The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My secret to getting women? It’s not difficult. I simply find a lady worthy of my attentions, and I give her a rose. Then she is all mine.

Perhaps women just fall for old-fashioned romantics? Well, that could be it. More likely is the fact that a single whiff of my roses sends them into fits of lust.

I am not a botanist by trade, but gardening has been a hobby of mine since my youth. I am particularly talented at cross-breeding, that is, spreading pollens from one plant to another in order to create a superior offspring, or a plant with particular traits.

So one day I hit upon the notion that perhaps there is a reason that roses are given as a sign of romance, and why some flowers are romantic and others are not. Perhaps it is because they have some trait that MAKES them more romantic, some scent or chemical that induces feelings of romance. There’s easy evolutionary explanation for it; animals come by, feel aroused, and as they’re having their romp they pick up some pollen. And I thought to myself, well, I’m pretty good at bringing specific traits forth; why not do it for a constructive purpose? I did some spot research, and started breeding. I do not deny that this process took me some time, but gardeners learn patience quite early. We also learn that the end results are always worth the wait.

So I took the most romantic flowers, roses, and bred them with a few others, chrysanthemums and baby’s breath and damiana and such. It took a great many generations, almost two years, before I could get even the basic species I would need in order to strengthen the line. The bright side is that no flower is ever wasted; I sell flowers from my greenhouse to the local flower shop as a modest means of supplanting the income that I spend on them. And even if a particular rose might not have the effect which I intended, my girlfriend Jenny still appreciated getting them.

But eventually I was about ready to begin strengthening the line. For those not acquainted with gardening terms, this involves taking the superior strain of flower and breeding it with other strains of equally superior flower, allowing just enough cross-pollenization to keep the species stronger without diluting its desired traits.

Let me make a long story short by saying that I have a very big greenhouse and a lot of time on my hands. Jenny got roses every time I saw her; I even started leaving them on her doorstep every day just so I wouldn’t waste the poor things.

But with Jenny around I also had a way of testing how well a particular strain worked. If she reacted blase to a particular scent, I didn’t follow up on it; if she reacted better than usual, I kept working at it.

I suppose I could have used more scientific means, but I was in no real rush. I didn’t even have any real plan beyond a modest hypothesis.

But then one day a new breed bloomed blue.

I think even a non-gardener can infer the significance of that. Blue is not a normal color for most things in nature. The Arabics had a myth that a blue rose causes forgetfulness. Even George Carlin did a bit on blue food. Oh, they have bred blue roses before, just to see if it can be done, but most breeds are only a light, paisley blue. These blossoms were a deep azure. They were an amazing breed, and alone would make my name among the gardening community.

Unfortunately, they were scentless. So though they were very beautiful, they weren’t really suitable for my purposes. I kept them just so I could keep the strain alive, show them off at the next gardening show in town.

And I more or less ignored them. Until about a month later, when I noted a new rose growing beneath the blue one. Apparently, one of my red roses that I had nearby, a variation on the rose known as Black Magic (which is the kind most commonly used in movies), had spread a bit of pollen into the azure roses, and they’d spawned a new little tyke.

I replanted it in a small pot and took it into my living room. And forgot about it.

Now, don’t get me wrong, gardening is a hobby of mine, but it does not pervade my life beyond the greenhouse. I do not have hoes lying around the house, or posters of famous gardeners, or anything. I do have a lot of vases that remain filled year-round, and lots of windows, but that’s about it. The new rose plant didn’t stick out too much, and I didn’t pay it any attention beyond watering it until it blossomed an equally bright blue.

This time, though, it had fragrance, a light, heady perfume. If I hadn’t been working on three other more promising strains, I might have paid it more attention.

Anyway, one day I got a call from my boss. I work a crap job in the city at a consulting firm, compiling useless statistics and occasionally flying somewhere to give a presentation to someone vaguely important. This time involved flying to New York for three days at about a day’s notice.

It meant I needed someone to water my plants.

That night after I’d finished packing, I called Jenny over for dinner. I worked long and hard preparing the very best five-minute microwave lasagna I could muster. Over dinner, I asked her if she’d mind coming over for the next few days to take care of my plants.

“Sure,” she said nonchalantly.

“Okay, but it’s a bit more complicated than you’d think. A few of my plants require some special treatment, and you have to make sure the greenhouse stays at the right temperature...”

She chuckled. Jenny told me once that she loves the fact that I’m so attentive to details. She hinted that it was a trait that’d make a good husband and father. We’ve been dating for several years, after all, but I have too many plants and she has too many books to make moving in together feasible.

I took her around and showed her which plants needed specific attention. When she got to my blue roses, she paused. “Wow! Those are neat!”

“Thanks. I bred them myself. I bet I can get an award for creating them.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I was thinking of calling them Jen’s Eyes.”

Jen blushed. She does have beautiful blue eyes, although they are more sea-green than the dark azure of these. She has long blonde hair, a heavy California tan, and a good tight figure. She’s very short, just above five feet, but that just means that her small pert breasts fit her perfectly and her frame isn’t too thick or too thin. She’s finishing college, and is one of the most studious people I know. I think that if there’s anyone I could spend the rest of my life with, it’s her. Honestly, I hadn’t even thought of what to name the rose until I said it aloud to her.

Still, she liked it. She leaned down and gave them a deep sniff. “They smell...strange.”

“Yeah. Almost chocolatey, I thought...” My sentence trailed off as I saw her staring off into space. “Jenny? You okay?”

She shook her head and blinked repeatedly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just...spaced out there for a second or something...” She faded off, leaning down to sniff them again.

I reached over, shaking her. “Jen? What is it?”

She looked up at me with glazed eyes. Slowly, she stepped forward and gave me a deep kiss. I mean a very deep kiss. Intermingling tonsil-deep.

Then she drew back, flushed, and shook her head. “Um, thanks. For naming them after me, I mean. It ‘s really sweet.” She ambled away, seeming slightly dazed and confused.

I, meanwhile, was left standing speechless with a massive hard-on. Jenny almost never initiates anything sexual, and when she does it is routine. That kiss was not routine. I decided to experiment, clipped one of the blue blossoms at the proper 45º angle, and followed her back into the kitchen. I stepped up behind her and held the blue rose beneath her nose, so that she’d inhale before she could pull back.

Again, as she breathed, her body flushed and her eyes glazed. I left the rose there for several seconds, and she did not seem to be in any hurry to move. If anything, she began breathing more deeply, taking fuller scents of the perfume.

Finally, I pulled the rose away. Jen’s head turned with it, as though she were trying to suck as much as she could before it was gone. Then she turned to me and smiled.

I recognized that smile. That smile meant that I was going to get lucky.

Actually, I thought, considering the blue rose and Jen’s hands moved down to unzip my pants and begin stroking me, I already had.

I left early the next morning for New York, leaving the blue rose bush at a male friend’s place. He’s a recluse, so I doubted he’d figure out the power of the rose in three days, since it only seemed to work on women.

I got back from New York three days later practically bursting with impatience. As soon as I could, I got my bush back and began strengthening this line.

It took me another six months. This stronger bread was almost navy. I was ready to begin.

I appeared at Jenny’s door that evening. She wasn’t expecting me, so was pleasantly surprised to see me. More so when I greeted her with a bouquet of two dozen blue roses.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, wow! Are these all for me?”

“Every one, my sweet,” I replied with a romantic bow, handing her the bouquet.

“Are these like those other ones you named after me? They look different.”

“No, they’re not Jen’s Eyes, and yes, they’re different. The color, for one, but they’ve also got a much stronger and subtler scent to them. These I call Jen’s Fall.”

“Why?”

“Take a whiff and see,” I smiled, coming in and closing the door behind me.

Jenny, reversing the age-old adage, smelled the roses and stopped. Her eyes slid closed, and all the strength seemed to sap out from her body. She looked halfway hypnotized, and kept going deeper with each breath of the flower’s intoxicating aroma.

Then she looked up at me with glazed eyes, and dropped the roses as she spread her arms wide to hold me. I found myself kissing her before I realized she’d crossed the room, found her hands in my pants and her breasts bare. This blue rose was an even stronger aphrodisiac than I’d possibly hoped for! Jen forced me down, mounting me and moving quickly. There was no beauty or poetry to her movements, just animal necessity. It was still intensely erotic; more so than anything she’d ever done before.

As she kept pumping her hips furiously, her breasts bouncing above my face, I silently said a prayer of thanks to Dr. Gregory, father of eugenics.

If you think it’s weird that I’d be thinking of a doctor during sex, well, you’re probably not a gardener.

And that, more or less, is the long and short of my story. I do occasionally use my blue roses to entice beautiful women, though I do of course still love and now live with Jenny.

Sometimes my friends ask me how I am so good with the ladies. And I tell them that the secret is simple. I tell them not to be so eager and forceful. I tell them that the secret to getting beautiful women is patience, the patience of a gardener.

I tell them to stop and smell the roses.