The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The coach’s silence didn’t last. He shouted at his two assistants, both as tenderized as the players: “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna lose your jobs?” The first (Gene Taylor, pixyish, chestnut hair) looked away; the other (Trent Norman, lanky, long wavy blond hair) said: “They have a point...” It infuriated the coach; he grabbed me by the T-shirt and yelled: “What the fuck did you do to them, you pervert?” I did not like to be assaulted. “He’s lost his mind,” I bubbled to all. “Grab him and take him away.” The players swarmed around us and pulled him off me. “Coach, come on, be reasonable,” said Mike, who ironically was naked and sporting a huge hard-on. Gene brought the coach the last of the tenderizer water, half a foam cup, which he drank, his mad eyes focused on me. His anger throbbed faintly in my head; I calmed him with some bubbled resignation. He left quietly with his assistants. How could someone with so little self-control be a coach? No wonder the Crimson was losing. I’d never fall prey to my emotions like that.

Now alone with the team, I asked the players to line up before me, and the three nude ones to put their clothes back on. I had hated young gods such as these for a long time, yet now that I was on their own turf and that they had, with a little assistance from the drug, accepted me as a better coach than their own, I was hoping I could help them win tomorrow. Why? To take pleasure in the power I had over them? To get back at Wes for rejecting me as a mentor? I wasn’t sure. I slowly walked from one end of the line to the other, taking a good look at the Crimson soccer team; as my eyes went from one player to another, I focused on that player’s thoughts. I grew disappointed, then irritated. These strong, athletic young men were all mental weaklings! None of them had any discipline, nor any valid motivation for victory. They wanted to win, yes, but for petty reasons; they all saw my method as a get-good-quick scheme. I’d been kidding myself. It wasn’t reasonable to expect that I’d be able to turn this team around in 24 hours, drug or no drug. Sure, I’d gotten results with Dave and Mike the day before, but they were already excellent players. But this bunch of undisciplined losers? Fuck! A team with such unfocused thoughts was doomed to lose, period. They were all looking at me expectantly, reminding me that I had a show to put on, that the dilator clock was ticking...

The actual training could wait. First, I’d put them in the right frame of mind. Why not have some fun while I was at it? Make them put on the show? “We’ll exorcise from your minds,” I said, “all the things that keep you from focusing on the game.” They were tenderized enough for overacting on their own impulses. “Do not judge what the others are doing: it’s all part of the process.” Then I broke them into groups of two.

Jason Perkins (#4, midfield) the Jason-Priestley lookalike with sideburns, was thinking of how his ex-girlfriend Gina had scoffed at his way of kissing; Frank Evers (#5, midfield) the tall thin redhead, was thinking of how to get rid of his shyness. With the right bubbled thoughts, Frank boldly offered Jason to help him practice his kissing. Jason climbed on the first step of the benches to be level with Frank, and moved his head towards him so fast that they knocked their teeth together. On the second try, Frank gently guided Jason and soon they were into each other’s mouths with their tongues intertwisting and sixtynining.

Matadan (#14, midfield) the vain dark Mediterranean, was thinking of ways to show off; Trevor Hume, (#13, back) the short nerd with mesmerizing sky-blue eyes, was thinking of Matadan naked in the shower. Plop. Matadan told Trevor: “Your eyes... They hypnotize me... I can’t resist... I’m falling under your control...” Plop. Trevor said “I want you to strip-dance for me” in an excited, shaky voice, and Matadan started to shake his hips and sway from side to side. He pulled up his jersey, inch by inch, gradually exposing a fantastic tanned chest. The jersey, then the shoes and socks, finally came off. He rubbed Trevor’s legs with his bare feet, which made the bulge in Trevor’s shorts swell pathetically. Matadan turned his back to Trevor, and slid his shorts down just a bit, exposing his jock waistband and the tip of his crack; then he turned around and exposed some pubic hair; then, always shaking to imaginary music, he turned around again, and lowered his shorts to just below his ass, which nicely framed the thick tanned buns; turning around again, he brought his jocked package over his short’s waistband. Finally, he discarded the shorts altogether.

Shioyo Koneka (#21, midfield) the Asiatic with strikingly refined features, was thinking of his biology paper due on Monday; Casper (#11, forward) was thinking of what excuse to use to explain his masturbation episode in the shower. With the proper mental nudges, Shioyo’s decided that his paper would be one on male masturbation, and accepted to tell everyone that Casper’s shower episode had been an experiment he had performed to help him with his paper. Casper, in exchange, agreed to participate in an improvised experiment on mutual masturbation between straights. They both stripped from their shorts and jocks; Shioyo’s lower body was sleek and smooth, with neatly trimmed pubic hair. Standing awkwardly, they grabbed each other’s cock, the only point of contact between the two, and started to jerk each other off.

Terry Rork (#8, back) the pimpled rookie, was thinking of an itch in his jock; Jack Rogers (#10, midfield) the smiling blonde with the crew cut, was thinking of enlisting in the army. With my help, Terry role-played Jack’s superior officer to help him prepare. He gave him shit, then forced him to strip down to his jockstrap and stand at attention. Terry examined Jack’s body thoroughly, from the shapely shoulders to the tight dimpled ass, and then commanded him to take care of his itch. Jack fell to his knees, pulled down Terry’s shorts, and dutifully licked Terry’s inner thighs and the genitalia in his jock, drenching them with drool.

Mike (#18, forward) was thinking of how hopeful he was that, with my help, they’d win tomorrow; Dave (#2, forward) was thinking of how doubtful he was, despite my help, that they’d win tomorrow. I drove them to argue. Dave pointed out that we had not yet started to practice any technique; Mike argued that we were trying to go beyond technique. As they continued to debate the point, they became angry, shouted names at each other, pushed each other back and forth, and then started to wrestle. Dave tore Mike’s jersey in two; Mike did the same to Dave’s shorts. Since they were more tenderized than the others were, I could push them further. They fought for a while, their clothes quickly became rags, and it aroused them uncontrollably. They stripped from their tattered clothing, exposed their stiff and purple dicks, then lay on the ground and kissed, rolling their entwined nude bodies on the grass, still arguing between kisses.

Marko Kochalsky (#12, goalkeeper) the muscular Russian, was thinking that it was so cold today that his ass was freezing; Roy Grant (#9, midfield) the brown-eyed future accountant, was thinking of how his dad wanted him to score tomorrow. I was so fucking horny and impatient by now that I rudely bombarded their minds with commands: Marko instantly lowered his shorts and dropped on all fours, allowing Roy to finger his protruding ass with his wet left hand fingers while jerking himself off to a hard-on with his other hand. Soon, his dick became a lengthy, rigid rod. Marko bit his lip when Roy entered his virgin ass; imagining his dad’s cheers, Roy scored and scored inside this meaty goal, heating it up until it was burning red.

“Get it out of your systems,” I said to all. “Your raw urges can only stop you from winning. Think of how much you will lose if you don’t win tomorrow, then of how little all these petty substitutes can satisfy you.”

I could have ended all this right then, and gone on to the actual training, making sure they could execute any technique precisely and mechanically, but instead I concentrated on each group to increase the intensity of whatever they were doing. Jason and Frank pulled off their jerseys and kissed each other’s neck, shoulders, arms, fingers, nipples, and belly button. Matadan snapped off his jockstrap, freeing his long thin cut dick to whip around as he danced faster and faster for Trevor. Shioyo and Casper lay on the grass in the 69 position, jerking each other off feverishly. Shioyo slapped Casper’s ass, and Casper reacted by invading Shioyo’s ass with his fingers. Jack deep throated Terry’s hard dick, sucking on it with all the meticulousness a good soldier must show. Roy pumped Marko’s ass like crazy; both their bodies were dripping with sweat.

Fuck did I need to get in the action now. My best chance was with Dave and Mike, who were the most tenderized. At my mental bidding, they came to me, Dave rubbing his chest and Mike still stroking his hard dick. “Help me get my clothes off,” I asked. I offered my feet to Mike, one after the other, and he removed my shoes and socks. Dave helped me take off my shirt. Sensing the heat of their bodies so close to me turned me on even more. They kneeled, Dave before Mike and me behind me; Dave pulled down my jeans, and Mike my boxers. I was standing nude with two young gods at my feet, and with a single thought, Dave started to suck my dick while Mike started rimming my ass. While I was enjoying the double stimulation, the irony of what I was doing struck me. Here I was, trying to free them from a way of life based on satisfying short-term impulses, while I’d been acting on impulse myself ever since I’d found these fucking drugs. My solution was to show them that their primitive impulses would lead nowhere, in the hope of making them concentrate on their true desires instead. Should I do the same? What was it that I really wanted out of this? My train of thought was broken when Dave and Mike, through some stroke of luck, simultaneously found fabulous ways to stimulate both my prostate and my dick, making me lose all sense of where and when. I remember seeing Shioyo and Casper come on each other; then Terry spraying Jack’s face; then Roy exploding over Marko’s backside; each of these orgasms reverberated in my mind until I felt the most luscious, the most intense of orgasms I had ever felt. It rose from my balls to my head in one gushing wave of pleasure, and my brain dilated so much I fainted.

I smiled as I woke up. The previous delights had surged so intensely that even their faint echo could tease a smile out of me. Reality, though, kicked in as soon as my eyes were open: I was lying alone, naked and cold in the center of Ohiri Field. I staggered up to my feet, overwhelmed with the sense that something was wrong. Where was everybody? Someone had moved my clothes near the benches. Why? While I dressed carelessly, my vague feelings of uneasiness swiftly sharpened to a poignant dread when I discovered that the flasks were missing. Fuck! Whoever had taken them had, if not determined their exact purpose, at least reckoned them to be important. While walking back to the pub, the implications of the theft became clearer to me. Tasting the tenderizer would not create a problem, but a single sip of dilator would open the thief’s mind for invasion by the voices of all the Crimson Soccer Team players. How long would it take the thief to realize he could control their thoughts as well? Everyone would know my secret—the players probably knew about it by now. They’d reject me, perhaps even sue me for... what? Indecency? Rape? Mind-control? That’s what I’d get from challenging the young gods. When I reached the pub I found another weird fact: the sign on the door said: “WE’RE OPEN”. I tried the door; it was unlocked. Although I could have made a mistake about the sign, I knew I had locked the door. I entered the pub cautiously—had the thief broken in?

“Bloody hell!” Wes’ voice made me jump. “You look like you’re totally cabbaged there. What happened to you?” He was serving Roger—a regular on Saturday afternoons since his divorce—who sat on a stool at the bar. “I decided I might as well open the pub,” he explained. “It seems I won’t be bloody needed elsewhere.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled sincerely. The innocence in his face and the gentleness of his mood were somehow lightening the weight of my worries. I sat next to Roger, determined to well spend whatever time remained before my fall. The three of us chatted and laughed. Wes did impressions of his parents and friends, complete with Cockney rhyming slang. Roger left after eating his dinner, a hastily prepared ham on rye.

“Somethin’ on your mind, eh?” Wes asked me. “Is it because the coach didn’t want you to use that brilliant method of yours? I fought for you, you know... I guess that’s one of the reasons I’m not playin’ tomorrow.”

I looked up at him, and saw the candid concern in his misty green eyes; tears briefly surged in my own eyes. He came around the bar and sat on the stool next to mine, eager to help, but ignorant as to how. After this afternoon’s events, I felt alone in the world, alone with the world against me. His presence strengthened me, but I tried not to enjoy it too much: his support and my relief were insubstantial, and would fade the minute he learned about what I had done. How could I have let myself lose control like that? Now, I would pay for it by losing Wes, wouldn’t I? And so, because I needed to know now if I had lost him or not, I told him the whole story. I wanted him to hear it from me—he was bound to learn about it from his friends anyway. I told him what I had found in the basement, what it did, how I used it, what happened the night before at Dave’s, and today at his school. I stayed vague about the erotic stuff: I was too ashamed of being attracted to him and his friends. Fuck, he hadn’t even known I was gay! At first, he thought I was joking, then there was no obvious emotion on his face, no anger, no surprise. I missed the power to read his thoughts. Would he reconsider our relation now that he knew? Would he lose all the respect I had earned from him?

“Did you use that... potion... to take advantage of me?” he asked, in a way that was too calm to be natural.

“No. I read a few surface thoughts, made you daydream a bit, acted on a fetish of mine. But I never touched you or even saw you in an indecent way.” I was surprised that it was so, by the very truth of my words.

“Good,” he said. I knew he believed me and he appeared quite relieved. “Thanks.” His face was under a lot of pressure, as if he could only barely contain his emotions. I had crushed his reality, and he was trying to make sense of his world again, not knowing how to feel. Once again, I longed to be able to read his thoughts—I would have probably perceived a deeper layer of him than I had ever perceived before. He darted out for a walk, said he had to think this through, and left me more alone than I had ever felt before. When he came back, he did not lose any time. He stood before me like a firmly rooted tree, and grabbed my shoulder with his warm, sturdy hand. He was taking the lead; he was the mentor now, the strongest of the two.

“I’ll help you find out where the flasks are, and repair the damage that was done. I have a plan, and I’ll need the night off. But you’ll bloody owe me one, you understand that? I have a few needs of my own that you can help me take care of. Do you agree?”

I nodded, faintly at first, then more and more strongly as I considered his proposal. “Alright, I agree.”