The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

What’s the matter with me? the blonde pool hustler thought. She’d just missed her third shot in a row. Sure, she’d had a few drinks, but it shouldn’t have made that much of a difference!

The atmosphere around her didn’t help, either. All the guys were watching, murmuring, pointing, even snickering a little. They hadn’t been doing that before, when she’d been winning, the assholes. It was almost as if she were the butt of some secret joke.

Her opponent was good, she had to admit. She still couldn’t believe that name, but he knew which end of a cue was which, that was certain. She found herself sneaking glances at him across the table. It was getting harder to concentrate on the game instead of on him.

“My turn,” George Custer announced. He bent, lined up his cue and sent the five-ball skittering into the center pocket, knocking the seven and six aside on its way. He kept going for several more turns, until at last he missed his attempt to sink the two.

Finally, Ingrid thought. She couldn’t believe how things had been going. She felt hot, sweaty; without quite realizing it, she reached to unbutton the two top buttons of her blouse.

She called for a re-rack, and the balls were collected and set back up in the center of the table. She lined up to break. As her cue lashed forward, the balls scattered. Back and forth the play went, with Ingrid steadily losing ground. At last she found herself facing a table holding just two balls; the ten and the eight. “Ten in the corner pocket,” she announced, and took her shot, aiming at the eight to use a ricochet to knock the ten into the desired spot. Instead, the ten bounced off the table rim and came to rest several inches from its intended target. The eight ball rolled quickly across the table and dropped into the opposite center pocket.

No, Ingrid mourned.

“Too bad,” George Custer said. “You lose, Ingrid. You remember what you have to do to pay up, don’t you?”

“Yes, George,” the blonde heard herself say. “Whatever you say.” She felt herself slipping, somehow, as if things weren’t quite real.

“That’s right, Ingrid.” George’s smile was one of triumph. “You’re going to do whatever I say now, whatever I say, Ingrid, because you agreed to it, Ingrid, and it’s not really as if you were losing control, after all, Ingrid, because you didn’t have to agree to it, but you did, Ingrid. You understand this, don’t you, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George,” Ingrid answered meekly. She stood now in a relaxed posture, hands at her sides, her pool cue dangling forgotten from her right hand. “I understand.”

“That’s good, Ingrid,” George responded. “But I’m going to make it even easier for you, Ingrid.” He paused, gathering himself. Casually, almost as if he didn’t notice he was doing it, he brought up his left hand and started swaying it gently back and forth. Ingrid’s eyes locked onto it immediately, and once more began tracking the motion, back and forth, back and forth, helplessly.

“You know you can’t be hypnotized, Ingrid,” the awkwardly named hypnotist reminded his blonde subject. “You’re much too strong-willed for that. So to do everything I say, think and remember only what I tell you to think and remember, as if you were hypnotized, Ingrid, deeply, deeply hypnotized, you have to play along. You have to pretend, Ingrid, act out a fantasy, Ingrid, lose yourself completely in a fantasy, because you can’t be hypnotized for real, and if you could, you wouldn’t want to, Ingrid. But if it’s just a fantasy, Ingrid, it doesn’t matter what you do. You understand that, don’t you, Ingrid.” George’s voice was a soothing drone.

“Yes, George,” Ingrid said, her own voice nearly a whisper. “I understand. I have to play . . . along. Pretend I’m . . . hypnotized. Act out a . . . fantasy. Make it . . . real. If it’s a fantasy . . . it doesn’t matter . . . what I do.”

“That’s right, Ingrid.” George nodded at the glassy-eyed girl in front of him. “So what you’re going to do, Ingrid, to start with, is imagine you’re at home, in your own home, Ingrid. See yourself as at home, Ingrid. You do see you’re really at home, don’t you, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George.” A slow, slow nod. “I’m really . . . at home.”

“That’s right, Ingrid. You’re at home, Ingrid. Now close your eyes.” Long-lashed lids slid down over empty blue eyes. “In a moment you’re going to open them again, Ingrid, and when you do, you’ll see this pool room, and me, and everyone. But you’ll know, Ingrid, that we’re just part of your fantasy, that you’re just imagining us And because you’re just imagining being here, playing out a fantasy, Ingrid, you can let yourself do anything I say, Ingrid, the way you agreed to in our bet, because none of it is real, Ingrid, you’re not really here, so it doesn’t matter what you do or think or remember while you’re here, it’s safe, Ingrid, safe to surrender and obey, no matter what I ask you to do or think or remember, or to forget, Ingrid. You understand all this, Ingrid, and you’ll do as I say, won’t you?”

“Yes, George.”

“That’s right, Ingrid. Now open your eyes.”

Ingrid Swenson opened her eyes. A languid smile played across her lips. A seedy pool hall, drooling players she had beaten, and the one guy who’d beaten her. Idly, she wondered why she’d named her fantasy foe after a guy who’d gotten himself killed by Indians—but it didn’t really matter, of course. It really did seem real, she thought dreamily. She could really see it, hear it, even smell it, superimposed over the reassuring background of her bedroom. With a sigh, she relaxed. It was easier to forget it was a fantasy, put reality out of her mind and play along. And after all, it was perfectly safe, since no matter what she did or said, it wasn’t real. . . . Her bedroom faded away.

The pool cue she’d been holding fell from her limp fingers. She didn’t notice. It wasn’t part of her reality anymore. It didn’t matter to the fantasy.

George Custer surveyed his handiwork. Ingrid was totally under now, completely open to his suggestions. Her glassy eyes stared out from under half-closed lids as she swayed gently on her high-heeled feet. It was time to call in the bet.

“Ingrid,” he said, “you remember, you promised you’d do anything I said if you lost our little game of pool. And you understand, you did lose, Ingrid. Tell me what that means, Ingrid.”

“I must do . . . anything you say.” Ingrid giggled woozily.

“That’s right,” George agreed. “You must do anything I say, believe anything I tell you, think and believe and remember only what I tell you to, Ingrid. And it’s all perfectly safe, Ingrid, because it’s not real, it’s not really happening, you’re in a fantasy and nothing that happens in this fantasy really matters, because it’s not real, you’re at home and imagining it all, Ingrid, imagining it all and getting turned on, Ingrid, turning yourself on with what you’re imagining.”

The bespelled blonde whimpered. “T-turning myself . . . on. Ooooohhhh. . . .” Unbidden, one hand stole toward her crotch.

“That’s right, Ingrid. Now what you’re going to do next in this fantasy, Ingrid, is show off for me, show off for the guys here in Fat Jack’s.” Reaching into a jacket pocket, George pulled out a miniature CD player. “Get up on the pool table, Ingrid, up on the table and stand on it.”

The bewildered blonde slithered onto the green felt surface of the pool table, belly first. She flipped over, levered herself into a crouch and stood. As she straightened, a witless giggle escaped her.

George pushed a button on the tiny recorder he held, and brassy music filled the air. “Now, Ingrid, you’re going to dance to this music. It’s stripper music, Ingrid, and you’re going to dance to it, and as you dance, you’re going to strip, you’re going to peel off your clothes and show yourself off, because that’s what you do when you hear this kind of music, that’s the kind of dancing you do to this kind of music, Ingrid.”

“S-stripper music,” Ingrid cooed. She giggled again. She began to sway to the music.

“That’s right, Ingrid,” George pressed on. He didn’t need the hand motion anymore; Ingrid was deep in trance now, and could be guided by suggestion alone. “Let the music take you, let it drive you, let it help you forget anything and everything but dancing and showing your body and turning on the guys who’re watching you, because the more turned on they are, Ingrid, the more turned on you are, and the more you surrender helplessly to the music and the dancing, Ingrid.”

Ingrid moaned and posed, one long, shapely leg emerging from her sheath as she arched her back, titled her chin upward and raised her hands to clasp them in her pale blonde hair. She began to prance to the music, slowly at first, then settling into the undulating, thrusting rhythm dictated by the sounds emerging from George’s player.

After a moment, one hand came down to play with her tight-fitting dress, pulling it down as if she were slowly unwrapping a gift. One heavy breast emerged, barely concealed by a lightweight bra, and her watchers howled. “Take it off, baby!” they began to chant. “Take it all off!” The other hand came down, and tugged at her sheath on the other side. It slid down, revealing a magnificent tapering torso. Giggling, Ingrid addressed the crowd: “You like this, don’t you,” she purred. “Want more?”

“Yeah! Yeah! More! More!“ The cry was frenzied, desperate. Ingrid’s audience could hardly believe what they were watching, but the guys in Fat Jack’s wanted it to go right on for as long as possible, as far as possible.

And Ingrid responded. Programmed by George’s suggestions, her own arousal followed that of her audience. She no longer cared whether the scene in Fat Jack’s was a steamy daydream or the real thing. All that mattered was the music, and the dancing, and the feelings roaring through her, sweeping away what little capability she retained for actual thought. “More,” she sang, “more, more, more—!”

Undulating helplessly to the music, she slithered out of her sheath, letting it slide over her generous hips and then down her legs to land at her feet in a heap of shiny fabric. She stepped out of it, bent to pick it up, and laughed as she whirled it from one hand before letting it fly away.

Ingrid stood revealed in a skimpy bra and panties, with gartered stockings clinging to her shapely legs. Once again she posed, head back, one arm bent to bring her hand across her forehead, the other, the one she’d used to toss away her dress, still extended outward. Flashbulbs erupted as several patrons recovered enough presence of mind to take out cameras and snap pictures. For a moment, George worried that the flashes might break through Ingrid’s trance and bring her back to reality, but all that happened was that the blonde giggled some more and turned this way and that, showing off for her amateur photographers, all the while continuing to bump and grind to the music.

“More, boys?” she called out, her voice playful. “D’you want more?”

“More!” It was a roar. “More! Go, baby, go!”

“Go ahead, Ingrid,” George said. “Remember, it’s all perfectly safe, Ingrid, because it’s not real, Ingrid, and you want to do it anyway and you don’t really care what anyone might think, because no one will know, Ingrid, even you won’t remember, so it won’t really have happened and you can do anything, Ingrid, anything at all.”

“Anything,” Ingrid gasped, the muscles of her belly writhing as she reached robotically for the clasp of her bra. “I can do . . . anything.“

“Jee-zus,” a male voice groaned. Seeing this gorgeous woman totally, mindlessly obedient and peeling off her clothes was driving Fat Jack’s male patrons wild. It was all the more exciting that the woman in question had been, not long before, an ice queen who’d been humiliating one guy after another, either at the pool table or, as with the unfortunate Tony, at the bar.

The music pounded in Ingrid’s head, puppeting her, driving her onward to ever greater frenzies. She shimmied across the pool table, then sank to her knees and bent back, back, until her head rested on the felt, pillowed by masses of soft hair. “More,” she moaned, unaware of her own words. “More.” She slipped her hands under her panties and began sliding the skimpy triangle of fabric over her hips. As it moved down her thighs, she shifted, balancing on her upper arms and her left knee as she extended her left leg up and out, letting her spike-heeled shoe dangle. There were more shouts of approval and more camera flashes.

As her panties slid further down, Ingrid slowly bent forward to allow herself to continue peeling them away. When they passed her knees, she lay back, raised both legs and commenced a rhythmic kicking which forced the confining bit of fabric further along. Within seconds, her dangling shoe had fallen onto the table; within a few more, the panties flopped off her extended feet. There was a howl of satisfaction from the guys watching.

“Who wants to do her?” George asked. At this point, the hypnotized honey sprawled legs-up on Fat Jack’s pool table was so turned on she’d screw anyone, especially since, under the power of his suggestions, she really believed she was merely acting out a fantasy in the privacy of her own home. A lustful roar from many throats answered him.

Suddenly a door slammed open, and a hulk of a man emerged. He had to weigh three hundred fifty pounds or more, George guessed. “Fat Jack?” he queried.

“Fuckin’ right, Fat Jack,” the massive man snarled. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

It was perfectly clear what he was asking about. “Just a little harmless fun,” answered George.

Despite himself, Fat Jack grinned as his eyes traveled over Ingrid’s gorgeous nude curves—but only for a moment. Then his face settled back into a scowl. “It ain’t gonna be harmless if you get this place raided,” he growled. “This ain’t no strip club, pal. Take yer girlfriend and get out.” He turned to glare at the onlookers. “That’s right, guys, show’s over.” There were a few boos, but not many: Fat Jack was an intimidating figure in person.

The bar owner turned back to George. “And if I was you, pal, I wouldn’t come back here. Now get!” He folded his beefy arms and stared expectantly.

George sighed. It happened this way sometimes. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go.” He turned toward the table, where an oblivious Ingrid continued to writhe to the music.

He clicked off the CD player, and the thumping beat which had been driving Ingrid’s dance fell silent. After a few seconds, she slowed and stopped, lying slackly atop the crumpled and torn green surface of the pool table.

George stepped closer. “Ingrid,” he said softly, “it’s time to come back to reality, time to return from the fantasy, Ingrid, time to come back to reality, relaxed and refreshed, Ingrid.” Fat Jack was looking impatient; George hurried on. He had only a little time to get this right. “I’m going to count to three, Ingrid, and as I do, you’re going to come back to reality, back to awareness.”

He held up one finger. “But not all the way back, Ingrid. You’re going to come back to reality, but you’re drunk, Ingrid, drunk and horny, and when I’ve counted to three, you’ll still be that way, and you’ll still want to do what I tell you and think what I tell you, Ingrid, until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand all that, Ingrid, and will you obey? Say ‘Yes, George’ if you understand and will obey.”

“Yes, George,” came the response.

Fat Jack was clouding up further. Time to hurry this along. “One, Ingrid,” the hypnotist intoned. “You’re drifting back toward reality. Two; you remember where you are now, Ingrid.” He took a breath. “Three; you’re awake, Ingrid, awake but relaxed, still high, Ingrid, it doesn’t bother you that you’re naked in front of a bunch of guys, Ingrid, but you understand you need to get dressed now and come along with me.”

“Yes, George,” Ingrid burbled. She sat up, slid off the pool table and calmly began gathering her clothes and putting them back on. Several patrons helpfully picked up items she’d tossed aside and passed them along to her. She dressed slowly, undulating as she did, almost in a strip-tease in reverse, under the gleeful eyes of Fat Jack’s customers and the burning ones of Fat Jack himself. Finally she was done. Wobbling slightly on her spike heels, she let George take her arm.

“We’ll be going now,” George announced as he began guiding Ingrid toward the exit.

“And don’t come back, pal,” Fat Jack rumbled. “Your bimbo puts on a nice show, but not nice enough to be worth getting this joint raided.” Plainly the pool hall’s proprietor believed George’s hypnotizing Ingrid had been an act rather than the real thing. Well, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt anybody.

At the door, Ingrid looked over her shoulder. “Bye, guys,” she called out happily. A round of applause followed her out.

George Custer smirked at his curvaceous companion. He wasn’t done with her yet, not by a long shot.

First things first, though. He guided Ingrid over to stand under the awning of an all-night grocery store down the block from Fat Jack’s. The light coming through the store’s big picture window from inside was good enough for what he had in mind.

“Ingrid,” he said carefully, “I need you to listen to me now. I need you to listen carefully, Ingrid, and do exactly as I say, believe everything I tell you.”

“Yes, George,” breathed the blonde.

“I’m going to take you home, Ingrid,” George informed her. “You’re really too drunk to drive home, Ingrid, you know that, don’t you.”

Ingrid hiccupped. “Yesh, George,” she slurred.

“So I’m going to drive you home, Ingrid,” George continued. “I’m going to take you home in my car, so you don’t have to drive, Ingrid, because you shouldn’t drive when you’re drunk, Ingrid.”

The befuddled beauty blinked, as if trying to gather her thoughts. “But, but,” she stammered, “what about . . . what about my car?”

Up came George’s hand. He began moving it back and forth in front of Ingrid as he’d done before. And just as before, her eyes locked onto it, following the motion, drawing her mind with it, back and forth, back and forth. She sighed and relaxed, letting go of her effort to think. It was easier just to watch the motion and let George explain things.

“Don’t worry about your car, Ingrid,” commanded her master from somewhere beyond the motion her eyes and mind were following. “It will be safe where it is, and in the morning you can come back for it. Now come with me, Ingrid.”

George slipped his arm through Ingrid’s and headed toward his own car. The befuddled babe allowed herself to be led along. Although George was no longer swinging his hand before her face, her eyes continued to move back and forth, back and forth.

A little later, as George pulled into the parking garage attached to the condominium complex where he lived, Ingrid stirred.

“This isn’t . . . my home,” she managed to say. “You said you were . . . taking me home.”

George smiled at her reassuringly. “And I have, Ingrid. We are home. My home.”

“But . . . !” Up came George’s hand again, weaving gently before Ingrid’s eyes, cutting her off.

“Relax, Ingrid,” the hypnotist instructed. “Relax, and trust me, and forget about everything but doing what I say, believing what I say. I said I’d take you home, and we are home, my home, so I’ve done what I said, haven’t I?”

“Yes George,” Ingrid agreed helplessly. It made perfect sense when George explained it.

“You’ll go home to your place tomorrow, Ingrid,” promised George. “And when you do, all this will seem like a fantasy, Ingrid, a dream, and you’ll remember only what you’re comfortable remembering and what I tell you to remember. Do you understand, Ingrid, and will you obey?”

“Yes George,” Ingrid murmured. “I understand. I will . . . obey.”

“That’s good, Ingrid,” George told her. He reached over to pop the locks on his car’s doors, then pushed open the driver’s side door. “Let’s go inside now, Ingrid.” He got out of the car.

Ingrid opened the door on her side and got out as well. She stood by the open door, mouth slightly open, eyes unfocused, until George came around and linked his arm through hers.

It was a short walk to his apartment building. This late in the evening, there were only a few people outside in the courtyard; they paid little attention to George and his companion. George went inside, past the bored-looking security guard in his fancy uniform and over to the elevator bank. The guard said nothing at seeing him with a dazed-looking beauty on his arm: this wasn’t the first time, after all, and as long as nobody made any trouble, he apparently felt it was none of his business.

Five minutes later they were in his apartment, a spacious one-bedroom layout with a living room, a bathroom and a nice kitchen and dining area. George had paid an arm and a leg for the place, and maintenance fees were still a drain, but it was worth it.

If he’d been bringing home an ordinary date, now would have been the time for a final round of drinks, perhaps a little foreplay. He didn’t need any of that with Ingrid.

He released the bespelled blonde’s arm and walked around in front of her. “We’re home,” he informed her. ”My home.”

“Your home,” Ingrid murmured. She sighed. “Yes George.”

“Now, Ingrid,” the hypnotist commanded, “listen to me carefully.”

“Yes George,” the blonde breathed. Her half-lidded eyes opened wide and focused on George’s face.

“You understand, don’t you, Ingrid, what’s happened this evening?” It wasn’t really a question. “You went to Fat Jack’s to show everybody there that you were in charge, that you could take on any man and be the one in control, by beating them at pool.

“But when you met me, you lost control, didn’t you, Ingrid. You couldn’t beat me, and you had to pay up on our bet, didn’t you, Ingrid?”

“Yes, George.”

“And our bet was that if you lost, you’d do anything I told you to, believe anything I told you. You agreed to the bet because you didn’t really go to Fat Jack’s at all, because you knew it was really all a dream, and you can do anything in a dream and it won’t matter. That’s right, Ingrid, isn’t it? That’s all true.”

“Yes, George.” Ingrid nodded slowly, wide blue eyes vacant. “It’s all . . . true.”

“Well, Ingrid,” George went on, “you’re still dreaming.” He took a deep breath. “Coming here to my place is part of the dream. And we’re getting to the best part now, Ingrid.”

“The . . . best part.” Again Ingrid nodded.

“Yes, Ingrid. The best part.” George paused for a moment. “Remember how you felt when you were dancing on the pool table at Fat Jack’s?”

“Yes, George.” Ingrid’s breathing quickened and a fine sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead.

George smiled. “Yes, that’s right, Ingrid. Remember how you felt, eager, horny, driven by the sexy music.” George pulled out the little CD player he’d used at Fat Jack’s and turned it on again. “You feel that way now, too, don’t you? You hear the music, and it drives you, doesn’t it, Ingrid, just like before.” He set the player down carefully.

“Yes George,” the blonde moaned. Helpless, she moved to the music, writhing faster and faster as its tempo picked up. Unbidden, her hands came up to peel at her clothes, just as they had back at Fat Jack’s. “Oh, God, yessss . . . !“

For the next few minutes a grinning George Custer simply watched as, lashed by the music which filled her mind and controlled her body, Ingrid Swenson pranced and wriggled through an improvised striptease, just as she’d done before. And just as had happened at Fat Jack’s, the more she danced, the more turned on she got. There was no room in her mind for thought; there were only the music, the need building within her and the animal awareness that the man with her could give her what she needed. The only thing stopping her from hurling herself at him was the need to obey the music, to keep dancing to the music.

Finally, George reached for the player and hit the stop button. The music stopped.

For several seconds, Ingrid, lost in her own private world, didn’t notice. Finally, it registered. She slowed. Stopped. Her eyes came to rest on George Custer, and she smiled a hungry smile.

“Geor-rge,” she purred, “please, George. You know what I want . . . !”

George, smirking, played dumb. “I don’t understand,” he lied.

Ingrid kicked off the high heels which were the only clothing she still had on and slithered over to him, twining herself around his body, pressing herself urgently against him. Her lips found his, and her tongue darted between his teeth.

The next thing George remembered, the two of them were sprawled across his couch. Somehow, his shirt, pants and shoes seemed to have disappeared, and Ingrid’s long-nailed fingers were sliding beneath the waistband of his shorts. He was so hard it hurt, and he was breathing raggedly, in short, sharp bursts. He had barely enough self-control to keep from coming in his underwear as Ingrid’s fingers roamed over the most sensitive portions of his anatomy. With desperate urgency, he pulled his briefs down, managing to slide them off despite the soft heaviness of Ingrid’s body atop his own.

Gone was his gloating satisfaction at the power he had over the hypnotized blonde beauty. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was flesh. His hips bucked as he thrust into the woman atop him, and she writhed in a matching rhythm, lost in a world of sensation. All at once he came, shuddering, and as he did, Ingrid clutched at him, cried out and arched her back, tilting her head back. Then, sighing, she collapsed over him.

Some time later, George Custer gently shifted his body, allowing the limp form of Ingrid Swenson to slide to the side. The couch they were on had plenty of room for her to do that without falling off. Propping himself on one elbow, he raised his other hand and began swinging it, ever so gently. “Ingrid,” he said, “open your eyes. Open your eyes and listen to me.”

“Yes George . . . !” It came out almost as a whisper. Ingrid’s eyes, which had been closed in dreamy postcoital languor, opened. They fastened immediately on George’s moving hand, tracking it back and forth, back and forth.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, Ingrid,” George told his curvaceous captive. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them, and then you’re going to forget I ever asked. Do you understand, Ingrid, and will you obey?”

“Yes George.” The response was automatic. “I understand. I will . . . obey.”

George led her through his interrogation.

Deep in trance, Ingrid told him her phone number, her address, her checking account number and her debit-card PIN. George smiled; after tonight, if he wanted, he could find her any time or pull money out of her account at will without her ever knowing who was doing it. But he had other plans; he’d only asked for her bank information as a final test of how deeply she was under his control—as if what had already happened between them wasn’t proof enough!

He paused, collecting his thoughts. “In the morning, I’m going to take you back to Fat Jack’s, where we met. Do you remember where you parked your car, Ingrid?”

“Yes George.” Ingrid yawned. Her eyes continued to track George Custer’s moving hand.

“All right, then, Ingrid.” George nodded. “When I let you out of my car, you will immediately forget meeting me. You will forget what happened at Fat Jack’s, and what happened between us afterward, as if it never happened.” He paused again.

Ingrid nodded. “Forget . . . as if it . . . never happened,” she murmured.

“That’s right, Ingrid,” George replied. “You’ll go to your car and go home, and as soon as you get there, you will remember having spent the entire night at home. You won’t bother about exactly what you did last night; you will remember it as just an ordinary evening.”

“Just an ordinary evening.” Ingrid nodded again. “Yes George.”

“But Ingrid,” George finished, “if I ever call you and say the words ‘You lost the bet, Ingrid,’ you will immediately relax, the way you’re relaxed now, and do whatever I tell you to do until I release you, because you lost our bet, Ingrid, and that was what you agreed to do if you lost the bet, Ingrid. Do you understand, and will you do as I’ve said? Repeat my instructions if you understand and will obey.”

“Yes George.” Ingrid repeated George’s suggestions, almost word for word.

George felt a renewed stirring in his crotch, and grinned. It always turned him on to see some stuck-up but sexy bitch submitting helplessly, mindlessly, to his every whim. “Ingrid,” he said, “you’re horny again, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re so horny nothing else matters right now. That’s right, isn’t it.”

The bedazzled beauty on the couch let out a moan. “H-h-horny,” she gasped out, writhing under the lash of sensations generated by her own hypnotized mind. She slithered off the settee, grasping at George. ”Please.“

George Custer bent down and slipped his arms around Ingrid Swenson, helping her to her feet. Giggling, she leaned into him, allowing herself to be lifted upright and guided toward George’s bedroom.

George woke up smiling. His body was still entangled with Ingrid’s where the two of them had thrashed passionately atop his bed. He gently detached himself and got to his feet.

“Mm?” The blonde beauty still sprawled amid his scattered sheets stirred. Her eyes opened.

George tensed, ready to act at once if it was necessary. This was always a tricky moment: the transition from sleep after a trance carried a risk that his subject would come fully awake, and need to be put back under in a hurry.

A moment later, he relaxed. Ingrid’s gaze was calm and blank. Clearly, she was still under his control. He issued a simple command as a test: “Ingrid, stand, please. Stand up and wait, with your arms at your sides.”

Ingrid obeyed, swinging her luscious legs over the side of the bed and levering herself to her feet, then falling still, utterly relaxed, hands hanging down. “Yes George,” she murmured.

Reassured, he dressed himself and went into the kitchen to fix a cup of coffee. After a few minutes, steaming cup in hand, he went back into the bedroom, where Ingrid waited naked, motionless and utterly unaware.

He looked her over, smiling, while he finished his coffee. When he’d downed the last sip, he spoke, commanding Ingrid t get dressed. She obeyed without question, and when she was fully clothed, he took her arm to guide her out of his apartment toward the car waiting in his parking slot in the garage.