The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

They’re unnaturally beautiful, but I’m not attracted to the hostesses. The thing with the hostesses is that they’re always acting as if their personalities have been erased—they spend hours standing like peacocks around the host desk, their eyes vacant and glassy, staring off into nothing. Nothing’s been done to them, they’re just like that. You approach them and they smile politely, and if you’re attractive or rich their smile widens and becomes more mischevious and they purr and rub against you like kittens.

That’s why Nicolas hires them. He comes up behind them and puts his hands around their waists and they squeal and push their bodies into his. Once I saw him cup the bottom of a hostess’s breasts and bite her neck while there were still couples and families in the restaurant. He can get away with that because it’s his restaurant and maybe also because he’s European. European people seem like they can get away with anything. He can pull off wearing a purple ruffled shirt or leather pants and he can stroke the nipples of a girl working a Saturday night dinner shift and somehow both of those things are fine with everyone.

The restaurant and the lounge are very different places. I am technically a manager at the restaurant but I stay late and work during lounge hours because I’m fascinated by what goes on in the lounge. The hostesses work at the restaurant but most of them work at the lounge as well. It’s long hours but they’re well paid and they wind up batting their eyelashes at the richest, most powerful men in the city, which seems to be the only thing to get them to display any sort of emotion. The hostesses’ emotions, for the record, seem to be lust and pettiness and a frantic desire to own lycra clothing.

And while I said earlier that I’m not attracted to the hostesses, I don’t want to act like I don’t want to fuck the hostesses because obviously I do. Everyone wants to fuck the beautiful, blank-faced hostesses. You can’t look at them without picturing them standing naked at attention, bending over, waiting for you. You can’t help but imagine them presenting their gorgeous breasts for your inspection, their eyes glazed and submissive. Everyone wants to fuck the hostesses and anyone who says they don’t is lying. But I’m not attracted to the hostesses because aside from wanting to fuck them, they hold no attraction.

Emily, one of the dinner waitresses, walks by.

“He hired another one,” she says under her breath.

“Hostess?”

“Of course a hostess,” she teases.

“Beautiful?” I ask.

“No,” she says sarcastically, smiling. “An ugly one. Picture James Gandalfini, but as a woman, and with lots and lots of hostessing experience.” I smile and Emily looks at me good naturedly. “Yes, of course she’s beautiful,” she says. “Her resume was a headshot.”

“He has to hire them to attract the type of clientele he wants in here,” I tell her. “The late night clientele for the lounge.”

“That stupid lounge,” she says. “I’m so glad I’m not here for any of the late night lounge nonsense.”

Emily walks away grinning, shaking her head. Emily is one of the restaurant waitresses. There are restaurant waitresses, lounge waitresses and hostesses. The restaurant waitresses, I sometimes think, are the only ones with an IQ above that of wall to wall carpeting and Emily is the brightest of them. She is a psychology student at a nearby university and is one of those people who seems to be in a perpetualy good mood. It is wonderful, working with people like that. Sometimes bantering with her is the only thing that keeps me sane.

I walk toward the back of the restaurant where Emily is refilling a water pitcher.

“Hello, Peter. If you’re here to tell me more about how hiring part-time models attracts the type of clientele we want, save your breath,” she says, sighing softly. “I feel like a troll next to these girls. She looks down at her uniform which, for the restaurant waitresses is a light brown shirt with a light blue tie and a floor length brown apron over their jeans.

“I wasn’t here to do that,” I tell her.

“The lounge waitresses get to wear all black,” she says thoughtfully. “They wear skirts. And the hostesses can wear whatever they want as long as their nipples aren’t showing—although honestly I’m not sure that rule is even that firmly enforced.” She laughs and I smile.

“I walked back here because I like to talk to you,” I said. “But as for the new hire, it’s strictly about the type of people he wants in the lounge.” I tell her this quietly but firmly. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

And she looks at me because she does. Because our lounge is famous around the city despite only being advertised through word-of-mouth. It is a haven for the rich and the super rich to discreetly snort cocaine on its mirrored tables. Its lush red couches have felt the flesh of orgies funded by corporate accounts and trust funds. But the clientele love the lounge servers and the hostesses—they want to go home with the hostesses, and so they stay and they spend money. Which is what Nicolas wants.

Usually, for the record, they also go home with the hostesses.

They go home with the hostesses or they go home with women they came with or met at the lounge. It is hard for the men not to get lucky—this is how Nicolas has rigged the club. He has set it up so that between the liquor and the abundant drugs and the damn pulsating lights any woman would be lucky to leave with her mind functioning and her panties intact. The lights are the worst because it is hard for me to be around them when I’m approaching the end of a shift and I’m getting punchy. There is an entire wall of the lounge that is covered in projections of lights—screensaver-like patterns that repeat and pulse. Some of them pulse, some of them swirl. Every night I watch women a few drinks in get caught by these patterns, snared as if by fishhooks, and lose hours watching them with enormously blank eyes—eyes even blanker than the hostesses’ eyes are normally, if that can be imagined.

Nicholas has set up the tables so that the comfortble chair—the one the man traditionally offers the woman—is the one facing the wall. The men offer the women a plush red chaise lounge and within a few minutes you can see the women unable to follow the conversation, their eyes following the pulsing patterns. And you can see the men smirking to themselves, after a few minutes waving a hand in front of a face or copping a feel to see what they can get away with. Sometimes the conversations with the women go on for a while but it is not often. Usually the men will buy the women more drinks and when it is obvious to all of us that the women are in a ridiculously suggestive state, they will either leave or, more often, move to a more private area of the lounge. No woman leaves the club with a focused gaze. Most end up in a mildly entranced stupor but some are more suggestible than others. I have seen women fully clolthed, nodding submissively at whatever the gentleman with them suggests and I have seen women naked and panting, mindlessly begging the man they have just met to fuck them.

The lounge is designed like a rabbit warren, with dozens of small enclaves and burrows into which men can take their dates for some privacy. From each enclave the projections are clearly visible and the women wind up deeper in their trance-like states. Maybe I should say “trance-like states,” maybe I should say “trances.” I don’t know. I don’t know exactly how it works and I don’t know what the women feel. I try not to be so turned on by it but Jesus, it’s impossible not to be. Nicolas has even given me the go-ahead, in so many words, to enjoy one of the women, if I am so inclined. I haven’t let myself, though the temptation presents itself nightly.

Few people see anything that happens here aside from me, the other managers, and the clientele themselves. All of it takes place three floors below a moderately well-respected French restaurant.

Emily does not know what happens at the lounge but from the constant hiring of gorgeous, angular hostesses, she imagines it is something depraved. She has pushed me a few times to spill details but how could I possibly explain it without her asking why I stay and don’t call the police? I drop hints that the craziness has to do with drugs or crazy amounts of money being spent. I tell her that there is a lot of cocaine, which is sometimes also true. I sometimes hint that a woman was giving a blowjob in one of the warrens and make it sound completely scandalous when in reality every night there are dozens of empty-faced women staring into nothing who would give blowjobs to whoever ordered them to give one. I have seen women quick, intelligent women reduced to nothing, mindlessly giving blowjobs to large, cheering groups of men. I have seen women lying naked on the tables, staring at the ceiling, their mouths and legs hanging open while men with paunches stood around them in a circle, stroking the women’s bodies with their fat, red fingers. I tell Emily none of this but she knows something is suspicious, regardless.

“This whole place is ridiculous,” Emily says to me at the end of her shift. She is staring at the new hostess who is staring off vacantly into nothingness. “It’s like a crazy, drugged-out whorehouse.” Emily has never been in the lounge during lounge hours or seen what happens at the end of the night—she is basing her judgements solely on the hiring of the vapid, oversexed host staff. She doesn’t realize that her assessment is dangerously accurate.

“It’s not that bad,” I say.

“You’re lying,” she says. “It’s awful, but you love working here.”

I smile. I do love working here. I can’t lie to her because she knows me too well. I’m not attracted to the hostesses but I want to fuck the hostesses and I think what Nicolas and these men do to these women is horrible and yet I sometimes have to go to the manager’s office and sit until my erection cools down from watching some glassy eyed woman get groped by a man in a business suit fifteen years her senior. The other night I watched two girls on ecstasy pull off their tops and sit stone still, staring at the projections while a man in a suit ran his finger across their nipples, back and forth for fifteen minutes.

“I love working here but I’m not an awful person.”

“I didn’t say you were an awful person,” she says. “You just want to have sex with the entire host staff.”

“Actually when they make you a manager you have to sign a waiver promising not to bone the entire host staff,” I say.

“The no-boning waiver?” she says, laughing.

“That’s the one.”

“And you signed it?”

“I did,” I say.

“What a waste,” she says, smiling.

I look at her while I count her money and double check her paperwork for the evening. She is probably twenty eight or so, and has clean fingernails and simple, attractive hands. She is slender and her brown hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail for waitressing and her uniform is clean and pressed. I am attracted to Emily which of course I don’t tell her because I am her manager and she is almost ten years my junior. She is sweet and funny and down-to-earth. I like that I am attracted to her. I’m sort of disgusted by myself for wanting to fuck the vain, self-obsessed hostesses but I’m proud of myself for liking Emily as much as I do. I must not be all bad.

“Please know that you look very nice today, Emily,” I tell her.

“Thank you so much, Peter,” she says sarcastically. “I’ve been practicing staring blankly off into space and not having coherent thoughts with the hope that they’ll hire me for the host desk at some point.”

“Some of us find people with thoughts attractive,” I say. “There are so few people here with coherent thoughts,” I tell her. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

“You can’t,” she says, grinning. “Nothing would ever get done around here.”

I smile as she walks away.

“Are you headed home?” I ask.

“I’m headed out for drinks with a friend,” she says. “You’re closing out the lounge?”

“I am,” I tell her.

“Have a totally sex-crazed, ridiculous night,” she says.

“Oh I will,” I tell her.

“No boning the hostesses,” she says, laughing.

“You’ve got my word,” I tell her.

And it is a ridiculous night. The nights in the lounge are always ridiculous.

I introduce myself to the new hostess, or attempt to, and she smiles vapidly and says that her name is Katrina. She is six feet in heels with an impossibly sleek blonde ponytail. She is wearing black leggings with a white lace shirt-type thing and boots that end mid-thigh. I introduce myself and go to shake her hand and then immediately realize that you don’t shake hands with girls like this. You either fuck them senseless, screaming in a dark closet or you politely nod at them from afar.

From afar is where I witness most of what goes on this evening. It starts off with groups of men in expensively cut suits just getting out of their offices at god knows what hour of the evening either escorting an attractive woman or flirting with one on the staff. Some of the men are not wearing suits—some men come in wearing T-shirts and shorts and flip flops and those are the men with so much money they don’t even have anything to prove anymore. They’re all here for the sex.

The women at the beginning of the night are thrilled—there are eyelashes batted and white teeth flashed and they are still toying with the men because at the beginning of the night the women still have the power. The women flirt and the men buy them drinks and the music pulses and that is when I go to the office to do the restaurant paperwork from earlier in the day. I eat my dinner in the office and go through scheduling problems and inventory and when I peek out into the lounge a few hours later all of the women are sitting in the red velvet chairs entranced, staring blankly at the projections. I love looking at them—all these sharply dressed women who came in with their cynical eyebrows and intense, dark lipsticks reduced to soft, mindless, pliable fucktoys. When I have time I love watching the whole thing play out—watching them slowly losing more and more focus and control, but when I’m busy I’ll settle for watching the before and after.

Some of the men want to feel even more in control—as if they personally have done this to the women and not solely the projections and the drinks. I have seen men holding up pocket watches, swinging pendants before women’s eyes, chanting slowly to deepen the trances. I have seen men whispering inductions and suggestions into girls’ ears and playing the sinister hypnotist. All of these things deepen the effects but they are probably not necessary. It all depends on your fantsy, I guess.

I glance at the hostesses and most of them are blankly staring as well, their pouty lips hanging open only slightly. In the beginning of the night they are busy seating people and making small talk with the guests but a few hours in Nicolas knows he doesn’t need them because everyone is settled in and he’ll get some of them pliable and staring at the projections. He’ll start handing them drinks and then start a ‘conversation’ with them in which he has his back to the wall and the hostess is looking at him, trying to concentrate on whatever he’s saying and before long her face is even blanker than it normally is and her eyes are glazed and she stops noticing anything else. Right now he is standing with the new girl, Katrina, his left hand in the small of her back and his right hand massaging her breasts slowly, rhythmically, matching the concentric circles that she is watching on the wall. She looks vacantly over his right shoulder, as if she doesn’t realize he is there.

Nicolas walks over to me. “We need to close up, Peter” he says. “Night’s over. Let’s get all of them out of here.”

And thus begins the process of closing down for the evening. The bartender is far past last call and he begins putting things away. Nicolas gently leads one of the beautiful, vacant hostesses up the stairs where she will mindlessly agree to go with him to his apartment. He rotates them. I watch him almost every night with envy. A little bit of disgust, yes, but still envy.

Katrina leaves with a tall foreign businessman who is whispering instructions into her ear as they walk—as he escorts her into a cab. Two of the other hostesses leave with rich men in T-shirts. One beautiful black woman has taken off her shirt and is numbly letting herself be fondled when I politely drop the hint to the gentleman she is with that the club is closing. This is how I end the evening. Finding glassy-eyed women who are being groped or fondled or (in some of the smaller back rooms) fingered, and telling the perfectly aware men they are with that hey, you have to fuck her somewhere else because we’re closing up in a couple of minutes.

I walk to the last booth—the one the furthest out of the way and there is a man and a woman, the man holding the woman by the chin, holding her eyes to his eyes as he whispers something to her, the woman staring straight ahead, completely under the spell of the projections. He is maybe in his fifties, in a power suit with graying temples—I have seen him in here before. And the woman is much younger—maybe in her late twenties with brown hair that cascades around her shoulders. She is wearing a black top and a short black skirt and I think to myself that she must really be under because she is sitting carelessly in a skirt that short, her legs too far apart, the man’s hand inching up her thigh. And I am about to tell him he’ll have to do this somewhere else, that he’ll have to go fuck her in his twelve million dollar apartment or wherever the hell he does whatever he does, and that is when I look closely at both of their faces and I realize that the woman is Emily.

Startled, I drop the clipboard I was holding and the man turns toward me as it clatters to the floor by the base of his table. He picks it up and hands it to me. I am feet away from both of them.

“You, uh...I’m sorry sir, we’re closing up,” I tell him. He smiles genially at me. I have come by at the end of every night and given him this news.

“Not a problem,” he says. He whispers something to Emily and she shivers. He reaches his hand into the neck of her shirt, cupping her breast. He continues to whisper to her and she begins nodding obediently. I suddenly feel myself get angry—as if there is fire rushing through my entire body and I am not thinking clearly. I vehemently hate this man. I want to hit this man squarely in the face—I want to knock out his teeth and pummel his face to a bloody pulp for touching her. Somehow I manage to keep my fist at my side but when the man begins to help Emily rise from the booth I am no longer able to contain my anger.

“I’m sorry, she can’t go with you,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry?” he says.

“This woman is an employee.”

“That’s never been a problem before,” he says.

“Please get out,” I tell him. “She’s not that type of employee. She’s not interested.”

“She’s not?” he says, grinning. “I beg to differ.” He cockily shows me his index finger which he then places an inch from her mouth. She immediately begins fellating his finger, wrapping her lips around it, pumping back and forth. I watch her perfect mouth slide up and down his finger. I’m transfixed and I want to vomit. Fuck.

“GET OUT,” I tell him. “Or I’m calling security.” I reach for my walkie talkie and the man slowly gets up.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll leave. But I’ll mention this to Nicolas. I’ve been working on her half the night to get her like this. I don’t like wasting my money or my time.”

“I’m very sorry for the misunderstanding,” I tell him. “You’ll be reimbursed for everything you’ve spent tonight.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just such a waste. But then again watching them go under is half the fun—especially when they’re struggling.” And then, looking at her he says the phrase, “Alicia, wide awake.” She hadn’t even told him her real name. Emily suddenly looked vaguely coherent of her surroundings. Her eyes began to dart back and forth.

“What’s going on,” she says. “Where am I?”

“Alicia, sleep time,” the man says and she instantly relaxes into a dreamy smile. He grins at his handiwork. “I’m leaving now,” he says to me. “You’re responsible for making sure she doesn’t remember anything that happened here or I’ll see you in court.” And with that he walks confidently off, leaving Emily staring blankly at the projections, my cock so rock hard I’m amazed it isn’t ripping through my pants.

Fuck, she looks beautiful like this. I’ve never seen her with her hair down but it’s wild and beautiful on her shoulders and she’s wearing black eyeliner on her glassy, heavy-lidded eyes. God, I just want to fuck her right here but I can’t. I want to put my dick in front of her mouth to see if she’ll begin wrapping her lips around it, pumping up and down the way she did a second ago on the man’s index finger. I want to cup her breasts while she stares vacantly into space, kneading her beautiful flesh in circles while she moans and whimpers quietly.

“Emily,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmmmhhhhmmm.”

“What are you doing here? How did you get past the bouncer?”

“I snuck in,” she says slowly. “Employee entrance.”

“Why?”

“Just to see,” she says, slurring slightly through the trance. “I wanted to see what happens down here every night.”

“I thought you went out drinking?”

“I did,” she says slowly. “It was after a few drinks we thought it’d be a funny idea. Me and my friend Lana.”

“Where’s Lana now?”

“There was a man,” she says, smiling. Jesus, of course there was. So Lana’s in some rich stranger’s apartment, having the remainder of her brains fucked out.

“Emily look at me,” I say. “I’m going to bring you out of this and we need to talk about this. Alicia, wide awake,” I say, and suddenly Emily’s eyes focus. She comes out of it slowly, as if waking from a dream. And suddenly her eyes begin to dart again, as if remembering that the dream was a nightmare.

“Emily listen to me—I need to talk to you,” I say with as steady a voice as I can manage.

“What’s happening?” she says quietly, nervously. “Where’s Lana?” And suddenly her face turns ghostly pale. “Who was that man before? He was...oh my god. I was...what was I doing? What did he do to me?”

“You weren’t yourself,” I say.

“No shit, I wasn’t myself!” she screams, and I thank god that we are the only two people left in the lounge. “What was I doing?” she says. “He had his hand on the inside of my thigh. I would never let him touch me. How was he touching me?? Why would I let him touch me?? What is this place?!”

And that is when I realize that this is never going to work. That she is terrified and hysterical. That I am going to have to undo most of this by putting her back under and undoing whatever this asshole did to her. “Alicia, sleep time,” I say, and she says, “Wha—” but before she can form another complete sentence her eyes glaze over and she calms.

I am sitting next to her suppressing about a thousand urges a second.

I want to stick my tongue and my dick into her beautiful blank face. I want to order her to pull off her top and bend over and let me fuck her while I hold on to her gorgeous, melon-sized tits, all the while having her stare blankly into space, blissfully unbothered by the fact that she is naked and fucking someone from her job. Just looking at her like this is making me crazy—I’m going to cum in my pants from looking at her, erotically tranced with her lower lip hanging and her mindless stare. She is unaware that the neck of her top was pulled down when the gentleman reached inside it to fondle her and the top edge of one of her nipples is clearly visible. For whatever reason, I pull the top up so that she is covered. I mange to keep it together enough to begin asking her questions.

“Who was the man you were with?” I ask her.

“I dont’ know,” she slurs. “He wanted to play a little game.”

“What game?”

“I had to promise him I would watch the wall for five full minutes, and he said when I looked away, if I was able to look away, I would be sitting next to someone I had been hoping to run into all night. Someone I wanted to fuck really badly.”

“And after five minutes?”

“I...I couldn’t look away.”

“But you eventually did. You eventually looked away.”

“I watched the wall for more than five minutes,” she says, quietly. “And when I looked away I was sitting next to Peter, my manager from the restaurant. I had wanted to run into him but I hadn’t been able to find him.”

I froze.

“Peter, your manager from the restaurant?” I ask. “So he appeared in the booth next to you? He was the one you wanted to fuck really badly?”

“I’ve always wanted to fuck Peter,” she says. “The man who appeared...he looked different but he said he was Peter. He said he looked different because I was drunk. He wanted...he wanted to fuck me very badly,” she says slowly, her eyes still vacant. “And then he asked me to do all these other things—he kept holding me by the chin while sliding his hand up my thigh. He would put his finger in front of me and have me suck it. He kept reaching into my shirt to cup my breasts.”

“And you liked what this...what Peter was doing to you?” I ask, disbelieving.

“Only because it was Peter,” she says. “It made me...”

“It made you what?” I ask.

“I...I couldn’t help getting horny from it,” she says, embarassed, shifting in her seat. “But then he left.” She sounded sad when she said this last bit. “He left.” Her voice became small and nervous.

“Peter left?”

“Someone came by and kicked him out,” she says softly. I place my hand on the back of her head. “Do you want me to have Peter come back?” I ask.

“I want Peter to come back,” she says.

“Ok, I’m going to ask you to stare at the wall for another five minutes. Can you do that?”

“At the wall,” she says vacantly. I guide her head and she is already staring, her gaze hooked. I cannot get over how easy it is.

“Good girl,” I say. “Let your mind go completely blank. There’s no need to remember anything that’s happened tonight. Only that if you stare at the projections for long enough, Peter will come back. If I can make Peter come back will you promise to listen to my voice?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Good,” I say. “Peter loves to fuck girls who are blank-faced and obedient. Are you obedient?”

“I’m obedient,” she says.

“Obedient girls do whatever they’re asked. Are you an obedient girl?”

“I’m an obedient girl.”

“You’ll listen and obey if it means you get to see Peter.”

I’ll listen and obey.”

Ok, I think to myself, I can see why the men come back here night after night.

“If I tell you to do something because it will make Peter happy, you will do it, won’t you?”

“I want to make Peter happy,” she says, mindlessly.

“Good girl,” I say, trying to hide the nerves in my voice. I unbutton my pants to ease some of the pressure. “Peter wants you to take off your top and your bra and let your breasts hang free,” I say. “You want to do that for Peter, don’t you? So that he’ll come back?”

She immediately pulls off her top and her beautiful, enormous breasts sway for a minute before falling still. I brush my finger against her nipples. Her eyes continue staring straight ahead but her body responds to my touch. She is sitting, topless, vacant-eyed, unaware that I am fondling her breasts and suddenly I realize that my passive desire to fuck the hostesses is nothing—has never been anything, next to my desire to have Emily.

“Peter loves good girls,” I say, my breath ragged. It is impossible not to abandon yourself to this kind of power. “Are you a good girl?”

“I’m a good girl,” she says.

“A good girl with beautiful breasts like these would wrap them around my dick,” I tell her. “If you haven’t done that, how can I tell Peter you were really a good girl?”

“I’m a good girl,” she says, suddenly anxious, pulling out my cock and rubbing it between her tits.

“You are,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, my member enveloped by her enormous breasts. “You’re a very good girl. I see Peter at the top of the stairs, and I’m going to tell him what a good girl you’ve been all evening,”

“Where is he?” she says, anxious. “There are a lot of other men here who were looking at me. I was nervous.”

“He says not to be nervous,” I tell her. “He says if you’re feeling nervous to wrap your lips around whatever’s in front of you and that having something thick and warm in your mouth will help you feel less nervous. Wrap your mouth around whatever’s in front of you and while that calms you down, Peter will come down and sit next to you,” and with that I release my throbbing dick and place it inches from her lips where she suddenly downs it, pulsing back and forth to the beat of the music that is still playing in the background because I have never bothered to turn it off. Her head is bobbing back and forth and her breasts bounce with each thrust of her mouth onto my cock. I immediately feel my hot cum hit the back of her throat.

“Peter asks you to swallow,” I say gently. God, I am such a shit, I think, but she wants me—she cares for me—she did everything she did with that businessman thinking she was with me the whole time.

I zip up my pants and sit next to her in the booth.

“Good girl,” I tell her. “you’ve been such a good girl all night. Look beside you now and you’ll see someone you’ve been waiting for all evening.”

She turns. Her eyes are not coherent—she is still tranced, but she is obviously happy.

“Peter,” she says.

“You came here hoping to see me?” I ask.

“I wanted to see you,” she says shyly. “And I wanted to finally see what happens down here.”

“What did you see before I got here?” I ask.

“So much sex,” she says, suddenly anxious again. “Men taking advantage of the women,” she stutters, as if suddenly realizing. “All the women were helpless, staring at the projections...” and as she says this I grab her by the back of the head, my hand firmly tangled in her hair, holding her face back toward the projections.

“The women were helpless,” I say. “Staring at the projections.”

“Helpless,” she says.

“When the women look at the projections they become helplessly entranced by the projections, which is what’s happening to you right now, Emily.”

“Wha—”

“But the women like to be helpless,” I tell her.

“The women like to be helpless.”

“The women like to be blank-faced and obedient.”

“The women like to be...” she stops for a moment.

“Blank-faced and obedient,” I tell her.

“The women like to be blank-faced and obedient.

“The women love looking at the projections because the projections make them pliable and submissive.”

“Pliable and submissive,” she says softly.

“You are helpless because you looked at the projections, Emily. You are blank-faced and obedient. You will do whatever anyone asks you to do.”

“I...wait,” she says, suddenly nervous. I hold the back of her head so that she is staring directly into my eyes.

“You will do whatever anyone asks you to do,” I tell her calmly.

“I will do whatever anyone asks me to do.”

“And because you are under the power of the projections you must give youself over to me to protect you. I will protect you from people who would take advantage of you when you’re helpless like this.”

“Give myself over to you.”

“Lie down, Emily,” I say. She lies down on the plush red pillows that are draped everywhere and I lower myself onto her, her eyes blank and staring past my head.

“Because I want to protect you, I am going to ask you to do something. I am going to ask you to forget everything that happened this evening. There was no club, there was no businessman trying to touch you. There were no women entranced by the projections. You went out with Lana and that night you ran into Peter on the street and invited him back to your apartment. You had always wanted to invite him back to your apartment but the idea of doing it always made you too nervous.”

“My apartment.”

“You brought him back to your apartment hoping he’d hypnotize you.”

“Hypnotize me.”

God, I think, it’s been all of five minutes and I’m ready to cum again.

“You brought him back to your apartment, Emily.” And here is what did happen—you want to listen don’t you? Are you obedient?”

“I’m obedient,” she says softly, her beautiful empty face staring out while her breasts rise and fall with her breathing.

“Good girl,” I say. “Because this is the story you’re going to remember. You invited Peter back to your apartment and the two of you had amazing sex and you came over and over again. You had an amazing time and agreed that you want to see each other again, without revealing your relationship to anyone at work.

“We want to see each other again,” she says, smiling.

“And you know that Peter cares for you, which is why you love falling into a trance for Peter. Which is why you want to fall into a trance for Peter because you know that when you’re tranced you’re such a good girl and you’ll do anything for Peter. You’ll do anything peter asks you to do.”

“I’ll do anything peter asks me to do.”

Whenever I say the phrase, ‘sleep, Emily,” you will fall back into this state—you will feel exactly as you felt after looking at the projections—pliable and mindless and obedient. And you will be amenable to doing whatever I say because you trust me. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“When I bring you out of trance you will remember nothing that happened while you were under and you will have the same personality that you have always had.”

“I will remember nothing.”

I lie on top of her for several minutes, she staring at the ceiling, my hand kneading her enormous breast in circles. The same circles that pulsate on the wall. It strikes me that the women aren’t the only ones that are affected by the projections. They are affected far more, but if you’re in the room with them for long enough they’ll affect you at least a little.

Suddenly Emily speaks again.

“You aren’t having sex with me right now,” she whispers, “Because you’re thinking about having sex with the hostesses. You want to fuck the hostesses.”

“I could care less about the fucking hostesses,” I tell her honestly, and with that I thrust into her, her explosive wetness that has been building up for hours enveloping me. My eyes roll back in my head and I feel helpless for a moment—far more helpless than any of the women staring blankly at the wall for hours. I thrust in and out of her for several minutes until I am satisfied that we have both cum. Cleaning myself up I put both of us in a cab and take us to her apartment, which I have never seen before. There is a refridgerator full of good, real food and there are sneakers and pairs of jeans strewn everywhere. It is the apartment of a smart, interesting woman, which is the type of woman I like. I love talking with them and exchanging ideas and laughing and enjoying their company.

But all that aside, I think, as I watch Emily’s limp form draped across the mattress in her black miniskirt, her mouth agape and panting lightly, the part where we’re not talking is pretty enjoyable as well.