The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I studied the art of hypnotism for the best and oddest of reasons: I wanted the truth. Since the age of four I’ve played piano. From child prodigy to teenage freak of nature, I played with single-minded purpose and dedication. All the fame and money that went with it meant nothing to me. Then, at twenty, having graduated from Juliard, I found myself with no direction and no ability to believe critics’ and professionals’ praise of my performances.

Some little time after my twentieth birthday my parents took me to see a magic show. I watched the magician’s hands with the same understanding I had when watching another pianist. They were graceful hands, with long tapered fingers, immaculate fingernails that caught the spotlights with a shimmer. They were pale but not ghostly. Refined but not effeminate. I paid so much attention to the hands that I hardly saw the tricks themselves.

At the end of the show the magician announced that he would hypnotize a volunteer from the audience, preferably a non-believer. My father, ever the jokester, volunteered, claiming he had too much energy and unruly ego to be hypnotized. It seemed like forever, and the magician appeared frustrated, but eventually Father agreed he was hypnotized and would do whatever the magician asked. He danced, he shared his worst joke (“Doctor! I need help! One moment I think I’m a yurt, the next, a teepee!” “Well, it’s obvious you’re too tents.”), he believed he was a dog and lifted his leg in the direction of the audience.

At the end the magician ordered him to kiss his wife full on the lips once he was brought out of his trance and back at his table. And he did, to my mother’s embarrassment. I went home thinking about the wonders of hypnosis. If it really works, why don’t people use it on each other more often?

At the time it was summer and I was practicing the piano every day, not working for anyone but myself. I lived in New York City with my parents, slowly spending my way through the money I had saved up from being a child genius. Every now and again I would think of my dad barking on stage at an imagined foe.

By the time I started thinking seriously about the future the streets were filled with autumn leaves and I was wearing a light coat on my daily afternoon walks. On one of these walks I saw his hands.

“Excuse me, aren’t you Magellan the Magician?”

He looked so… normal, that I almost doubted myself.

“Why yes, young woman, I am. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

For I moment I didn’t understand, then I realized he must have been older than he looked.

“I’m Mary, Mary Maldives.”

“As in, the islands?”

“Yes. An odd name, I know. I’ve never gotten around to doing my genealogy.”

“Well, Mary Maldives, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mister Magellan.”

We stood there in silence for a moment and I found that I didn’t have a reason to have stopped him except to verify that his hands belonged to him.

“Er, may I have your autograph?” I asked, falling back on a sentence I’d heard far too many times.

“Why certainly. Have you a pen?”

I patted the pockets of my coat and shook my head in the negative.

“Perhaps we could retire to that coffee shop on the corner. I was headed there to begin with.”

We walked side by side and I kept looking down to glimpse his hands.

“I take it you’ve seen my show, Miss Maldives.”

“Yes, though I don’t remember many of the magic tricks. You hypnotized my father and turned him into a dog.”

“Did I? And did I turn him back into a man?”

I laughed at this. “Of course.”

There was a brief silence, then, “It appears the hypnotism was more memorable than the other acts of magic.”

“Well, to be honest, I recognized you today because of your hands. They’re quite like a musician’s, you see, and I watched them the way I’d watch another musician’s.”

“You play an instrument, do you?” He asked as he held open the door to the coffee shop. Inside it was dark and smoky and I wasn’t sure I was in a place where a woman would be welcome.

“Yes, I’m a pianist.”

We walked to a table by the window and he held out my chair for me. Even in 1906 chivalry wasn’t dead.

“Is that so? How profoundly fascinating. Do you play anywhere?”

“At home,” I smiled to show that being unemployed didn’t bother me. He smiled back then motioned to the man at the bar. While he ordered coffees for us both I took a moment to look at him more closely. He was indeed older than I had first thought. Perhaps fifty-five or sixty. His face was kind, his eyes widely spaced and large. His lips were not full, but I could see that they must have been quite pouty when he was younger. It was a handsome gentleman’s face framed by dark hair that was obviously dyed and currently unwashed. He had removed his overcoat to sit and I could see that his suit was of an older cut. Well-kept but starting to fray.

“What do you like to play? Please don’t tell me blues or excerpts from the penny operas.”

“I’ve never heard of blues.” “Then you’ve never been to the South.”

“I admit to having been there twice, to perform, and I saw little other than the hotel and the theatre.”

“Young lady, you must visit New Orleans the next chance you get. In February, perhaps, when you’re ready to escape the cold. The food will warm your body, the music your soul, and the young men and women are sights upon which to feast your eyes. Gaudy cakes are called river boats, unruly jungles are called gardens, and frightfully uneven rivers of rubble are called roads. There is nearly as much to do and see there as there is in New York.”

“You make it sound like a worthwhile trip, Mister Magellan. Every Winter my parents ask if I’d like to take a tour to a warmer climate and perhaps this February I’ll do as you suggest. They’ll be pleasantly surprised to hear I want to go anywhere.”

“I take it you’re content to stay in one place.”

“It’s rather that I spend too much time practicing to be able to go anywhere.”

“I know of a terribly decadent hotel in New Orleans with a suite on the top floor that contains a piano.”

“I’m not sure ‘decadent’ is a word I’d want to hear in a description of a hotel.”

“By ‘decadent’ I meant, of course, falling slowly to ruin. The building is older than the town and not nearly as well-kept. But as long as it stands I will continue to recommend it to people contemplating a journey to New Orleans.”

I had been looking at my cup of coffee and I raised my eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of the man behind Magellan’s magnanimous and affected manner. It made me bold to ask a question.

“Pardon me for changing the subject but, if you can hypnotize people, why aren’t you a magnificently rich and powerful man?”

Magellan’s eyes held mine for a long quiet moment and I began to feel sorry I’d asked.

“Miss Maldives, I can see you do spend most of your time practicing your piano, leaving too little time to practice your manners.” I started to apologize before he interrupted, saying, “I have been unable to answer the question, myself, for years. There are several reasons, technically correct, but none of them are quite the truth. They are misleading, to say the least. We could discuss these reasons over coffee, or you could join me for dinner this evening and we can discuss the truth and the lies behind them.”

“Mister Magellan, as little practice as I have with manners, I have even less with social convention. I accept your offer of dinner.”

My parents, rather than starting to worry and ask questions, were thrilled to hear I was going out to dinner with a man. My father’s impish smile appeared and my mother only asked that I be home by nine thirty.

“Do we get to meet this young man?”

“Papa, he’s not young. And I wouldn’t get to thinking that I’m in love with anyone.”

“Not young? How old is he?” “I don’t know. He looks about thirty but he speaks as if he were fifty or so.”

“Perhaps a worldly man, then. Thirty’s not to old for you, dear. You are far too grown up for your age.”

“Papa, please,” I said, slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them it was the magician I’d have dinner with, and father’s idea that it could be a romantic tryst gave me shivers. It occurred to me that perhaps Magellan had romantic ideas. If he did, I promised myself, I’d snip the burning end of that cigar by the time the first course arrived.

Mother helped me bathe quickly, and as she did so she gave me advice, such as it was: “Don’t smile at him too much if you’re not really interested in him.” “Remember not to eat too much nor eat things that could spill on your dress.” “Do not drink too much wine. It’s effects aren’t felt immediately, so it’s easy to think you can drink another glass without getting tipsy. Best to have no more than half a glass, really.” “If you get your own menu, don’t order things which are overly expensive. That makes you seem a tramp. Yet not too cheap, either, since it makes you seem a miser. But if you don’t get your own menu, tell him that you’re not so hungry this evening.” I dutifully answered, “Yes, Ma,” to each instruction, but I was thinking half about the piece I’d miss practicing this afternoon and half about the limitations of hypnosis that would keep a practitioner from taking over the world.

Finally I was in my nice dress, the satin taupe one with small black flowers and a taupe sash, which I wore at recitals, and black wool stockings with black button-up shoes. My mother had made me a black velvet cloak with a red satin lining and I decided to wear that, as well, even though it looked a bit theatrical.

“You look like a female version of that magician we saw last Spring,” my mother mused.

At seven a cab trotted up to the front of our townhouse. Ours was a solidly middle-class neighborhood, so it was rare to see a rented cab on the street. I could see curtains shifting in the houses across the way and I hoped the magician would not come out to help me inside. The cab driver put his reigns aside and stepped down to help me in. I watched my footing down the stairs to my house and heard my father say behind me, “Isn’t your beau going to introduce himself to us?” I heard the tone of a small but growing worry in his voice.

“Papa, he is not my beau. This is not a romantic dinner.”

“Then what is it, Mary?”

“Business,” I said shortly, surprised at myself for lying, “The cab is waiting. I’ll tell you all about it when I return home. Before nine thirty, I promise, Ma.”

With that I stepped into the cab and found myself with more company than I’d expected. Magellan sat facing me and at my side was a beautiful girl, not more than sixteen.

“Miss Mary Maldives, I’m very happy you could join us for dinner. This is my assistant, Beatrice.”

“How do you do, Miss Beatrice.”

She said nothing but stared straight ahead, eyelids slightly drooping.

“Beatrice is in a trance right now. I put her under on the way to your house. This afternoon I had a long conversation with you in my head all about hypnosis and its strengths and limitations and it came to me that it would be easier to show you. Beatrice, your left leg is quite bereft of the effects of that force which we call gravity. It appears to be rising into the air of its own accord.”

Upon which the girl’s left leg did rise, revealing dingy slipper-shoes, like a ballet dancer might wear, and a stocking-less , well-turned heel. It did not stop rising until it was pointed straight up into the air, the toes nearly touching the top of the cab. I again was reminded of a dancer. When I glanced at Magellan his eyes were pointed in the direction of Beatrice’s parted skirts and I blushed at his impropriety.

After a long eyeful, Magellan finally told Beatrice that the effects of gravity upon her left leg were restored and she was once again seated primly beside me, as though nothing had happened. I remained silent, allowing Magellan to decide how to explain himself.

“For a while, after practicing hypnosis for what seemed to be eons, and after finally succeeding on a regular basis with both men and women, I did briefly think I could rule as much of the world as I wished. I started a collection of women, then realized I needed a way to support them. Loss of money is more likely to cause trouble than loss of women, so after a few tries I gave up collecting money illicitly on a large scale. I considered sending my harem out to work but realized that, without training, they’d likely be hired as washer women or secretaries, both of which entail long hours and reduce a woman’s desirability. So, one by one, I let them go. Perhaps the real answer for why I settle for a magician’s wages – and a little on the side - and one entranced female is I have too little brain to successfully hang on to anything else when I grasp for it. Since then, I admit I’ve found a taste for ethics and morality, as well. Now and then I use hypnosis to help people. Such as your father, Miss Maldives. On stage he whispered to me of a particular masculine problem and I gave him a small suggestion that probably has aided him.”

“What was that?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

“I do not discuss my patient’s situations,” he said with a small smile. I couldn’t help but smile back at him.

“I should like to learn how to hypnotize people.” I said. Then realized I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Magellan merely cocked an eyebrow at me before saying, “Doesn’t my little demonstration with Beatrice worry you?”

“How so?”

“If she’s entranced perhaps it means she’d run away if she had her own will.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Beatrice does not interest me.” “Do you not worry that you could be in Beatrice’s position if you spend your time with me?”

“Were you interested in putting me in her position I think you would not have brought her along. And you said, yourself, that you could not afford more than one woman.”

“ ‘One at a time’ has so far been my modus operandi.”

“I am not nearly as beautiful at Beatrice, my value lies in my mind and hands. I would be useless as a mindless puppet.”

Magellan laughed loudly and long, as if I had told the best joke he’d heard all month.

“My dear Miss Maldives, Beatrice is not a mindless puppet. She is beautiful, yes, and she does as I say, yes, but she has her own distinct character that has brought me to love her. And as much as she looks a doll at the moment, you shall see to what depths her psychological training has come. In fact, here we are now. Please, after you. Beatrice, Wife.”

As I was exiting I turned my head at the odd sentence and saw Beatrice transform into a woman my age, if not older. Her eyes lost the blank stare and her lips curled into a most wifey smile as she looked at her “husband.” I shook my head and descended to the cobblestone. I watched with a profound sense of amazement as Beatrice, Wife of Magellan, offered her dainty hand to the cab driver, and stepped onto the street without the faintest trace of being hypnotized. She looked more the wife than my mother ever did. She, in turn, watched Magellan debark and she smiled faintly at him, in the way that a long-married and long-suffering woman would smile at her husband. When he turned to me, she did as well.

“Miss Maldives, is it? How nice of you to meet my husband and I for dinner this evening. He was telling me all about you on the ride here.”

I could feel my eyes widen but I managed to shake her proffered hand and say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Misses Magellan.”

“Please, call me Beatrice. I don’t stand on formalities. And the pleasure is all mine, really. To not only meet a pianist of such high caliber as yourself, but to actually dine with her. Why, the chance comes but once in a lifetime.”

I smiled and turned to Magellan, “Mister Magellan, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Of course it is, Miss Maldives, of course it is.”

Beatrice laughed and laid her gloved hand lightly on his arm, “Really, Peter, not everyone understands your humor. Shall we go in?”

And we went in: a magician, his enthralled woman, and the famous pianist who found herself befuddled, bemused, and about to beg for the keys to hypnosis.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, except for jarring moments when Magellan would casually say, “Beatrice, Stop.” and she would freeze mid-sentence. At these times he and I would discuss aspects of hypnosis, such as trigger words, depths of trance, and limitations the subject’s own mind could place on his or her ability to perform as requested. With Beatrice there as an instrument of learning, I found that I understood and remembered far more than I would have had it merely been the two of us. I barely ate or drank and suddenly it was time for dessert.

“Beatrice, what would you like for dessert?” Magellan asked her.

“Hmm. I think the chocolate cake is calling my name.”

“And for you, Miss Maldives?”

“For the fourth time this evening, Mister Magellan, please call me Mary. I think I’m too full for dessert, thank you. But perhaps a small cup of coffee.”

Magellan ordered for us and, when the waiter departed, again said, “Beatrice, Stop. Mary, I surprised you with the “Wife” command, but I’m going to warn you now about the “Mistress” command. When I met Beatrice, she was a runaway starveling on the street. She offered to, ahem, meet my needs for a small fee. I saw in her, a fourteen year old child, the woman she could be if I took her in and the corpse she would become if I didn’t. My thrall at the time wasn’t ready for retirement, so for a year we had a “daughter” and for six months I had both a fictional wife and a fictional mistress. There are some things a mistress can do that a wife cannot. Beatrice, Mistress.”

Instantly Beatrice’s demeanor changed. She looked sixteen again and a flirty grin split her mouth to reveal her pretty white teeth.

“Why, Magelly-dear, ain’t you having chocolate cake with moi?”

She snuggled closer to him, eyed me suspiciously from across the table, then batted her lashes at Magellan. She crossed her legs in a way that revealed both ankles and leaned forward far enough that even I could see the tops of her breasts.

“Coffee’s enough for me, wench. When we return to New Orleans I’ll have some cake with you there. You have to admit the food down South is ever so much better than up here.”

She giggled at his smile and traced a little finger over the corner of his mouth. Giggling again she leaned even closer and whispered something in his ear.

“Why yes, eating that when we get home sounds like a wonderful idea, my pert little girl.”

I worked hard to keep from rolling my eyes.

“Beatrice, stop,” I said aloud. They both looked at me, Beatrice with confusion and Magellan with amusement.

“Beatrice, Stop,” Magellan said before she had a chance to get offended.

“Peter, her behavior is atrocious, really. How can you stand that?”

“Ah, I have found a difference between you and I. Of course, this is an obvious one. I am a man and you are a woman. We men love the fondling and crooning of our mistresses.”

“Perhaps some men. I doubt all feel the need for more than one woman in their lives.”

“Now you are speaking like a wounded daughter and not at all like the, how shall I say it, relentless woman you appear to be.”

“Most likely that’s a fair assessment,” I said evenly, “But we are not discussing my qualities, we are discussing yours.”

“If the need for a little play-acting from time to time is a sin, then I sin. If I am the only man who enjoys it, then I am alone in my sin. But I think the desire merely human and not at all limited to myself.”

“I’ll grant you that point, but she is not play-acting. She truly believes herself to be your mistress.”

“And how does that differ than her truly believing she’s my wife when she is not?”

“In the first case, the master – you – make her act at a level below her station, in the second, above. As master you should work to better your subjects.”

“Is that so?”

“I thought you had ‘acquired a small taste for morality and ethics.’ “

“Yes, but where is the harm in mixing the high and the low? And would you do different if you could hypnotize people?”

“I’d ask only for the truth.”

“But is that all?” he asked, without blinking or pausing at what, to me, was a momentous declaration, “With hypnosis you can combine so many aspects of different relationships into one person that you don’t need much else. Anyone you need you can create.”

“My life is my music and I haven’t the time for any relationship other than with my piano.”

“In that case, you are a spinster and not a hypnotist. The level of refinement you see in Beatrice is the result of years of experience with other women and months worth of hypnotic sessions with the subject herself. If you truly want honesty, you will have to devote as many hours to training someone to be honest as to your noted practice.”

We were silent for a moment, eyeing each other as the waiter served the cake and coffee. Beatrice was oblivious to the world around her. Had I been the waiter I would have wondered at her unchanging expression. But he appeared not to notice and as soon as he was gone Magellan said, “Beatrice, Start.”

“Mary Maldives, how dare you talk at me like that,” she said haughtily.

“I’m very sorry, Beatrice, I was just jealous that you’d give him cake to eat at home.”

She giggled at this and winked at Magellan, who winked at me. I smiled wanly and decided I was ready to go home.

In the cab Magellan returned Beatrice to her doll-like state and we sat in silence for a bit. Finally Magellan said, “Would you like to meet the ‘real’ Beatrice?”

“Is she still a dirty little tramp, half afright and half asneer?”

“No, she is simply a slightly lower-middle class girl who thinks of me as a kindly, albeit odd, uncle.”

“Then how is she the ‘real’ Beatrice if she doesn’t know the truth?”

“What is truth, really, Mary, but the best explanation we can come up with for the unknown.”

“In what book did you find such a statement?”

“It is a Magellan original, as far as I know. I’ll attribute it as a quote if you find an author.”

“I don’t care to meet the ‘real’ Beatrice at this time, thank you.”

“Then let’s discuss your desire to become a hypnotist. How badly do you want it?”

“How much will it cost?”

“I want more than money, Mary,” he said, looking intently at me

“What else do I have to give you?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“I want you to promise to be my next thrall once Beatrice’s time is up. As far as money is concerned, I want a percentage of what you make at each and every performance between now and then.”

“That is a very high price, especially considering that you’re likely to ‘allow’ me to keep performing once I’m in your power. And, were I in your power, you’d have access to any of my earnings.”

“Well put. In that case, simply promise to be my thrall. It wouldn’t be less than three years away. I tend to keep my women for longer than one might think.”

“Perhaps I could simply give you a percentage of each performance between when I make my honest critic and when I retire him. Or her.”

“Oh I’m certain you’ll go for a him. You won’t be able to resist the urge to make him more than an honest critic. Unless you favor girls in your bedroom.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Does that really happen?” I asked, aghast.

“Don’t be so surprised, my dear. We look for companionship where it’s best found. Woman kissing woman, man kissing man… they are kisses between human beings.”

I tried to imagine kissing my schoolmate and friend, Jessica Stein, and found it difficult. Then I imagined kissing Beatrice and it was not so difficult. It seemed that hypnotism meant more to me than I wanted to admit to myself. I heard Magellan chuckle and I blushed.

“Being in thrall to you seems too high a price,” I said haughtily, trying to hide my embarrassment.

“And why? Five or so years of my company can’t be that bad. I do not kill my subjects but release them back to their nature and environment. Five years is nothing.”

“How would I explain it to my parents?”

“You announce your new job as a music teacher at a small private school in New Orleans. You move. You write a letter or two a year. You visit them for Christmas. Then it’s time to return home, or travel the world.”

“And my money?”

“I promise not to spend more than you make while you’re with me, as long as you give me a percentage of your profits between now and then. It would be easy enough for you to set up an account in your parents’ name for them to keep safe while you’re in New Orleans. When your service is up so is your monetary duty.”

I could think of nothing to say other than that I’d consider his proposal and we did not speak until the cab pulled up in front of my home.

“Mary,” he said as he held my elbow, “Either way, your decision makes no difference to me. There are women out there for me who need me as much as I need them, should you choose not to accept. But you intrigue me more than you need me, or I you. Five years together could make us each more than we would be without the other.” He released my arm as I stood on the street and turned to face him.

“I’ll meet you at the coffee shop tomorrow at three,” I said, with more courage in my voice than I felt. I could see his smile dimly in the gas lights and he tipped his hat at me before closing the door. The horse trotted off and I was left alone for a few moments, absentmindedly watching my neighbors peep out at me from behind their heavy curtains.

The next day I awoke earlier than was my wont and stayed in bed, studying the ceiling, until the maid came to rouse me for breakfast. There was quite a bit that I did not understand, things said by being left unsaid, and I did not have the social wit to translate them into words. I had sacrificed social things to the god of music, leaving me at a disadvantage last night, and I contemplated sacrificing one last thing. It seemed a small thing, my self. It seemed, indeed, something I had already given up. Most likely that would include my chastity, which to me seemed like something more than my ego. I told myself that my own desires were secondary to protecting my virginity. What if the situation were different and it was a young man wooing me to bed? Was marriage not in itself a form of thrall?

There was so little emotion in my thoughts that I wondered if I was perhaps ill or not quite understanding the choice the magician had given me. Rather than fear or revulsion I felt a small thrill that the magician should want me under his power for a spell of time. And an even larger thrill at the thought that I could have a master musician, a master critic, under my own power, to tell me the truth about my abilities. Between my legs there was a small current of electricity that belied my efforts to convince myself it was only for the music.

At breakfast the questions started and I realized I had formulated an explanation as I slept.

“Mary, tell us about your evening.”

“The head of a small music academy in New Orleans sought me out yesterday and asked me to dinner. He brought along his wife and the three of us primarily discussed music.”

At the word “wife” my father’s anxious look departed and he settled back to enjoy his toast and eggs.

“Why did he seek you out, dear?”

“He had seen my performance two years ago and thought I’d make a good piano teacher. From what he said, it appears this academy has high standards and turns pupils away every year. He wanted to discuss teaching opportunities with me.”

“And?”

“Papa, don’t rush me, I’m trying to eat breakfast.”

“Don’t rush her, Theodore.”

“Sorry, Mary, take your time.”

I took a bite of toast and thought about my explanation. I felt it was brilliant.

“We are under negotiations now. I’m not so sure I want a critic studying my work full-time. It feels like I’d be a bug under glass.”

My parents smiled at my objection. They’d work hard to convince me now, I was sure.

“What is the name of the academy?”

I blinked and took another bite of toast. A rather large bite of toast. And I chewed thoroughly and thoughtfully.

“The New Orleans Music Academy,” I finally managed. Bland enough and real enough. It might even possibly exist. But if it did, and if my parents sent letters to me there? A bridge to burn when I got there, it seemed.

“I don’t recall hearing of it,” my father began.

“It is new, Papa, they started it about four or five years ago. We wouldn’t have heard of it on our tours.”

“And the director’s name?” my mother asked, just in time for me to start on the next slice of toast.

“A Mister Ambrose. I had never heard of him, of course. What with the music arena being rather small in America I was suspicious at first, but it turns out he is from Paris, and well-known enough there for Europe’s child prodigies to be sent to his school.”

There, that should appease them. I looked from father to mother and back again and we silently ate our toast.

“You said you were going to meet again with him today?”

“Yes, Ma. I have an appointment with him at three today. Oh, but not Mister Ambrose, himself. It’s with the headmaster, a Mister Hedley. He’s an American with no real ties to music. I suspect he’s a closet composer with no professional work to show. Mister Ambrose sent him up here to speak with me and a few other musicians in the city.”

Satisfied, we turned to other topics. My mind was still so aflutter that I could hardly keep up with talk of the weather and soon rose to return to my room, giving the excuse that I had a headache I’d want to rid myself of before my afternoon appointment.

Back in my room I thought again of my chastity, it’s value in relation to the value of my music. It truly was nothing. Why not pay the price now and reap the profit for the rest of my life, rather than interrupting my life’s work right when I might be at its pinnacle? Magellan’s – Peter’s – refusal would only be based on the economic difficulties of keeping two women. But then again, I was evidently the first one he approached who could pay her own room and board. I resolved to make my counterproposal that afternoon.

I stood outside the coffee shop, unwilling to enter without an escort, and gently tapped out the first movement of the score I was practicing. I was nervous, and justly so. Finally Peter Magellan appeared and shook my hand warmly.

“My dear Mary Maldives. I’m so glad you chose to keep our appointment.”

“Peter. I trust you have had a good day so far,” I replied as he opened the door for me.

“Indeed. This morning Beatrice was my niece, doting on her uncle as a mother would her child. Breakfast in bed while she darned my socks. Reading the newspaper while she worked on the sweater she’s knitting for me. And bathing in hot water while she soaped me all over.”

“I wouldn’t do that for my uncles,” I said, before I could stop myself.

“She’s a very grateful niece, considering I took her in when no one else would shelter her,” he replied airily.

We chatted aimlessly until the coffee arrived, then his tone became serious and he asked if I had made a decision.

“I have a counterproposal,” I replied. “I know you are attached to Beatrice, but perhaps you could make room in your life for another woman. I’d prefer to serve my indenture up front.”

“But you do want to serve that indenture in the first place?”

“Yes. I’ve decided that, as much as I’ve let my quest for perfection consume everything else, I am willing to sacrifice my self as well. Such as it is. And for such a short time.”

“I cannot pretend I quite understand how hypnotizing another person is going to improve your piano performance.”

“It’s less about my own skill as it is my inability to believe other musicians when they speak only praise. It seems to me that there is always room for improvement yet my critics have very little for me other than praise. I depend on the ears of others and the objectivity with which those ears hear and have started to doubt that objectivity.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but for all your words it sounds as though the truth of the matter is that you do not trust yourself. You appear insecure in your field. Rather than learning how to hypnotize others you should merely put yourself in my capable hands and let me help you vanquish that insecurity.”

“I am not a whining little snippet of a woman,” I retorted, “I have been playing piano since I was an infant! Do you think I have anything in me that would doubt my own abilities? I wish to improve, Mister Magellan, not merely to bask in praise that, in my inability to judge its sincerity, means nothing to me.”

I was breathing hard, my face flushed, and rather than withdraw at my outburst or react to it, Peter instead leaned toward me and seemed to study my face and neck with fascination. I had never seen a man look at me so. I tried to make my breath slow and my heart return to normal.

“I stand by my first impression that you are a driven woman. It probably pains you to spend any length of time away from your piano. Fortunately for me, I have a piano at my home in New Orleans.”

“The decadent hotel?”

“Oh, no. Though it is decadent in its own way.”

We eyed each other carefully and kept our own counsel as we drank our coffee. Finally Peter emptied his cup and leaned toward me with an air of confidentiality.

“I accept your offer to come with me sooner rather than later. In two weeks I leave for New Orleans. Is that enough time for you to put your estate in order and pack your things?”

“Yes,” I said, rather breathlessly. It was real. I was going to belong to a man more than twice my age!

“Then do so. Beatrice and I will come for you in a cab again and the three of us shall take the train out of the city.”

“You’ll have to meet my parents, I’m afraid. Or maybe Beatrice will. They think you’re the headmaster of a music school in New Orleans. I worry they’ll have suspicions if they never get a chance to speak with either of you.”

“Beatrice, then. You had mentioned they saw my show so it’s likely they’ll recognize me. Did you tell them Beatrice was my wife?”

“I did. I’m sure they’ll accept anything she says as gospel truth.”

“Good, then I’ll have two weeks to make Beatrice the Wife think she’s the wife of the head of a music school. That shouldn’t be too hard. What’s the name of the school?”

“The New Orleans Music Academy.”

“Splendid. That’s easy to remember,” he smiled at me and I smiled back. I liked his smile, charming and generous.

“There’s one last thing. Well, perhaps more than one. They are the rules of engagement, so to speak. Rule Number One: pack nice clothes only and don’t bother with undergarments. You will never wear them again unless I ask you to.” He kept eye contact with me and his smile broadened when I drew a sharp breath. “Two: even when you are not under hypnosis you will do as I say. There is room for discussion, because so far I enjoy discussing things with you. But we will do first and discuss later. Three: while you are under my control I will share you as I wish, just as I would share an umbrella or a pot of tea.”

“But –“ He held up a hand to silence me.

“Those are the rules for you, and these, mine. Rule Number One: I will care for you as I would care for any valuable object, ensuring your well-being and safety. Two: I will not hold you in thrall for a term of more than five years, although I may release you earlier if I so choose. Three: should you desire it, all memory of your time with me will be suppressed so that it will be as if those five years passed in a blur of piano instruction and snot-nosed children. Do you submit to these rules?”

I was holding back tears, frightened at the idea of any other man touching me. It seemed one thing to dissolve my ego in the magician’s gaze. Quite another to submit to a stranger because of it.

“I take issue with rule number three. The third rule for me, I mean.”

“Why?”

“It seems, well, beastly. I do not think of myself as an object.”

“Yet how do you think of Beatrice?”

I didn’t answer.

“Well, then, imagine Beatrice seated next to me, pouring tea, as I entertained a dear friend of mine. This young gentleman was quite taken with Beatrice. Yet how could he see her as anything other than an object, since there was no conversation between them other than a ‘How do you do?’ and no action on her part to expose her soul, her essence to him? Yet, because he is such a dear friend, I gave him the use of Beatrice the Object for an evening, for the poor fellow desperately needed cheering up. It worked wonders for him.”

“Do you believe another dear friend may need an object for an evening in the five years I’d be with you?”

“One never knows, but I hate to be stingy with my belongings. I am, at heart, a sharing man.”

There was a twinkle in his eye as he said this which I both loathed and admired. He and I were much alike, it seemed, for to me there was little difference between one person and another. I had little skill to distinguish one particle of the masses from the rest. If I could so casually see Beatrice as an object, see my maid as an object, how could I object to being seen as an object by others? It was enough that I had my own inner life, my own passion in music.

“I have to hope the opportunity for you to extend your sharing nature to friends in need does not occur during my time as your indentured servant. Very well, I accept your rules of engagement.”