The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I didn’t get much done before 8 p.m., except, of course, working out again.

I arrived at the lobby just before 8 p.m., and waited for her to arrive. The weather had turned cool, and I was wearing a black wool top coat provided by Larry the tailor. Various people streamed in and out of the hotel, off to their dinners and nights.

At about five past, Ms. Abernathy emerged from the elevators. She, again, was gorgeous, wearing a silver cutaway dress that ended just above her knees, matching high heels, and perfect jewelry. She wore a simple overcoat, dark like mine, that hid everything when it was buttoned up. She strode across the lobby to me.

“Good evening Mr. Grayson. My. Jones told me the good news this afternoon,” she said with a wicked smile. “Lets go out and celebrate this occasion.”

“I have been looking forward to it all day, Ms. Abernathy.”

“Put youself in my hands this evening, Mr. Grayson. I guarantee a good time.”

“I would do no less, Ms. Abernathy. I am putty in your hands.”

We headed out into the cool air, and into the night.

We went down two or three blocks from the hotel, to a small, nondescript bar, with booths and a long bar with stools. A large New York bartender lit up when he saw Ms. Abernathy enter the establishment.

“Hello, Johnny,” she said.

“Hello, Miss,” he said with a slight brogue. “Glad to see you again. A little early this evening?”

“It’s going to be a late night tonight, Johnny. We want to get a good start.”

“As always, Miss. The regular for you?”

“Indeed.”

“And your gentleman friend will share?”

“Of course,” she said, not giving me time to respond.

We took seats facing each other at a booth near the back. The bar was not well lit, but it was very clean. Soon, Johnny arrived with a full bottle of some brand of vodka I had never heard of before, a pitcher of water, a bowl full of ice and lemons, and two glasses.

“The regular,” he pronounced, setting it on the table. “Shall I pour?” He took the initiative, and poured the vodka into the glass, squeezed a lemon into it, and placed an ice cube in for good measure.

“Pretty straightforward stuff, Miss. Nothing else?”

“We’ll start with this, Johnny. Let’s see what develops.” She smiled. Johnny returned to the bar.

“This vodka is created by villagers in a small Russian town next to some very large mountains,” she said. “It doesn’t get much better. Maybe four cases make it to the U.S. each year. I think I drink most of it. Skol!”

She took a large sip from the half-full glass. I followed her lead. It was very smooth vodka.

“I don’t know how they do it, but I like it,” she said.

We settled into our drinks. “So, Mr. Grayson, what do you want to know about all of this. Of course, I can’t tell you much, officially, but I can maybe clear some things up.”

I asked some more general questions about her job, which she, of course, avoided but I wasn’t in the mood for caring. I did want to know one thing, though.

“That last time, did you use the package on me? You didn’t have to, you know.”

She got serious.

“I’ll level with you, Mr. Grayson. As you will find out, this thing gives us real control over a lot of things. But it comes from ourselves. It’s all these pheremones, and it takes a long time to learn how to control them. Once you get good at it, it’s like a tool. Yes, I did use them on you at first, and it probably has something to do with your extended performance. But, just so you know, the phermones do not work in the shower. Water pretty much cuts off all of their effectiveness. So you were on your own in the bathroom.”

I took some pride in this, but pushed it a little.

“So how did I do, on my own?”

“You, Mr. Grayson, are a real piece of work. You passed with mroe than flying colors.” She was smiling.

So was I.

We talked our way through a couple more glasses of the vodka, this time mixed with some tonic water, and I was feeling pretty good as we ventured back out onto the street. She left two one-hundred dollar bills on the table. Some vodka. She was now directing us to a nightclub that would have a good crowd this early (about 9:30 at this point). I asked her if the phermones only worked to attract people.

“Stop asking so many questions, Mr. Grayson. You’ll find out soon enough. But anyway, I’ll give you at little demonstration at the club.”

All of a sudden she ducked into a dance club that was already hopping. We checked our coats, got another drink, and she started to stake out the joint.

“I’m going to show you something, Mr. Grayson. Watch that guy over there.” Before I could say anything, she was on the move, headed over to a stockboker type with slicked back hair. She stood at the bar next to him, and ordered a drink. The music was pounding.

You could see the effect on him take hold quickly. His eyes were bugging out at her, while she just stood there. Just when he was going to turn to ask her something, she began to walk away. He followed, almost desparately, catching up to her, leaving his drink.

He must have asked her to dance, because they headed out for the floor. She smiled at me, and lobbed her head for me to follow.

Immediately once they got onto the floor, this guy was all over her, dancing almost crazily. He want at her for the entire song in an embarrasing fashion. I hope I was not that bad the other night.

Then, when the song ended, she whispered something into his ear, and he earnestly and eagerly agreed, nodding his head. He followed her off the floor, walking past us. He was in a daze.

They went back to the bar, and ordered another drink. I don’t think she had taken a sip out of any of them yet.

Soon, though, you could see the stockbroker’s demeanor begin to change. It went from one of almost unrestrained lust to one of abject fear. He looked at her with eyes, literally, wide open, turning ghost white. She just sat there, looking at him, saying nothing. Again, he could barely control himself, but this time, you could tell he wanted to bolt like a scared whitetail deer caught in headlights.

She was smiling. Then, she said something to him, and it must have been rather loud because the people next to her jumped as well. Stockbroker guy took off, almost running across the floor and out the door, into the cold night air.

She came over to me.

“What did you do to that guy?”

“It’s the oldest story in the book. First he’s the wolf, then he’s afraid of commitment.”

“He looked like he saw a ghost when he went past me!”

“Ghost, goblin, whatever. He was afraid, though. That’s what I can do, Mr. Grayson.”

“What did you shout at him?”

“Not much, just ‘boo!’”

I chuckled, but the experience made me a little more impressed with her.

“That was pretty amazing, Ms. Abernathy.”

“That was only the very beginning, Mr. Grayson. Come on, let’s go dance.”

We headed out onto the dance floor, her dress shimmering in the light, her body moving to the house music. As always at the good clubs, the music drowned out any conversation, so all communication was through the eyes and body language. I liked what I was hearing more and more.

After more dances and a drink or two (she had now switched us to grapefruit juice and vodka) she decided it was time to head out again. To, as she said, the main attraction of the evening.

We got our coats and headed out, catching a taxi just outside the club. She gave the driver an address about ten blocks away, about two blocks off of Times Square.

“It’s almost eleven thirty! We have to get there before it begins,” she whispered to me. I could only imagine what she meant.

The taxi stopped at a nondescript, dark aparment building with a couple of stores on the first floor. We paid, got out, and headed towards a service door between the two shops. She opened the door, and went in. Down a flight of steep, but sturdy steps, a large, bouncer type man stood next to another door. The space was bare, with the only light coming from a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. He did not recognize her, and instead looked at me.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, grimly.

She piped up, “It’s Thursday, right, so this must be the Crows’ Nest.”

The man was truly surprised at her words, but then scowled again. “Close, but that one’s old, old old.”

“Come on,” she said. “It’s something like that. How about ‘next week is Memorial Day.’”

“That’s old too,” he said.

“Well it has been three fucking years since I’ve been here, you know.” She said all of this in a light tone, not getting angry. “How the hell am I supposed to know that they changed the passwords.”

“Give me your number,” he said finally, getting a little impatient.

“I’m 143. He’s my guest,” she said, motioning towards me.

“143? Man woman, you are the old guard.” He produced a walkie talkie, and spoke into it.

A voice came out back over it, “What’s her name?”

She said “Abernathy.”

“Let her in with pleasure, Ralphie.”

The door buzzed, and Ralhie opened it for us, apologizing to her. “Why did you come in the back way,” he asked.

“This is the back way?” She asked back.

“Yeah, the main entrace has been opened for two years now.”

“Well, that’s news to me, Ralphie.”

The other side of the door, of course, was very different from Ralphie’s spare vestibule. The door led into the middle of a wide quiet hallway, with dark wood wainscoating and deep red wallpaper. At the end to our left was a bank of elevators. On the right was a large wooden, decorated door. A video camera above the door watched us as we headed for it. As we approached it, it clicked open. Beyond the second door was the party.

In the good-sized room, decorated with very heavy wood trim, the same deep red wallpaper and other maroon furnishings stood probably 15 or 20 people, drinking and talking in small groups. Most of them were men, some in tuxedos, many smoking. A group of them turned to notice Ms. Abernathy as she walked in, sized her up, and then, surprisingly, went back to their conversation, uninterested.

We were greeted by a coat check woman who could have been a Rockette, except she was over-endowed for the dance line. She wore a black sparkled minisuit, dark stockings and extremely high heels. She had sharp features, but a perfect balance of well-coiffed hair and makeup. She beamed at us as we handed over our coats to her.

“They’ll be delivered to you if you stay,” she said, still smiling as she handed us our tickets. “If you’re interested, I’m number 23 this evening.” A button on her outfit also read “23.” Ms. Abernathy thanked her.

Before I could ask her what that meant, a man dressed in a conservative tuxedo sidled up to Ms. Abernathy, with a look of recognition on his face.

“Ms. Abernathy, it has been much too long. Welcome.” He was low-key.

“Hello Gregory, it is very nice to see you again as well,” she was very happy, to see him, from her expression, but also low key. “This is my guest, Mr. Grayson.”

“Mr. Grayson, it is a pleasure to meet you. You travel in excellent circles.” He turned back to her. “I am so sorry about Ralphie, but I must say, we did not have you on our list anymore. That’s what makes it so much better to have you back.”

“Thank you Gregory. I’m raring to go. Are the rules all the same as before?”

“Of course, all the same rules. The prices have been interesting lately. Not so much Asian money. But you’ll see. The ones that count are still here. You have the run of the house, Ms Abernathy. Anything at the bar is yours. I have even found this, which I am pleased to offer to you, if it is not too presumptuous.”

He held out a bottle of vodka, a different brand from before, but just as obscure. Ms. Abernathy was surprised. “Gregory, you remembered. I can’t believe you remembered, or that you still have it. I haven’t had that brand since I was here last. Thank you.”

It is nothing, Ms. Abernathy. It is enough to have you back.”

This guy really knew how to treat his guests.

“We are starting soon, and I have to go spray my throat. Please, your seats are reserved for you.”

A group of people were headed out of the room, into another room, and we followed.

“You must have been a pretty good customer here at one point,” I said to her on the way in.

“I was. I used to come here with my last partner. This place is totally Outer Limits. And it’s totally us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, HEIC. You’ll see.”

I gave it a beat.

“What goes on here, anyway.”

“Mr. Grayson, this is a display of the power of the package. I’ll explain it to you as we go along, but you’ll have to trust me most of the way. Ok?”

“There’s no turning back for me now.”

“That’s for sure. Let’s go in and get a seat. The show’s about to begin.”

We headed into the next room, which was larger, but had the same design motif. This one, however, was set up like a dinner theater, with a large stage in the front, and various tables set out in front of the stage. Off to the side, a five-piece band plaed straightforward jazz music. Most of the tables were filled. Probably about 100 people. She directed us to one in the back, for two, which had a ‘reserved’ sign on it, as well as the familiar bottle of vodka, glasses, tonic water, ice and lemons. We sat at the table. A group of men and women dressed pretty much in costumes mingled though the crowd, obviously very different from those who were seated at the table.

In a few moments one of the women came to our table. She was like an Amazon, must have been six feet tall in stocking feet, and now was six-four in heels, plus gigantic breasts, all tightly tucked into a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader outfit. She had cherry redlipstick and gigantic hair. She also had beautiful features, and was extremely well built. I was afraid she was going to topple over as she leaned in to talk to us.

“Will you be bidding tonight,” she asked the both of us. She had a sweet southern accent.

Ms. Abernathy said yes.

“Would you like one bidder or two, this evening?”

“One please.”

She reached into her tray and produced an Apple Newton, which was hooked up to an antenna. I had a good feeling, knowing that they were actually being used for some productive purpose.

“Do you need to know the rules?”

“Explain them to him,” Ms. Abernathy said.

She handed the bidder to Ms. Abernathy, and began to explain the rules.

“Bidding takes place in set amounts, withdrawn from your registered account if you place the top bid. The minimum will be strictly enforced. All bids are final. If you are going to bid for a registered pair, you must win them both individually before reaching the pair. If you want to make your own pair or group, follow the intructions on the bidder. If you have any questions, please ask the contestants.

The vital statistics are listed on this sheet,” she handed us both a two-page sheet full of numbers.

“I am number 37, Dawn, and I am available this evening. I am submissive 8, dominant 4, auto-arousal 8, attentive 8, intensity, 8 oral 7, anal 3, bondage 2, unshaven, and open to suggestion. If you have a scenario, I am at your service to find you the appropriate contestant or contestants, including and especially myself. Also, I would be happy to get you anything else you desire now, or at any time. Please just let me know, sugar. Either of you” She winked at me, and smiled boradly to Ms. Abernathy.

Ms. Abernathy looked up from the sheet, which she was studying. “Would you please get us a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter?”

“Certianly, ma’am. Thank you very much.”

She walked away.

“Am I dense,” I said, “or is this just as simple as I think it is.”

“It’s not complex, that’s for sure, Mr. Grayson. It just takes some getting used to. Look around the room. Everybody who is serving the tables right now, plus about 30 more, are listed on this sheet by number. You can see that categories that Dawn just talked about, dominant, submissive, oral, anal, bondage, et cetera. The other ones are pretty straightforward too. See, hair is blonde, brunette, et cetera, and straight, wavy, et cetera, then their measurements, and their attentiveness, intensity, and ability to arouse themsevles. You get to pick off the menu. Plus, as you can see, some of them are set up in pairs naturally. For others, you have to bid separately.”

This was beginning to blow my mind, again.

“Don’t worry about the bidding, or the money. It’s all taken care of. Also, if you don’t mind, I have some specifics in mind. Is that ok?”

“Take me to your leader,” I said.

She smiled. “Oh, Mr. Grayson, it is going to be an iteresting night.”

Dawn returned with the cigarettes, opened the pack for us, and pulled one out, handing it to Ms. Abernathy, then bending down in front of her to light it. She had incredible cleavage.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.

“I don’t” she said, accepting Dawn’s light, “Well, usually, I don’t but this is kind of a tradition with my partner, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue it.” She pushed the pack to me, and I took one out. Dawn came over to light mine. She licked her lips as she did so.

“Thank you Dawn,” I said. In almost any other room full of people, Dawn would stand out as most fuckable. But here, the room was aglow with statuesque women of all shapes and sizes, each at the top of their game, each paying close attention to the people at the tables. The men, as well, were doing quite a job showing off their stuff. I wondered whether we should tip Dawn, but as Ms. Abernathy didn’t I wasn’t going to.

“I have to go get ready,” Dawn said. “I hope to see you soon.” She blew us a kiss, and walked seductively away.

The men and women slowly began disengaging themselves from the various tables, and heading out to a door next to the stage. The room grew a little louder with the conversation as the various parties discussed the contestants, as they were called, for lack of a better word, I supposed.

I drank my vodka, chased it with water, and took in a drag. Sometimes, there is nothing like a cigarette. This was one of those times.

“So, do you like Dawn?” I asked Ms. Abernathy.

“Well, I was thinking of something else, but if you want her, you can have her,” she smiled.

“She’s not really my speed either,” I said.

I looked at the list. All different sorts of numbers, all different types of men and women. This was amazing.

“See, Mr. Grayson, all of these people get the HEIC package. You can see it in them. That little extra something. Now, they are very specialized, and, in my experience, all are very good at their jobs.”

The lights went down, and Gregory appeared on the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as always, a fine evening to you. Tonight, for your pleasure, we have our line of wonderful men and women. If you have not received a racing form and a bidder, please raise your hand, and we will have one to you right away. If you have questions during the modelling, please do not hesitate to call the contestants over and ask them. As always, bidding is confidential, and pairs bids will automatically trump both previous top bids.

“Now, with no further adieu, Our line of contestants...”

With that, he left the stage and the music began. Slowly, one by one, the men and women came out from beind the curtain. Blondes, brunettes, black, redheads, curly, straight, tall, short, curvy, thin, dozens of combinations of attributes. The men were interspersed, with again, the tall and some medium build, but no short men, or curvy men. White and black, men and women.

Each also had a costume of sorts, although many were just very well dressed, in designer gowns or tuxedos for the men. There was a nurse woman, blonde with large breasts, and then another, thin, and sharp features. Then, the dominatrix, number 13, submissive 1, dominant 10, auto-arousal 4, attentive 10, intensity, 9 oral 1, anal 8, bondage 10, shaved, and open to suggestion with limits. A dark haired beauty.

In all, about 50 men and women took the stage, then proceeded to parade themselves among the crowd for a close-up look. Soon, Gregory re-entered. “Ladies and gentlemen, here they are, let the bidding begin!” There were probably just over 75 people in the audience. Someone would not go home happy.

The contestants slowly walked off the stage and began a parade throughout the room, in no apparant order. They would stop at the various tables, and would lean over to have questions whispered in their ears by the bidders. Ms. Abernathy was scanning the crowd, looking for particulars.

She pulled aside a fine-featured Asian woman with dark hair and small breasts, asked her a few questions, but then let her go on. She talked to a number of other women, and two or three men as they came along, different shapes and sizes each of them curteous and eager.

Then one woman, dressed as in beautiful cocktail dress, approached us. Number 8, a straightforward beauty, Brunettes, about 5′4″, thin, with straight hair and deep brown eyes. I looked at her statistics: For number 8: submissive 8, dominant 3, auto-arousal 7, attentive 8, intensity, 8 oral 8, anal 8, bondage 6, unshaven, and open to suggestion without limits, and bisexual.

Ms. Abernthay called her over, and she bent down so Ms. Abernaty could whisper in her ear. Number 8 nodded a few times, in response ot some questions, and then shook her head a few times. Ms. Abernathy thanked her, and she strolled away, looking at me, smiling.

More people passed by, including a number of Aisan women, and a transvestite. I could only tell he wwas a transvestite from the paper in front of me. Otherwise, he was doing probably the best job I had ever seen impersonating a woman. I was going to point him out to Ms. Abernathy, but she had just stopped another one of the women. I could not see her number, but what I could see was that she bore a striking resemblance to, well, Ms Abernathy. Slightly different color of hair, and a different dress, but the same general build. She maybe had slightly larger breasts than Ms. Abernathy, who was whispering in her ear, while she was nodding a little, and looking at me, smiling. When she stood up, I saw her number: 52: submissive 7, dominant 7, auto-arousal 7, attentive 8, intensity, 8 oral 8, anal 8, bondage 6, shaved, and open to suggestion and bisexual.

“Yes, that would be no problem,” I heard her say to Ms. Abernathy. “At your serivce.” She nodded to Ms. Abernathy, who took another long, cool drag on her cigarette.

“A little narcissism,” I asked?

“Wait until you see yours,” She answered.

Another few came by. A Farrah Fawcett look-alike, a farmer’s daughter, an exotic-looking black woman, et cetera. Then, a man, about six foot two, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was wearing an Italian cut suit, dark. Chiseled good looks, like a model. I checked out his statistics. Number 28: submissive 3, dominant 7, auto-arousal 2, attentive 9, intensity, 9 oral 3, anal 8, bondage 4, unshaved, and open to suggestion and bisexual. Under his measurments: 9″.

Well, he and number 52 would look good together. I got a little shock when Ms. Abernathy called him over to whisper in his ear. He faced me, leaned over to her ear, and looked down at the ground. Then his head looked up at me. He nodded and said “yes, ma’am,” with no visible emotion towards me. Ms. Abernathy signaled her approval.

He thanked her, nodded to me with a smile, and walked away. I looked at Ms. Abernathy. “Well, this could get interesting.”

“Just you wait and see, Mr. Grayson.”

She picked up the machine, and began to place her bids. I could see her tie the two together, numbers 52 and 28. I continued to smile.

Soon, Gregory took the stage again, and all the participants gathered around him, in a line.

“The bidding closes in three minutes,” he said. “all bids are final. You will be notified of your selection and room number at your table.” Some of the tables were getting fast and furious, but at most, the people merely kept pushing the bid buttton, to get the ones they wanted.

“I think we got them,” she said.

By the time Gregory rang the ten-second bell, most of the bidding had ended.

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen. It has been again a wonderful eveing, as always. All will receive an envelope at their tables, with your room number and selection, or nothing. But, as always, for those who have nothing, we have more than something else every other night, and the party continues in the cabaret. If you require further service, please do not hesitate to contact me personally. The participants will meet you in your rooms 15 minutes after you get your envelope, unless otherwise arranged. Thank you and goodnight.”

The band struck up again, and regular waitresses cae out to refill our drinks and take orders. We ordered a small sandwich plate, and some Ginger Ale. It was going to be a long night, and Ginger Ale is a great mixer with Vodka.

“What happens if you don’t get anyone,” I asked her.

“You go talk to Gregory. He works everything out for everbody. It’s the losers who really pay here. There will be another round of bidding tonight, but more quiet than this one.”

About 20 minutes later, we had finished the sandwiches, and the waitresses came through with the cards. Ms. Abernathy opened ours and showed it to me: Room 317, Numbers 52 and 28. Another slight shock. She was something else.

“What do you think, Mr. Grayson? Something a little different this evening?”

“I am putty in your hands, Ms. Abernathy.”

“We shall see about that, Mr. Grayson.”

We finsihed our drinks, and a few more ciagrettes while listening to the band, looking at the collection of customers here. Obviously well-monied men and women, with an interesting recerational habit. Generally, they themselves were in good shape, although there were many larger ones. The strangest thing was that there seemed to be no problem among these people. Many of them certianly recognized each other. Quite an interesting group.

In a few moments, a bell rang, and people started heading for the elevators. We took our time, waiting until the over-eagers went first. We went back down the hallway we came in though, past the back door.

We shared the elevator with a middle-aged fat man, who was quite pelased with himself.

“Hello young lady,” he said with a southern Texas accent.

Ms Abernathy greeted him.

“I’ve been trying to get number 37 for some time now, and here she is.” He was talking about our waitress, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.

“Go get ‘em Roger Stauback,” Ms. Abernathy said.

“You got that right. I’m going to take her right up the middle,” he said, laughing.

We all got off the elvator on the third floor, into another hallway, which looked like a straightforward hotel floor, with typical wallpaper and lighting.

The fat man headed down in one direction, we headed in the other. We stopped as we heard him approach his room and knock, loudly on the door.

“It’s third and ten, honey,” he said loudly to the door, “we need some whoopin and hollerin’!”

The door opened, and he went in, with a rebel yell that was answered by number 37.

We continued down the hall, Ms. Abernathy smiling. “To each his own,” she said. I could tell she was eager for our room. “Just let yourself go in here, Mr. Grayson. There’s no reason to hold anything back. All the safeties are off, but you don’t have to worry.”

We turned the corner, and reached room 317. She knocked. The door clicked open.