The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He doesn’t write back. Not immediately anyway. He will. Some part of her knows that he will with a certainty that contradicts everything he’s trained herself to believe about certainty and intuitions. It feels possible, when she examines her thoughts on the matter closely enough, which she tries to avoid doing as much as possible, feels possible that just by the sheer force of her desire he’ll write back to her.

He took his ad down. She can’t find it. In the morning she goes to the url but there’s nothing. She wants to read it again. She tells herself that she wants to read it again in the day, when she’s awake and alert and on her guard. She knows that she’s discovered something about herself that’s deep and powerful and she wants to think about it more. Ever the engineer, she wants to look at this interesting thing, take it apart, think about how it works, how she can reverse engineer it to see how it works and make it her own.

She brings up Google.

“I want to be yours and wanting makes it so.”

Nothing. She can’t quite remember anything else, though. “Good girl.” “So good.” “Feel so good.” “So relaxed.” “I want to be yours and wanting makes it so.” “I want to be yours and wanting makes it so.” “Breathing in, being filled.” Oh god. “Breathing out letting go.” Letting go. Letting go. Letting go.

But, fuck! She’s been browsing the internet trying to find his listing for an hour now. Trying different websites, looking on archive.org, typing the fuzzy little fragments that she can remember into google to see if she can pull up a cached copy. Typing the phrases and studiously ignoring how engrossing this process is, how good it feels to just sit and try to remember the things he told her, to just sit and try to remember them and type them and say them to herself and feel her body stir and rock and clench and unclench and tighten and relax.

And now she’s late for work. Late for work and incredibly turned on and she can’t remember where she put the key for her bike lock and she’s absolutely not in the mood to hurry up and go anywhere, to rush, to be frantic.

“Hey, John?” she calls her boss. “Listen, sorry, I got stuck in getting some stuff done here this morning and I lost track of time. I’m going to finish up something and then come in. Definitely. Thanks so much. I’ll be in in an hour. Yeah, tonight. No doubt. See you.”

On the phone she felt... awful. There aren’t any other words for it. What was she doing? First, her dignity, her feminism, her radical autonomy and total self-sufficiency. This was her. This was who she was. She was the person who her friends called when they broke up with their partners because she was always ready to applaud a break-up, applaud a severing of ties and embrace the energy that resulted from the fission. And now, her job? It’s bullshit symbolism, she knows—equating work with independence and self. A kind of 2nd-wave capitalist embrace of feminism, but, still—she doesn’t want to be flaky. She’s responsible. Successful. That’s the thing. Feeling irresponsible...

But oh god. She puts the phone down and falls back into bed and drives her fingers into her body, pushing her panties to the side, twists her nipples, bites her lip until she tastes blood and writhes around herself. In general, in day to day life, she jerks off a lot. It’s fun. She knows what she likes and is good at providing it for herself. But Jesus she’s never felt sensations this intense this quickly. She notes, dimly, that she can hear herself moaning in time to the rhythm, in time to the way she’s fucking herself. No, not fucking herself. Being fucked by her hand, by this hand at the end of her arm. Not her hand, not anymore. He doesn’t know it, she can’t contact him to tell, but she knows it’s his hand now. She can scarcely imagine being any wetter than she was, but she can feel her body flood itself the moment she imagines the hand to be his, the moment she imagines that she is being fucked by a stranger’s hand, that a stranger has her body and is doing what he wants with it from afar.

She’s acting totally on instinct now. All of her guilt, all of her distress, all of her stress about who she is, about what she needs to do and who she needs to be, all of her stress about being strong and autonomous and in control and responsible is gone. She can’t feel it, she can’t even remember it. She doesn’t want the pleasure to end, doesn’t want to go back to the stresses and the guilt, doesn’t want to go back to the world where she as to do anything other than feel and feel good and be fucked and give in. Her breathing is shallow and her words are barely coherent underneath her almost-voiceless ragged moans. “Want to be yours. Wanting makes it so. Wanting makes it so. Want to be yours. Beingfilled. Lettinggo. Beingfilled. Beingletgo. Letgo. Lettinggo. Tobeyours tobeyours want. Makesitso wanttobeyoursmakesitso.” but in her mind she can hear herself. And in her mind she’s not quiet, not ragged, not incoherent. She’s triumphant and calm and clear: “I want to be yours. And wanting make s it so. I want to be yours and wanting makes it so.”

When she wakes up an hour later she doesn’t even remember when she came. She knows, vaguely, that when she’s jerked off in the past she’s worked hard to discover exactly the best and most effective ways to bring herself to orgasm, to get herself off, but now the idea of orgasm, of a direction and a focus beyond sensation and escape and drifting off and surrender seems silly, seems to be missing the point, and, more importantly, seems impossible to care about. She doesn’t want to get herself off. She wants to stay on. She falls back asleep totally enthralled by her own turn of phrase. “I want to stay on.”

It’s noon when she wakes up again and, despite how totally relaxed and wonderful her body feels, all of her mental relaxation and focus is gone the moment she looks at the clock. She told John she’d be at work two hours ago. She can see on her phone that she has 5 missed calls and new voice mail. She clears her call history without looking at it. If she doesn’t hear the words it’s okay. She calls her voice mail but deletes all of her new messages before listening to them. Without words, without text and documentation, without hearing someone else say it, she doesn’t have to acknowledge her failure.

She needs to get up. She needs to get to work and finish a schematic and send it down to be prototyped so she can debug it by the end of the week. She needs to go to work. To go to work she needs to get dressed. To put on pants. It’s a simple process but as she moves to stand she feels the cold shock of her soaked underwear pressing against her leg. Jesus. She’s never been this wet.

Okay. Okay. Nothing’s changed. She still needs to put on pants and go to work and obviously she was going to change her underwear. Still. Jesus. She can’t help but feel a little bit turned on just by the wetness itself, by what it means. As she peels her underwear off of her body it occurs to her that her arousal, her need itself, has literally spilled out of her and made its mark on the physical world. The evidence is too much to take. Standing in her room, next to her bed, naked, damp, frustrated, needy, and late for work she just can’t take it anymore. It’s too much too soon to fast. She sits down on the floor, holding the evidence in her lap, and begins to cry.

At work she’s a little bit better. John was away at a meeting for most of the day so he didn’t notice her coming in late, and no one really needed her to have anything specific done until tomorrow morning. Sitting at her desk with her headphones in, listening to music loud enough to quiet her less wanted thoughts, working through her circuit and someone else’s code, she feels like she’s regained some semblance of herself, regained a foothold on her consciousness and her thought processes. At first, throughout the afternoon, the motion and the conversations of her coworkers, the sheer mind-numbing tedium of debugging her work, all of it is normal enough that waking up late and furiously masturbating herself into a state of blissful unconsciousness seems like a far-away, fanciful story. Something she heard about, imagined, dreamed, fantasized rather than something she experienced.

It couldn’t last, though. She had to work late. She’s going to get vending-machine dinner and vending-machine second-dinner and eat them both at her desk long after everyone else in her department went home and she knows this and she knows it’s her fault and she knows what she was doing instead of waking up and going to work this morning and every small inconvenience is a reminder of how much she let herself get sucked up in her weird sudden enthusiasm and how irresponsible she was.

She wants to look at the email again. She needs to see it to figure out why it’s taken such hold of her, how it’s affected her this strongly. It takes her about half an hour to download and set up TOR on her work computer in a way that won’t leave traces in IT records. She knows her browsing is watched and she’s done enough research into exactly how to know everything that she needs to do to fool the surveillance. As she sets up layers of software she tries to keep from thinking about why she’s doing what she’s doing, why she feels the sudden need for a privacy she’d never worried about in the past.

She’s at work. Being at work helps her feel in control. She can look, again, for the email like she did this morning. She’s not, after all, going to let herself fall onto the ground in her cubicle, fingers buried in herself, writhing and moaning and chanting incoherently. God but thinking about it feels so good. What’s gotten into her head? Or, more accurately, who? That’s the question that she wants to answer, that she needs to answer—who’s gotten into her head and how can she... how can she what? Get him out? Talk to him? Find him and kneel and let him fuck her brains out and whisper secret thoughts and desires and needs into her mind and fill her up and make her his? No, that’s not right. She doesn’t need to find him, she just needs to find his words so she can understand them, control them. So she can understand herself and regain control of herself...

But aimless googling and trying to remember and browsing craigslist and hoping and typing and talking to herself don’t get her any further than they did in the morning. A damp spot soaking through her jeans, unknowingly rocking herself back and forth, clenching and unclenching her legs and another hour behind in her work.

She can’t fuck herself in the office, though. She won’t go that far. Instead, to find some kind of completion, she makes herself a new email address, goes back to the “missed connections” section and makes a post of her own.

a few days ago you posted here, a long ad, a mesmerizing, detailed, well-written, delicious ad about hypnosis....

i emailed you then when i read it and was so mesmerized, relaxed, excited—despite my awesome life, my, my feminism, the fact that i am very attractive, young, intelligent—felt everything you told me to feel, as yours, deliciously, anonymously captivated by your words (’breathing in being filled, breathing out letting go’ stuck with me, made me feel so, so good when i thought of it again later, makes me feel so good right now...)

i hope you’re out there reading this now—knowing that i am, as you requested, wet while typing this—please please write back to me this time—I need you and need to show you what has come to be yours

It doesn’t work quite as planned though. Making a posting of her own doesn’t bring her the sense of completion that she hoped it would. Instead it changes her active wanting and needing and searching into a passive hoping, a desperate, powerless hope that someone out there read what she’s written and find her and give her what she needs. She spends the next five hours trying to work, alt-tabbing between her work tools and her email window, hoping to see a new message. After a few minutes of this she decides she has to stop checking, stop waiting. She’ll check when she’s doing with work. She’ll check when she gets home. When (she acknowledges), she can fuck herself silly. So she logs herself out but it doesn’t last. Five minutes later she’s logging in again, checking and hoping.

Finally, though, she finishes what she’s doing, uploads her files to the server, logs herself out, gets on her bike and heads home. At 2:30 in the morning she makes it to bed, grabs her laptop, and, one hand already touching herself, logs in to her new email to see if he’s written back. Nothing. She brings herself to a fast and overwhelming and babbling orgasm and starts to drift off to sleep, totally contented, her mind silenced and happy. Before she lets herself sleep, though, she wants to She almost comes when she sees the bold-texted, new, unread message.

“Dear girl, dear girl—how nice it feels to read your email, how nice it feels to see and know your hopes, your needs, your desperation, your desire.”

“Here I am, looking at the screen and feeling your desire emanate from it. And here you are, reading the screen, reading through your email, reading my words.”

She finds his condescension off-putting, but has to admit that he’s right—she practically glows with desire. She literally drips with it.

“You’re reading text, of course, so you can’t quite defocus your eyes, can you? You can’t quite totally relax and let your eyes focus and defocus and eventually slip shut, but this is OK, isn’t it? You know that this is okay because you know that you can scan the screen, scan the screen and stare into its glow and listen to the white noise of your computer’s fan without really needing to engage any of the rest of your body, or the rest of your mind.”

She wondered this before. How could she slip away so easily, so readily, and keep reading his words? She’s never sleep-walked before. Never had any real experience with waking-dreaming or anything like that. But there’s some mechanism at work here where she can read and stay awake and feel sleepy and fall away all at the same time. But it’s weird. Normally hypnotists say “your eyelids are getting very heavy.” Oh god. Now she’s imagining him actually talking to her. Imagining how intensely she’d slip away, how deliciously fuzzy and totally gone she’d be if only her eyelids could feel heavy, could fall shut.

“You have an amazing, powerful mind, and an amazing and special capacity to let go of your own ego, your own desires, and let your mind stretch itself, so you need not worry about whether you can totally relax your self, your conscious self, and continue to read these words. I know that you can do this and you know that you can do this, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing these words especially for you and you wouldn’t be reading them and feeling, with every line, every sentence, every comma, feeling more and more relaxed, feeling better and better, more and more pliable and compliant in exactly the ways that you want to be.”

It’s shocking, the way that the word ‘pliable’ makes her feel.

“Neuroscientists have done some studies on the effects of staring into a television or a computer screen, and they’ve found that doing so causes conscious parts of the brain to shut down, that staring into the screen just like you’re doing now, scanning words on the screen and looking at it, just like you’re doing now, can cause what the neurobiologists called a ‘hypnotic state’. Of course you don’t need their research study to know that, do you? You know from your very own research study, from our research study, you know from how good and relaxed and amazing it feels to just let your eyes glide over my words and let them slip into your mind and into your body without letting any conscious walls get in the way.”

How many times has she stayed up too-late, past-her-bedtime, reading shit on the internet because doing so felt easier than actually getting herself up and going to bed? These memories, of being so tired and sitting and staring and defocusing, these memories of feeling so drained and unable to pay attention to anything but what’s in front of her come rushing to her mind. And she realizes that he’s right. And that she can’t. That she can’t pay attention to anything but what’s right in front of her on the screen. The words. His words.

“So here you are, reading, scanning, letting the words wash over you and wash through you and fill you up. Just focus on scanning them, on taking them in without necessarily bothering to care about what they mean. Your mind knows what they mean. Your body knows what they mean. Your body knows how amazing and wonderful and powerful they are. How much they relax you, how much they let you drift. Instead of concentrating on their meaning, just concentrate on that feeling, that drift...”

She can feel it, feel herself beginning to be filled.

“Examine it carefully, concentrate on it. That’s it. And just let yourself drift. Relax.” Relax completely. That’s good.”

That’s good. That’s good. Thank you. She’s so happy to know that she’s doing good.

“You feel very relaxed. Completely relaxed, don’t you? Very calm and peaceful, nothing can disturb you here, you’re safe and happy, just drifting. I ask you a lot of questions as we’re doing this, don’t I? Don’t worry too much about them, but when you agree with me, feel free to say so out loud, feel free to mouth or whisper the word ‘yes’. You don’t even really have to say it, you just need to imagine saying it, isn’t that right? After all, you have this beautiful and powerful mind that can transport you wherever it wants, wherever I want it to want. You have this beautiful and amazing and powerful mind that you’re letting me use for you right now, and so if you imagine yourself saying “yes”, whispering it or breathing it or moaning it, because it feels so good to say it sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Oh yes!

“Feels so good to say ‘yes’ that sometimes the only way to say it is in a moan. Just thinking about this affirmation, this ‘yes’, this total and unconditional agreement feels just as amazing as actually saying it out loud, doesn’t it?”

Yes. Yes. Does she hear a moan or is it just in her head? Is she just in her head?

“Since everything that we’re doing here together is in your mind, using the way that your mind controls your body, so you just want to do whatever makes you feel most comfortable, whatever feels the best to you, right?”

Yes she wants to feel good. Yes she wants to feel perfect and comfortable and relaxed...

“You’re very relaxed and calm and sleepy now, aren’t you? Very good. It feels so good to tell me how relaxed you are. It feels so good to tell me how you are feeling, what you are thinking, doesn’t it?”

It feels amazing. She’s babbling now, slowly, weakly. “It feels amazing it feels so good I’m so relaxed I can’t imagine being more relaxed I just want to lie hear and listen to you listen to you.”

“Very good. Now I want you to imagine that you are at the top of a beautiful staircase. It’s a winding staircase, of carved wood, ten steps. A few feet below the bottom step is an enormous feather bed, a very deep and comfortable bed with duvets and pillows. I’m going to count from ten down to one, and with each number you will take a step down the stairs. With each step you will go deeper and deeper into sleep. When I say ‘one’ you will fall off the bottom step down into the bed, the beautiful very soft bed, and you will go deeply to sleep.”

She can’t wait. Lying in bed hear with her laptop on her legs it’s so easy to imagine how comfortable she’ll be when she makes it down the staircase, when she can lie on that feather bed for real and let herself drift off into dreams and sleep.

“Do you understand? Very good, very good. Now when I say that you’ll go to sleep what I mean, what we both know that I mean, is that your conscious mind, your self, will go to sleep, but you don’t have to close your eyes to have this kind of sleep, do you? You felt this when you read my earlier messages, you’ve felt it as you’ve reread my words, wanting and waiting and feeling so good. You can fall asleep in this particular, wonderful, dreamy way, and still let your eyes go back and forth across the page, back and forth scanning my words and letting them fill you up and make you feel so very good and take you so far away.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. There’s something comforting about the repetition. Yes.

“Ten—breathing in, being filled, breathing out, letting go. Take that first step forward into yourself, that first step towards the bed and towards total relaxation”

She’s breathing heavily now. Breathing in as deeply as she can, being filled as deeply as she can as if the more air she lets into her body the more of him she lets into her mind.

Nine—breathing in, being filled, stepping forward again now, stepping forward and following my words, letting yourself be taken and knowing that it feels so good to let yourself be taken by me that you wouldn’t make any other choice

Eight—breathing out, letting go, following me deeper and deeper and feeling more relaxed knowing that choosing to follow my words like you have helps you feel so good, think about how happy you are to let me make you feel so good, so relaxed, so blissful...

Seven—breathing in, being filled, feeling so good as my word fill you up”

Six—breathing out, letting go, dropping off all of your little cares and worries

There is it again. Breathing in, being filled. Breathing out, letting go. The magic words. Her magic words.

“Five—breathing in, being filled, deeper and deeper into yourself

Four—breathing out, letting go, remembering now how dreamy my words always make you feel and knowing that that’s exactly what you want, exactly how you want your body and mind to respond to me”

The bed is so close now. She could reach out and touch it by she doesn’t. He didn’t tell her to. If she was supposed to reach out and touch it he’d have told her. She waits. It’s close. Soon. Soon.

“Three—breathing in, being filled, feeling so good, so relaxed

Two—breathing out, letting go, following me with each step”

So close now. She’s going to feel so good. She can’t wait. She has to wait. There’s no hurry. She’s totally relaxed.

“and... One—breathing in, being filled, knowing how wonderful you’re going to feel when you take this last step and fallen onto the bed... breathing out, letting go, stepping forward, following me deep deep inside yourself”

Oh god. So comfortable. So relaxed. The moment she hits the bed she starts to fall asleep. But he hasn’t told her to. Maybe she needs to stay awake?

“Stop now, just lie in the bed and sleep. Feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper asleep. No dreams, no thoughts. You are aware of nothing but my words. You love feeling this relaxed and deeply asleep. It feels... hot. It’s a turn-on, isn’t it? Very good. If I ever hypnotize you again you will quickly and easily go to this same relaxed state, won’t you? You hope I will, you look forward to it, and you know how much I want you to look forward to it and knowing this turns you on even more, doesn’t it? Makes you feel even better, makes you look forward to my words, my messages, makes you look forward to this feeling even more.”

She can sleep? She can sleep. Oh god she can sleep she is sleeping she’s asleep and pliant and empty and full and waiting and wanting and deep deep, so deep.

“Lying in this bed with me like you are, feeling so good, so turned on, so relaxed and asleep and compliant and slippery and wonderfully gloriously wide open just increases your desire to please me, to be mine, doesn’t it? And you are mine, that’s the most beautiful and amazing thing about all of this, isn’t it? You want to be mine, and you are mine. You want to be mine and it feels so good to let go and be mine and this wanting makes it so. You want to be mine and wanting makes it so Say it yourself a few times—‘I want to be yours, and wanting makes it so. I want to be yours and wanting makes it so. I want to be yours and wanting makes it so.’”

She’s still reading. Still reading and letting the words penetrate her and yes and yes and I want to be yours and wanting makes it so and it feels so god to say it because it feels so good to be his because it feels so good to let go, to be something else, someone else, to not be in charge, to want something so strongly and for that something to be so true.

“Feeling like this, as good as you do, as completely open and yielding and desiring as you do, asleep like you are, you’re giving me complete and total access “to the subconscious parts of your mind, aren’t you? It’s through those parts of your mind that I can tell you that you feel better and better, more and more turned on with each line of my words that you read, through those open and yielding and wonderful and beautiful and amazing parts of your mind that I can tell you these things and make you feel them. Isn’t that wonderful? Very good. Now one of the things that these subconscious parts of your mind control is your dreams. Right now, sleeping and dreaming as you are, you’re blissfully and willingly and totally giving me access to your dreaming self, aren’t you?”

Yes. Yes. She wants to give him access to her self. To her waking self, to her dreaming self, to everything and every part of her mind and body. She wants him to have it. She doesn’t want to be bothered. She’s so tired, so relaxed, so sleepy and so asleep and she just wants to drift off, drift away, knowing that she can’t close her eyes, knowing that, even after she’s gone he’ll still be here, still be inside of her massaging her mind, making it soft, relaxed, slippery, pliant, making her accept and affirm and drip with need and desire and sleep and sleep and sleep. Yes. She drifts away.

“After you wake up from this sleep everything that I’ve said here will still effect your dreaming self. It’s going to listen with absolute total attention and obedience to what I have to say because of how wonderful it feels to give me this total attention and obedience. It’s going to listen to what I tell it with absolute and absolutely pleasurable attention and obedience and so, when next you are asleep, when your dream self next has control over your thoughts and feelings, it will actually be me that has this control, won’t it? Tell me how good that makes you feel, how pleasurable and relaxing and arousing it is to think of my words slipping into your dream self when you’re not around, filling you with thoughts and desires and making you feel so very good.

What I want for your dream self to do is very simple. It’s so simple and pleasurable that you’ve probably already been doing it. I want you to dream about me. I want you to have intense and vivid dreams of how good it feels when you let yourself go to me. I want you to have intense and vivid dreams about how good, how turned on and compliant and desired and owned you will feel when you hear my voice, when you let yourself fall into the rhythms of hearing and listening, of gradual relaxation, trance, and hypnosis. And since these dreams will feel so good, make you feel so happy and warm and relaxed and aroused, you want them for yourself, don’t you? Yes, of course you want them. You want to dream of how much you want me to have you, of how good and relaxed and warm and happy you will feel when you hear my voice, when you feel my touch. And you want to remember these dreams, you desperately want to remember these dreams so you can let them play back in your mind during your idle hours, let them play back in your mind as you go to work, as you work out, as you shower, as you drift off to sleep. And you want to remember these dreams because playing them back in this way is going to feel amazing. You can imagine it now, imagine how good and relaxed and turned on and excited you’ll feel as you let these dreams play back in your mind, and you want to remember them because it will feel even better when you sit down in front of your computer and write me descriptions of them, knowing how happy I am with your total compliance, knowing how good these descriptions will make me feel and how good it feels when you please me.

So now I’m going to wake up your conscious mind again—we’re going to count up to ten together and when we get to ten you’re going to wake up feeling happy and refreshed and relaxed. You’ll be wide awake and happy and you’re going to go on with your normal life, just as you were before you started reading this message, but your dream self will remember what we’ve said here, will remember this conversation we’ve had and how good it made you feel. You’ll feel compelled to write to me and tell me how my words effect you, compelled to read them again and again, to tell me about yourself and to show me yourself to let me know that you deserve to be mine because it feels so good to know that you’re mine, doesn’t it? It feels so good to know that you’re mine and you want to make sure that I know how wonderful and beautiful and special and sexy you are, you want to make sure that I know just how amazing the gift that you’re giving me is because it’s very very important to you that this gift be appreciated and savored, isn’t it? Very important that you can keep giving yourself to me in this way.

So now we’re going to count, and with each number you’re going to feel more alert, more awake, more energetic. You’ll remember how good it feels to be asleep with me like this, and you’ll want desperately to return to this state soon, but you’ll be perfectly happy to wake up now. You’re ready, aren’t you?

one.... two.... feeling a bit more alert now... three... breathing in and out... four.... five.... feeling very very good and starting to feel awake... six...... seven... eight... feeling wonderful now and almost waking up..... nine..... totally alert now and feeling great.... and... ten...