The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr… um…”

“You may call me Hendrik.”

“Do have a seat, Hendrik. And please feel free to call me Abigail.”

Butterflies executed a seemingly never-ending paso doble in Abigail’s abdomen as the round-faced Englishman inclined his head with old-world hauteur and took the offered chair. Inwardly she recited the litany of precautions she’d taken: her secretary had seen Hendrik arrive, beside that she felt a distinct home-field advantage in meeting him in her own office, and she’d left a letter with a trustworthy friend. Maybe she’d sounded a bit paranoid, asking her to mail it if she didn’t call by noon to tell her not to, but she stepped hard on such fears as they arose. Now was not the time to lose her cool.

“Well, Abigail,” said Hendrik in his public-school tenor. “I hear from our mutual acquaintance that you have a business proposition for me.”

“That’s right. Now, what I heard from Mr. Stanley is that you don’t need money. You only work for, well… fun. Is that true?”

“Not entirely. I am fortunate to be independently wealthy, it’s true, and I do only take on cases that I expect to enjoy, but still I usually charge a fee, if only to cover incidental costs.”

“I see.”

Abigail paused for a moment, her fragile fluency punctured just as soon as the conversation ventured further than she could reasonably predict.

“In some instances I have charged only a nominal sum, and in others I have chosen to remit the fee entirely. It all depends on the case. Perhaps you could give me some details. Who, for instance, are you having trouble with?”

“Well, um… it’s me.”

Hendrik suddenly looked a lot less impassive. “I’m sorry?”

“You change women’s minds, right? Give them a new perspective on… whatever? Well, I need a new perspective on, um… sex.”

“I’m afraid this is a waste of both our time, Doctor Faustina. I am not a therapist. Usually I am retained by a husband threatened with divorce by a rich wife, or a junior manager with an unreasonably demanding female boss, and so on. Through… means of my own I persuade the ladies in question. I have never done so at the lady’s own request, and I really don’t think…”

“I know all about it.” Abigail was suddenly voluble in her panicked desire to keep Hendrik in the room. “Mr. Stanley told me all about how he referred you to the Dean when his marriage was on the rocks. Little Miss Tits threatens to run off with a grad student and take half his stuff besides, then you come along and a week later she’s at home baking, the student’s been kicked out and he’s looking like the cat that’s got the cream.”

Hendrik remembered the case with some fondness. The Dean’s wife was something of a Little Miss, being 5′2″ and approximately half Hendrik’s (not to mention her husband’s) age, but in one respect she was anything but Little. With his hands on Little Miss’s prodigious Tits he’d been able to probe her feelings and desires. He’d discovered that she’d picked an older man to marry for his money, only to find that even senior academics are, at best, only comfortably off. It had been such a joy rebuilding her into a more loving, dutiful and, he liked to think, happier wife that he’d pretended it would take a whole week just so he could spend more time testing out her skills. Dean Murray had been euphoric when he’d come to pay the remaining half on delivery, and when they’d shaken hands Hendrik had felt his only twinge of guilt in the whole process, as he’d discovered that alimony was never the Dean’s first concern. He’d hired Hendrik to make Alyssa into the wife he loved, and who she’d gotten tired of pretending to be.

This was, however, no time to reminisce. Hendrik scowled.

“Stanley’s got a big mouth. Anyway, as I say, I really don’t think I can help you, Abigail. I’m sorry.”

He reached out his hand across the desk, and etiquette left Abigail no real option but to stand up and shake it.

Her brown eyes widened and she gave a little gasp as Hendrik established the link between them. At his bidding she leaned forward and he grasped the back of her neck with his left hand. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

Presently, he released both grips and she sat back down.

“Do forgive the liberty. Your request is so unusual, and the amount you seem to know about me and my activities is, well, more than I’d like. Still, I see you’re not keeping from me anything I should know, so why don’t you tell me a little more about how I can help you?”

Abigail just sat there, grateful for the aplomb with which her expensive office chair had caught her when she’d sat down in it so heavily, and now held her as she slumped, apparently drained of all energy. Even as the fog lifted from her thought process and she became able to think about what had just happened, she still felt drained of energy, and could do no more than sit there and comply.

“I just… I’ve never liked sex. My husband, you know, he’s a good man: we’ve tried everything, and he’s not the only man I’ve ever been with, either; I’ve always just found it… uncomfortable, even painful. I’ve spoken to doctors, and they’ve all said the same thing: ‘mumble primary anorgasmia mumble mumble, no apparent physiological cause mumble, psych referral mumble mumble.’ Unfortunately for them, I’m a professor of psychology, which means I know that in this sort of area my chosen field has, sad to say, its collective head up its ass.”

She was leaning forward now, suddenly animated as she trod the well-worn path of her most private trouble, rehearsing it not in her head, as usual, or to her husband, but to a complete stranger. In a way, it felt rather liberating.

“Look, the thing is, I love Paul. I’ve told him I understand he has needs, and he can look elsewhere to satsify them if he has to, but… God, I hate the thought of him doing it. I just wish I could be his wife, you know, in all things. Do you see?”

Hendrik was caught off-guard. He’d never been asked to make someone into what they themselves wanted to be, before. He stalled for time.

“You yourself must think it’s a psychological problem, though, or else why call me in: an expert on—how did you put it?—changing women’s minds. For the record, I can also change men’s minds, it’s just not as much fun.”

Abigal wanted to shudder a little at the predatory little smile that had crossed Hendrik’s lips as he said that last, but she still felt like she was only partly in control of her own body.

"Well, hey, I’m not a doctor. If they tell me it’s not physiological, I guess it’s not physiological. All I know is, no regular shrink is going to be able to help. They’re all too fixated on getting me to accept that ‘for a woman to have sexual desires and feelings is not, quote-unquote, wrong.’ No shit!

“Look here, Hendrik: I don’t know what you are or how you do what you do, but, therapeutically speaking, from what I can tell you’ve got a better track record than any head-shrinker in the business, so if anyone can help me it’s you.”

She looked at him pleadingly, turning the full, and undeniably becoming power of her dark eyes on Hendrik, which only served to remind him of the reason he’d been suspicious in the first place.

“Look, you’ve seen a little of what I can do. Are you still willing to put yourself, quite literally, in my hands?”

“To save my marriage, I’d, quite literally, do anything.”

“All right, I suppose I can understand that, but I don’t think you see my point. Once you’re, well, mine, I can do whatever I want with you, and it’s not as if you could sue me if I… make you irresistibly attracted to Rottweilers, for example.”

Abigail grimaced at the mental image, but she felt she had more of her wits about her now.

“Well, like you said, I’ve done my homework. You like to call yourself a ‘contractor’, and when you make an agreement, you stick to it. You’ve always delivered your targets to the client in exactly the condition they asked for them. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have the reputation you do.”

I usually fuck them senseless before making the delivery, too, Hendrik thought, but didn’t say.

What he did say was “well, you know what you’re letting yourself in for, so if you’re willing, there’s no need for us to argue about it, I suppose. Let me see if I’ve understood you: you want me to modify your emotional and physical responses so that you are able to make love with enthusiasm. Would that be accurate?”

The butterflies were back. I’m actually doing it, Abigail thought.

“In a nutshell.” She said, as coolly as possible.

Hendrik responded with equal sang-froid. “All right.” As he said it his hand snaked out across the desk with a speed that seemed preternatural to Abigail, and laid itself on the back of hers. She was his.

He had to lean forward to manage it, but he was able to induce her to stand and walk to the end of her imposing leather-topped desk without breaking the contact. He moved behind her, running his hand up her right arm, tightening his grip when he reached the sleeve of her blouse so as to bring her skin close enough to maintain control.

Abigail was utterly unable to move, except in the ways that Hendrik wanted her to, but inside herself she remained lucid, aware, and so far unmodified. If she could have, she would have whimpered as his right hand slowly untucked her blouse and found its way inside, resting hotly on her stomach and deepening the link between them. Just as her doubts reached fever pitch, as she wondered if he wasn’t just going to rape her after all, Hendrik began a running commentary in his most mild-mannered tones, that pierced the tension of the moment:

“All right,” he said, moving his left hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, where he had the most direct access to her central nervous system, “I’m sorry about this, but I am going to need you naked: by the sounds of things I’ll be giving you some all-new erogenous zones, and for that I need direct access. Let’s start by clearing space on the desk, shall we?”

He stretched his hand out, leaving only the very tips of his index and middle finger pressing on her spine, and worked her like a puppet. She watched herself tidying files, moving a coffee-cup, clearing enough room for her to lie down on the desk, all at Hendrik’s direction. Considerately, she noticed, he was allowing her to move her head and eyes so she could see where he was having her put things.

When she was finished, she found her hands started moving to the buttons of her blouse. She wanted to swallow in trepidation, but all she could do was let herself methodically pop each button through its aperture in the silk, in a neat little movement that got the job done but was somehow not the way she would have done it herself.

She slid the blouse down her shoulders and dropped it off to the right, where Hendrik caught it adroitly in his free hand. Abigail felt herself hang like an unattended marionette as he reached out to hang it on the hatstand in the corner. She kept it there, with her PhD gown and hood hung on it, to impress visitors, in a display of vanity that, having little better to do, she took a moment to find professionally quite revealing. What would the visitors think, she wondered, to see her clothes hung on it, and her spreadeagled on the desk, at the mercy of a stranger?

She was startled out of this train of thought by the feeling of her arms dropping to her left side, and starting to work the zipper on her skirt. She slid it down in an entirely unaccustomed movement, using her hands to do all the work, instead of helping it along with her usual shimmy. She passed the garment to Hendrik again, and had a moment or two to reflect on the fact that she was now in her underwear with an inexplicably powerful Englishman right behind her, before he finished folding it in two with an adroit one-handed flip and laying it carefully on her chair.

With swift, mechanical movements that he put her through too fast for her to react, she doffed her panties, bra, shoes and hose and piled them on top of her skirt, then turned around and lay down on the desk, completely naked before him.

By this time he was standing in front of the desk again, in a position from which he could have sat down in the chair he’d occupied for most of the meeting up to that point, so that he was level with her head and could keep a hand on her neck.

“All right,” he said, “this is going to be easier if you aren’t moving about, so…”

A feeling a bit like a mild electric shock, and a bit like a heat rub kicking in smote the back of her neck and crept up into her head. She had time to gasp, and then she was paralyzed.

“Don’t worry,” said Hendrik. “Even if I left right now, it would wear off in about half an hour.”

He shifted his hand to her forehead, and she felt the special heat of his abilities burrowing deep into her brain.

“Right, let’s just see what the state of play is, shall we.”

His face took on an odd, inward expression as he began to run his other hand up and down her naked body, pausing now and then to cup a breast, caress an inner thigh, or climb up to the very fingertips and trace random patterns on the skin.

“Hm.”

Finally, his hand reached her vagina, and began a gentle, careful exploration, working inwards from the labia to the opening proper, then finally, and very gently brushing her clitoris.

“Mm-hm. Well, in a way the doctors were right. Everything that’s there is working as it should, but there’s just not as much there as one might expect. Ah, well, where Mother Nature stints, Brother Hendrik can provide!”

With both hands, he now began a very different caress, up and down her body, dwelling with his power where he felt she needed to be most sensitive, but leaving no square centimetre of skin untouched. Presently he helped her over onto her stomach, and worked on her back, backside and the rest of her legs in the same way.

“How about the feet?” He asked. “Does your husband have a fetish for them? No? Well, I’ll give them a quick going-over anyway.”

Finally he placed his hand on the nape of her neck, and she felt another shock, much milder this time.

As he began to use his hands again, this time entirely in mundane mode, she realized two things: firstly, he’d partly lifted her paralysis so she could writhe and press herself against his questing hands; secondly, she was writhing and pressing herself against his questing hands. His touch felt good. Very good.

He began with a fingertip-light stroking up and down her neck, from behind her ears to her collarbones. He moved on to a deep, strong-handed backrub that was like none she’d ever had before. By the time he was caressing her buttocks, his hands flashing round to stroke the base of her stomach and just graze her inner thighs, she was mewling loudly enough her secretary was in danger of hearing and almost up on all fours.

Hendrik stepped back and admired his handiwork.

“Mission accomplished, I’d say, what?”

He took in the sight of her flushed and lovely face, watching it signal a whole panoply of emotions, then suddenly a broad, slow grin spread across his face.

“Oh, that is a point.”

He stepped forward again and put a hand on her forehead. “Careful,” he said, as he helped her relax onto her back, then he looked up at the ceiling as he focussed on the task at hand.

“You know,” he said, when the most intricate part was done. “That old saw about the brain being the biggest erogenous zone is repeated far too often, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Heh. Paul Faustina, you are a very lucky man, and you won’t even know whom to thank.”

He made the last, and to him most important changes, and stepped back. In obedience to the detailed instructions he’d left that were already fading away, but ought to last just long enough, Abigail got up from the desk, unworried to find herself naked, and matter-of-factly put her clothes back on. Then she stood behind it and reached out her right hand. Hendrik took it and had a brief moment in which he was sure he couldn’t remember his line.

“Anyway, as I say, I really don’t think I can help you, Abigail. I’m sorry. It was nice meeting you.”

As he left the office, Abigail sat down and thought Well, that was a bust. Still, at least he was polite.

Paul was working late again. Abigail smiled ruefully to herself as she meditated on the fact that she should have been expecting this. She also appreciated the irony, as well as her man, when it occurred to her that she knew, for a fact, that it wasn’t because he was having an affair. Probably about half of the other partners in his firm were, and no doubt with less excuse than Paul would have had, but he just wasn’t the type. What he was was a workaholic. In fact, that was what had kept their odd duck of a marriage going so far. When they’d been newlyweds, and he was a brand-new associate, he’d worked most all the hours God sent and hadn’t had the energy for sex anyway. Now that he was a partner, they were managing to have the odd dinner together, and Abigail wanted to be able to enjoy the other traditional perquisites of wedded bliss, too. In fact, she intended to enjoy them tonight.

When, at about 8:05, Paul Faustina finally crossed the threshold of his home and castle, he found his wife and queen waiting for him. No surprise there. She was naked. He drank in the sight of her slender, willowy frame illuminated gorgeously by the candles on the dinner table. He managed to notice that they were ensconced in the sterling silver candelabrum they’d received as a wedding present, and the table was laid with all their finest crockery and flatware, which was of similar provenance, and especially impressive because if you’d asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you where any of it was stored. Also, he would probably have told you to get out of his house and quit gawping at his nude wife, but that’s neither here nor there. He himself went back to gawping, and she pursed her lips in vampy amusement at his nonplussed look.

She put on the huskiest voice she could manage and said “Coffee, tea… dinner… or me?”

Paul recovered himself a little as he remembered that this was, after all, only Abigail, quirked his own lips and said “Yeah, some dinner sounds good.”

She crossed the room like a big cat stalking her prey and pushed him quite roughly against the wall. She planted her lips on his and, her tongue made ardent assault until it roused the defender to compete. She shivered slightly as Paul dropped his briefcase and ran his hands down her flanks. She wished that he would grab her ass, but alas, it was not to be. Instead, he took her head in his hands and started to kiss back with increasing enthusiasm, which, she had to admit, had its own charms.

Before long, though, she broke the kiss and bent at the knees, sliding her naked body down his expensive suit, almost whimpering at the feel of his silk tie caressing her chest and cheek as she slid down.

From her position on her knees in front of him she looked up with mischief in her eyes at her increasingly bewildered hubby. As she opened his fly she said “Wrong answer, Slick. Dinner can wait. I can’t.”

She could feel that he was already erect, and as she negotiated the folds of material and held him in her hands she heard him say “Abby, are you sure about this?”

She darted forward with her head, taking as much of his member into her mouth as she could, and nodded, making her “Mmm-hmm…” of assent as effective as possible.

“But…” he persisted, then was cut off as his wife emphatically shook her head “no” and gave a negatory “mm-mm”, which was very effective in convincing him that he should just go along to get along.

She began to fellate him with a will, lifting her ass up and forward then back again to make her head move up and down. Presently she began making a series of curious noises, from little mewing sounds all the way up to understandably muffled cries of passion.

Abigail was discovering a whole new dimension to fellatio. It seemed that whenever she took Paul’s prick deep into her mouth, her brain decided she deserved a reward, and twanged soundly on what seemed to be a guitar string running from its pleasure center to her clit. To the great satisfaction of all parties concerned, she began to experiment with this phenomenon, and found the results so compelling that she found herself on the verge of depths she had never before even contemplated trying to plumb. Not to mince words, she tried to deep-throat him.

Alas, it was not an unqualified success: in fact, as soon as his glans started to meet with real constriction, her gag reflex kicked in, and she backed off right sharpish. On the credit side, however, that little bit of constriction, combined with her vigorous efforts up to that point, was enough to tip Paul over the edge and make him shoot his load in her mouth.

The indignity of falling backwards onto her ass in a spluttering, choking heap was more than offset for Abigail by the fact that as soon as Paul’s semen hit her palate, her brain decided she’d done really really well, and set off a small explosion that made her shudder all over and her hands move of their own volition to her pussy. She found it wet, tender and riotously sensitive.

We must be a sight to behold, she thought, looking up at her husband, who, without his loyal and skilled fellatrix looked as though he had simply chosen to lean on the wall for a while, minding his own business, with, incidentally, his cock hanging out. Paul’s nonchalantly exposing himself, I’m sprawled on the floor choking on a hot load.

She couldn’t help smiling at the situation, and eventually her husband recovered his senses and joined her.

“Did you just…?” he asked, and got no further as she began vehemently nodding.

“Come on,” she said. “Time for dinner.”

Paul was still too shocked by the turn events had taken since he got home to say more than “Huh,” but that was OK. Abigail steered him gently to the table and sat him down, then disappeared off into the kitchen. She returned clad only in an apron and bearing some ribeye steaks that she hoped weren’t too much the worse for wear for having been kept warm for an hour or so. She made sure to make several trips to bring out the rest of the meal, to give him an opportunity to enjoy the view, then finally she came out of the kitchen without the apron, sat down at the other end of the table as naked as the day she was born, and said “How was your day, hun?”

The hun in question was mesmerized: he had no idea what to think any more, so he just went with it, and throughout the main course he did his part in making the usual dinner-time conversation, as though they were spaced out in front of the TV with their usual ready meals, and as though Abigail had her clothes on.

When they were done he helped her clean the dishes, drying them and putting them away with only minimal bouts of grab-ass; so minimal, in fact, that Abigail had to positively wiggle her caboose out of the back of the apron at him to get his attention.

“Now,” she announced when they were done, hanging up the apron. “Dessert!”

She pulled out a strategically concealed box from behind the door, and led the way through to the dining room, putting the box down in the middle of the table and laying down sinuously on it. She spread her legs, putting herself entirely on display to the man she loved, propped herself up on her bent elbows and gave him what can only be described as a come-hither look.

Paul came thither, and she playfully waggled a finger at him.

“Better take that suit off, don’t you think, darling? Can’t have it getting messy.”

Paul hurried endearingly to comply, and was presently as naked as she was. He took up position between her legs, and leaned over her, before angling right at the last minute to check out what was in the box.

He started with the whipped cream, curving a line of it from her navel up to her left nipple, then describing another down from the right to join the first.

With zig-zag swipes of his tongue across the line of cream, he laved his wife’s stomach, making the line dotted. He very carefully avoided her breasts, returning to the beginnings of the line at her navel. He licked up some more of the cream, then made Abigail gasp by burying his muzzle in the curving Y-shaped juncture between the two lines. He got out from between her legs and, moving the chair out of the way, approached her from the side so he could bend down and bring his face near to hers.

Realizing his intentions with a purr of approval, she began to lick at his face, pausing only briefly to say “OK, you need a shave, Mister!” when his stubble abraded her tongue a little. When he was more or less clean, he dropped down and captured her roving tongue in his mouth, and they kissed tenderly.

Presently the kiss broke, and he returned his attentions to her torso. He ran his tongue up the incline of each breast, scooping up all the cream except for that which covered her areolae. Then, finally, he ministered to her nipples.

Once again, Abigail was discovering something new about herself. The touch of Paul’s rough tongue on her nipples was indescribably sensuous, arousing and at the same time, frustrating, as the stimulation made her more and more horny, seeming to build up a charge on her clit that needed its own special kind of lightning rod. She could barely keep still, wriggling and shivering as she moaned and gasped her arousal.

Paul tried to keep up a rhythm, alternating periodically from nipple to nipple, and from licking to compressing them lightly between his lips. Finally, he worked up the courage to apply his teeth, ever so lightly at first but constantly probing to see how much pressure was best. When she let out a blissful “Ha!” he thought yes, that’s probably it, right there.

Without giving her too much time to go off the boil he took another look in the box, and came up with two things: a bottle of clear honey and a big evil grin on his face.

He drizzled some of the honey onto her nipples, then a bit more just for good measure, and dived back in.

He found that exerting suction was a good way to vacuum up honey, and to make his wife squirm, also that gently scraping honey up and off the nipple was an excellent maneuver, if it could be made to work, but slightly dangerous with all the thrashing around that it tended to cause.

When Abigail’s boobs were only mildly sticky he revisited the box one last time, only to discover that he’d saved the best for last on two counts. He took his turn to sink to his knees, carrying with him a jar of chocolate body paint, with attached brush. Abigail couldn’t keep her arms up any more, and lay back, full of anticipation.

Paul moistened the brush with his saliva, and was seized of an evil machination as he saw how it came to a point. Deciding that he’d probably gotten her worked up enough already to get away with it, he used the point of the brush to ever so lightly tickle Abigail’s clitoris. This caused Abigail to emit an adorable sound not unlike the warning call of the North American pika, and arch her back as tautly as a longbow. Meanwhile Paul was dipping the brush in the body paint, and when she’d settled down and her pussy was before him again, he started to daub her labia lavishly with the substance.

“Tut tut,” he said, “This is going to require a very [brush-stroke], very [brush-stroke], very [final stroke, completely concealing her clitoris from view] thorough clean-up job.”

He set to with a will, burying his tongue deep into her thoroughly aroused mons, and getting his face thoroughly messy in the process.

The clean-up job was very thoroughly completed, as was the one that Abigail had to do on Paul’s face as a result. This of course resulted in some more passionate smooching, after which she was pleased to notice a certain telltale pressure coming from the nether regions.

“I see someone’s ready for another go-round,” she said, groping around and feeling the prodigious erection that Paul was indeed in a position to bring to the party.

She wriggled out from under him and stood up, whereat he got up too.

“Come on!” she said, and took ahold of his dick, leading him, understandably docile, to the bedroom.

As he stood in the doorway, watching his wife wiggle her tight little ass and look back at him over her shoulder, he made the questionable decision that now was the time to try to understand the situation.

“Abigail,” he said, “what’s gotten into you?”

“Not enough of what I want,” she replied saucily, “so bring it!”

“No, seriously…”

“No, seriously, deep and meaningful discussions are tomorrow. Right now, what Abby wants, Abby gets, and what Abby wants is a good hard pounding, capisce?”

Paul had a sudden attack of perspective, and, wondering briefly how much sleep he was going to get and if he could get away with being late to work in the morning, he mounted the woman he loved.

“Who are you, and how did you get this number?”

“Hendrik? It’s me, Abigail.”

“Oh, Dr. Faustina? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I think you’ve done more than enough already, really. I just wanted to say ‘thank you”’.

“I’m sorry? I can’t imagine what you could possibly mean.”

Hendrik hung up, switched off the phone, and made a note to get a new pre-paid cell.