The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It had been a long time since I had felt anything like a spark of sexual excitement pulsing through me and strengthening my body or charging my spirit.

The same words, the same thoughts, it did not matter what, over and over—they revolved like a broken record inside my head.

Then, it was as if something had changed somewhere far away. Its reverberation, its shock waves could be felt at great distances from there, near me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed somebody passing.

Idly and without expectation, I looked over my shoulder. It was one time too many doing what I had too often hopelessly, fruitlessly done. I saw something. There was someone who mesmerized me, who met my gaze, caught it and kept it. I was turned around, and I walked back to from where I had just come even though I was weary and wanted to go home, disillusioned to the point of weariness, having had enough of not having enough, wary about picking guys up on the street.

I answered his smile with a defeated smile of my own and a shake of the head.

I’m weary and I’m on my way home. At least that’s where I was headed before I turned around and saw you. I added that when I saw his smile deepen, and our eyes met.

It’s going to rain, he said. Come up to my place. We can smoke a joint, I’ll put some music on, and maybe we can sleep together tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Do you have to be somewhere in the morning?

He spoke without the slightest hesitation or doubt so openly about things that ought to have been so distant between strangers, defiantly but affectlessly asserting an intimacy between us that came into being only because he acted like it was already there.

No, I said. No, I don’t.

He did not know, I thought, how much there was no place I had to be tomorrow or any morning.

He put his arm around me and pressed me to him. He was strong and muscular and I felt myself yielding to him. His body was hard and tight, like mine had been. His eyes were soft and penetrating.

Let’s go, I said.

It isn’t far, he said smiling as if placating a child’s eagerness.

I did not mind.

It was on the top floor of a reconditioned loft, far west, just south of Fourteenth Street. It had once been a warehouse. You could see the river and across it to the new outlined skyline of New Jersey.

My father spent his life hauling sides of beef down there, he said as we stood by the window where the crowds of overdressed office workers by day spent their nights pretending they were celebrities, fashion models in magazines or stars in the movies with wild hair and slicked-down hair and spiked heels and manicured moustaches.

Everybody in Rutherford – that’s where my family is from, Rutherford, New Jersey – told him he was crazy when he bought this building and the one next door for ten thousand dollars in 1974, but he laughed and ignored them, and I sold the other building for almost twenty-three million dollars last fall after he died, and I kept this one, renovated the whole thing, made a penthouse for myself and rent out the middle floors residentially and the ground floor commercially.

He rolled a joint as he spoke, and we smoked and then he put on some Billie Holliday and, as corny as it may seem, when he took me in his arms, we danced, and then he kissed me and very gently started stroking me.

I want to fuck you, he said.

I want you to fuck me, I answered.

I’m going to put you in a trance and take control of you, he said.

I’m going to surrender to you, I said.

You have no choice, he said.

I know it, I said.

On my knees, bowed low before him, very slowly and with great devotion I took his ankle in my palms, put my lips to his instep and began poring myself out to him. I tongued his foot and became hard like iron. A feeling of worshipfulness, of gratitude flooded through me, gratitude that he was there and allowing me to worship him.

He lifted me and kissed me and ran his fingers across my nipples and led me to his bed and undressed me and stood me at the foot of his bed and gazed at me and appraised me as he stripped his shirt off and took off his trousers.

He was like iron, like a magnet. I quivered involuntarily and felt myself lurch towards him. He guided me backwards supine upon the bed.

He spread my legs and raised them and gazed into my eyes and kissed me and told me I belonged to him and slowly back and forth dug himself deeper into me as I gasped and called him master and filled my mind with surrendering myself to him.

Afterwards we sat leaning against pillows propped against the headboard, caressing each other and heard the rain falling.

I worship you, I said.

He nodded in understanding.

Yes, I know, he said. You are not the first.

I give myself to you, I whispered.

Yes, he said.

We woke up late, nearly noon, roused by the telephone. It had begun to snow. He spoke briefly. I did not listen but found the coffee and made two cups of espresso. He smiled a thank you as he took hold of the coffee by the saucer, and the phone rang again. I dressed as he spoke, hoping we might walk by the river, but he told me I had to go home.

I asked him when we might see each other again. I was not inexperienced. I knew the things that were said at night usually lost their power in the morning. A man who had been closest to you, who had finally arrived after you had waited so long and almost given up hope could drop out of your life as if you had never touched even after he had penetrated so deeply into you that he’d gone to the places in you you knew were there but you had only been able to imagine and never had been able to get to yourself.

He kissed me and as I parted my lips after his kiss to speak, he put his finger over them, forbidding me, and I understood I had to leave.

I bowed my head to him and kissed his hand. He smiled a parting smile to me. I opened the elevator door and went in. My heart was flying high as the elevator dropped. I realized soon my heart would too. I started to remember something. And then I forgot.

He dropped out of my life as if we had never touched. There apparently was no other way. But he left the thought of himself with me and although he was not present, he was always present, or, better, he was always a presence.

Many times, I looked for him on the street, and I often walked passed his loft, but something prevented me from ringing his bell. I felt like I needed his permission to do that. I did not feel like I had it. So I prevented myself.

Once I saw him walking by the river with his arm around a boy, but there was nothing I could do. I gazed at the water.

When Mickey Gallant broke down after Buzz left him, I was calmer than I ever would have been in the past. It was several months after.

I had been in love with Mickey for nearly five years. It had been torment. It had been stupid. It had been out of my control. I knew it had been crazy. There was nothing to bring us together or to hold us together, no common interests and activities. Except I was overawed by him and wanted to melt into him. He was a jock, watched a lot of television, worked, as an accountant, in an upscale haberdashery. He was graceful and gorgeous and gallant like his name and his eyes said I love you to everything they saw.

At first I ached for him and then my desire turned into a caustic bitterness. I had contempt for the way he was and the way he lived. But it didn’t help. I continued to ache for him.

That he just was not attracted to me made me feel inferior to him. It had not make sense, it was not fair that he did not desire me, that his soul was not swooning for me. I would not let myself believe it. His eyes always said something else no matter what he said.

I often had felt foolish and inadequate with him. Had I looked at it objectively, there was no reason he should care for me. I had become stupid. I would be sullen or petulant or snide and sarcastic. Often I had made him lose patience and become cold.

He called me on a Tuesday night after eleven, and asked me to meet him. He was in a broken state. It was astonishing to see. He had not shaved.

We sat in the Lion’s Head and got drunk. I listened to him as he chain smoked Gauloise and told me about how much he had not realized how much Buzz meant to him. Then without warning, he was talking about his father’s death, suicide in Montana. And his mother’s remarriage. He began to cry. I took his hand and held it tenderly and realized this was a fantasy come true. But I felt nothing.

When Buzz returned after a confusing week of telephone calls and anger that the two of them endured, I was glad for them both, that they had gotten through it.

You know I hesitated to call, Mickey said as we sat in their living room smoking a joint and drinking coffee. But I gambled on the fact that in the end I could rely on you. Thanks.

I’m sorry I have been such an ass-hole, I said.

When you hurt, you hurt, he said. I can’t change my feelings. But that’s not your fault.

For the first time he almost sounded apologetic.

It’s not yours either, I responded in a voice that almost had no sound.

But I know what it is like, he said.

Months passed. April came. The ginkgo trees were in bud. It had been raining all day, but when I went out cruising that night, it was not raining anymore. But, the air smelled of rain. The newly emerging leaves smelled of rain. My heart was full of rain. I walked slowly through the winding streets of Greenwich Village like a person in a fever, a gentle fever that released me from all the responsibilities of being in the everyday world. I began to rain.

The green and red extended lines of street light reflections in the still-wet blacktop where few cars rolled struck me to the heart.

As you read this you are becoming aware that an old and familiar feeling of submission is overwhelming you and is pulling you deeper into a state of total surrender. It is a frightening experience and it makes you tremble. Trembling itself takes you deeper and deeper down into the bottomless pit of self-abasement until you feel yourself entirely emptied out of all identity and you feel yourself going deeper and deeper into pure slavedom.

My eyes closed. I kept circling back and reading the same words again and again until I shut the lid of my laptop and got into my bed, where I lay the way I fell, unable to move.

In the morning when I checked my e-mail as I routinely do every morning, that compelling message was still there. I did not recognize the sender’s name. And I opened it and read it again.

As you read this you are becoming aware that an old and familiar feeling of submission is overwhelming you and is pulling you deeper into a state of total surrender. It is a frightening experience and it makes you tremble. Trembling itself takes you deeper and deeper down into the bottomless pit of self-abasement until you feel yourself entirely emptied out of all identity and you feel yourself going deeper and deeper into pure slavedom.

Once again I started reading the words over and over, and once again I became unbearably sleepy until my head dropped into the cradle of my arms spread across my desk in front of my open computer.