The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was just a whisper in my mind, but I heard it.

The voice was a girl’s; faint, insistent and erotic. I shook my head to clear it; I must have imagined the words—strange words. “Free me, Emerson, and you shall have me.”

My name is Emerson L. Palmer. Any guesses which rock group my parents were big fans of at one time? Still are actually! I am a student at ______ Uni. studying history. Why? Well it seemed a good idea at the time, the time being at the start of my second year Sixth. Now in my final year at Uni. I cannot see where my History degree will take me. It will be a good degree but it doesn’t give me an obvious job or career.

What do I do, apart from study history? Well I drink beer (I am at Uni. remember), date girls, look at porn, play tennis, swim and build model railways (but not necessarily in that order or all the time).

When, or perhaps more importantly, where did I start hearing voices?

The full moon might have been an appropriate time and at the foot of an old and crumbling castle perched high on a cliff top might have been the place but in truth it was neither then nor there.

It was in broad daylight and in the centre of London. Well, not quite the centre but certainly at a pivotal location. I was on the top of the Monument, the tallest isolated stone column in the world, built to witness that on the second day of September 1666, at a distance eastward from it of 202ft, which is actually the height of the column, a fire broke out in the dead of night in Pudding Lane which, as the wind was blowing, rushed devastatingly through every quarter of London with astonishing swiftness destroying most of the City—the Great Fire of London 1666. I told you I am a history student.

I had just climbed the 311 steps up to the gallery beneath the flaming urn, commemorating the Fire, and was gazing out across the Thames holding onto the railings thinking how wide the Thames was when I heard just a whisper, the voice of a girl, faint, insistent and, yes, erotic. I turned with the word, “pardon?” on my lips but there was no one there. I was completely alone. I shook my head—had I imagined it? I circled the gallery around the pillar but there was no one there at all, I stepped into the column onto the spiral stair and looked down, right down to the entrance. There were undoubtedly people coming up but no one at all close to the top.

I returned to my lookout puzzled, thinking over the words I had heard, trying to make out if that was what I’d really heard as I resumed my survey of the river and the cityscape of London. The voice was not easy to clear from my head. Surely I must have imagined the sound and the whispered words, “free me, Emerson, and you shall have me.” I was unnerved.

The sudden whiteness of the sunshine after the gloom of my descent of the spiral staircase was dramatic. I walked away from the monument, keeping in the sunshine, keeping away from streets in shadow; despite the heat of the day feeling a little cold, a little unsure, yes a little peculiar with a funny feeling on the back of my neck. But I had not gone far when all of the moment I felt colder because I was in deep shadow. I had not stepped into it but it was suddenly there. I glanced upwards, puzzled, to see what cast the shadow and all of a moment the brilliance of the sunshine returned.

I shook my head to clear it—had I really seen that? A gaunt ivy clad tower where no tower should have been—indeed no tower was. It wasn’t there—not at all—just the pavement and the roar of traffic. Was I going a bit mad, hearing voices and seeing things?

The voice came again, just as before, the next day as I was crossing the road by The Tower of London—the White Tower of the Conqueror (begun 1078). Just the same as before—a whisper in my mind “free me, Emerson, and you shall have me.” I stopped dead and nearly got run over. A lot of hooting of horns and embarrassment. What was this, what was this “free me, Emerson, and you shall have me?”

I mentioned I was a student of history, so it is not perhaps surprising that I bothered to look at old maps of London. Had there been a tower where I, perhaps, had thought I’d seen a tower? Had an archaeological dig found foundations? Was there a record of a tower? It was not good to find the answer in the affirmative, nor was it good to catch a further glimpse of the dark tower another day, a longer glimpse this time of a tower that wasn’t there.

Now it did not take too much thought on my part to surmise that the voice and apparition were connected, not too much thought to decide to spend some time away from London back with my parents where such things did not happen. But of course I had to go back to London, back to my studies and somehow it just did not work out that I could avoid the City around Pudding Lane.

It is not easy standing at the top of the Monument in the rain and watching the three dimensional outline of a tower, a tower I could not actually see but its outline quite clearly shown by the rain simply not falling through the space. I was staring, not just looking, the rain soaking my hair, hair which whilst not standing on end was certainly creeping on my scalp. I was frightened; why was I seeing this—why me?

“Free me, Emerson, and you shall have me.” It was clearer now, such a sweet voice, a voice that sent a tingle through me, through my groin. What did it mean? Free her (who?) from what (or who)? The latter part of the message seemed very clear in its meaning.

I must have stood for an hour, the tower getting no clearer, and the voice imparting no further information. Soaked through I descended, to the puzzled gaze of the attendant, and out into the street. I walked steadily towards the tower, you can imagine my legs shaking, and then it just wasn’t there and the rain was now falling through where it had been or not been, depending on how you look at it. What was going on? But I was not sorry to see it gone—what if I had touched it? I was shivering and in need of a hot bath and pleased to go home by Tube.

Seeing the tower substantial, ivy clad and flinted was not easy. I had not expected it. The sun was out and the day quite different from the rainy day I had spent standing on the Monument looking at the rainless shape of an impossible tower; I was walking with a friend—a friend I had hopes would become a very good friend indeed—she was not at all expecting me to grab a lamppost and gape at, at nothing, nothing she could see. No, she could not see a tower, what was I talking about, was it some sort of joke (not a good one)? It spoilt the day. I tried being myself, walking on with her, ignoring the apparition, ignoring the strangeness impinging on my world but the mood of the day was broken. It was not the success I had hoped. How could it be with a voice in my mind, “free me, Emerson, and you shall have me;” how could it be when the tower’s appearance matched my researches, matched a tower demolished five hundred years before; how could it be when I had seen a figure watching me—from the very top of the tower?

I just wanted to get away, away from London again, escape this phantasm. You think me scared? You bet I was scared but that voice, that faint feminine voice, that sweet voice charged with, it seemed to me a certain eroticism, called me—a call in my mind drawing me to the tower. Could I resist? I certainly did, for a time, but it was not that many days before I was back within sight of the Monument. My relief at not seeing the flint tower was palpable—or should have been to anyone looking at me. It was not there, not even a faint outline or disturbance in the clear air. Relief, I suppose, mixed with disappointment, but not very much, as I was intrigued and fascinated as well as frightened. I turned and walked away heading to continue my studies in a library. I had not gone six paces. “Free me, Emerson, and you shall have me;” I heard as clear as day. Much, much clearer than before. Slowly I turned, people looking at me oddly as, I expect, I looked white as a sheet, an expression of dread on my face but it was now there, the dark flint tower looking as solid and substantial as the Monument itself or the office buildings and shops around me.

I was drawn towards it, drawn by the voice or fascination with something that could not be there. Was I mesmerised? I don’t know but I walked past the people on the pavement as if in a trance until I came slowly up to the solid flint base of the tower. People were passing me, ignoring the tower. Could they not see it, not see the iron nail studded door just slightly ajar?

It was the blare of a car horn, I think, that brought me to my senses, caused me to run, run wildly in no particular direction. “Come to me, Emerson, free me and you shall have reward.” Gasping for breath I stopped, unable to run further away—the river was in my way. Fight or flight? I had chosen the latter, instinctively, but was there anything to fight? Was there danger? Too bloody right there was danger! Beyond the iron nail studded grey oak door would have been, well almost certainly would be—for towers always have them—a circular stone staircase leading upwards and did I want to ascend only to find the tower disappearing as it had done before and me falling down and down to break my bones on the hard stone pavement below? I did not like the idea of breaking bones.

Panting, I looked around for a cafe. I had to have a coffee. The words, the sweet voice, had changed. I sat nursing my coffee. I knew I must not go back, must stay well clear of the Monument and the whole area, not go back, must stay away... but I had heard another word after “Come to me, Emerson, free me and you shall have reward,” and that had been a plaintive “please.”

Now don’t get me wrong I do not see myself as a Sir Galahad type, better make that Sir Lancelot, as Sir Galahad was rather too virginally pure to be me at all. My thoughts did not turn that way. No, I did not see myself ever as a knight in shining armour ready and willing to save the ladies or protect their virtue. My worldview was rather different but that “please,” had an effect on me. I tossed and turned in bed, my mind going round and round. I would have to go back, I knew it.

It was a Saturday morning. It was all so much quieter in the City than on a weekday and I was early. I had hardly slept and had simply got up and taken the early tube. The tower was there, I could sense it before I saw it; knew it would be there and, indeed, as I turned a corner there it was. Dark, yes, but a little less foreboding with the sunlight reflecting from it and, at its top, a figure seeming to look straight at me. I stopped. Should I wave? It seemed so mundane, such an ordinary commonplace thing to do to a lady in an enchanted tower. ‘Lady?’ – well the voice suggested that. ‘Enchanted?’—well what else? How else was I to describe this strange structure, this ghostly apparition? Fair enough, a phantom tower, a ghostly tower... no perhaps my first choice was more reassuring. I waved.

“Have me, Emerson, and you shall free me.”

The voice again. Clear as a bell in my head.

I may have been mad, foolhardy, perhaps under a spell (though I think not) but I walked towards the tower with a clear resolution. I was going to go in. I had to meet her.

As before the door, the iron nail studded door, was ajar. This time I did not run but touched the door—yes touched, it was solid, as solid as the floor you are on, and I pushed. I had expected the door to creak open, well wouldn’t you? But there was no creak. It swung easily and I stepped inside. One moment I was in the sunlit street of twenty-first century London: the next, who knows where I was.

It did not feel that different but I was shaking, oh yes I was frightened all right; frightened as I put one foot on the stone stair. Oh yes, certainly there was a spiral stone staircase, I had not been at all wrong in my expectation. I began my ascent, my footsteps loud on the worn stone of the steps. It was little different in one way from ascending the Monument, all I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and ascend one step at a time but it felt so different and I was conscious all the time that I was out of my depth, climbing further into something that was not of my world and all on the call of a voice, faint, insistent and erotic. As I climbed there were thin lancet windows letting me look out on a London that was still my own - I was relieved to find I was not, as I had half suspected, climbing into a mediaeval world of an earlier time. But I was climbing, step after step I ascended and step-by-step I neared my goal of the top of the tower where I had seen her and had waved.

Can I really describe to you the sumptuousness of the chamber I found at the top, the sight that met my eyes as I reached the final steps and looked through the doorway? Can I describe the richness of the tapestries, the gleam of the gold and silver, the bright colours, the quality of the carving on the furniture? That it was a lady’s room there was no question and nor was the sex of the person who awaited my arrival in any doubt. She stood in a dress, an embroidered green dress of the kind you might have expected an Arthurian lady to have worn or certainly a pre-Raphaelite vision of the Arthurian court. In one hand she held some needlework, the other raised to a pendant around her neck, and above this a face of enchanting loveliness—for I was enchanted, quite rooted to the spot by her beauty. Sunlight through a window caught the burnished copper of her hair and shone from the silver clasps holding it and her eyes, her penetrating eyes were of a brilliant green. Demurely her eyes dropped from mine and she raised a hand. Was I to kiss it, a form of greeting lost to my modern world?

It was evidently so. I moved forward, bent my head, and holding her hand in mine, lowered my lips. It had occurred to me that there might be nothing to touch, that what I was seeing was not real, merely the ghost of a person long past but the hand was warm, as warm as you or me.

“Emerson.” Her voice clear, real, oh certainly with an accent that I could not place but, more than likely, it was an accent long lost, an accent not heard for a long, long time, may be centuries. Even then, before I heard her story, I could not think she was of my world. Her voice was clear, real and so feminine with an erotic timbre that caused me to shiver; I had not heard the like.

“You have come, answered my call. I was not sure... I had hope.”

I had questions but she put a finger to her lips and stood just looking at me as if, I like to think, it was a moment she wanted to cherish and with a look on her face that I wanted to take as one of pleasure. I was happy just to stand looking at her in turn, at her beauty, poise and ravishing copper hued hair. It seemed an age we stood looking at each other. Had she fallen in love with me from afar, was that why she had called me? That could hardly be, but I knew her voice had charmed me, enchanted me from a distance and now, on seeing her, I could think of nothing but her. Infatuation, maybe already love.

“Come,” she said taking my hand, and together, she leading, we ascended another stone staircase, this time not stark and stony but relieved by hangings and pictures, out onto the roof, the crenellated top of the flint tower and stood looking over my world—modern London with all its glass, steel, concrete, noise and bustle.

“Passing strange,” she said, “I understand little of this—your time.”

And as we stood, hand in hand, she told me something of her story. It was a tale of fantasy, one I could scarcely credit or believe: yet I had the evidence of the flint tower, the lady herself—the fact that the tower was not really there, could not be there—for it had, so the records said, been demolished five hundred years before.

She had been locked away by a jilted suitor, a magician, a wizard if you like, imprisoned until she gave herself to him. His anger, his rage at rejection had been as surprising as it was terrible. How could he have thought she, a young girl, would have wanted a man like that? There had been no understanding, no agreement, not apparently even an approach to her father about the matter. She would not have gainsaid her father but the match was not his wish—most certainly not. Her father, fearing harm, had given her a pendant for protection, the one she wore today. But he had been unable to prevent her imprisonment, or the tricks used to entice her into the tower and despite his skill, her chin lifted, his immense skill indeed, he could not free her.

But the suitor could not harm her as long as she had the pendant - the present from her father—for her father too was a great wizard and its magic had proved too strong for her gaoler.

I shook my head as I stared at the skyline towards Canary Wharf and the great River Thames, this tale could not be true there were no such things as wizards, could be no such thing, magic was just conjuror’s tricks not real.

A stalemate. The, let us call him, the Black Wizard (though it was not a name my lady used), could not have her as his bride, could not take her by force, could not even touch her let alone have her carnally; for such became his desire. But she was imprisoned in this tower from which she could not escape; could not leave the tower. Oh yes, she had tried but the further she had climbed down the steps the slower became her progress and, try as she might, she could not reach more than halfway. She had tried throwing herself from the battlements to end all in frustration but that too was denied her. Escape was not possible that way. The Black Wizard had not ceased his advances, his desire had not abated over the long years but she would not have him, whatever he said, whatever he threatened, whatever he offered, whatever he pleaded.

A stalemate that carried on and on down the ages. Ages? Oh yes. Enchantment indeed.

She had seen the City burn from her tower, had seen it rise again the same shape as before but with strangely different stone spires, had seen it grow further than the eye could see as the smoke thickened, had looked out on seas of yellow pea soup smog, had seen the bustle of the river grow, had seen the flying machines, great caterpillars of the sky dropping their fiery hate. Had seen the same death from the sky repeated from smaller machines coming in great swarms and had seen London burn again, had watched a stillness and then once more the City changing and soaring into the sky, great towers far exceeding her own gaol in height. She had sat in her tower of loneliness year upon year and watched. Weary, so weary but still she did not relent. The Black Wizard would not achieve her.

She looked out now on a London of stone and glass, few things stayed the same. The great White Tower was still there but even that changed with the years, the centuries.

“Wear it always for it will protect you from ways of men, my father said. What did I, a young girl, know of the ways of men? What did I know at all then? I have learnt so much, have had more than an age to learn, but I have never known the ways of men.” She looked at me then, just a glance, but in it was the reminder of her oft-repeated message to me, a message I would not wish to resist.

What did he, the Black Wizard, do away from his stone tower? She had no idea but could not think it was ever something worthy and good.

Yes, she slept. Sometimes she thought it might be for years at a time but she had no real measure just the changing panorama of the City. She might watch someone out there for a few days and then awake and find him, or her, gone and someone else there or the person very much older, or a building gone.

“I do not age, I do not change. Look you at my reflection in this silver. It was like that when I first came to this cursed tower.” Her fine pale fingers held a plate of highly polished silver as I looked at the reflection mirroring her beautiful features.

What did he do, where did he go, what was his purposes? She did not know.

Did he know, did he suspect what she was doing? Had he any inkling and what might he have done to me if he had known? On reflection, and I have thought about it often, he cannot have known or had any fear of what might result. My lady was too clever for him. Too pure for him to understand her thinking.

What had the long years done to him? I could only guess at—can only see a deep and all pervading hate. Did he love her? Had he ever loved her or was it but animal desire? Her beauty and grace could not but arouse such desire in a man but I am sure there was more in him than that at the beginning. Did he love her still, did the fire of desire still burn or was it anger at being frustrated, an anger that had grown year on year to a single minded purpose, giving up what else he might have achieved elsewhere, in other places. Why had he too lived so long? Was it now the tower that sustained him also? Questions to which I do not know the answer.

Her name? I know it, but it would mean nothing to you for I have never found it in the history books or any historical documents and, believe me, I have searched many a dusty archive. His name? Ah, that is another matter, my friend, best you do not know that either. He is my problem: not yours.

“You will visit me again?”

“How can I free you?”

“There is a way—you will find it. I cannot tell it.”

I thought, yes I thought that with all the tales of magic she was enchanted; a spell had been cast not to tell me—that it was something I had to find without being told. And my reward? Oh yes, the message was very clear about that and was not something I was likely to refuse. But it was not lust that caused me to try and help her, nor some mediaeval sense of right and wrong, honour and justice. No, it was love on my part. Enchantment? Well, may be; perhaps she had possessed my mind, taken some control of it, used some enchantment. The voice in my head was certainly magic but I cannot see, cannot feel that my feelings for my lady were the result of enchantment or magic. She was no sorceress. I saw no evidence of that.

I came to her tower day after day seeking a way to free her and, to be honest, to be with her. I could not get her from my head. My studies suffered. I was besotted, deeply in love. But could I find a way to free her? I lead her down the steps, I even carried her but it was no use. I could reach the bottom and the door so easily on my own but with her I could not. There was a drag, a thing difficult to describe, the further down my footsteps took me the greater the drag, the pull upwards and inevitably I would find myself climbing, not descending, again, carrying her back. I even suggested it might be the rings she wore, the jewellery that was enchanted and prevented her leaving. She had laughed at this, a so sweet tinkling laugh and had taken them off one by one, pulling the brooches from her dress, letting her hair fall but she would not remove that last piece of jewellery, the pendant. There was no question of that. Her father had given her that and it was not something the black wizard could have enchanted. She was quite certain. But it was not the jewellery, its removal made no difference at all to our progress.

“Shall I remove my gown,” she had asked, “as well?”

Her smile and eyes as she said it had been both amused and at the same time coy as if she was both laughing at me and at the same time nervous. Laughing at my so far futile attempts to free her, coy at the real possibility, perhaps, of untasted love, nervous of the unknown.

I did not want to break the spell, make the advance—teach her of the ways of men. It was not a reward I sought but the natural desire of a man to love a woman in the physical way as he loved her in truth. I thought the key was to free her but the key was elusive.

She seemed different that day, relaxed yet somehow girlishly excited and ready to tease. Her fingers had started to unlace the bodice, revealing more of the swell of her breasts. What was I to say, what was I to do?

“I don’t know, I shouldn’t think, it’s unlikely to make a difference...”

She laughed, laughed at me, in the lovely way she had, as her bodice dropped open. My eyes took in the perfect roundness, the pure whiteness of her skin and the perfection of the virgin smallness of her pink nipples. I could hardly take a breath, so captivated was I by the sight. With an effort I pulled my gaze upwards to catch her eyes. And then, with just the faintest of half smiles and a slight shrug of the shoulders, they were whitely bare also as the gown slipped with just a faint rustle to the floor. I did not dare to look down, show interest in her nakedness—an interest that was screaming in my head.

“Shall we?” she said.

Carefully I lifted and carried her, one hand supporting her thigh, the other clasped around her back holding her at the side—so, so close to a breast, down the stairs, carrying this vision of loveliness. You can imagine, I suspect, my feeling, my thoughts, my emotions as my hands first touched her naked skin, touched the soft, so soft, flesh of her thigh, felt the hardness of her ribs beneath the silken softness of her chest. And it was not possible to do other than look, descending, as I was, a stair, look at the smooth roundness of her hips, the flaming curls of her sex, the perfection of her breasts and the endless complexity of indentations, shadow play and roundness of her body; look at the way she moved as I stepped stair by stair downwards and, all the while, her eyes were watching me as if fixing me in her mind. I did not notice the slowing, the difficulty of movement, the finding ourselves ascending rather than descending the stair. I was absorbed in contemplation of the beauty that was my lady.

I had not expected success and the return to her chamber was not exactly a surprise—the mere divesting of clothes was not something that would overcome the spell. Carefully I set her back onto her feet, releasing my hands, turning away to let her dress but instead her hands went to my own clothing and all at once the meaning was clear to me—that I too should be naked—and then she lead me to her bed. Our lovemaking was unhurried. It was tender and gentle. No sudden rut but the gentle discovery of each other, the joy for me of just lying in my lady’s arms as we kissed was more, so much more than I had dared hope for—and I think she felt the same; the entwining of our limbs was gradual, tentative at first, unhurried—I was not going to break the spell and teach her too soon the ways of men; ultimately I did lie upon her, did rest between her thighs culminating in sweet penetration. Even then there was no hurry and I led her to ecstasy as she held me, gasping with the pleasure of the moment. And I too joined her in release. Oh yes, how clearly I remember that; my eyes shutting at that first spasm and feeling my lady squeeze me so very, very tight.

Of a moment she was still, cold and then there was the feeling of dryness, the taut dryness of parchment against my skin and then an awful cracking sound as of sun bleached and aged sticks breaking and I fell a little, felt sharp sticks pricking at my skin, dropped forward onto the bed, onto hard but brittle objects pushing against my skin. Where was my beautiful lady, what was happening in my moment of ecstasy, what was this out of focus object by my head? I could here the snapping, again as of twigs as I leapt wildly up—terrified, confused, shocked at the change. One moment total happiness, total warm happiness, shear joy at being as one with my lady and then... I could not accept or believe the change before me: gone was my beautiful lady: lying on the bed was the now broken and half scattered skeleton of the lady I had loved; the ribcage cracked and broken by my weight—for it was that I had felt snapping beneath me; the leg bones in disarray where I had pushed them in my haste to rise; the skull with its jaw bone now hanging loosely and the empty eye sockets gazing up at me; a few scraps of dry, dry skin and faded burnished copper hair lay here and there. The bones crumbling and becoming dust.

Her hands outstretched were but a pile of knuckly bones, her golden and intricately carved rings still clinging to those small bones or fallen away to lie amongst the wreck of her so fine hands.

The change from one moment to the next, the change—the decay - had been so quick. Five hundred or more years all in a few seconds, the inevitable held at bay for so long suddenly released. And it had been my doing! I had been the catalyst for this terrible thing—the death of the lady I loved. The cracking of bones is a sound I can never, never forget.

I stood aghast only vaguely realising what I had done, what I had been led to do. Oh yes, my lady’s plan was clear, horribly clear in retrospect. She was too clever for him and, alas, for me. And in my mind I heard just the faint whisper of her voice.

“The pendant, Emerson, it is yours—wear it for my love and your life.”

There was a sound below, the sound of footsteps running, hard shod feet running up the stone steps, coming closer. With a sob and sudden naked fear I reached towards the laid out bones and grasped the pendant and pulled it to me. It was heartrending, for the first time in five centuries the pendant left my lady’s neck, the pull on the chain scattering vertebrae like pebbles across the bed. As I turned to the door I lifted the chain above my head and dropped it around my own living neck. It was a close thing, I realise now, for at that moment the door burst open and for the first time I saw the Black Wizard and the anger and rage on his face was frightening. With a howl he took in the scene, the ossuary of the bed and my nakedness. He knew straightway the import, that after all the years, all the ages of waiting, the endless nights of longing he was to be forever denied his wish; the spark of hope he had held burning was extinguished. The lady had defeated him and I was the means of his undoing and her escape.

His anger, yes, his rage at being denied, denied after long centuries of desire and waiting was terrible to see but he could not touch me, could not lift a finger against me for he could see the pendant, and I was down, out and running terrified and naked into the bright sunshine away from the shadowy anachronism of his evil prison tower

“Have me, Emerson, and you shall free me.” I did not hear the subtle change, or guess its awful meaning.

The terrible picture of the bones crumbling to dust, the bones of the lady I had loved.

I can imagine, I can understand his anger at centuries of waiting undone; his fury at what I had done, his desire for revenge. Yes, I can understand that. So I dare not remove the pendant from my neck, it is always with me, always there. I carry medical information in case of accident but written twice is the command that under no circumstances whatsoever may the pendant be removed. But what if I have an accident and a nurse who cannot possibly understand removes it for hygiene reasons before an operation? What if I am mugged and someone who would not care steals it? What if I become senile and... What will he do to me? Oh yes, I feel him, sense him, sometimes even see him watching me, waiting, waiting for what... or is it simply when? He is not a stranger to waiting.

Why had she picked me? How did she have this power over my mind, was able to call to me from afar? Why was it me she had called—was I the first she had called in five hundred years? Why me? Did she really love me? It is all too late to ask.