The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Look closely at the pendant. Look only at the pendant. There is only the pendant. Listen only to my voice. There is only my voice. Every word I tell you becomes true the moment I say it. You listen and obey. You obey without thought, without hesitation, without reservation. Obedience is your nature. You live to obey.”

The pendant dangled before my eyes. It was a slender gold female figure with delicate filigreed wings. A fairy. A fairy queen. My fairy queen.

“You are drawn to the pendant. You are floating out of yourself. You cannot help it. You are floating into the pendant. You cannot stop yourself. Your mind is floating into the pendant. You cannot resist. Your will is floating into the pendant. The pendant has all of you. The pendant owns you. I am putting the pendant between my breasts. Your mind is now hanging between my breasts. Your will is now hanging between my breasts. You are now hanging between my breasts. You are mine. I own you. Nod your head.”

I knew I was nodding. That was all that I knew. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how I had gotten there. I didn’t know who was speaking. I couldn’t make out the face.

The breasts, though, were magnificent. They were perfect. They were far more powerful than I was. I would obey them.

I was so aroused I could hardly stand it.

“You are mine. Nod.”

I nodded

“Now and forever. Nod.”

I nodded.

“I can take you any time, anywhere, by a gesture, by a word, by a text. Nod.”

I nodded.

“Your desires are focused on me and my breasts. There are no other women in the world. Nod.”

I nodded.

“Good boy,” the voice said. “Now I will reward you. Close your eyes and listen to my voice.”

I was floating in the darkness, with a velvet voice in my ears and the image of two perfect breasts before my eyes. And nothing else—no thoughts, no desires, just a blank waiting empty vessel of desire and obedience.

“Everything I say becomes real as I say it. You will see, hear, feel, think everything I tell you. Nod.”

I nodded.

“You are kneeling in front of me. You are naked. You are gazing up at me. My breasts are above you. They are more powerful than you. Look! I am giving you a silver shoe. See how high the heel is. See how powerful and dominant the shoe is. I give the shoe power over you. You want the shoe. You need the shoe. The shoe owns you. Take the shoe. Fuck the shoe now.”

I was touching myself to the shoe, pumping into the shoe, erect and helpless, frenzied with desire for the shoe.

“The shoe is too powerful for you. You can’t hold back. You are going to come. You are about to come. You are coming. Come NOW!”

I exploded into the shoe.

I heard a gentle laugh. “Good boy,” said the voice. “See what I can do with you just with my voice? There is no shoe, silly boy. There is no pendant. There is just my voice. Now sleep.”

An unknown time later, I came to myself on my bedroom floor. The moon was shining in the window. I was alone.

My clothes were—soiled. Like a teenage boy’s.

What just happened?

It was a thought I had more and more lately. I struggled to hold onto the dream—it must have been a dream. I couldn’t remember the details. Only a gold filigree pendant. A voice.

Arousal.

They gradually faded. What did not fade was the sense that I was somehow not me anymore. Or perhaps more me than I had ever been, but not my own anymore. My will, my thoughts, my body—they belonged to someone else.

I remembered the stories of village boys who met fairy princesses by moonlight, lay with them for one night of bliss, then awoke in the morning to find them gone. Some drowned themselves in grief; some lived on, moonstruck and daft, village idiots, their minds forever far away.

And some, the old stories said, were never seen again. They found a door to fairyland, they found their princesses again. The fairies took them.

They were the lucky ones. I was the village idiot.

Oh, I went through my days just fine. I did my work, I answered when spoken to, I paid my bills, I shopped, I went home to my apartment. But “I” was somewhere else. My will was mine only on loan. Someone else owned it and could collect it at any moment.

There were women in my path. Some of them smiled at me. I barely noticed. There was one I was supposedly engaged to. That ended badly.

My routine was predictable—except that sometimes when I was home at night, my phone would ring. I could never remember who had called, but I would find myself on the floor afterwards, yearning for the moon. The calls never showed up on my calls list. But I know they came in.

There were texts during the day. I would hear the phone ding. I would read the text. At once—whether I was in a meeting or at work in my cubicle or on a plane—I would get up, go straight to the men’s room, and touch myself until I came. I had no choice.

When I checked my phone later, there was no text there.

What had happened to me?

It had happened in Las Vegas. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it had happened that week when I had an extra night there. I had studied my calendar and that is when it had begun.

There was woman. There were eyes. There were breasts. There was a voice.

Or was it all a dream? Memories would appear, they would taunt me with their vividness—then when I looked straight at them, they faded. I could not keep them.

What had happened to me?

I took a Vegas weekend and tried to reconstruct that night step by step. I walked out of my hotel. Which way on the Strip? North or south? Some force pulled me north, through the crowds, past the construction sites, past the signs for XXX shows and fried Oreos. What was I looking for?

I was standing in front of a second-rate, old-style casino when I had that creepy feeling that comes over you when you come to a new place where you have never been before, and find you know every detail even though you couldn’t.

It’s not a good feeling. It’s a feeling that your life, your world, do not belong to you. That your memories are not your own—that instead of being a solid record of events, they are a strange dark show in which an unseen hand opens a curtain and then closes it again, leaving you alone in a dark silent theater.

I felt that way in front of that strange old casino.

There had been a pair of eyes! They had floated above the door! No, next to the door—an advertisement, an announcement of a show! I remembered. OBEY, the poster had said.

Next to the door there was a poster. BERTRAM AND HIS PERFORMING PIGS, it said. Tickets at the Box Office.

Performing Pigs? That was wrong. There were supposed to be . . . eyes. Breasts. Was I looking for a big-eyed stripper? Were the last six months just lingering effects of a lap dance? That made no sense at all.

I went inside. A bored-looking teenager at the ticket window lit up when she saw me. I had a feeling she didn’t get many visitors. “How many and for which show?” she asked.

“I’m not here for a ticket,” I said. Then I tried to ask my question; but my brain fogged up a little, the way it did when I woke from one of my erotic dreams and the memory disappeared in front of me. “What . . what was here . . . before?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. It’s been a casino since I got here.”

“No, no,” I said. “Theater! What was . . . in the theater before?”

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “Yeah. I wasn’t here then. I just took this job.” She smiled, pleased with herself.

This answer confused me further. “You don’t know what was . . . before?” If I didn’t get an answer soon, I suspected, the questions would melt out of my mind and, God help me, I might buy a ticket to see the Performing Pigs.

“All I know is it was some chick named Kate. She was a magician, I think. Mentalist . . . no, wait! Yeh, she was a hypnotist. Super Kate or something like that.”

Kate. Hypnosis. The words rang in my head like a gong calling me someplace I’d been waiting to go. That was it. That made sense. I’d been . . . hypnotized.

For some reason that hadn’t occurred to me before.

“So, you gonna buy a ticket or what?” said my teenaged friend.

“Where did Kate go?” I asked.

“If I knew, I’m not sure I could tell you, but I don’t know. I heard she just pulled out one morning without notice. Said she was going to work cruise ships in the Caribbean. Nobody’s seen or heard from her since.”

She seemed eager to get back to her PEOPLE Magazine, so I left the window and walked back to my hotel. Around me the Strip was alive with people of all kinds, from the glamorous, young, and well-dressed to the homeless and desperate, but I didn’t even notice. I had a lot to think about. I didn’t know much about hypnosis. I didn’t see how it could have happened to me without my remembering. Clearly I needed to find out more. Starting tonight. I stepped into the half-price ticket booth and asked for tickets to a hypnotist.

“Which one?” said the clerk. Turns out Vegas has a bunch of performing hypnotists. Who knew? I asked which was the best. “I couldn’t tell you,” the clerk said. “Me, I go for the titty shows. But this guy is the one I get most requests for.”

I bought a ticket to see “this guy.”

I went to a bar and killed time before the show. Vegas is a great place to drink, but I needed to keep my head clear. I pulled out my phone and tried to find out more about hypnosis. Information came in two flavors: scientific discussions of hypnosis as a normal, healthy means of accessing the unconscious mind, breaking bad habits, and releasing inner conflicts; or heated discussions of ways I could talk any woman anywhere into bed. The scientific literature kept me busy, but the truth was that I didn’t follow or retain most of what I read. My mind was still trying to find memories of hypnosis, or of “Great Kate” . . . no, that was wrong—“Katharine the Great?” No, not that either—wait, it was “Kate the . . .” “Kate the Strong?” That was silly. I felt like the guy in the old song: “My old flame, I can’t even remember her name.” I knew the memory was in there. My mind seemed like a deep pool in a cave, and I could see a dim form in the water, I could hear something surface and dive somewhere out of sight, but no matter how I paddled I could not get to it.

I looked at my watch. I was almost late for the show! Luckily I had bought VIP tickets, so my seat was up front. The hypnotist, I had to say, was a pretty cool guy—funny, profane, self-confident. Maybe that’s why, when he asked for volunteers, I went onstage and took a seat. I wanted to experience this mysterious force that might—or might not—have changed my life. I wanted to “go under.” Maybe if I did, more would come back to me.

The hypnotist spoke to us. He had us do a few breathing exercises and relax. His voice was great, and the rhythm was like a spoken lullaby. Soon people sitting near me were nodding, their heads heavy, their bodies limp. Gently he told them they were floating on fluffy clouds in a deep blue sky, letting go of all worries and listening only to his voice.

It looked like so much fun. But I was sitting there, wide awake. I felt as if I’d just drunk a couple of Red Bulls; I don’t think I even blinked once. Finally he took a look at me and without a word, jerked a thumb at the seats. Feeling vaguely ashamed, I went back to my seat and watched the show.

It was pretty wild. First they did silly stunts. They were playing instruments in an invisible orchestra. That seemed like a lot of fun—their faces were so intent. Then they rode a roller coaster. Some were exhilarated, others were terrified.

Even to my untrained eye, I could tell the volunteers now were deep in some kind of trance. They jumped to obey as soon as he spoke. He told them they were strippers (“you will not remove any clothing,” he said, “but you will think you are stripping”) and they pranced around the stage throwing imaginary brassieres at the audience. At the end, he told them shaking his hand would give them a volcanic orgasm. That command worked on both the women and the men. But the women in particular seemed to enjoy it, writing in their chairs and clutching his hand when he tried to let go.

The guy was good. But somehow it seemed wrong to me. I thought to myself, women shouldn’t obey a man. Women should rule. Men should obey. I didn’t know where that came from but it was pretty clear to me. That was just how life should be.

After the show, the hypnotist mingled with the crowd as it dispersed. A number of the subjects wanted to shake his hand again. They seemed disappointed by the experience; at the end of the show he’d removed all his suggestions, orgasmic or otherwise. From now on, a handshake was just a handshake—though I thought a few of them might be back to volunteer again. As they started to drift away, I stayed behind and asked him quietly, “About hypnosis—is it possible to be hypnotized and not remember that it happened?”

He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Happens all the time. Lemme show you. Look at this.”

A blonde woman was standing near us. Well dressed, mid-thirties, pretty, good figure. She looked like a mom from a prosperous small Midwest town. Smart. Nothing Vegas in her look. I recognized her from the show. She’d fallen asleep in the audience and ended up on stage. Once the hypnotist got her up there, she was so deep she would do anything he told her. She’d been a fabulous stripper, and when he shook her hand she’d fallen out of her chair.

He beckoned her over. “Hey, thanks for coming tonight,” he said. “How did you like the show?”

“It was really fun,” she said.

“Did you enjoy being hypnotized?”

I could see puzzlement cross her features. “What do you mean?”

“When you went under? How did that feel?”

She stepped back and frowned a little. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else. I wasn’t hypnotized.”

“You were up on stage.”

“No, indeed. Like I said, somebody else.” She bustled off nervously, shaking her head.

“She has a conflict between who she is every day and who she wants to be. The conflict is too much for her, so she just let go of her hypnotized self,” he said. “That happened on its own. But if I wanted to, I could make a subject forget they’d been hypnotized. I could make them forget they’d even come here tonight. I don’t do that because they paid for the show. And I want them to tell their friends how much fun my show was. In fact, I instruct them to do that. I get a lot of business that way.”

I thanked him and went back to my hotel. It was still early. What had those volunteers felt like, totally focused on the hypnotist’s voice, on his commands, ready to do anything he said without thought or hesitation? For some reason it seemed vaguely sexy. Or clearly sexy. Or very sexy.

My phone gave a chirp. A text had come in; probably a customer somewhere with an “emergency” that really could be handled by reading the documentation. I pressed the button to light up the screen.

The next thing I was aware of was the captain’s voice telling us we were about to land. I was home again. I’d lost twelve hours. And I could feel my memories of even this trip starting to fray at the edges, then tatter into ribbons, then drift away one by one.

What just happened? I thought.

Las Vegas was the key. That was where the mystery would unfold. I was able to do my work anywhere. I moved here. I didn’t know anyone, but I found an apartment, I rented an office. The weeks turned into months, thought, and I still didn’t know what had happened. I was still a mooncalf, or someone under a spell, like the boy who sold his shadow. I don’t mean that I wasn’t able to carry on; I was. In fact, I was really more functional, more successful in most things than I had been before. I slept deeply at night, and woke refreshed and full of energy. When I was at work, my mind was filled with work and work only. I was skillful and resourceful. No problem was too hard for me. New customers heard about me from established ones, and my income went up. I traveled a lot—you can get almost anywhere easily from Las Vegas—and that was fine too. I didn’t get tired or cranky no matter what the airlines threw at me.

Sometimes I would get a text in the middle of a meeting, or at the office, or even at an airport. I would excuse myself suddenly, and come back shortly afterwards, slightly flushed. Nobody seemed to notice, as long as my work was good.

When I left work, I went to the gym, and when I was there I was just focused on working out. Nothing else. No thoughts of work or errands; just pushing myself bit by bit to a higher level of fitness. I’d never been fat, but I lost inches at my waist and put on inches on my chest. (Women noticed. It didn’t matter to me.)

And at the end of the day, I went home to my eccentric bachelor pad and sat there. It’s a nice apartment, just off the Strip. I enjoyed it. I guess. I didn’t read, I didn’t watch TV, I didn’t call anyone on the phone. I sat there, sometimes without turning on the light, waiting. I didn’t know for what.

Las Vegas is a good place for a life like that, if life is what it was. In Las Vegas, nobody cares if you sit in the dark.

Sometimes my phone would ring, and I’d wake up later on the floor, my clothes soiled like an adolescent’s boxer shorts. My call log showed nothing. I couldn’t remember who’d been on the phone. Voice. Eyes. Breasts. Or did I make that up? Breasts don’t make phone calls.

Sometimes I walked up to the North Strip and looked at a poster for performing pigs. It meant something to me, and when the poster came down, and then the seedy old casino came down, I felt vaguely sad, though I quickly forgot about it.

While I was, as I said, very functionally and successfully myself, I was not the one deciding to be myself. I was responding to another will, a will outside me. I didn’t know who or what it was, but I would feel the sudden urgency to do or say something, and I quickly learned that if I tried to ignore it the result would be dreadful anxiety, a kind of obsessive worry, an inability to focus on anything else until I carried out that impulse, wherever it had come from. I stopped struggling. It wasn’t worth it; and besides, I was hardly even present any more. I was a mooncalf, a lunatic. I didn’t matter. Only that will outside me mattered.

So it went—weeks, months, a year, two.

Until last night.

As I was sitting in my apartment, gazing out the window, my phone chirped. That sound at first had made me anxious, because I knew I would lose control of myself; but now I understood I had no control ever, and so I just responded without hesitation or worry. I pressed the screen.

I FOUND IT, said the text.

Then another text arrived. It was a flight number. TOMORROW.

Then another: OBEY.

This morning I woke with a list of things to do in my head. Clear out my bank accounts. Send the money to an account number in the Cayman Islands. Arrange to close my apartment and sell my things, including my car.

Quit my job.

I blew up a life I’d spent years constructing. When I got to my bank I decided it was crazy to follow the impulse. I stood outside the building for 15 minutes, and hose were the worst 15 minutes of my life. I got more and more anxious, more and more confused, finally more and more terrified until I knew the only route to safety, to peace, was to obey.

The rest of the day was smooth as silk. I felt the way I imagine a trained horse feels when put through his paces. No analysis, just focus on the next thing, focus on obedience, focus on pleasing the master.

No, pleasing the mistress. I was pleasing a mistress. I didn’t know anything else but suddenly I knew that. I had a mistress. It was a good feeling. Men should serve and women should rule, I thought. I had heard that somewhere. Someone smart had told me that, or maybe I’d read it in an important book. The more I thought about it the better I felt.

Finally, the car arrived to drive me to the airport. Without a thought—and now, without a care—I threw my overnight bag (just a few things, including my computer) onto the seat beside me and climbed in. The door closed behind me with a solid clunk.

That’s when it happened. All at once, like an avalanche roaring down a mountain, the memories came. I knew what had happened. I remembered everything, as vividly as if it were happening to me all over again. Las Vegas. Kate the Great. Eyes. Velvet darkness. “Happy birthday, Mr. President!” Kneeling between her. The dog bed. Hot. Cold. Listening to the story of her life as a changeling child, a fairy princess in a mundane mortal world.

She was taking me with her, her human thrall, to serve and obey and adore and please her for the rest of my days. She had chosen me. I was worthy.

By the time we got to the airport, I was shaking. For some reason I’d gotten there hours before my flight. I rushed to the lounge, unpacked my laptop, and began to write: “Do you believe in magic? Real magic, I mean, not the tinsel and stardust and fanfare this town provides.” Over the next few hours, the words poured out of me without thought or hesitation, the entire story now vividly present in front of my eyes. I could see her eyes, I could smell her perfume, I could feel her skin, I could hear her voice, I could . . . taste her. I belonged to her, body, mind, and will. Writing this story was the last task she assigned to me.

I’m almost done now. I’ve found a website, mcstories.com, that posts erotic stories about mind-control and hypnosis. In a minute I will upload this story, leaving it behind like a trail of breadcrumbs for men out there like me—men who, without understanding why, are uneasy in daily life as we know it, who secretly dream of service, of giving themselves to a Queen and holding nothing back.

If my story seems ridiculous to you, reader, that just means it isn’t written for you. Just regard it as imaginary. That’s fine. I am sure your life is wonderful, in its way. But a few of you will see yourselves in it, as if a stranger had suddnely called you by your secret name. To you I say: It’s real. It can happen to you. Sleep in the moonlight, wander far from the village, journey into the deep woods; if it is meant to be, you will hear wings and then see glittering eyes and powerful breasts and you will be moonstruck like me for life and so glad of it.

And then one day perhaps you and I will meet, happy in our thralldom far from here, east of the sun and west of the moon, in the land of Faerie.

They’re calling my flight.