The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It’s like one of those good news/bad news jokes. The good news is that I have incredible mind control powers: I can make a person obey any command, accept any suggestion, believe any proposition, or experience any illusion with full sensory conviction. The bad news is that all of this works on exactly one person in the world: me. That’s right, I can carry out mind control, but only on myself!

I found this out by pure accident, about five years ago. I woke up with a pounding hangover, and said to myself, “You shouldn’t touch alcohol for a month!” I felt a kind of tingling zap in my brain, and suddenly not only could I not drink, I quite literally couldn’t touch alcohol—I couldn’t lift up a beer bottle for fear that I might get some drops on my skin. Had a hell of a time trying to explain that to my girlfriend (now my wife). These days, I’d be able to just “zap” myself back out of it if I did something that stupid, but back then I hadn’t figured out what I was dealing with yet, so I spent a full month being the world’s most extreme teetotaler.

I learned I could “zap” myself without saying anything out loud, and I started to learn the limits of my abilities. There weren’t many. I could issue any command, and I’d carry it out, without fail. I could set up a scenario, and I’d experience it in full Hypno-Surround™: illusions I created for myself would involve all of my senses, and were so real that I couldn’t distinguish them from the actual world. That freaked me out a bit, to be honest. I could alter my opinions on any subject, for a short time or permanently; I could set up post-hypnotic triggers that would be activated by a phrase or a sound or an event; and on and on.

Now, I imagine many of you are thinking that this would all be great, if only I could do it to other people, right? Specifically, the males among you are no doubt thinking that it would terrific to be able to “zap” the minds of, say, passing gorgeous females, and be able to do all the stuff to them that I can only do to myself. But zapping only my own mind? Useless, you’re thinking.

Ah, but take a moment and consider the possibilities. I did, once I realized what I had going on, and I realized that there were some real benefits. Take the other day as an example . . .

The other day, I went out for a walk in the woods. It was a beautiful area, one I’d never seen before, with lush green undergrowth and towering trees, but with a nice clear path winding through it all so that walking was never difficult. The path opened out into a meadow, and there, lying on the grass, was a wood nymph. Or maybe a dryad, I’m no expert. At any rate, she had light green skin and was wearing a sort of tunic made of leaves. Her face was heart-achingly beautiful, her legs were long, smooth, and perfect, and the bumps and curves under those leaves were intriguing. She looked up at me, smiled, and stood up.

“Greetings, mortal,” she said. “Welcome to the greenwood.”

“Um, hi,” I stammered.

“Do you desire me?” she said. Nymphs are, I guess, fairly direct in their dealings. Her gaze dropped pointedly to the growing bulge in my sweatpants, and she grinned mischievously. “I see that you do. You may have me. But first,” she added, wrinkling her nose adorably, “you must catch me!”

And she turned and started to walk away across the meadow. I’m no fool: I walked after her. She vanished into the woods, down the cleared path, and I followed. Walking didn’t quite allow me to catch up with her, so I broke into a light jog. She began to run, too, always keeping just ahead of me, sometimes running backwards so she could grin at me, sometimes forwards so I had a view of her perfect backside. And . . . was I starting to get more of a view? Yes, as she ran, the leaves of her tunic began to tumble slowly away, bit by bit, revealing more and more of her body.

Whenever I began to feel too tired to go on, she’d turn and give me a smoky gaze. “Come along, mortal, don’t give up now! Don’t you desire me? Wouldn’t you do anything to have me?” And I kept jogging along after her, chasing this tantalizing vision. The last of the leaves dropped away, and when she turned to face me as she ran, I revelled in the sight of her perfect breasts, bouncing as she ran away. I felt as randy as a satyr, chasing this bit of perfection through meadows and over hills.

“Just a little longer, my dear mortal,” she said, when I seemed to be struggling to keep going. “Run! You must run! Do you need some incentive?” She gestured with her hands, and my clothes vanished. She slowed down just enough for me to be within arm’s length of her, and with one delicate hand she reached down and brushed my swollen cock, sending an electric jolt of pleasure through me. “Run,” she whispered. “Chase me!” Her fingers danced along my shaft as we ran together, ran and ran and ran as I strove to keep up with this enchanting creature. If I slowed down too much, she moved ahead, taking her dancing fingers with her—when that happened, my cock had harsh words with my legs and demanded that they move faster, faster! We raced through the forest, with me being led along by my cock, helplessly in thrall.

After what seemed like forever, she turned and, still running, whispered in my ear: “You have done well, mortal. It is good to run, to revel in the use of our bodies. Now, let us enjoy our bodies in another way. Do not stop running!” And she turned away from me, grabbed my cock, and guided my inside her from behind. I gasped at the sensation, and was in no condition to wonder how on earth we could be fucking while still running through the forest. “Run!” she gasped, as her warm wetness clenched and spasmed around me. “Run, faster!” I ran—Jesus Christ, I ran! A few minutes later, I had the most intense orgasm I could imagine, and she yelled joyously and thrashed against me. She slowed me to a walk, and we walked together for a few minutes more, hearts pounding, bathed in the afterglow of sex and exercise.

And then I blinked, and the woods disappeared, and I found myself on the treadmill in the basement, having just done my daily hour’s worth of exercise. So, do you begin to see some potential, here? No more dragging myself to the gym to work out because the doctor says I should; every day, any one of a thousand erotic scenarios play out in my head as I get my dose of aerobics. I could just order myself to do it, but this way is a whole lot more fun! I’m pushing forty, and in better shape than I was in college. Of course, it helps that I can eat perfectly healthy food and just zap myself into believing that it’s whatever I want—that plate of butter-free, sauce-free vegetables and extra-lean chicken suddenly becomes steak with gravy and mashed potatoes, or anything else I feel like. My doctor can’t get over how good my cholesterol is.

To an outside observer, of course, it just looks like I’m incredibly disciplined about diet and exercise. Which I am, of course, just not in the way that people think: another term for discipline would be “self control”, and that’s exactly what I have, control over myself. I work when I’m supposed to, eat what I’m supposed to, take care of my body the way I’m supposed to—and create a little fun for myself along the way.

There is something more than a little bit scary about my ability to cloud my own mind so completely. I could, for example, live perpetually in a fantasy world, zapping myself to perceive anything I wanted . . . But what about my real self? Could I forget to eat? What if I sat around all day thinking I was slaying dragons and saving damsels (knowing me, erotically grateful damsels) in distress? No, that way lies insanity, so I’ve instituted a couple of rules for myself. Once a day, I zap myself to remove all commands, illusions, and other effects on my mind, so I can keep track of what’s really going on and who I really am. (Okay, technically I can’t be sure of anything: I could have zapped myself long ago to change my behaviour, and included a command not to ever notice the change, in which case I wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t noticing . . . but again, that’s a road to madness, so I pretty much assume that what I perceive after my daily “cleaning” is real. Which puts me in much the same boat as everyone else, when you come right down to it.) The other rule is that I make all my self-imposed illusions have some basis in reality: if I fantasize about a run through the woods, I do it while I’m actually running. I also include an “auto-off” command, so that if anyone had needed to talk to me during playtime with the nymph, I’d have heard them and snapped out of it immediately.

So although I do sometimes have fantasy sex, I try to keep it to a minimum, and mostly zap myself only to modify my perceptions during actual sex. Which means I need an actual, real-life partner, but I have one available: I’m married, and I’m about the luckiest guy in the world. My wife looks exactly, and I mean exactly, like Angela Chittenden. If you want to see a picture of my wife, just look up Angie on the Net, they could be twins. Face of an angel, body by the Devil—a package to make a bishop howl at the moon and curse his vows. And what’s even more . . . Hey, y’know, it strikes me that it’s just a tad suspicious that she should resemble this model quite so perfectly. ‘Scuse me a moment. <ZAP> Huh. OK. Well, I just removed all my self-imposed illusions, and I now remember that my wife, while still being a wonderful person whom I love dearly, does not in fact resemble a fitness model to any great extent. In fact, she’s a bit chubby and even, with all affection, mousey. I remember this about once a day when I clear the buffers, but the rest of the time I’m absolutely convinced that she looks (feels, smells, tastes) like whoever I’ve selected—or at least, my imagination’s construction of whoever I’ve selected. I can now remember that it was Dena Doster last week, and Catherine Zeta-Jones a couple of weeks before that. The upshot is that I can bed anybody who strikes my fancy without being, in any material sense, unfaithful. I suppose there are those who might argue that I was being unfaithful in some metaphysical sense, but then again there are always those who just like to argue.

I have just discovered that I may also be, in an extremely specialized way, a superhero. At least, my “power” was useful in thwarting a particular type of crime, carried out by someone I’d have to describe as a supervillain. See, my friend Carl and I were out at a bar last night, having a few drinks to unwind. (I never drink anything but water—why would I need to, when water can be whatever I want? But I come along to be sociable.)

“Oh my God,” Carl said suddenly, tapping me on the shoulder and not-quite-pointing through the crowd. “Who is that? She’s unbelievable!”

I turned, trying not to be too obvious—something I’m not that good at—and saw who he meant. A tall, statuesque redhead in a figure-hugging black dress had just entered, and now stood almost posing in the entryway. I felt a little tingle as I looked at her, and I didn’t blame the dress for being figure-hugging: I wanted to hug her figure, myself. She was stunning.

Now, Carl is as happily married as I am—well, maybe not quite, but pretty happily married all the same. He likes to make a show of ogling the women when we go out, and his pointing out a particularly fine specimen wasn’t an unusual event. But we both knew that it was all talk, and harmless.

This time, though, was something else. Carl stared openly at the redhead, his eyes wide, his lips moving, forming words I had to strain to hear: “So beautiful, so perfect, so enchanting. Perfection. Must be close to her, do anything to be close to her, protect her, serve her, help her . . .”

What? I looked again at the redhead, and felt another little tingle. She was beautiful, I realized. Perfect. Such perfection should be worshipped, I suddenly thought. Cherished. Protected. Obeyed.

My eyes wandered away from Her for a moment, and I saw that everyone else in the bar was staring at Her too, each of them moving their lips in a silent litany. And I thought, “Huh. Strange, and a little suspicious.” And as I generally do when things strike me that way, I zapped myself “clean”. <ZAP> Down into my mind went the standard command: “You are now free of all commands, suggestions, illusions, and influences.” I blinked, and looked back at the redhead. She remained red-haired, but that was the only point of similarity. She was now short, dumpy, and wearing sweatpants and a ragged T-shirt. I felt no impulse to serve or protect her—what I did feel was a sudden, sharp fear. That tingle when I looked at her . . . She could zap other people’s minds!

Carl, next to me, continued to whisper and stare. I started whispering again, so as not to stand out from the crowd—the very last thing I wanted to do was to attract her attention in any way. I didn’t know if I could “unzap” myself fast enough, if she hit me with a more specific command than the general feeling of lust and obedience she’d infected everyone else with. For all I knew, she might never have met anyone who could resist her, and I didn’t want her to have a chance to think about how to handle the situation. What if she ordered me to hurt myself, or someone else? What if she changed my personality permanently? I zapped myself with a command not to panic, to remain calm and think my way through this.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she rasped in a croaky, smoker’s voice. “First things first, bring me all of your valuables. Put them on the table, right here.” The crowd surged forward, eagerly reaching for wallets, pulling off rings and necklaces, unstrapping watches. I went along, and left my wallet in the pile with the rest.

She laughed, almost a cackle, and said, “Now, my lovelies: take off all your clothes, and let’s have some fun.” All around me, people began to shimmy out of their clothing, frantically eager to obey her every command.

And I hit her over the back of the head with a bar stool.

She went down like a felled tree, and the strip-tease around me stopped abruptly—that was good news, anyway, I hadn’t been sure that her commands would halt when she lost consciousness. People looked at each other in bewilderment, some of them scrambling to replace articles of clothing. “What the fuck!” one man said.

What to do with an unconscious mind-controller? No use handing her over to the authorities: no jail on Earth could hold her, assuming that any officer of the law could manage to get her there rather than, say, giving her the keys to the patrol car and sending her on her way. A cold, calculating part of my mind told me that I should arrange for her never to regain consciousness: kill her, keep her permanently drugged, something like that. Someone with that sort of power was too dangerous to be running around the world. But I wasn’t prepared for such extreme measures, so I reached into the pile of valuables, snagged my wallet and Carl’s, and dragged Carl out the door.

“What in the name of the Buddha’s left tonsil just happened?” Carl asked, after I’d dragged him out the door and about a block down the street.

I deflected his questions as best I could, hoping that his general confusion over the event would prevent him from wondering too much about my specific role in it. I thought he’d been too busy stripping to notice who actually hit the woman. I went home, and gave my wife an extra-big hug.

My world has changed, now. There’s at least one person out there with the power to zap other people. Are there more? Could they be everywhere, and I’ve just been lucky enough to avoid them until now? I now zap myself with a command to ignore all outside suggestions, orders, and illusions, and I reinforce it every hour, but unless (until?) I meet another mind controller, I won’t really know if it’s going to work. The thought that someone could make me turn against my beliefs, maybe hurt myself, my wife, my friends . . . It gnaws at me. I’m looking into this, in my spare time, searching through newspaper archives looking for signs of mind controllers at work. Like the little item in today’s paper, “Bar orgy baffles police”—the cops found a room full of people fucking in a writhing mass of bodies, and had to physically drag them away from one another. The only signs of foul play were a small patch of blood on the floor, and a matching spot on a bar stool. The kind of story I would have skimmed right by before, but now I have a better idea what I’m looking for.

If they’re out there, I’ll find them. I won’t give up until I know, one way or another. I can be pretty tenacious when I put my mind to it.

After all, I’ve got self control.