The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Francie was bored. That was the only reason she was at this dive, she admitted. She got a certain cheap pleasure out of visiting places like this, sitting at the bar and getting buzzed, knowing all the while that she was superior to everyone else there.

She added to the thrill by dressing to tease. Tonight, she was wearing a slinky black strapless minidress with a plunging neckline, sheer stockings and glossy red spike-heeled pumps. A fur, tossed casually over her shoulders, covered her neck while doing nothing to hide what her dress revealed of her very generous bosom. White gloves covered her delicate hands. Her thick, lustrous red hair was piled atop her head.

She got her usual response. Guys kept coming over to offer her drinks. She’d play with each one for a few moments, then blow him off and wait for the next sucker; she bought her own drinks. She always ended the game and went home when she’d had enough drinks to start feeling as if she might actually go with the next man over.

Tonight, there was one guy in particular who annoyed her. His offense was that he kept glancing at her from where he sat at the far end of the bar, but refused to come over. She’d started deliberately flirting with him, swinging her leg, thrusting her chest at him and smiling. No dice. Was he gay or something? She didn’t get that vibe, but you couldn’t always tell. Finally, frustrated and slightly horny, she got up and went over to him. Up close, she saw he was a modestly good-looking guy in his late thirties, with brown hair and green eyes. The eyes were slightly magnified by the glasses he was wearing. She took the stool next to him and said, “Hi. I couldn’t help noticing you watching me. What’s your name?”

“George,” the man answered. “George Custer.” He held up a hand. “No jokes, please.”

Francie stifled a startled laugh and said, “Okay . . . George. I’m Francie Waters.”

“Pleased to meet you, Francie,” George said. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

This time, Francie did laugh. “Oh, come on,” she said teasingly.

“Me, I find it restful,” George said. “You come in, and it’s always comfortable: warm in winter, cool in summer. This is a good place; it’s usually quiet, just the background hum of conversation, maybe the AC, the clink of glasses. Soothing.” He began gently waving the hand he’d raised earlier, matching the rhythm of his words. “Relaxing. You can come in and leave your troubles at the door. For a little while, you can forget all the little annoyances in your life, and relax. Forget, and relax.”

“Mmm,” Francie mumbled, eyes following George’s hand. “Forget. Relax.” Her head began nodding, following George’s hand. It was so warm, and she’d had a few drinks, and George was so pleasant. “Forget. Relax.”

Suddenly, there was a loud clatter from behind the bar, as a tray full of glasses was jostled. Francie jerked upright, blinking.

“What’re you trying to do, George, hypnotize me?” she asked, angry.

“Of course not,” George soothed. “I can’t do that.”

“You bet your ass you can’t,” sniffed Francie. She started to get up.

“Don’t go,” George pleaded. “Please. We were off to such a nice start. At least let me buy you one drink.”

Francie relented, sitting back down. “All right. One drink, George. But no funny stuff.”

“No funny stuff,” George promised. “What’ll you have?”

“Martini, no olive,” Francie said. This would be what, her fifth? She really had to leave after this drink.

George summoned the bartender and gave the order, then turned back to Francie. “You weren’t serious, were you, about thinking I was trying to hypnotize you?”

“I know it sounds silly,” Francie said, a little embarrassed in retrospect. “But I was kind of nodding out there for a second. And I have a thing about not losing control. When I go out like this, I always go home before I really get drunk or anything. I don’t want to wake up and find out I did something stupid.”

“Smart thinking.” George nodded approvingly. “But I’d never try to make you do anything you didn’t want to do. You wouldn’t let me, anyway. Even if I really hypnotized you, they say you can’t be commanded to do anything that’s against your moral principles—and I can’t do that anyway.” George’s hand had resumed its swaying motion, and Francie started following it with her eyes again as she listened to him.

Her drink arrived, and she downed it slowly, still watching George. His hand continued waving gently, and Francie’s eyes began following it. Back and forth it went, back and forth. Back . . . and forth.

“I can’t make you do anything,” George said as she drank. “You’re a strong-willed woman, much too strong-willed for that. I asked you to stay, and you did, but it was because you wanted to stay, even though you were mad at me because you thought I was trying to take advantage of you. I can’t do that. I hope you understand I know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t do that,” Francie repeated, her words slightly slurred. The alcohol she’d consumed was definitely hitting her. Her eyes continued to follow George’s gently waving hand. Back . . . and forth.

“Would you like another drink?”

“’Nother drink,” muttered Francie.

“I want you to do something for me first, Francie,” George said, keeping his hand moving, back and forth, back and forth. “I want you to imagine you already have the drink. It’s right there on the counter, Francie, right there on the counter, another martini with no olive.” Back and forth. Back and forth. “Right there on the counter.”

“Right there on the counter.” Francie’s voice was toneless as she repeated George’s words.

“Pick it up now, Francie, please,” George urged her. “Pick it up, feel the weight of the glass in your hand, Francie, savor the smell of the drink, Francie.”

Francie obeyed, reaching over and closing her gloved hand around empty air, then raising it to her lips, opening her mouth and swallowing. She smiled.

George smiled back. Francie was well on her way. By all appearances, she really thought she was holding a martini now. Very soon, she’d be ready for a lot more than a phantom drink.

“Drink it down, Francie, that’s right,” he instructed her. “Drink it all down, taste it going down, feel it going down, feel the alcohol going straight to your head, Francie, straight to your head.”

Francie tipped her imaginary glass and “drank” lustily, then let her hand fall to the counter with a thump. Her eyes looked glassy. “Whoo,” she said. “That hit th’ spot.”

George led her through two more imaginary libations, then pounced. “You’re drunk, aren’t you, Francie?” George asked.

“Georgie, I sure am,” Francie giggled. Then, pouting, she complained, “You got me drunk, Georgie, di’n’t you. I di’n’t wanna get drunk, an’ you got me drunk. You said you wou’n’t make me do anything I . . . di’n’t want.”

“And I didn’t,” insisted George, keeping his hand in motion. He’d braced his arm on the counter for support; he could keep it up as long as he needed. “I asked you to stay, and you stayed. I asked you to have a drink with me and you did. I asked you to imagine you had some more drinks, and respond to them as if they were real, and you did. But Francie, you did all that yourself, because you wanted to. You know that’s true, don’t you, Francie?” He changed the motion of his hand, bobbing it up and down.

“Yes Georgie,” came the response. “’S all true.” Francie hiccupped. Her head followed the motion of George’s hand, nodding “yes.”

“I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do, Francie. I can’t do that.”

“Can’t do that,” Francie agreed.

“Of course not,” George responded. “I don’t know how to hypnotize anybody, and even if I did, you’re much too strong-willed to go under, much too strong-willed to let go and slide under, much too strong-willed to let me talk you into falling deeper and deeper under my control, deeper and deeper into a warm, relaxing surrender.”

“Much too . . . strong-willed,” murmured Francie. “To go under, let go and slide under. Mush . . . much too strong-willed”—her head nodded gently—“to let you talk me into . . . falling deeper and . . . deeper under your . . . control.”

“Deeper and deeper into a warm, relaxing surrender,” George said again.

“Deeper ‘n’ deeper into . . . warm, relaxing surrender,” Francie echoed softly. Her eyes were half rolled up under their half-closed lids now, only the smallest bit of blue iris visible under her fluttering lashes.

“I can’t make you feel that your eyelids are heavy, so heavy, Francie, that you’re so relaxed, so sleepy, Francie, so very sleepy,” George went on. “I can’t do that.”

“Can’t do that,” whispered Francie. She yawned, and her eyelids drifted lower. Only white showed beneath them now, and not much of that. She began slumping sideways, and George reached out to steady her on her stool.

“You’re sleepy, Francie, so very sleepy, aren’t you, it’s all right to be sleepy, it’s all right to let yourself go, let your eyelids, so heavy, Francie, close, yes, Francie, that’s right, Francie, close your eyes, you’re so relaxed in this warm, safe place, close your eyes, you can’t keep them open.”

“Mmm,” Francie responded. Her eyes closed completely.

Looking around, George saw he’d attracted a considerable audience among the other bar patrons. No one, however, moved to interfere. “Your eyes are closed, Francie. You feel so comfortable this way, you don’t want to open them, isn’t that right, Francie?”

Francie nodded, slowly, slowly, eyes still shut.

“In fact,” George instructed her, “you can’t open them, can you, Francie? They’re too heavy. Go ahead, try to open your eyes, Francie, but you can’t, can you, Francie? Go on, try to open your eyes, Francie.”

The redhead struggled, her face contorting with effort, and finally gave up, gasping. “I can’t do it! Can’t . . . open my eyes!”

“Don’t worry about it, Francie,” George told her. “You don’t need to open your eyes right now. It’s so restful to sit there with your eyes closed, thinking about nothing in particular, listening to my voice tell you things. So restful. Think about nothing in particular, Francie, you don’t want to think and you know you don’t have to. You’re warm and safe, and you’re with me, and you know I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, so it’s safe and relaxing to listen to my voice telling you things to do, isn’t that right, Francie.”

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie said in a singsong voice. “Think about . . . noth-ing in par-tic-u-lar. Don’t want to think, don’t have to think . . . warm ‘n’ safe. Safe . . . relaxing . . . listening to your voice . . . tell-ing me what to do.” Sighing, she slumped toward George, and he propped her up again.

“Francie, sit up,” he commanded. Obediently, Francie sat back up.

“Francie,” George went on, “you’re asleep, you know that? Even though you’re sitting up, and you can hear me and answer me, you’re fast asleep, isn’t that true, Francie?”

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie answered. “Fast asleep.”

“Now Francie, I need you to do something for me,” George said. “I need you to open your eyes, but stay asleep, Francie. Open your eyes, but stay asleep.”

Francie’s eyes opened. Her face was calm, empty of thought.

“Are you still asleep, Francie?” asked George carefully.

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie sang. She yawned prettily. “Still asleep.”

George rubbed his hands and turned to his barroom audience. “How many of you’d like to see Sleeping Beauty here do a little dance for us?” Hoots, cheers, whistles and clapping answered him.

He turned back to the now thoroughly entranced Francie. This was going to be fun!

“You’re dreaming, Francie,” he told her. “You’re at home, in your own bed, alone, dreaming you’re here in this bar with me.”

“Dreaming,” Francie murmured.

“It’s not real, Francie,” George led her on. “Nothing here is real. You’re not really here, and I’m not really here. It’s all a dream.”

“Not real,” agreed Francie. “Nothing here is real. Not . . . really here. ‘S all . . . a dream.”

“And because you’re not really here, and none of this is real, it doesn’t matter what you do, because it’s not really happening. Isn’t that right, Francie?”

“Yes Geor-gie,” warbled Francie. “It doesn’t matter . . . what I do . . . because it’s not . . . really happ’ning.”

George took a deep breath. “Now Francie, you like to show yourself off to men, don’t you? You like to get them all hot and bothered, that’s why you’re dressed the way you are, isn’t that right.”

Francie struggled for a moment, until George intervened: “It’s all right, Francie, it’s all right to admit it even if it’s embarrassing. Remember, you’re home in your own bed, dreaming, so the only person you’re admitting anything to is yourself. I’m not forcing you to embarrass yourself, Francie; I can’t do that.”

“Can’t do that,” Francie slurred. “Can’t make me . . . ‘barrass myself.”

“So Francie,” George persisted, “isn’t it true that you like to show yourself off to men, to turn them on and get them all hot and bothered? It’s true, isn’t it, Francie.”

“Yes,” Francie said. Her breathing was faster now. “Yes. Like to show myself off to men. Get ‘em all . . . hot ‘n’ bothered.”

“I’ll bet you’d like to do a striptease, right here on the bar, Francie. It’s only a dream, remember, and in your dreams, you don’t have to worry about what people think. You can do anything you want, Francie, and no one can make you do anything you don’t want, and it feels so good, Francie, so free, Francie. And it would get all the men here all hot and bothered, just the way you like, Francie, wouldn’t it, Francie.”

“Oh, yes,” Francie panted. “So good. So free.” Her hands came up, fumbling aimlessly at the fur piece around her neck. “Get all the men here . . . all hot ‘n’ bothered.” She let out another giggle.

“Then go ahead, Francie,” George commanded. “Get right up on the bar, Francie.” He produced a small CD player, already loaded, and switched it on; booming bump-and-grind music came out. “I won’t stop you, Francie. I can’t do that.”

Francie, smiling vacantly, clambered up onto the countertop and, guided by the music, began to dance. Her hips swayed gently and her heels clacked on the counter’s polished surface as she swung back and forth to the rhythm.

Smiling wickedly, eyes on her audience, she fastened her teeth gently on the index finger of her right glove and pulled, drawing the glove slowly, slowly off her hand. Letting it drop, she repeated the action for her left hand. This time, instead of letting the glove simply fall, she gave a forceful shake of her head and sent it flying into the darkness of the bar. Cheers broke out; one of the patrons had caught it on the fly.

Next she slithered out of her dress, peeling it down around the well-developed body to which it clung and finally stepping out of it. Laughing, she kicked the dress away toward the bartender. It fell over his head. When he pulled it away, he was grinning.

Roars of approval filled the room as the audience watched Francie prancing down the counter as if it were a runway. Now clad only in bra, bikini briefs and high heels, she was a gorgeous sight. She knew it, too, and reveled in it.

Reaching back to unhook the bra, she asked teasingly, “More, boys? Do you want to see more?” Screams of “Yes, YES! More! More!” answered her.

Her watchers’ arousal drove her on. Her inhibitions neutralized by George’s suggestions, Francie undid her bra and dangled it briefly before tossing it away. The panties were next, stripped away eagerly.

With only her high-heeled pumps still on, Francie danced back and forth, then lay down on the counter and writhed, kicking and scissoring her legs. Finally she came to rest with her legs hanging over the back of the counter and her head hanging down in front, right in front of George.

For his part, George had been as overwhelmed as anyone else by Francie’s dancing. He’d hoped merely to take the snotty bitch down a peg—but her sizzling striptease had been better than anything he’d seen in a long time. Watching her, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from coming. He hadn’t been the only one.

George had an advantage over the others, though.

Leaving Francie lying there sprawled across the bar, he turned to the audience and said, “How’d you like that, guys?”

Loud cheers, wolf whistles, and clapping were his answer.

“Okay,” George said. “I’m going to take her home now”—envious catcalls interrupted him—“and I need her clothes back. When she wakes up in the morning, I want to be able to send her home like nothing happened.” Amid a round of laughter, Francie’s discarded garments were handed back. The guys in the bar hadn’t missed the implication—that Francie wouldn’t be going home until morning. Not to her home, anyway.

George turned back to the woman draped across the bar and asked softly, “Can you hear me, Francie?”

The answer came: “Hear you . . . Geor-gie.”

“Good, Francie,” George said. “Now sit up, Francie, facing me.”

“Yes Geor-gie,” burbled Francie. She sat up, rotating her body to let her legs swing over to George’s side of the counter as she did. George handed her her clothes, commanding: “Dress now, Francie. It’s time to leave.”

Still sitting on the counter, Francie dressed herself, unconcerned with the leering crowd of drinkers watching her. When she was finished, she went still, waiting for George’s next suggestion.

George left her for a moment to pay off his tab, then returned and said, “Come with me, Francie.” He offered her his arm.

She slid off the bar counter and took it. “Yes Geor-gie.”

“We’ll be going now,” George said to the bar crowd. “Good night, and pleasant dreams, guys.” More laughter erupted as George and Francie exited the bar.

Outside, George had a sudden annoying thought. “Francie,” he asked, “how did you get here?”

“I drove,” Francie said.

“Where’s your car?”

Francie looked around and pointed. “Right there,” she said, indicating a flashy red import. “That’s my car. Right there.”

Damn, George thought. The vehicle was an added complication. After a few moments’ consideration he said, “Francie, listen carefully.”

“Yes Geor-gie,” she said, focusing intently on him.

“We’re going home to my place now, Francie. I can’t make you do that if you don’t want to, of course, I can’t do that, but you do want to, don’t you, Francie. Yes.”

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie said. “Going home to . . . your place now. You can’t . . . make me, but I . . . want to.”

“That’s good, Francie. I’m glad.” George smiled at his glassy-eyed companion. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll drive you back here. When I let you out of my car in front of the bar, you will wake up from this wonderful, safe, relaxing dream you are in, and when you do, you’ll forget you ever met me. You will remember going to the bar and getting drunker than you usually do. You will remember that someone took you home, but that you left your car parked here. You will remember taking a cab to the bar to pick up your car. You will not remember me, or what we did in the bar; you will not remember anything else about tonight. Do you agree, Francie? Repeat my instructions if you agree and will obey them completely.”

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie said. She repeated his commands in a sleepy voice, nodding gently.

“That’s good, Francie. Now come with me.” George guided Francie toward his own car and put her in the front passenger seat. He carefully secured her seat belt; it wouldn’t do for his stupefied sex toy to slump over onto him while he was driving.

“Just relax, Francie,” he told her as he got into the car. “Relax, and don’t try to think. You don’t want to think, you don’t need to think, you don’t remember how to think, that’s right, relax. You know you’re safe with me, because you know I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, because you know I can’t do that. So it’s all right to listen to my voice, and relax, and do what my voice tells you to do, because I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Francie, I can’t do that. Do you understand, Francie?”

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie cooed. “I understand.”

“Very good, Francie,” George continued, turning the key in the ignition. “Relax now, Francie, and think of nothing until we get to my place. When we get there, Francie, we’ll decide together what we want to do.”

“When we get to your place . . . decide together . . . what we want to do.” Francie sighed and slumped against the seat cushions, eyes closing completely again.

George lived in a condominium complex on the outskirts of the city. It took a bit over half an hour to reach his place from the bar. Francie never noticed; she lay against the cushions, eyes closed, smiling, an occasional soft giggle escaping from her.

Looking at her, George smirked. He loved these snobby types, loved how they responded to the induction technique he’d worked out. They were so sure of themselves that they never realized how he was leading them along, using their own arrogance to draw them deeper and deeper under until their minds were mush and they’d do absolutely anything he told them to. It helped, of course, if they were a little drunk, like Francie, or a bit stoned, but he didn’t really need that.

Francie was a real prize. Gorgeous, stacked, and with a fiery sexuality under that haughty veneer. Tonight, he’d get some serious action. And in the morning Francie wouldn’t have a clue what had happened. If he passed her in the street, she wouldn’t even recognize him.

He led the befuddled beauty into his building, past the uniformed security guard and into the elevator. The motion as the cage began to rise sparked some faint residue of awareness in Francie and she burbled, “Going up, Geor-gie, we’re going up.”

“That’s right,” George agreed. “We’re going up. You’re going higher and higher, getting higher and higher, Francie, so high, Francie.” Francie’s eyes crossed and she stumbled against him. “I’m so high, Geor-gie, wheeeee!”

The elevator doors opened and George guided Francie out. A couple of minutes later they were in George’s apartment.

In bed, Francie proved to be everything George had hoped. She writhed against him, riding atop his body and babbling, “You can’t make me do anything, Geor-gie! Can’t make me! Can’t make me, make me, ooooh Geor-gie, make me!” Finally, as her body strained in ecstasy, words failed her altogether.

George wasn’t much more in control of himself. Clamped between Francie’s thighs, her ample breasts swaying, filling his vision, mere inches from his face, he surrendered to pleasure. They came together, and as they did, George saw stars and dazzling multicolored spirals. He was vaguely aware of a man’s voice panting, “I can’t do that, uh! Can’t do that, uhh! Can’t do that, nhh!” over and over, until blackness and silence finally descended. Only in the morning, thinking back, would he realize the voice had been his own.

Despite his exertions, George awoke at six, as he’d trained himself to do. Francie was still unconscious, held in the double grip of deep trance and natural sleep. Her bright red hair spread in a tousled mass over her back and spilled onto the rumpled bedsheets; her face was soft and innocent, free of thought, its brightly-painted lips gently pursed. George spent several minutes gazing down at his conquest before gently brushing her hair to rouse her.

“Mmmn?” Francie mumbled as her eyelids fluttered open.

“Shhh,” George soothed. “It’s all right, Francie, relax, Francie.” He got up and dressed, then got his hypnotized houseguest clothed as well. He ushered her out to his car and drove her into the city, back to the bar where they’d met. Her car was still there, although George was amused to see that some anonymous meter cop had stuck a ticket in its windshield.

“I’m going to let you out of the car in a minute, Francie,” George told her. “Do you remember what will happen when I do? Tell me, if you remember.”

“Yes Geor-gie,” Francie recited. “When I get out of the car, I will forget we ever met. I will remember coming to this bar and getting drunk. I will remember that someone took me home, but that I left my car here. I will remember I came back in a cab this morning. I will remember nothing else.”

“Very good, Francie. But first, give me your home and work phone numbers, Francie.”

Francie obeyed, and George carefully copied the numbers down on a piece of scrap paper.

“Now Francie,” he went on, “if I ever call you and say the words ‘Francie dances when in trances,’ you will at once relax and obey me without question until I release you. You will do this because you want to, not because I’ve hypnotized you into it; I can’t do that, Francie. Do you understand, Francie?”

“Yes Geor-gie. I understand.” The redhead’s voice was calm, accepting. “You won’t disobey me when you hear those words, will you, Francie? You can’t do that.”

“No Geor-gie,” Francie said. “I won’t disobey you. I can’t do that.”

Grinning broadly, George Custer reached across and opened the passenger-side door, then urged Francie Waters out. Once she’d complied, he shut the door and drove away, smiling. He’d just had a great night with a fabulous sexy woman—and any time he wanted, all he had to do to have her again was call her and say the secret words.

Life was good.

Standing on the curb, Francie blinked in the light of Saturday’s rising sun. Her car was right there. Unfortunately—yes, goddamn it!—it had been ticketed.

That’s what I get, she thought, for breaking my rules and getting drunk. The night before was a blur; she barely remembered getting home. Even the cab ride over here just now was hazy. At least she wasn’t hung over.

Never again, she thought. I can’t let go like that. I was lucky I didn’t do something really stupid last night, like let myself get picked up by some guy.

I can’t do that.