challenge.

Thomas tore his way through the bushes and thrust his pointed staff deeply into the crouched man’s behind.

“No, yea do not demon. I have you now, yea will not assault Mr Holmes nor stop his noble crusade. Feel the disgust of Thomas Green, yea foulest of beasts.” With this final word Thomas struck the interloper once more, much as he would skewer a suckling pig.

This final insult was too much for Hans, he abandoned his quest to turn savagely on the elderly man. Smashing the staff to one side, he brought his knee up violently and accurately under Thomas’s chin. Thomas crashed to the ground like a felled oak, insensible. Hans stood over his crumpled form and raised his large boot over the fallen man’s head. He never brought it down.

“Why should I give you an easy death Thomas Green? I doubt you would do the same for me. No, I shall remember you and return. Your death will be one I relish.” So saying Hans turned and limped towards the door that swung invitingly in the breeze.

With some difficulty he mounted the steps and dragged himself into the hallway. Hearing a door open, he hid behind a large potted aspidistra and waited. A man whose form he recognised emerged into the hallway, he glanced this way and that before speaking in a raised voice.

“Hove? Brighton, old chap, are you around? I have finished with the Reverend, we should leave now and examine St. Peter’s!”

Hans growled inwardly, if only he had known that this was the detective—he would not have prevented his demise. His scholarly master had warned him of this man and his meddling ways. Well he would put an end to it, here and now. Hans flew out from behind his cover and rugby tackled Holmes to the inlaid floor.

“Today Mr Holmes, is your last on earth!” Snarled Hans.

“I see a night in the cave did not improve your countenance, or temper.” Holmes joshed, before swinging his elbow in a wide arc.

Hans ducked, but too late—Ned’s elbow ploughed resolutely into his left temple. It sent him flying back into the welcoming branches of the aspidistra. Before he could recover Holmes was away, vaulting up the stairs three at a time.

Dizzy and cursing Hans followed in a plodding pursuit. Painfully he made his way to the first floor and he diligently searched it to no avail. Grimacing he continued his unwanted ascent.

Holmes edged his way along the roof with caution, for some reason he felt insecure at heights. He would find an open window, then find Hove and then tackle this brute. He tried to convince himself this was a workable plan, as he nervously edged around the corner of the manse. Hopefully his subterfuge in taking a diversion through the landing window would hold his pursuer for a while. He froze momentarily, as he remembered that on his flight he had neglected to close the sash behind him. Uncharacteristically Holmes uttered a silent curse.

Ned approached a window and carefully peeked around its edge. When he saw the bedroom occupant’s activities, he almost lost his grip, heart thumping Ned glanced down at the solid flagstone’s below, that was just too close. He positioned himself more securely and looked back through the window. A group of women were ravishing some poor chap, while Dashwood gazed on, and a black-clad woman bounced actively on his extended pego.

One of the women shifted and realisation hit Holmes like a hammer, if that was Mary then the man must be...

“Hove, Hove—help, let me in!”

Hove turned and looked directly at Ned, his eyes oddly unconcerned. The fool even waved to him, before burying his resplendent organ back into Mary. Holmes heard a noise behind him and turned, to his dismay he saw his assailant breeching the apex of the corner. He was no more than three yards away. The large man puffed a repeated threat.

“Today Mr Holmes, is your last on earth!”

Ned scurried away as best he could, but he was not as sure-footed as his pursuer. The distance between them closed. The large man was now level with the window. Suddenly the sash flew up and a hand emerged to grasp his ankle. He teetered and slumped, his back and shoulders now hanging over the roof’s perilous edge.

“You! Must you follow me everywhere? This is your last mistake, my fine fellow...” Snarling Hans drew back his heavy boot ready to deliver a fatal blow. Before he could, the hand released his ankle, and for an instant the membre sancti hung in mid air. Then as all heavy things must, he headed downwards, for a rendezvous with the flagstones.

“Bye old bean, nice knowing you.” Quipped Brighton, before poking his cheery head through the open window, “Sorry Ned, I was a bit distracted, are you quite well out there?”

Ned edged his way towards Brighton’s extended hand, and soon he was inside; facing Dashwood eyeball to eyeball.

The game was afoot.

Thomas was rudely wakened by a hefty thud bedside him. He opened his eyes and stared for a long second at the sky. Where was he? He looked in the direction of the noise; sprawled out alongside him was a man.

Slowly the recollection and the pain returned, the man laying beside him, that was his assailant. Thomas went and collected his staff before flipping the unconscious man on his back. He was amazed by the amount of injury he had caused with a simple staff. It was clear that the demon was dead.

“Aye, see devil, even an old man can smite thee with god’s help!”

Just to the right of the demon lay a small pocket book, Thomas retrieved it and flicked through the pages. The strange symbols made no sense at all, clearly this had been written in the language of hell itself. Thomas slid the book into his pocket for safe keeping. Then he knelt beside his fallen foe and uttered a short prayer.

“Lord, forgive this beast, be it ever so fell & foul. Please grant its soul peace. Amen.”

Thomas stood and walked without hesitation to the manse and entered. The hallway and ground floor were unnaturally quiet, even so, Thomas cautiously searched the area. Eventually his quest brought him to the twin icons. Thomas gazed at the depravity depicted with true hatred. He picked up the gloves.

His decision was made. He would not suffer these images to exist. He smashed the frames on the desk and tore the canvas from them. He shredded the despicable depictions with ease. He inadvisably ignored the dust that flew up around him. Coughing through the haze of particles, Thomas began to laugh manically. The drugs began to take their effect.

He stopped giggling when something flickered past him, just out of the arc of his vision. He swung around quickly, facing into the room. He watched incredulously as garishly hued Imps formed in the walls -and then dashed out into the room as if to taunt him.

His confused mind turned to Mary. He must not let the spawn of hell find her. Upstairs, she must be upstairs—Thomas ran out of The Reverend’s study followed by a horde of bickering, argumentative imps. He upped his pace and for a man of his years, flew up the vicarage’s stairs.