The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

One of my favourite things about Saturday morning is that I don’t have to get dressed, and I don’t have to shave. I just pull on my old bathrobe and flop on the couch, watching the same cartoons I did as a kid—they all seem to be back, only now they’re “retro”.

It was eleven-fifteen when the knock came. I knew it was a stranger; my friends call before they visit. I considered ignoring the knock, but then I thought it might be a neighbour in trouble, or perhaps even that very handsome man who lived right across from me. I went quietly over to the door to take a look, prepared to sneak away were it a door-to-door evangelist.

I was in for a bit of a surprise—through the peephole I saw a police officer waiting on my front step. I pulled open the door, wondering what was going on.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said the young officer. “...this early,” he added awkwardly, seeing how I was dressed. “We’re doing a survey of residents in the area to see what they think about current community policing practices, and how safe you feel in the neighbourhood.”

I nodded, unable to speak. Normally I go for older men, but this officer was devastatingly handsome. Certainly not more than 25, he had flawless skin, a firm jaw, large blue eyes, and perfect teeth. His voice was clear and deep. And the police uniform didn’t hurt. (Okay, so I’m into uniforms. Sue me.) True, he was wearing one of those silly-looking police winter hats, but it was really cold out.

He held up a copy of the survey, and I started at it stupidly for a moment before taking it from him.

“I’m going to be back in about half an hour,” he said. “If you could have this survey completed, I’ll collect it then. Can you do that?” He looked up at me with those blue eyes, and I just looked back into them until I realized he was waiting for an answer.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, sure,” I replied. As he turned to go, I could hear his stomach growl, and I smiled. He didn’t pay any attention to it, but it had given me an idea.

I had half an hour to prepare. First, I popped an apple pie from the previous night into the oven, turning up the heat. Then I ran upstairs to shower and shave, and get into some decent clothing. By the time I came back down, my hair damp and fluffy, the whole downstairs was filled with the aroma of fresh-baked pie. I put on some water to boil, then made coffee. The combined smell was heavenly—enough to start my own stomach grumbling.

There was one more thing to do—I turned on my notebook computer, starting up a program I had written myself, based on the neuropsychology research I was doing at the University. It wasn’t magic, but it would certainly help out. Then I left the computer sitting open on the table, as if carelessly left there.

Just at that minute, the bell rang again. I walked casually to the door, and pulled it open. The police god was there, smiling politely. I tried to keep my voice even.

“Please, come inside,” I said.

“Oh, I can’t,” he said, “I’ve just come for the survey. Did you have the chance to complete it?”

“I’m just about done,” I said. “Step in out of the cold for a moment, and I’ll get it for you.”

I stepped back into the kitchen. The policeman hesitated for a moment, then the January wind blew up again and he closed the door, with himself inside. I made little humming noises, as though I was writing something down.

“It smells wonderful,” he said after a minute. I popped my head back out.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, “You must be freezing. Can I get you a hot coffee? And I’ve just heated up some apple pie.”

He shook his head, just as his stomach made a big rumbly noise. Then we both laughed.

“Go on, have a seat,” I said, “I’ll bring you some. You’re due for a break anyhow, I’m sure.”

The officer (whose last name was Davis, I read on his tag), thanked me, and stepped into the kitchen. I indicated a place at the table, where he sat while I poured him a mug of coffee. He took off his gloves and stacked them on the table, then accepted the mug gracefully.

“Nice machine,” he said, indicating my notebook. I could see he was watching the lines and curves flickering across the screen. He could hardly help it—the patterns were the result of a lot of research, designed to powerfully draw the eye in, and to increase theta activity in the brain. “I haven’t seen this screen-saver. What is it?”

“It’s a puzzle,” I lied cheerfully. “The patterns are actually making a shape. Can you see it?”

He leaned closer, looking deeper, and his forehead creased.

“Can’t say I do,” he commented.

“It’s like those ‘magic eye’ puzzles,” I said, coming closer. “You have to let your gaze really relax as you follow the pattern.” I gently pressed the spacebar to tell the computer to move into the next phase of pattern generation. Davis leaned even closer and squinted his eyes.

“No,” I said quietly from behind him, “don’t squint. Just let your eyes relax. Let all the muscles of your face relax. Look deep within the pattern. Deep. Relax.”

I could see the muscles of his face letting go, one by one. He wasn’t under yet, but should already be feeling more suggestible.

“That hat must be uncomfortable,” I commented conversationally. Not looking away from the screen, he reached up and removed it, placing it on the table by his gloves.

“If you don’t see the shapes yet yet, then look deeper,” I said softly. “It’s not hard, you just have to let go, let your eyes go, deeper and deeper into the pattern...” I kept this up for a few minutes, watching Davis closely. Not much longer...

Davis smiled and shook his head a little. “God,” he said, “a guy could get hypnotized staring into this.”

“As indeed you are.” I said firmly. After a moment that got his attention. He dragged his eyes away from the screen and looked up at me, eyes wide.

“Say what?” he asked. This was it. I reached out and tapped him on the forehead.

“Sleep now,” I commanded. Davis opened his mouth to speak again, but his eyes snapped shut. His eyebrows struggled upward for a long minute, resisting the heavy eyelids, then everthing went slack and his head flopped onto the tabletop with a “thunk”.

I winced at the sound, but Davis seemed undisturbed. His face was turned towards me, mouth slightly open. I just looked at his beautiful face for a long moment, and listened to the sound of his breathing. His ears were still red from the cold outside, which was very endearing.

Now I had to figure out what to do with him. I ran him through a few standard response tests to see how well he was accepting suggestion, and was pleased with what I learned. Finally I was ready.

“Davis,” I said, “what are you wearing?”

“My uniform,” was the gradual response.

“What kind of uniform?” I asked gently. My face was inches from his. I could smell his cologne, and feel his exhalation against my cheek.

His brow wrinkled. “A police uniform.”

“Why are you wearing a police uniform?” I asked him. “You’re not a policeman.”

His brow wrinkled more. “I’m not?” he murmurred, sounding confused.

“No”, I said, “You’re a dancer. An erotic dancer. A stripper.”

“I’m a dancer,” said Davis, the lines on his forehead relaxing.

“That’s why you’re wearing a police uniform,” I said. “You’re delivering a birthday strip-o-gram.”

Davis looked unhappy, and moved restlessly.

“You love stripping,” I said, and he began to relax. “Stripping turns you on,” I continued. “You love to show off your beautiful body to other men. It makes you hard. You love to touch yourself, and your clients. You want your clients to touch you. It is the ultimate turn on.”

Davis was smiling in his sleep now, making little happy noises. I turned off my computer, and closed it. I was coming up to the moment of truth, when I would either have the time of my life, or be in big, big, trouble.

“One more thing,” I added. “Davis, when I touch you on the forehead, you will instantly fall fast asleep again, just as you are now. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he answered after a moment.

I counted down from ten, telling him that at each step he would grow more awake, and at zero I told him to open his eyes. He sat up suddenly at the table, facing me. His blue eyes were blazing, but I couldn’t read his expression.

“I’ve got some bad news for you, mister,” he said, standing up. He was shorter than me, but stocky. “I’m taking you in. Turn around and put your hands up against the wall.”

“Uh, officer,” I began. This was bad. I needed to get him under again, quick.

“Now!” he said. I reached out to touch his forehead, and he grabbed my hand in mid-air. Holding it, he twisted me around and seized my other hand. I knew nothing about hand-to-hand combat, and this man was powerful and quick. In a moment he had handcuffed me, and I was sitting on the edge of a chair, stunned. I was helpless, my hands behind my back, no way for me to reach his forehead. I wondered if I could turn the screen-saver back on with my nose. But if it hadn’t really worked the first time, what was the point?

“You’re under arrest,” he said, leaning close to me. I could feel the heat of his face, inches from mine, and my desire mixed with my terror. I was captivated by his masculine features as much as by the handcuffs. His eyes were steely and hard.

“You’re under arrest,” he continued, then grinned “...for having a happy birthday!” And he leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. Then he stood back, turned up the song on the radio, and began to dance for me.

I think my jaw fell onto my lap at this point, but I pulled myself together. I had actually done it! I grinned like an idiot and watched Davis dance.

Surprisingly, he was quite good. He really knew how to move his hips, and he kept fixing me with a hot, inviting stare. The coat and jacket came off almost immediately, revealing a short, powerful body. The sleeves of his blue uniform shirt pulled tight around his biceps whenever he flexed his arm. He shed the heavy utility belt in one smooth motion, letting it thump to the floor. Then he straddled my legs, sitting on my lap facing me. He pulled off his tie, and placed it over my neck like a yoke. Gripping both ends of it in one hand, he pulled me forward until my face was again inches from his. And oh, that smile.

While one of Davis’ hands was holding me in an unbreakable grip, the other was undoing the top buttons of his shirt. He stopped halfway, then pulled back one side of the shirt to reveal a firm pectoral, sprinkled with dark hair, and a firm, brown nipple. He tugged on the tie until my face was over the nipple, tongue within range.

I didn’t need a second invitation. I thrust my face against his chest and began to work his nipple for all I was worth. He moaned with pleasure, then in a while pulled me off again. He stood up, released the tie and backed away. A few more buttons, then he removed his shirt with a flourish, flexing his chest muscles for me.

Maybe in twenty years this man would be just another out-of-shape donut eater, but right now he had the body of a god. Clearly he had no social life, spending far too much time in the gym. He danced all around me, bringing his chest, arms, and thighs invitingly close, brushing against me. Then he stood close, faced away from me, and bent over at the waist to undo the laces on his boots. His butt was right in front of me, where I could see every muscle through the material of his pants.

Then he stepped out of his boots, and dropped his pants. He was wearing standard white cotton briefs, and as he turned to face me again I could see the outline of an impressive cock hard inside them. He was horny, that was for certain. He danced near me again, gyrating his pelvis right in my face, letting the contour of his genetalia bump against my nose and mouth, as he ran his own hands over his chest and thighs. Finally the song on the radio ended, and Davis stepped back and picked up his pants.

“What about your underwear?” I asked him, disappointed. He smiled at me. “Sorry, birthday-boy,” he said. “This is the whole show.” He fished a key-ring out of his pocket, then went behind me to undo the handcuffs. I rubbed my wrists tenderly—the cuffs had been abrading them somewhat, and I hadn’t noticed until now.

Davis was pulling his pants back on when I reached around from behind him and touched him on the forehead. Immediately, he expelled a breath and collapsed backwards into my arms, almost knocking me over. I could barely hold up his entire weight. I dragged him over to the couch and deposited both of us there, somewhat tangled in each other. His breathing was deep and even. I snuggled up to his sleeping body, running my hands over his firm muscles and hairy chest and legs. Then I slid one hand down over his firm abs, under the waistband of his underwear, and got a grip on his good-sized cock. He shifted under me, smiling.

“Davis,” I said. “You’re naked now. Why?”

“I’m a stripper,” he muttered back, content.

“No, Davis,” I said. “You are naked, because tonight is a culmination. You are about to make love to someone you have always desired, someone you always wanted. You are horny, and ready. You have just been to dinner with this person and now you want the rest of the weekend to be perfect, romantic, powerful.”

Davis rolled slightly, shifting onto his back and smiling.

“When you open your eyes, the first person you see is that person. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” he replied.

“Open your eyes,” I said. He did, blinking a few times. I looked into his face, and he met my eyes and grinned. Then he put a warm hand up against the side of my head, and pulled me into a kiss. This was no quick kiss, as Davis-the-stripper had given me. This kiss involved his whole body, his whole being. He drew me in with eyes, lips, arms, and legs; I felt embraced from top to bottom. Then his tongue drove into my mouth, and all I could taste, smell, feel, and hear was him.

Davis rolled over on top of me. I let him—I couldn’t possibly have stopped him if I tried. He began to kiss down the side of my neck, nuzzling as his hands explored the rest of me, undoing my buttons and belt.

I won’t describe the next hour, because the reality far surpasses my ability to record it. Suffice it to say that we both had a lot of fun, even if Davis didn’t realize I was involved at all. Finally, when we were both spent, I reached out and touched his forehead again. And I kissed him as he grew limp.

“Davis,” I said, “When you wake up, you will get dressed. You will go to the door and wait for me. When I hand you the survey, you will wake up, not remembering anything that happened since you first came in. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said. He even sounded a little disappointed.

I went to the bathroom to wash up, and when I returned Davis was standing at attention by the door, fully dressed, wearing the silly hat again. I picked up the survey, gave Davis one last order, then handed it to him.

He awoke with no apparent sense of interruption. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “Have a nice day.” And he left without another word, just looking efficient and handsome in his uniform. I returned to my couch to watch television, feeling considerably more sated than earlier. I wondered a little whom he had seen in his fantasy—man or woman? But in the final analysis, it didn’t really matter. It had been a good day.

I suppose you’re wondering about that last order. It was simple—every Saturday is my birthday now, and I always get a Very Special Telegram just around eleven-fifteen. He’s not always dressed as a police officer, either. Sometimes I like a man in jeans and a t-shirt. Sometimes I like a man in a perfect three-piece suit. But most of the time, he’s just officer Davis, the hottest cop-stripper-lover on the beat.