The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

George Custer leaned against the bar and watched the action. Fat Jack’s Bar and Pool Emporium was interesting today.

At the pool table directly in front of him, a six-foot knockout with pale blonde hair and ice-blue eyes, dressed in a red sheath emphasizing every luscious curve of her body, was cleaning the clock of yet another of the local sharpies. As she bent over the table, the side slit in her dress revealed an expanse of shapely leg in sheer nylon. Shifting his gaze slightly, George saw she was wearing glossy white spike-heeled pumps.

The Brigitte Nielsen lookalike got off another shot, sending the last two balls into a center and side pocket. “That’s twenty you owe me,” she informed her opponent.

The guy winced as if it had been his balls the woman had sent rolling out of sight. “All right,” he muttered. Obviously, he didn’t like being beaten by a woman, even one as spectacular to look at as this one.

And just as obviously, the blonde was enjoying it. George pursed his lips thoughtfully. He took an interest in women like that.

“Perhaps you could pay off some of it by buying me a drink,” the blonde suggested. Her erstwhile antagonist grinned and the two of them moved to the bar. George kept watching. Nobody noticed; most of the guys in the place were doing the same.

The pair exchanged introductions: the blonde, George learned, was Ingrid something-or-other—positioned well down the bar from the two, he couldn’t quite make out her last name over the background noise. The guy was Tony. Drinks were ordered, and presently arrived. After awhile, more drinks were ordered.

Ingrid’s companion leaned toward her and spoke. George didn’t hear what he said, though his body language made things pretty obvious. A moment later, though, he had no trouble at all hearing Ingrid.

“Go home with you?” Her voice, pitched loud enough to carry all through the room, dripped with scorn. “Why should I want to go home with someone who isn’t even man enough to beat me at pool?”

George felt a stab of sympathy for Ingrid’s—well, victim wasn’t too strong a word, he decided. He wasn’t the only one. A mutter of anger began arising among the little drama’s male audience. Tony wasn’t the first man to be shown up at the tables by this woman, and she hadn’t treated the others much better.

Tony wasn’t satisfied to leave it verbal. “You can’t talk to me like that, bitch,” he said, and raised a meaty fist.

The bartender stepped in then, folding his own heavy paw around Tony’s wrist. “None of that,” he told Tony. “Go on, get out of here. You’ve had enough, I think.”

For a few seconds, Tony looked as if he might want to argue the point. Then he took in the barkeep’s solid build, the muscular forearm attached to the hand around his wrist, the tough-looking face, and chose the better part of valor. “All right,” he mumbled.

The barman let go of his wrist. Tony slid off his stool and slunk away, out of the poolroom. “Thank you,” Ingrid purred. “I do appreciate it when a gentleman comes to a lady’s aid.”

The bartender grunted. George gagged slightly. You’re no lady, he thought. He came to a decision, and smiled. He got off his barstool.

Ingrid frowned, annoyed. Another of the pool room’s patrons was coming over to her. You’d think they’d get the message. Well, she’d blow him off fast. It was getting to be time to leave anyway.

“Hello,” the guy said. “My name’s George Custer. Can I buy you another drink?”

Ingrid’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right?” By pure reflex, she glanced over at the man who’d addressed her. “I mean, come on.”

George smiled. “I get that a lot.” It was true. Whatever had possessed his parents to stick him with that name? Still, it had its upside. He’d certainly managed to get the blonde’s attention, and he could use that. “But it’s true. My name really is George Custer.” He laughed softly. “It could be worse. At least it’s not George Armstrong Custer.”

He took the stool next to Ingrid’s and propped his elbow on the bar. Casually, he raised his hand and began swaying it back and forth gently as he spoke. “Now . . . Ingrid, I think I heard you tell that guy your name is? . . . what about that drink?”

Ingrid pursed her lips. “I don’t think so, no,” she said. “I really need to be getting along.” She didn’t notice how her eyes had begun to follow the motion of George’s hand.

George did. Smiling, he pressed: “Come on. Just one drink. What could it hurt?”

“Um,” Ingrid responded, suddenly uncertain. George’s words, What could it hurt?, echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t think of an answer. Her eyes continued to track George’s hand as it moved, back and forth, back and forth. “Okay,” she yielded at last. “But just one. A beer.”

“That’s all right,” George responded. “Two beers,” he told the bartender.

Two heavy glass mugs appeared on the counter before them, filled with foamy beverage. Still moving his right hand back and forth, back and forth in front of Ingrid, George picked up his drink with his left. Ingrid, facing him, absently did the same, and as George took a sip, so did she.

She hardly noticed. More and more of her attention was focused on George’s hand, her eyes following its steady side-to-side movement. As he continued to drink, she followed his lead, sip for sip.

Down went the mugs on the countertop with solid thunks. George said, “There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“N-no,” Ingrid faltered. “Not so bad.”

“Of course not.” George reached across with his free hand to pat the one Ingrid had used to hold her mug. She was still holding it, her hand curled lightly around the frosted glass. “People come to places like this to unwind, to let go, to forget. And a few drinks help, as long as they don’t take it too far. A few drinks help you to unwind. Let go. Forget.”

“Unwind,” came Ingrid’s soft echo. “Let go. Forget.”

George eyed her carefully. The beer she’d just downed was her third, maybe fourth drink, counting what he’d seen her have earlier. By the signs, she was nicely relaxed and receptive now; any more alcohol, though, and she’d be too high to focus properly anymore.

He grinned. Any real alcohol, that is. There was a trick he’d learned, though, and it looked as if Ingrid might be just about ready for it.

“I want you to do something for me, Ingrid,” he told her. “You’ll do it, won’t you, Ingrid?” As he asked the question, his hand movements changed, from side-to-side to up-and-down. Ingrid, still following the motion, bobbed her head. “Yes,” she said a moment later.

George’s grin widened. He’d read about a technique called NLP, “neurolinguistic programming,” part of which was using people’s own body language to convey suggestions. In Ingrid’s case, getting her to nod sent a simple “say yes” message to her relaxed mind. “That’s good, Ingrid. I know you don’t want to have any more drinks, Ingrid, not really, but what I want you to do now is look at your glass and imagine it’s full again, full of beer, ice-cold, with a nice head of foam. Look at your glass, Ingrid, look at your glass and imagine it’s full, make it real, Ingrid.” His hand motion changed again, directing the blonde’s gaze toward the empty stein on the counter.

Ingrid’s eyes widened as she looked at the glass. “Oooh,” she burbled.

“Can you see the beer in the glass, Ingrid?” George asked. “Can you smell it? Just as if it were really there, even though you know it’s not?”

“Why, yes,” she murmured. “I can see it. I can smell it.”

“All right, then,” George said. “Why don’t you drink it down, then, and taste it too? Drink it down, and taste it, Ingrid, just as if it were real.”

The blonde obeyed. When she’d finished her “drink,” she dropped the stein back onto the countertop with a solid thump.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you, Ingrid?” Up and down went George’s hand. Up and down went Ingrid’s chin. “And you can feel it, too, now, can’t you, Ingrid, just as if it were real.”

“Yesh,” Ingrid slurred. She hiccupped daintily and giggled. “I mean, yes.”

“Call me George,” instructed her companion. “You can do that, can’t you, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George.” Ingrid giggled again. “I’m gettin’ a li’l drunk, aren’t I? Darn.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ingrid,” George suggested. “After all, it’s not like you’re at work or anything. You came here to relax. Unwind. Forget. That’s right, isn’t it, Ingrid?” Up and down went George’s hand.

Up and down went Ingrid’s head. “Thass . . . I mean, that’s right, George. Relax. Unwind. Forget.”

By now, the byplay between them had attracted an audience. “Holy shit,” someone called out. “I think he’s hypnotizing her!”

“Huh—hyp-ma—?” The words had registered somewhere in Ingrid’s consciousness. She blinked, as if trying to clear her vision.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” George’s tone was mocking. “Ingrid, you’re much too strong-willed for that! You can’t be hypnotized, can you?” George moved his hand back and forth.

Still following the motion, Ingrid shook her head. “Course not.” Another giggle.

George smirked. That was what they always thought, and he was always able to use it against them. He led them along, reassuring them at every step that it was all their decision, that they were in control. He could get them to do anything that way. “Of course not,” he echoed reassuringly. “You’re much too strong-willed to be hypnotized, aren’t you, Ingrid.”

“Much too . . . sh-strong-willed. Yeah.”

George studied Ingrid thoughtfully. Gradually, an idea took form. His smirk widened.

“How about one more drink, Ingrid?” he suggested. “It’s already right there on the counter next to you, a full stein.” His steady hand motion shifted, drawing Ingrid’s eyes toward the empty glass mug. “Afterwards, how about you and I play a little pool?”

“Li’l pool,” Ingrid echoed woozily. She lifted the empty stein to her lips and chugged air from it. Afterward, she let it drop to the counter with a thud and sat there, eyes slightly crossed.

George Custer nodded. The genuine drinks the blonde had imbibed before he’d moved in on her had softened her up just enough to make her suggestible. The one additional real drink she’d had after that had let him get started on putting her under with his seemingly innocuous rhythmic hand motions. It had been easy, after that, to guide her through a fantasy of drinking even more which dissolved even more of her awareness and control.

“How about that game of pool, Ingrid?” he asked. “Or maybe you’re too drunk now?” He paused. “Yes, that’s it. You’re too drunk now to beat me, I bet.” As he spoke, he renewed the back-and-forth motion of his hand.

Ingrid, instantly captured by the movement, swayed her head back and forth. “No, I’m not,” she insisted. “I c’n table you under the drink any day of the week, George Cust—Cust—whatever. And beat the pants off you at pool after that!” There was something wrong with what she’d just said, wasn’t there? Aw, who cares, she told herself.

George stood up and sauntered over to the pool table, picked up a cue and stood waiting while his blonde companion slid off her stool and wobbled over to join him. When she, too, had selected a cue, George smiled at her and said, “Why don’t we make this a little more interesting? How about a bet?”

“Sure, why not?” Ingrid had been mopping the floor with Fat Jack’s patrons all afternoon. Why should it be any different this time? She didn’t even notice the steady motions of George’s hand, or the way her eyes followed them helplessly.

“Okay, then,” George said. “This is what we’ll do.” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “You like to think you’re in charge, all the time, don’t you, Ingrid.” It was an observation, not a question. “Totally and completely in control.”

“Yeah,” Ingrid drawled. Her eyes kept following George’s hand. “In charge. Totally and completely . . . in control.” She giggled. “Yeah.”

“But there’s something inside you that wants to give up that control, isn’t there, Ingrid.” Again, it was not a question. “That’s why you come here, why you challenge the guys here, why you drink with them. You’re looking for someone who can take control away from you, someone who can beat you at your own game. You’re looking for an excuse to let go, relax, forget. To relax, let go, forget. Relax, let go, forget.”

“Mmm,” Ingrid responded. “Relax. Let go. Forget.”

“That’s right.” George smiled. “So here’s what’s going to happen, Ingrid. We’re going to play a game of pool. You’re going to try hard to beat me, because you don’t want to let some guy you’ve just met beat you at your own game, but you’re going to lose. You’re going to miss your shots, because after all, Ingrid, you’ve had more to drink than you planned on, and you’re all loose now, Ingrid, relaxed and loose and just a little drunk, Ingrid.”

“Jus’ a li’l drunk,” the blonde slurred. Back and forth her eyes went, following George’s hand.

“And you’re just a little horny, too, aren’t you, Ingrid,” George observed. “Of course you are, or you wouldn’t come to as place like this, dressed the way you are, and flirt with the guys here. It turns you on, doesn’t it, to tease them, to dominate them, to be in control with them.”

Ingrid flushed and opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing.

George pressed. “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he told her. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. You can tell me it’s true, Ingrid.” He waited, smiling.

After a moment the befuddled blonde bobbed her head. “It’s true,” she murmured. “I like to . . . dominate. Be in . . . control.”

“But deep down inside, it’s different, isn’t it, Ingrid?” George was relentless. “Deep down, you want to be dominated. You want someone, some man, to tell you what to do, what to think; you want to be controlled by some man strong enough to do it. You fantasize about it, don’t you, Ingrid, and you go to places like this hoping to find the man who can control you, don’t you, Ingrid, who can lead you, back and forth, up and down, Ingrid.” As he spoke, he moved his hand, and Ingrid, helpless, followed its movement, back and forth, up and down.

A hush had fallen over Fat Jack’s. Something was happening here the patrons had never seen before, and couldn’t believe they were seeing now.

“That’s why we’re going to play a game of pool, Ingrid,” George explained. “We’re going to find out if I’m the man who can control you, Ingrid. Do you remember what’s supposed to happen when we play, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George,” murmured the blonde. She repeated his instructions.

“That’s right, Ingrid.” George nodded. “You’re going to miss your shots, Ingrid, and every time you do, you’re going to give up a little more control, you’re going to surrender a little more to me, surrender a little more control, Ingrid. Do you understand, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George.” Ingrid’s once haughty voice was meek.

“But of course you’ll think you’re trying as hard as you can, Ingrid, remember that, you’ll believe you’re doing your best, and you won’t remember me explaining what you need to do, except that we have a bet that says that if you lose, you’ll do whatever I say. You’ll remember the bet, Ingrid, and you’ll remember accepting it because you were sure you were going to win.” George paused again. There was one more thing he needed to add: “And of course you’ll remember that I said that if you won, I’d pay up a hundred dollars, Ingrid, more than you’ve gotten out of anyone else here.” Can’t have a bet without stakes on both sides, George thought smugly, even if I won’t have to pay up.

“Yes, George. A hundred dollars . . . if I win.”

“That’s right, Ingrid.” George smiled. “Now in a moment, I’m going to snap my fingers, Ingrid, and when I do, we’re going to play pool. You will believe everything is normal, Ingrid, but you’ll do as I’ve told you, even though you don’t remember, won’t you, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George.” A slow nod.

George Custer snapped his fingers. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silence of the room.