The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Steffan ascended the steps of the grey building. The card in his hand said 6pm, room 306. That meant he’d have to go to the third floor. This building looked too old to have an elevator, unless it had been retrofitted. Not much chance of that, as ratty as the building looked. He pulled open the door and was confronted with the steepest flight of stairs he had ever seen.

I don’t need this. Not in this weather. he thought. A hundred degrees in the shade without so much as a breeze and I’m ordered to attend a support group on the third floor of a building with no AC and no elevator and a flight of stairs that’s almost a ladder. Figures. It IS supposed to be punishment, after all. He plodded up the stairs like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. I hate these lovey-dovey support groups. he thought. The stairs seemed to go on forever, even though Steffan knew it was only three stories. Three of the longest stories of my life. He finally reached the third floor with five minutes to spare. He found the room easily and sat down on a bench outside. Two other men ascended the steps, bearing between them a large “Igloo” ice chest, which they carried into the room. An attractive, raven-haired woman in a white T-shirt and blue jeans with white sneakers and blue socks came next, carrying a large lunch box in each hand. The sound of icewater within prompted Steffan to action.

“Let me help you with that.” he said, taking the chests as she completed her ascension.

“Thanks.” she said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “You must be the new guy. I’m Rita.”

“Steffan.” Steffan nodded his head in liu of a handshake, since his hands were now full. She led him into the room. The two young men with the ice chest now stood beside it, each drinking a Pepsi. One of them was a “junior executive” type in a three-piece suit with his reddish-brown hair slicked back. The other was perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, and looked as if he had read Anne McCaffrey’s Crystal Singer trilogy once too often. He was wearing orange zip-front coveralls of the kind that the main character was pictured in on the cover of the second book. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a driver’s tan (or in his case, burn) on his left arm, and his frizzy red hair was windblown and unkempt. His face and arms were covered in freckles, and he had too many teeth on his bottom jaw, forcing some of them (most notably the lower incisors) to form a second row.

“I hope you don’t mind Dr Pepper.” Rita said. “They were on sale at the H.E.B. at three twelve packs for five dollars.”

“I love Dr Pepper.” Steffan said, accepting the can Rita handed him. He pressed the frigid cyllinder against his sweaty forehead. Rita splashed some of the icy water on her face, causing some of it to run down and wet her shirt. Steffan removed some chairs from the stack at the back of the room. Lovey-dovey might not be so bad after all. he thought as Rita’s black bra began to show through her soaking white T-shirt. He opened his Dr Pepper and took a sip, the cool, bubbly liquid sliding welcomely down his throat.

“Evening, all.” someone said at the front of the room, plugging in a large box fan. “Ah, I see we have a new face in the room.”

“It’s not that new, I’ve had it most of my life.” Steffan said, drawing chuckles from the others.

“The police didn’t tell me you had such a wonderful sense of humor, Stephen.”

“Steffan.” Steffan corrected.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Steffan, then.” the man said. He was the “mad scientist” type, with big, round glasses that magnified his eyes, and hair that went straight back like a hood ornament. It was black with white stripes down either side. He was dressed in a Mr. Rogers ensemble, although the pants were a little too big for him, so he wore Steve Urkel-style suspenders. “Well, as is customary when we have a new member, why don’t we all tell something about ourselves?”

“Okay.” said the seventeen-year-old, taking one of the five chairs that had been pulled into a circle around the room. “Should I start?”

“I don’t see why not.” said Mr. Rogers Meets Urkel (at least, that’s what Steffan called him in his mind).

My name’s Charley. I’m seventeen, and I got into mind-control when I was sixteen. I was working on advanced-placement chemistry so I could get a jump on my pharmaceuticals degree. I had been studying psychotropic drugs and experimenting with various things, including patches and the like, when I ran across a combination that, theoretically, would weaken a person’s resistance to commands. My first experiment was on a willing subject. I promised to pay her a hundred dollars to try a stress-reduction pill I had developed. I made the chemical into a gellcap, like Tylenol comes in, and put about twenty in a bottle. Her name was Betty-Jo, and she was the Valedictorian Homecoming Queen and three-time Miss Watermelon Festival. She felt she was under a lot of stress, and so she agreed to my study. When she popped the first pill, nothing seemed to happen for a few minutes. Then, all of a sudden, she just started staring off into space. She didn’t respond when I snapped my fingers in front of her face. She didn’t respond when I yelled in her ear. But she responded when I gave her a command. It turns out the pill had shut down most of her higher brain functions. She wouldn’t even remember what had happened—which was pretty lucky for me because what I had in mind could be classified under the category of “Taking Advantage.” Even better was that she seemed to be addicted to the drug. So, every night at about six in the evening, I’d give her a pill and she’d swallow it and be on her way to Lovedoll City. It got kinda boring after a while. I mean, I plowed her good, but she had all the response of a lubed-up inflatable doll.

Just after her graduation, she snuck into my house and overdosed on it. She went entirely catatonic, and she still hasn’t come out of it, as far as I know. I had to disappear after that. I went to California and met this rich little bimbo named Buffy. I wanted to test what would happen on lower doses, so I turned the pill into a patch. That’s when I started getting my desired results. She did whatever I wanted, but still had a modicum of free will about herself, so she could respond to some of the things I was doing. But her dad found out what I was doing and got me arrested.

“And here I am.” Charley concluded. “Thanks to this group, I’ve been able to get over my feelings of inadequacy, and I have a real, meaningful relationship with a young woman I met at a science-fiction convention, and we occasionally have sex...without the aid of any kind of drugs.”

“Thank you, Charley.” the Mad Scientist at the front said.

“What about you?” Steffan asked the Scientist. “Don’t tell me you’re leading a support group for MCs and you don’t have any history in the area.”

“Actually, Steffan, since you asked, I do have my own little story to tell.”

I was a professor of psychology at MIT, and I had a habit. There was always at least one pretty young thing in every class that couldn’t understand how hypnosis could be used unethically if a person couldn’t be made to do something under hypnosis that was against their nature. The answer I gave in class was that one never knew one’s own nature until they had been hypnotized. Of course, they always had more questions, and I was more than willing to demonstrate.

One incident in particular happened during my last semester at MIT. A pretty young damsel named Tami came into my office and asked that perennial question.

“You never know what might be in your nature until you try.” I said.

“I want to know more about it.” Tami told me.

“As you wish, my dear.” I told her. I pulled out a pocket watch and started to swing it. “One of the most common misconceptions about hypnosis is that all I have to do is wave a two dollar watch and you will stare fixedly at it, just stare at the watch and stare at the watch as it swings gently to and fro, stare at the watch as it gently swings to and fro, and you will watch it and project your will at the watch with your eyes and relax, just relax and project your will at the watch as you watch it swing gently to and fro, and the watch continues to absorb your will and absorb your will until you have no will left and you have no choice but to obey and be my mindless slave who will do anything and everything I tell her to. How do you feel, Tami?”

“I have no will. I am your mindless slave. I will do anything and everything you tell me.” Tami said, having fallen under my suggestions totally.

“Close the door, Tami.” I told her. She obeyed without question. “Take off your clothes, Tami.” She removed them item by item, her movements slow and deliberate, like those of a robot. By this time I had unzipped my pants and exposed my erection to the cold air in my office. “Now, Tami, I want you to take my cock in your mouth and suck it. You have no gag reflex so you should be able to take the whole thing.” Thanks to my suggestion, she was, and her wonderful little mouth moved over my hard manhood, sucking with mindless obedience to her new master. I was playing with her nipples and massaging her breasts as she did this, and I never noticed the dean come in just as I was ejaculating down her throat. Needless to say, I didn’t keep that job very long.

“They committed me to a psychiatric facility and eventually found that my problem was a weak tolerance of temptation. I was rehabilitated and then allowed to return to society on probation. I was also asked to lead a study group of mind-control addicts like myself as part of the probation.”

“My turn.” said the man in the three-piece suit.

I was the head of a powerful multinational company specializing in electronics. We never went public because I have a powerful aversion to anything which would allow anyone to force me out or force me to share power. I ruled the company with an iron fist, keeping it low profile despite the fact that we were making what I have to admit was an obscene amount of profit. Some of our boys in R&D discovered a way for people who couldn’t speak to remote-control a voicebox via a computer chip and transmitter implanted in their brains so they could at least communicate. I’ve always had a gift for checking out other possibilities for new technology, and implementing them myself. I studied their research and constructed a device I could implant in someone’s brain which would give me direct control over their thoughts and actions. I had a transmitter which would allow me to transmit instructions, and even whole programs, into my subject. My only problem was getting it into someone’s brain. I got my opportunity when one of my secretaries went under the knife to have her appendix out—it had been giving her trouble, and her family had finally persuaded her to have it out. I bribed the doctors into implanting the chip into her medula oblongata using a new (at the time) procedure which would allow them to go in without having to shave her head. When she returned to work, I was able to test my product.

I had just finished the routine business and was looking forward to going home early when I remembered that Francine was back, so I thumbed the switch on my transmitter which would activate her chip. I picked up the microphone and plugged it into the transmitter.

“Come into the office.” I said into the microphone. Seconds later, Francine was in the office, disoriented, wondering why she had come. I spoke into the microphone again. “Strip.” She obeyed, beginning to cry as she did so. I told her to suck my cock, but she didn’t do anything. That’s when I remembered that I had to speak into the microphone. I repeated my command into the microphone, and she was instantly sucking on it, though she wasn’t doing very well. “Take the whole thing into your mouth.” I commanded, and she didn’t have any choice but to obey. As soon as she had sucked me to orgasm, I flipped another switch that would override her higher brain functions. She was my perfectly mindless sex puppet. I had her several times, in several different positions, but something about her unresponsive, mindless new self seemed...unsatisfying somehow. So I began work on a program which would transform her into my obedient, passionate and devoted pet slut. My escapades with the new, improved Francine, whom I renamed Fuckslut, proved infinitely more rewarding. Unfortunately, Fuckslut became somewhat overly demonstrative during a meeting with government officials and I was found out. By that time I had recruited several Fucksluts, and called them Fuckslut Alpha, Fuckslut Beta, etc. At my trial, I was deemed a mind-control addict and sent to a mental facility. I managed to persuade them to let me wear civilian clothes when I’m on the outside.

“Is something wrong, Steffan?” asked the former professor.

“Nothing much. Just that this is all so unberably boring.” Steffan replied. “I mean, you were in a field that presented an opportunity for abuse, you gained control over someone, you fucked them, you got in trouble, the end. Am I the only one here whose story doesn’t come out of a cookie cutter?”

“I haven’t told my story yet.” Rita said. “I hope it isn’t too boring.”

There’s not much call for poli sci majors in the real world. I was lucky to get in a typing pool. I wanted to make a difference, and I ended up making coffee. I made friends with a fellow prisoner named Patricia Bunting, also called “Pat the Bunny” by the rest of the typing pool. I just called her Patty or Pat. Pat was having trouble getting dates, but it wasn’t because she wasn’t attractive. She hid behind horn-rimmed glasses and kept her hair up in a bun. And she followed the path of least resistance like you wouldn’t believe. If something was the least bit risky, she’d back down. I tried counseling her, but she was practically phobic.

For the longest time I had no idea what to do. Finally, my brother came home from college, griping about a lousy price for his thrice-used books. I had a little extra money, and I knew from personal experience how important to a college student’s between-semester survival the sale of his books could be, so I gave him exactly what he paid for them. So I was stuck with a bagful of college books. I decided to look through them. The only thing even the least bit interesting among quagmire of English Composition and Rhetoric II, American History and what-not was a book called Psychological, Psychiatric and Psychoanalytical Breakthroughs Throughout History I, complete with study guide. I found the chapter on hypnosis and mesmerism and couldn’t stop reading. The subject fascinated me. I searched online and found a whole hypnotic sub-culture where I learned so much more than I could ever have found in any legal book. I found local people who were very experienced and practiced with them, eventually specializing in eye-contact inductions.

When I felt ready, I went to Pat and offered to help. She agreed, and I gazed into her eyes, bringing her into a deep trance more quickly than I could have imagined. She was very receptive. I started by creating a separate personality which would be everything Pat aspired to be, strengthened the new personality, then fused them back together to create a new, improved Pat. She started going to work with her hair down, wearing contacts, and dressing...well, I can’t really say sexier, but less...frumpy. She started to exercise, and all of a sudden, she was Ms. Popular. And she brought me up in the ranks with her, at least socially. I was capable of so much more than what I was being allowed to do, but people with less than half of my knowledge were getting promoted ahead of me. I had to be nice to my assistants, because I knew they were going to be my bosses eventually. I was sick of it, so I asked my boss out to dinner. I brought him under right there at the table, and no one was the wiser. I didn’t take advantage of him sexually, or anything. I just forced him to take me seriously. And while I was at it, I got rid of a couple of nervous habits he had. Like picking his nose, for example. A week later, I had the job I deserved, and I was feeling good about myself.

I started dating again about a month later. With my new job (and much better salary), I was finally able to get over my ex-husband. I had my first post-divorce sexual encounter a month and a half after I had started dating again. Things were going okay, I guess, and we ended up in his apartment. Before I even knew what I was doing, I had him in a deep trance and was planting suggestions for a wet-dream fantasy into his mind. It happened again with the second guy I dated, then the third. It was like I couldn’t get enough. It started with just fantasies, but then I started putting post-hypnotic suggestions in their minds so I could control them again later, or over the phone. That’s when I knew I had a problem. I came here looking for a way to tame my inner dominatrix.

“That’s better.” Steffan said. “I’m glad your story deviates from the template these others seemed to have been spawned from.”

“So what’s your story, Mr. Negative Nelly?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, we all bared our souls for you, now it’s your turn.” the executive concurred.

“Alright, if you insist.” Steffan said.

I was a freelancer, which is probably what The Man didn’t like about me. Unlike Rita, I never specialized in a particular type of induction. I could do it all. I could take advantage of people’s hypnotic misconceptions like Dr. Doolittle over there, I could bring them under with eye-contact alone, I could hypnotize someone over the phone or in a chatroom. I once wrote a book that hypnotized its readers into becoming interested in S & M. You’ll find it under Romance if you ever go into a library that has it. It’s called “Spank the Princess.” I could do it anywhere, anytime, anyhow. There are ways you can get at even the most difficult hypnotic subjects, and I knew them all. The only ones I couldn’t bring into a trance were really little kids and retards.

My gig was helping people’s significant others get over their inhibitions. I mostly worked on women, for the added bonus of getting a nice little BJ from her, but occasionally I’d do a persuasion on a guy with no sex involved. Usually I’d help myself to a romp with the guy’s sister or female cousin if he had one. Sometimes someone didn’t pay up—always guys, for some reason—and so I’d keep his girlfriend as a pet for a while, after she had taken a delicious little bit of revenge for me, usually involving cash in some way. I had a couple of she-cops in my pocket, too. But it was all business. Granted, it was a fun business, but in a business where you seize control over someone’s mind all the time, it’s rather hard to find someone who is willing to have an intelligent conversation. Then I met Millie, and things started turning around. We banged each other’s brains out on occasion, sure, but she was interested in me, as a person. She wanted to see beyond the front desk, and I was more than willing to let her. She was into MC too, and so were all her friends. They looked up to me. They were even willing to play pet harem for a few weeks in exchange for learning a secret or two. Millie was the best.

At least, I thought she was. Turns out she was a Federal Agent working undercover to catch mind-controllers like me and put a stop to our “reign of terror.” The Feds even had the unmittigated gall to offer to reduce my sentence if I ratted out all my MC friends. I was barely even paying attention to the motherfucking lawyer. I was too busy dwelling on the trick Millie had pulled on me. I felt so betrayed. It was all I could do to keep from cryin’ right there in the courtroom when she gave the judge her testimony. All those things she called me, it was like I didn’t even know her.

Maybe I didn’t. Not the real her. I spent twenty years at Club Fed because of her. That was when I used my talents on my most difficult subject ever. Myself. If I hadn’t done the two-dollar watch job on myself, I’d have never realized she was just doing her job, putting on her “game face.” And I probably would still be in there, bawling my little eyes out. I vowed I wouldn’t let Millie beat me, so I became a model prisoner, and they let me out on parole, as long as I go to these meetings every week, and see a therapist about my ‘problem’.

“Now you know my story.” Steffan said. “I’m here because of a woman. A woman who stole my heart, then crammed it down my throat. And I’m right back where I started, and maybe worse. You know what they say, don’t you? Once bitten, twice shy? It’s gonna take me some time before I can let my guard down like that again.” He grabbed another Dr Pepper from the ice-chest at his feet, opened it, and downed half of it at one swig. “So.” he said. “What’s the next order of business?”

“I believe you’ve made some progress already.” the former professor said. “Such openness is definitely a step in the right direction. Perhaps together, we can help you find what it is you truly need, and help you obtain it so that you won’t need to control others anymore. The vast majority of people who become addicted to mind-control do so for sexual reasons. Perhaps I should get in touch with your therapist...” Steffan flicked his therapist’s card at the older man, like a Chinese throwing-star, then averted his gaze. Only then did he notice that Rita was fighting tears. “Well, that would appear to be all the time we have today. I’ll see you next week, then?”

“Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.” Steffan said. He helped Rita carry the remainder of her drinks out to her car. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“It’s just that...the way she treated you...”

“I know.” he said.

“Did you really mean what you said...about never being able to let your guard down again?”

“I said it’d take time.” Steffan replied. “And maybe the right person.”