The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I can’t place this in any category of mine.” Ginna Olivetti, professor of astronautics, waved her hands over her coffee cup in a dismissive gesture. And then she arched one of her dark eyebrows, smiled in a way that would have broken the figleaf of a Roman statue, and announced “I think it should go to you. Just let me know how it comes out, okay, and don’t tip anyone as to where you got this.”

The 43-year old charmer was a long-time friend of mine, who had stood up for me during my distressing departure from the university. Now she was handing me a manila envelope with some papers and photographs in it, and with a yellow sticky on top. My name, Richard, was written neatly on that label.

If it had come from someone else, I might have considered it charity. Richard Williams, former delver into the paranormal, author of many papers, now taking someone else’s leftovers. However, I knew that if Ginna offered me something, that it was hot. The “confidential” label on the envelope suggested that would be the case with this.

We had special reasons to trust each other with secrets. As her identity is mildly disguised here, I can note that she enjoyed students as much as I did, until the crackdown came. I was aware of that, and always have been grateful for the way she helped Storm Nichols, a sharp engineering student, but shy as the dickens, perhaps because of the name his hippy parents had stuck him with, when he came to me with a problem. Storm and his steady were ready to go “all the way”—having worked through the ritual steps first—but he was a virgin and he knew that she had some experience.

Ginna and I were discussing this problem over coffee in the faculty lounge one day, when, out of the blue, she offered to work with Storm. Storm came to me later with great reports on how things had gone with his steady, giving vague and smiling credit to Ginna’s counseling methods. He was not stretching the truth, either—his steady was my student intern, and she was in my bed frequently enough for me to sense the breakthrough Storm had made in their relationship. His steady tried to apologize for finally breaking off with me, but she wanted to be faithful to Storm after this one farewell time in my bed.

I’ll never forget the way the tears ran down the sweet young woman’s tender breasts and onto my chest as we cuddled for the last time after sex, but, as I told Ginna, we could feel quite proud of our students’ responsible lifestyle. My friend agreed, although she admitted that she felt a need to have offered the virile, but uninformed Storm just a few more counseling sessions.

I managed to catch the last busway express back to Denver. It was not too full, being late in the morning. As the coach whistled down the special lane on I-25, I took advantage of the high-back seats to have a look at the file. Sophia and I would be having lunch today in a new place in LoDo—“...let’s get down there quick, before it goes out of business or changes format...” she had urged. So we would.

The papers were, as Ginna said, something right up my line. A Medicine Bow, Wyoming woman had reported an alien abduction. Her powers of description seemed to be fabulous—lots of details in Ginna’s notes. The aliens, there were two of them, had stopped her car on a dusty side road with a magnetic beam. Her car’s ignition shut down. She was drawn inexorably into their ship where she was placed in a tiny metal cabin for an examination. The examination had been followed by foreplay, which she admitted to Ginna had not been unpleasant, and then by intercourse with one of them, the most wonderful she had ever experienced. She had stopped dead in describing the consequent orgasms, as her mind drifted away to beautiful memories. Ginna had carefully noted the way that her breathing deepened as she recalled the events. She seemed to go into trance. Ginna found her own self being drawn into a quite pleasant state of relaxation just in listening to the woman.

In her statement, she kept insisting that Ginna could not report these details to her husband. He knew that she had been abducted by aliens, and wanted to cash in on it, but she did not want him to know that the aliens were far advanced over his own slam-bang sex approach. Anyway, he was too busy trying to line up a talk-show appearance for her. She did not care about that, but was looking forward with another secret, and that was the aliens’ plan to return.

What I also found in Ginna’s notes was her growing disbelief in the credibility of Lynda, as we’ll call her. Yes, she believed that Lynda was not lying, but on the other hand, she was not telling the truth. Ginna’s notes concluded that Lynda was faithfully recanting big chunks of old television and movie plots, or items from supermarket tabloids. But how was she doing that? Ginna’s notes under “Quality of Observer” said that “Lynda is bright, but underneath a very dull surface. She can barely imagine the world outside Medicine Bow, let alone life in a spacecraft. Thinks a good time is monthly Bingo. Reads Sunday Denver Post for the comics and the K-Mart insert, and reads the monthly Medicine Bow news sheet.”

As my bus arced up onto the ramp over the South Platte River, I turned the last page about Lynda in the file, and found a Polaroid photo of Lynda. Her husband, I assumed, was the guy in jeans and work shirt holding her protectively, or possessively, around the waist. She had a knockout body, only partly hidden in her jeans and a t-shirt. But her eyes had an almost sad look, a bit vacant, as though she was not really interested in what was happening.

Because Ginna is an astronautics prof, there was much more paper in the folder. She and her graduate student had scoured aviation sources, had talked with a contact at NORAD in Colorado Springs, and had interviewed the few people who lived in the area. No one had independent records which matched previous alien sighting reports. There were no stray magnetic events. Life had gone on as normally as it could in that time period in Wyoming.

So, now I understood why an expert on the paranormal was called for. All the typical physical markers and witness reports for a physical event, whether “alien” or not, were absent. Scooping up the papers to put them away, I felt perplexed. She had only failed to turn up one witness, and that because the other non-evidence had been strong enough to warrant calling off her investigation. That witness would be a long-haul trucker who passed through Medicine Bow that night, and was recorded as passing a temporary inspection station west of there the next day, late in the morning.

I alighted at the Union Station stop, and walked alone through the grand arches to 17th Street. I had always liked doing that, ever since my first arrival there with Sophia (see the “California Zephyr” series in www.sabrina.org). It gave me a moment to think, before I was distracted by the nude painting in the window of the Sloane Gallery. Seeing this former exchange student looking as cute as she had on our long ago beach excursion always stopped me. By now, she would be older, but I hoped that she had kept those lovely curves reasonably filled out.

Boggs, the Lincolnesque doorman of the Oxford, gave me a cheery greeting as I reached our hotel. The quiet hour before Sophia’s return was time enough to prepare my plan.

After I had completed my 1998 reports, Sophia had decided to set up a foundation to employ my services. She could make donations, and I would have the expense money to resume carrying out my research. It had felt odd, I admitted to her, to be climbing into bed with my principal donor, but we had to laugh when she said that university fund-raisers did that all the time.

With her advice and consent and due to our mutual curiosity about the unexplainable, I found myself at the door of our hotel room the next day, saying goodbye to her. We embraced, for a farewell kiss, I thought. Her generous lips would be a nice enough send-off, but as we kissed I felt her hands on my zipper, and then she was, with great familiarity, working her way through my briefs to my manhood. She had been in her robe, but now it fell from her shoulders, and her full, unfettered breasts pressed against me. She was dressed only in her hi-cuts and slippers.

“Sophia!”

“Mmmm, yes, dear Richard? Goodbye kisses is what you need, right?” And with that, and a sexy grin, she knelt. Her surprise move had caught me in a relaxed mode, and she had easily snaked me out into her finger-tips. But by the time her lips reached my penis, it was rising to stern readiness, in spite of what we had been doing the night before. My hands could only tenderly go through her hair, touch her cheeks, caress and then clutch her shoulders.

Sophia knew my tender spots, and too soon I exploded.

“Mmmm, fresh!” She licked her lips catlike, and smiled.

“Isn’t that what the truck drivers’ wives do before they hit the road, to make sure they remember what’s waiting at home?” she asked in an innocently curious tone.

“I’m not sure, but if I run off the road on this trip, you’ll know what I was thinking of.” I jiggled my sagging penis back into my pants, and breathed a huge sigh.

And then I was on the highway headed north, in a second-hand rental car. Wyoming, the big empty rectangle that keeps Colorado and Montana from bashing into each other, was waiting ahead. I mulled over the one unexamined piece of the report, distracted occasionally when I shifted in the seat and sensed my tired, sated sex carrying memories of Sophia’s farewell treat.

WEIGH STATION 2

I found the safety examiner who had staffed the portable inspection station west of Medicine Bow. He identified the name of the two truckers and their company. Now I knew there were two men who might help. Could he remember anything they might have said? Anything about them?

“One of ‘em was a strong-looking guy in his mid-40’s, clean-cut, very polite—respectful, I should say. His log and his waybills were all in order. Equipment in top shape. The kinda man we like to do business with. Jock Edwards his name.”

The other one?

“He was nice enough, but kind of over-macho looking, about 30. Sounds funny to say that in Wyoming... I can’t explain it, but something about him rubbed me the wrong way. He should take some lessons from Mr. Edwards.”

Is that a regular run for them?

“No, that was the only odd thing. I used to see ‘em here on the Interstate, but for some reason they switched to US30, the old highway. Some guys like going that way just to stop in the old Virginian. That’s where they spent the night, they said.”

The Virginian?

“Yeah, the old hotel in Medicine Bow. Named for the Western story, you know, ‘The Virginian’. Smile when you call me that...” and he made a firing pistol effect with his fingers.

IN THE ‘VIRGINIAN’

I checked into the historic inn that afternoon. US30 was a strange road, overbuilt to be the transcontinental highway, but now lightly traveled. Rarely did I pass another car; there were few times when I saw a long-haul truck.

It made sense to have dinner there, and to plan to visit the hotel bar later, because there was not much else to do in town. Yes, the waitress knew about Lynda’s report of the aliens. She did not place much merit in it, she claimed, but I saw a touch of envy in her body language.

“Are you with a magazine? You don’t look like a tv fellow.” She scrutinized me.

“Damn, I should have moussed what’s left of my hair!” She giggled and looked me over with new interest. “No, I’m a professor. I do want to talk with people about that night.”

And so, with the help of the waitress, after she recovered from her disappointment, I interviewed most of the habitues of the place. The main theme of the notes repeated what Ginna had learned. The truck was the missing piece.

I went to bed feeling very lost and lonely that night. During the day, it only took an hour to walk around the entire town, from one double-wide on one end to another double-wide on the other. A dusty business district did almost no business. Then it was back to my post in the Virginian that night.

Customers had come in and out, some had helped and some could not. Several remembered the two truckers spending the night there, but nothing else. And then there was a hush, followed by a buzz of quiet gossiping. A woman in her late 20’s had walked in, and her Western wear looked great on her. I caught myself thinking almost immediately how great it would look coming off of her, she had that sort of figure. She wore no jewelry, but I had to force myself to notice that.

“Lynda’s girlfriend from high school and way back,” whispered my waitress/consultant. “She knows everything about Lynda.”

“Could I talk to her?”

“She hasn’t talked with anyone, but you’re different. I’ll ask her.” My new friend grabbed some dirty dishes off an adjacent table and slung them into a plastic bus bin, then moved toward the table which the new arrival had taken.

Given what the waitress had told me, and the obvious recent nuisance of locust hordes of media people, I was surprised when she motioned me over.

As she left the table and passed me, she spoke in a confidential tone, “I told Winona how nice you were when you were interviewing, and how it was important scientific stuff.” I nodded my thanks.

WINONA’S STORY

As it turned out, Winona did not know much more than Ginna’s and my research had assembled from the townspeople and travelers staying at the hotel. We hit it off well, though, after her initial coolness. Her excitement at reciting the tale was natural, made me feel that there was no hoax on her part. It felt right to reach across the table and touch her arm as we were talking, and soon her knees and mine were in contact. Her excitement was carrying through her whole body, as I felt her tension.

You will know from my past experiences that it was very tempting at that point to take the course Mother Nature seemed to be laying out for us. In finding someone who really cared about what she thought and had an empathetic approach, it was making sense to Winona’s subconscious that we would soon be making love. My guidance of her recollections was soon being interrupted by my thoughts of what she might be wearing under the plaid shirt and the jeans.

“Winona, phone call!” My friend the waitress called across to us.

Winona went away for a minute, and when she returned she leaned back in her chair for a moment, stretching with unselfconscious seductiveness, and then leaned forward to whisper to me.

“Come outside, there’s someone I want you to meet.” I could not resist her invitation, thinking it could be Lynda, and so I stepped out with her into the windy night.

There was nothing to be seen. The road was empty. A few pick-ups were parked around the hotel and adjacent motel. A million or so stars were visible. The only sound for a minute was the endless flapping of the Wyoming buffalo flag on a swaying flagpole. The ropes and grommets slammed unceasingly against the metal staff.

A distant growling noise, and then a freight train of Taiwanese containers traveling at 70 mph came blasting toward us. The gates dropped and lights flashed at the town’s single crossing, the whistle blew, and then the train Dopplered away.

“And now what?...” I turned to Winona for an explanation. She smiled and silently nodded back toward the gravel parking lot at the east end of town.

There, just beyond the light of the town’s easternmost street light, were the marker lights of a big rig. It had come into town under cover of the racket created by the freight, something not hard to arrange along this quiet highway and busy main line. I remembered that Ginna had learned that Lynda expected the aliens to return. Was this linked to that event?

As if compelled to, Winona began walking in measured steps away from me, toward the tractor-trailer. She looked back over her shoulder and beckoned me.

Foolishly, I suppose, I followed. The music and yacking from the hotel bar faded behind me, the wind coming up louder around me until it seemed to carry us both forward. Not another soul was visible on the deserted highway frontage.

We arrived at the truck cab and Winona just stood there. The diesel engine rumbled low and then stopped. Still nothing happened. The dark-tinted windows of the truck’s big cab made its occupants invisible. Winona’s body tensed in excitement, in anticipation. She was licking her lips, still saying nothing. Her hands worked nervously over the seams on her jeans, absent-mindedly tracing them. I felt like grabbing her and running, or grabbing her and screaming... “What the hell is going on here???”

And then the cab door swung open, and a rugged man in his 40’s climbed down.

“Jock Edwards?” I reached out my hand... and then just as quickly drew it back. I had caught his telegraphed preparation to use the interrupted handshake method of putting me in a trance. He looked at me with surprise, stopped in mid-handshake motion himself, and turned to Winona. She looked expectantly at the truck driver.

“Well, Winona, you seem to have brought me someone different than what I expected. At least I hope that you still remember to dream now!”

Winona’s eyelids blinked for a moment, and then she was in a trance.

I talked fast.

“You probably know how to put me in a trance, too, Jock. But, based on what just happened, I’m guessing that you’re enough of a newby that you can’t quite control how it’ll work out with me. And, if we talk for a minute, you may like me untranced more than you think.”

“Okay. To be honest, I was not expecting a guy. Winona was instructed to bring out someone she really felt understood her, someone very imaginative and caring. When I called her in the bar, that’s what I said. I meant for her to bring out a woman. What are the odds on her going into a bar in Wyoming and coming out with a guy who matches that description?”

I laughed and introduced myself. It was a bit disconcerting to carry on a conversation while Winona stood there motionless, apparently ready for more instructions, but that did not bother Jock.

“Professor Richard Williams? Shit! Wow!” It turned out that Jock had read my previous reports in the Mind Control website. He knew that, of course, everything in it was fiction, but still, it was kind of fun given his deepening interest in the subject.

I explained my mission to him, and asked him directly, “what do you know about this UFO story?” He began to chuckle, and then laughed out loud, then stifled the laughter, which sounded terribly loud in the still roadway.

“Let me explain it to you, and then I’ll show you some interesting things. Let’s get in the cab now, and we’ll have some privacy.”

He turned to Winona and spoke to her in a calm, directive manner, taking her deeper into her trance. She shivered for a moment, nodded in response, and then easily climbed the steps ahead of us to enter the cab of the rig. Even with my mind full of conflicting thoughts, I could not help but enjoy watching her trim butt above me on the way up.

The three of us squeezed easily into the big work area. Jock clicked the heater up a notch and turned the radio scanner down. Then he turned to the placid, but attentive, Winona.

“It’s feeling warmer in here.” He began in a calm and factual tone. “And as you notice that, you will ask yourself what you can do about it. Of course, with the professor joining us, you won’t want to unbutton your blouse will you?” I watched in amazement.

“You’re thinking about unbuttoning your blouse, but don’t let the fun of doing that keep you from feeling self-conscious in front of us, because with each button you undo, you will find yourself feeling warmer and more excited.” Winona smiled and began to unselfconsciously unbutton her blouse, having reversed the intentionally confusing negative command in her open subconscious mind. With the third button, her breathing grew heavy, and she tossed her head back in a very feminine sign, bringing her bra-restrained breasts out from her open blouse. The front-clipped pair of scalloped cups had a Year 2000 Victoria’s Secret look to it that did not go with her Western informal attire.

“Winona, you know that your breasts are very beautiful and that men want to see them. In a few minutes, I am going to suggest that you wake up and join in our conversation, but when you find our talking boring, you will remember that they are pretty in your bra, and as your mind drifts away from our conversation, you will think about how much prettier they are out of the bra, and you know that our attention will be drawn to you when you open your bra... as that will give you power over us.” She signalled her comprehension. “You will find that there are so many things to think about, that you will have great difficulty in consciously remembering what I just said, but your subconscious will remember it all for you. And now that you are thinking of that as exciting, you will calmly awaken, feeling relaxed and ready to join in our discussion. Awake now!“ And she did. With a perky smile, she tucked her legs under herself on the middle seat, and looked at each of us expectantly. Jock smiled with satisfaction, openly admiring her breasts. Then he turned to me.

JOCK’S STORY

“This alien thing is getting out of hand. I didn’t mean to draw a lot of attention here, and you’ve turned up just as I was going to try and wrap it up. Your timing is good, actually, because you can get the word out discreetly, to the men and women who really matter. I can’t exactly write a letter to the editor about it, and besides, the paper here only comes out once a month.

“I know from reading your articles in mcstories that you would understand the problem that I was dealing with when I instigated this alien stuff. It had been an easy way out as a post-hypnotic suggestion, explaining to a couple of attractive women as to what had happened to their time.

“It kind of is more complicated than that in Lynda’s case. Winona here is the bright one of the pair, eh?” He smiled and Winona laughed in embarassment, modestly nodding agreement.

“Lynda has a body that won’t quit, and she’s wonderfully athletic, but she has noooo clue as to what’s going on. You know, all the study and training I went through kept stressing how easy it is to entrance intelligent women, and it kept reassuring me that I could handle that. I was supposed to be impressed by that and I was. But no ever taught me what to do with someone really ground down by life, and not too bright in the first place.” Jock looked genuinely frustrated.

Winona interrupted to explain.

“Lynda grew up around here, went to high school here, and got married to Frank, her husband when she dropped out to run away to Rawlins with him. She hasn’t traveled like I have. I’ve been to Denver, I’ve been to Salt Lake City.

I pounced on Jock’s statement that “no one ever taught me....”

“Are you telling me that you studied seduction methods somewhere?”

“Well, yes,” Jock responded. You know about the program, because you mentioned it in your other mcstories reports.”

He reached into a folder where he kept log sheets, maps, and the other typical paperwork of a long-haul commercial driver. He shuffled through the papers and pulled out a diploma with a familiar logo.

“Here it is,” he proudly announced, “the School for Social Expression—that’s what the diploma says, but you know it’s really the School for Sexual Expression.”

I took it from him and immediately flipped it over. I preferred not to closely examine the intertwined figures of the hypnotic seal on the diploma, and wanted to check for the link to the school’s real purpose which I expected to find on the reverse side.

Sure enough, there was a hidden-camera photo of Jock in bed with two girls, one of them screaming in unimagined ecstasy as he plunged into her and the other licking her lips in wet anticipation.

“Your final exam in Sausalito?” I queried.

“Yup. Two college girls from Monmouth, Oregon. Down there for Spring Break and looking for something unique. Now that was fun for all of us, and they were happy to be first on my list. You see, I took this course when I realized how many lonely nights I was spending on the road, and how boring and dumb the hookers at truck stops usually were. It made sense to me—I had to go back to driving school to learn to drive the big rigs, and now I had to go to school to learn how to handle the kind of women that I wanted to have.

“I pretty well have my routes covered now. A phone call as I come into town, and they’re telling their boyfriends (or their husbands in a couple of cases) about their headache or shopping trip or whatever they know their guys want to hear, rummaging through their dressers for their sexiest lingerie, grabbing their diaphragms or checking their pills, and hurrying down to the truck stop to meet me.

“It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t getting some kind of magic power over women—I was just meeting women who wanted to do these things anyway, and now with the training, I can ask them confidently and I can release the inhibitions that would have made them miss out on this otherwise.

Jock spoke with the matter-of-fact assurance of a man who deals in tangible things, practical problems. No wonder the Weigh Master liked him.

“I’m pretty conscientious—that’s why the company likes having me on their rigs—and so I’ve installed triggers with each of the women. Even if I’m a bit tired from the road, I touch the right place and suddenly they remember the most beautifully erotic moments in their life, all now collapsed into this time with me. They’ve told me that they never regret slipping away for our rendezvous. I always recharge their batteries for the next time, too, with a little story to file away in their subconscious till something reminds them of it. You know, it’s great to have a woman tell you later how she woke up one morning with the horniest thoughts of you—had to see you as soon as possible.

Jock said this all in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he was discussing the best route to Billings. Most people would have thought he was a braggart, but in fact everything he said seemed plausible to me.

“What was missing was someone to fill in this long gap between Cheyenne and Salt Lake City. I wasn’t thinking about that when my partner and I came through Medicine Bow, though. He wasn’t square with his log and I heard that there was a big safety spot check planned on the Interstate so I took the old highway. When we got to Medicine Bow, we heard that a portable checkpoint was set up just west of town, so we called it quits for the night and checked into the Virginian.

“You probably don’t know what goes on here on summer nights, especially Saturday night. Somehow, this place is on a German tourist itinerary. The Germans, especially the German women, are fascinated with cowboys, and this is a good place to meet them. They all want to dance with a cowboy in the saloon at the Virginian Hotel. Actually, come to think of it, their checklist probably says that they should fuck a cowboy who they meet at the dance.

“It works out pretty well. Guys come in off of ranches from up to 200 miles away, and they are the real thing—rangy, strong, and horny as hell. On the drive down in the pick-up, they’ve been talking about nothing else, getting each other cranked up for the hunt. Within a couple of hours of that time, Ilse or Helga or Katerina or whoever finds herself being lifted onto a big old brass bed in one big swoop, in a room that looks like it’s straight out of an old Western. She may be a software engineer in real life, but now she’s a dancehall girl in a movie, and the man she’s picked out is ready for several takes. And when she gets back to Deutschland, she’s going to let her girlfriends know what happened, and they’re going to see their travel agent as soon as possible.

It made sense to me, but I wondered what it had to do with the alien story. I asked Jock about that, but we were interrupted. Winona sighed in a “I’ve heard this before” kind of way, and unclasped her bra, pulling it back so that her unsupported breasts were attractively framed by the slack cloth. She grinned at us, enjoying our inability to keep our eyes off of her.

“Dream now!“ Jock commanded, and Winona returned to her pleasant trance. He instructed her to forget the conversation which he and I would now have, and to enjoy delving into her own thoughts for beautiful or stimulating memories. She acknowledged the instructions, and we watched as she drifted into her own mental space. The direction which she was heading was easy to guess, as her nipples rose to taut erection and her breasts firmed. Her lips parted slightly, and now and then she licked them.

Jock admired his handiwork for a moment and then entered the heart of his story.