The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He’d never used a trouser press. They seemed to him to be a monument to the 80’s but this one had stood in the corner of the shabby hotel room for the last week, its knobs and dials staring across the room like some goofy face mocking his ironing efforts.

With a reluctant hiss and a cloud of steam it accepted his offering and set to work removing the wrinkles his amateur skills could not conquer.

Ernst Kronecker knew all too well his life was not a success, now in his late forties he had little to show for the decades of work. Tirelessly the years had passed working for one boss after another, watching them get the rewards. When he finally broke free and started a company of his own he found himself looking into the face of defeat as the market crashed the day before his grand launch. At that point he might have reasonably expected to turn to his wife for support but that was not Mrs Kroneckers nature.

Ruined and abandoned by his wife of two decades he’d fallen back on his past life, the stage show acts he’d done in his youth, the work her parents had derided him for.

“You can’t marry a carnival hypnotist!” they bemoaned, belittling his achievements thereafter as him moving from one failure to achieve greatness to another. Withering words over the decades with nothing ever being good enough, no effort meeting her expectations, the looks of disappointment and disapproval as he had only made area manager after five years with the firm. The reminders that so many of her friends husbands were more successful, went on longer holidays, had better houses and cars, some even had yachts. Little did she know how well they hid their financial problems from their wifes.

Ernst pondered his life. The constant chipping, digging, boundless humiliation and the sense of expectation that his life was to fund her endless cupidity. A family that had used his life for their own selfish gains and the fair-weather friends that had evaporated after the fire thinking he was dead and he felt better off without them.

Recent years had brought a very different style of living, eking out a life from one cash payment to the next, doing the seaside shows, carnivals, county fairs and anything else that put food on the table of whatever slum or dive hotel he was renting for that moment. But he needed to hide now. One day they would demolish that burned out wreck and when they did they were sure to discover the safe buried in the basement and its content.

This was how he found himself on the last evening of his life, sitting in defeat on the bed surrounded by the collection of documents that would present him as anything he could need to be to get by and the open suitcase that contained his life. Bottle in hand he looked forward with dismay to a bleak future, jail or a pauper’s death seemed to be his only options.

“Last night of the season,” he swigged again from the almost empty bottle. But there was always the other way out, the pistol sat amongst his few possessions.

“My last season,” another mouthful, the spirit dripping from his poorly coordinated lips onto his shirt.

“Well, at least I’ve got my friend J.D.” he slurred finishing the bottle.

His blurred vision tried to focus on his watch, ten to midnight. The bottle fell to the floor with a clunk, spilling the last drops on the matted carpet. Climbing from the stained bed Ernst grabbed his worn coat and stumbled to the door.

“Too Ramon’s!” the backstreet shop would sell him more booze whatever state he was in, they charged royally for the privilege but the carefree netherworld of spirits beckoned offering him relief from reality.

Brown paper bag in hand he staggered from the closing store using the doorway for support, into the dark street, the wet slabs of the pavement reflecting the moon and the few street lamps. Damp, cold and lost he stumbled the cobbled road, the houses growing sparser and the noises of town fading into the distance.

“Ahh, where’s the hotel?”, he leaned against a wall. The streets had long since emptied while a few upstairs windows were lit, throwing colored light through their curtains, each looking warm and safe. Windows into other worlds unknown to passers by.

Before him now were open spaces and large hedgerows either side of a track that echoed to the sound of swirling leaves brought down by the autumn winds. All the time he drowned his sorrows from the poorly disguised bottle.

“They take too much for granted,” he moaned moving on slowly, trying to navigate the twisting and lonely lanes until finally he was defeated, propped up in disarray against anything that would support him.

“Awww, there was never anyone to help” he slammed his fist against a wall, swigging again from the bottle, drinking deeply to overwhelm his despair.

His eyes focused, it was not a wall but a door. Above it the fan light lit and he shuffled back, the door opening slowly. Beyond the portal was a plush and homely interior, pot plants and photographs, thick rugs over a polished tile floor and in the distance a parlor of deep leather chairs and a small glowing fire. All the things his life was not were here, almost as if it was furnished by his own desires.

There she stood, in the doorway, looking at him with kind eyes and an understanding face.

“I..I..I’m sorry” he stuttered again shuffling away, terrified the police might get involved.

“I understand.” her voice was like silk, calm and comforting. Moving forward she took the bottle gently from his hand with no resistance. Her warm hand on his, bringing him forward into the house of his dreams, closing the door behind them on the cold world outside.

Ernst awoke with a start, his head on a pillow, a warm woolen blanket covering him. He found himself on the sofa next to the coal fire which burned brightly, radiating warmth and comfort into his life.

Lifting his hand to his throbbing head he again flinched at the voice from the chair next to him.

“I thought you’d never wake up,” that voice, so alluring, so kind, so understanding.

Ernst looked over at her, prim and proper as if she’d escaped from a 1950’s T.V. advert. The room was only lit by a single lamp whose aged yellow light cast a sepia effect over the furnishings and mottled wallpaper as if drawing the room into the past. The giant leaves of cheese plants obscured the corners of the room and the slow monotonous tick-tock of the grandfather clock kept pace with the ever-present passage of time.

“Um, I…”

“It’s OK dear,” something about her put him at ease.

“You’ve only been asleep for a few hours,”

He noticed the bottle, now without the brown bag, on the coffee table, half the content had gone.

“I’m so sorry, I guess I’d had too much and…”

“I understand; it can all be too much some times. How about a nice cup of tea?” she rose without waiting for his agreement, it was clear he needed something to clear his head. Again he rubbed his head and his eyes, unsure what he’d walked into and unused to the kindness she had shown. The clock marked the first quarter hour with a single chime.

“There we are,” she put the tray on the table and poured two steaming cups,

“Milk?” she lifted the jug and he nodded in response, she stirred the cup and passed it to him. A fine white china cup filled with pleasing tea made to perfection, missing only the accompanying biscuits. It steamed gently in his hand, the silver spoon resting in the saucer, small bubbles on the surface circling slowly.

He sipped at the strong sugary tea, this time his eyes picked out the frames of moths and butterflies hanging from the walls like pictures. The shelves of old leather books, each with a Latin name.

“Oh, I see you’ve spotted my career”, she need an ice breaker and this was to be it.

“Biology?”, again he sipped the tea, its strange flavor making each taste more alluring.

“Lepidoptery, but of course there are so few species in abundance these days,” she drank her tea, wistfully stirring it “so much habitat loss you see.”

“Oh, that’s sad, their so beautiful,” his voice faded, another sip and he sank back into the sofa.

“We do seem to covert beauty don’t we? I always thought that it was so wretched, their beauty is not for us you know. But, it’s by that man chooses which to spare of the species he’s destroying,” she smiled “Don’t mind me dear, when I first came here the woods were alive with a thousand species, the nights filled with the flutter of wings.”

“I didn’t know there were any woods around here,” another sip of the delicious sweetness.

“Oh, that was long ago, drink your tea dear,” without thought he took another sip, she rose and filled his cup again.

“How long have you lived here?” he stirred the tea which seamed to make it even more captivating.

“It must be many years now, I’ve lost count. Are you a resident here?”

“No, just passing through”, he remembered his own life and the bleak outlook that had brought him to this kind stranger. She saw a sadness pass across his face as the weight of the world pressed down again. A look she knew too well.

“What’s the matter dear?”

“I’m sorry, I should go, you’ve been far kinder than I deserve,” he tried to rise but felt as if the sofa had him held fast and he was too weak to fight it.

“Nonsense dear, finish your tea,” he automatically sipped again, his eyes growing heavy. “You weren’t going anywhere anyway.”

“I envy them you know, the moths and the butterflies, their free,” his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to stay awake against the comfort of the sofa, the warmth of the fire and the ever ticking clock.

“It’s a beautiful world,” his voice trailed off

“Hardly,” she took the tea cup from his hand, his eyelids closed and odd snorts of sleep issued from his mouth.

“It’s not a world of beauty dear, it’s a battle field of competing species in an endless confrontation,” placing the cup and saucer on the table she unbuttoned his shirt. “It’s a selfish world, but someone has outgrown the Earth,” she unzipped his fly and he murmured to himself in a daze, mostly unaware of the waking world.

Tugging down his trousers she removed his underwear, leaving him exposed and all but unconscious on the sofa. Small scissors concealed in her pocket cut free the remainder of his clothes.

“Someone is destroying it with out consideration for all the others,” again she sat and stirred her tea, tapping the spoon on the side of the cup to avoid drips, resting it in the saucer with a clink.

“That my dear is you, and we can’t be having you ruin the world now can we?”

“You know about…” he awoke again, struggling against the stupor, her eyes looking down upon him, her kind smile as if she understood his woes and troubles, the burden of living and the terrible deed committed to escape a life of impossible expectations.

“Shhh…you’ll be free; they’ll never find you here. No burdens, no trials, the weight of the world will be gone.”

Again his eyes fluttered.

“So many things with wings, how did I get the moths?” her voice was as soft and calm as it had been when he arrived as she busied herself cleaning away the tea things.

He felt her weight upon him, with no sense of time he hadn’t seen her undress, she climbed in close pressing herself against him, wrapping them both in the warm woolen blanket.

“Be my little moth, drawn to the flame,” her hand stroked his face.

Ernst had never known the like, she was kind and caring, he was tired of life and had come to expect nothing from his fellow man in a harsh and greedy world. She lay with him, hand on his chest feeling his heart-beat, whispering nothings into his ear.

“Be my little moth,” her voice was like the flutter of all the cased insects had filled his mind, the tea had done its work.

“So much adventure to be had, a new world awaits,”

Before his long closed eyes an image appeared, small at first, an outline of his future self, free of the burdens of this world. Soon revealed in all it’s glory, inquisitive, flighty, a mind uncluttered by the human realm he wished so hard to leave. A single drive to mate, ecstasy and then the sweet release of death.

“See the future,” the voice soothed his misfortunes, “see what you could be.”

He remembered those days in the years past when he first met Lynnette, when their love was new and carefree, wild days of laughter and sex, happiness and the world at their feet. Time had eroded their relationship, she had made her choices, material things over the love he had tried to show her. But now this, to be the little moth of this strange lady whose life he had intruded on by accident. He was warm, tired and she was kind and for Ernst kind was enough.

He felt her hand slip below, feeling his body, her touch strangely damp, leaving warm trails wherever it went as if she was smearing herself upon him. Their closeness generated more heat, perhaps this is why he felt so warm and wet.

“Think of that little moth in your mind, how freeing it must be not to need human thought again,”

Ernsts thoughts dwindled, slowing has her lilting words dripped into his addled mind. A strange feeling on his forehead, as if there where protuberances, growths like little tendrils covered in fine brushes, his weak mind pondered what they might be for.

“Little moth, so calm and quiet, just waiting for a new life,”

Sweetness, that’s what he craved, not solid foot but easy drinks of fine nectars, the tastes of the exotic plants and flowers grown by man. There was far to go, a great journey to undertake.

“It’s the migration soon, all the moths fly by night, so many new friends,”

“How can I fly?” he had no wings only arms, he needed wings, something had to change.

“So many people, so much damage to undo,” she kissed him, pressing her mouth tenderly to his.

“Let me take you there little moth, bliss before the great change begins, in our own strange way we try to redress the balance. It’s all about balance.” She rolled on top but he couldn’t feel her weight, only his wings, his beautiful wings.

“6 billion humans, who’d miss a few?” she reached down finding him firm and erect, gentle lubricated fingers slid slowly up and down, expending fine effort upon the most sensitive areas, strong fingers to tease the surrounding regions.

Ernst barely understood her, he didn’t want to anymore, he only had needs, primal desires born of an ancient instinct to migrate, to mate, to fly, to be free.

“The great journey awaits.”

“It does my little moth, it does, release will set you free.”

She felt him stiffen, his body shake slightly and his wetness on her hand.

From the casket next to the table she lifted blanket after blanket, wrapping him tighter and tighter in purple-brown, sealing him in, keeping him safe for the seasons to come.

On the first warm evening of Summer she lifted him on her finger from the broken chrysalis, looking closely at her work, the delicate curled proboscis, the large feathery antennae twitching and probing the air for the scent of a mate. Long slender legs and fragile wings covered with moon dust to carry him on his final journey.

Outside the window a thousand thousand tiny wings flapped, shimmering in the orange street lights, each a story of its own.