The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lyn waited, more than a little nervously, in the booth they had chosen by the front window of the coffee shop. It was a place outside of Milford that they realized they could both find, as close as possible to equidistant along I-95 for both of them. She touched her short, auburn hair, smoothed the jeans that showed off her hips, and checked the lay of her sweater for the eighteenth time since her arrival. This casual outfit had been chosen quite meticulously; the thirty-something linguist hoped to look special without appearing to try too hard, without appearing to be too anxious.

Truth to tell, Lyn Kenneth was a bundle of anxieties.

She was having trouble counting the months—years, perhaps, but she didn’t want to think that way—since she had been with a man in whom she had a romantic interest. There was some extremely vague but nagging memory of what had to be a more recent dream about a tryst, but she couldn’t remember the man involved—and besides, it was a dream, no matter how vivid.

On top of that, she was meeting someone in person whom she had met on the internet. She didn’t do this. No way. Not at all. She didn’t frequent dating websites. Where she had been, in fact, was not a dating website at all; it was a sort of on-line writing workshop.

It had been almost two years since she wandered into the writer’s workshop, but just over a year since the first time she had dared to post, depositing a haiku into one of the “flowery poetry” threads. She waited for the onslaught of snickers and ridicule that she was sure would come, but was, instead, met with quiet encouragement. Janice, one of the site administrators, sent her a personal message, encouraging her to write more. Lyn was floating on air for the next few days. The administrator encouraged the new writer to share several pieces. One short story about a stage hypnotist who was not nearly as powerful as his scantily clad assistant prompted this exchange:

Dear Lyn,

I loved that hot short story of yours. Do you have any experience with hypnotism? If not, would you like some pointers that might strengthen the induction section of your piece?

Jan

Janice:

That would be great! All I know about hypnosis comes from sit-com reruns! Anything you could help me with would be wonderful!

Lyn

Over the next several nights, the two women spent hours instant messaging, and Lyn poured over stories of erotic mind control. Again and again, Janice explained to her the power of repeated word patterns, and how particular phrases repeated over and over could prompt the listener’s mind to drowse and wander, allowing a hypnotist access to that person’s subconscious. Again and again, Jan spoke of it being “child’s play.”

But Lyn just wasn’t getting it. As she read and read, she just seemed to get more and more confused. Finally, Jan suggested that Lynnie call her up, and forwarded a cell phone number. They set a time and, the next night, Lynnie called Jan.

The younger woman’s voice was surprisingly confident and sultry: “It is soooo lovely to talk to you, Lynnie, but I don’t understand what the trouble is. Still. It’s soooo nice to hear your voice. Do you like mine?” Lynnie wasn’t even sure “yes” escaped her lips when Jan hurried ahead: “I’m so glad you do. Now I don’t know why the things I have been telling you about inductions are confusing you so. It really is just child’s play . . .”

Lynnie was sure they spoke for some time longer, but she couldn’t seem to remember any of it. As she got off the train in Hastings-on-Hudson the next evening, dressed in a slinky blue silk dress that had just arrived that day, with her heals clicking on the stone pavement as she went to the taxi stand to catch a cab to the inn where they were having dinner, the linguist was determined to ask her young friend just what had gone on.

Her jaw dropped to the floor when she saw Miss Jan, sitting in a quiet corner booth in the back of the restaurant, her blonde hair shimmering as it tumbled over her shoulders and sparkled against her red satin blouse, cut low to show off her impressive (enough to make Lynnie feel inferior) cleavage. The blouse ended in a black leather skirt that came to just about the middle of the blonde’s thigh, and her long, well-toned legs ended with a pair of black patent leather pumps that helped display them just perfectly.

“Ooooo, Lynnie! That dress looks as scrumptious on you as I hoped it might.”

A chill went through the redhead with these words of approval: “Well, thank you, Miss Jan.”

“Come on over and sit down, baby.” She patted the space close to her on the padded bench and push a glass toward her pre . . . ummm, guest: “I picked you for a Riesling kind of girl.”

Lynnie first sipped, then gulped the drink. She had only been able to get in the occasional nod or “yes, Miss Jan (she almost noticed that every sentence ended with “Miss Jan” now)” while Miss Jan spoke about how nice Lynnie looked in that dress and how glad she was that she sent it to her; how really, once she had seen the picture her Lynnie had sent her, it was really just child’s play to choose the right outfit for this evening; how it had been child’s play to get the information she needed to get the dress sent to Lynnie and have her sweet Lynnie pay for both their outfits; even the weather and the trip on the train were, somehow, child’s play, as was getting Lynnie to forget about her passing concern that she didn’t remember a picture or paying for new outfits or sending an address to Miss Jan; and it was certainly child’s play to close her eyes when Miss Jan said “Sleep.”

“And that, sweet Lynnie, is how one does an effective induction. You are soooooo nice and deep for me now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Jan.” Part of Lynnie’s mind vaguely registered the wetness between her legs when she said that.

“And you are ready for some dessert now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Jan.” In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, the two women were leaving the restaurant—Lynnie failing to even notice how every eye in the room was fixed on the two women walking so closely together, the blonde’s right hand possessively caressing the brunette’s ass—and heading for an elevator. When they reached a door in an out-of-the-way corner of the adjoining hotel, Miss Jan produced a room key and ushered Lynnie inside.

“I would love to see what you look like naked, baby,” was all Miss Jan needed to whisper before Lynnie was doing a provocative strip tease, ending in a salacious lap dance for the younger blonde woman’s benefit. The linguist’s body was as impressive as the depth of her trance, and the domme was pleased with her choice. Within a few minutes, her auburn head was bobbing beneath her mistress’ short black skirt, the blonde’s head thrown back as she moaned in ecstasy.

When Lynnie sat back upon her haunches, Miss Jan saw her proud, pert breasts, her lips glistening with the remnants of the blonde’s cum, the abject obedience in her eyes . . .

. . . and a tear rolling down her cheek.

Jan knew something was wrong, and did not waste a moment: “It was child’s play to bring you under, Lynnie, but now you must awake.” A loud snap was followed by the submissive blinking, still kneeling before the domme, who was reaching down to help her up. “What is wrong, Lynnie? I thought you were a subbie. I thought you would enjoy this.”

“But . . . b-but I . . . I am . . . hetero.” She bowed her head, almost as if she was ashamed of the words.

“Oh, Lynnie . . . Lyn!” There was a look of shock and remorse on Jan’s face: “I never knew! I never thought to ask! I am so sorry!”

The remainder of the evening was spent with Jan restoring Lyn, and the two talking until nearly dawn. The next day, they had each taken their train home, but stayed in touch. A few days later, Lyn’s account was credited the cost of Janice’s outfit.

It had been so many months since that painful and powerful evening in Hastings. Lyn and Janice had become good friends, and Lyn had shared a lot of her hopes and dreams with the site administrator, including her hope of finding somebody—but somebody male—with whom she could share her life and live out her fantasies. She was also very frank in saying, “I don’t think he exists. But, if ever I met him, if ever I kissed him, I would . . . I would know.”

Lyn had also resumed her writing, and added several thoughtful pieces to the boards in the writing forum. Then, one day, a relative newbie named Albert posted a sonnet in among the flowery poetry. Lyn was known in the forum for her fondness for sonnets, and she wanted this fellow to feel accepted, and so she wrote a sonnet in response; she also sent a private message to Albert, giving him some pointers. The tag-team sonnets continued for several weeks, as did the off-the-boards advice.

Over time, the advice gave way to some tandem story writing via personal messages, with corresponding chatting on instant messenger. A few months of this saw an evolution into a mild story of dominance and submission.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with the dominant role,” Albert admitted.

Lyn shot back, “Just give it a try, and let’s see where it goes.”

Through the first couple of stories, Lyn sort of “dommed from the bottom” in the IMs, gently guiding Albert, giving him ideas. But then, as a few more weeks passed, he came into his own, and they were enjoying their back and forth. The IM sidebar became less about what to write in the story and more chatting about hopes and aspirations. One evening, after Lyn had written a passage of which she was particularly proud, a brief, earth-shattering message showed up on her IM: “I love you.”

She paused for what felt like an eternity—and, she later realized, must have seemed longer for Albert.

He was in the midst of typing and sending, “I don’t know why that just blurted out, but I just began to realize that . . .”

“I love you, too,” Lyn responded.

Now they got it. Now they knew.

Over the next few weeks, they shared all sorts of information, and found that they had many things in common: favorite foods, music, and life views. True, there was the terrible misfortune that he rooted for the Whalers while she was a Rangers fan, but she was open to new ideas if he was willing to be . . . tolerant during hockey season.

Lyn was the first one to bring up the idea that they might want to get together for lunch or something—it was about two months since they had declared their love for each other. Albert had been slow to share a picture of himself, sure he would scare Lyn off, but she had found him sweet and charming. So why couldn’t he bring himself to set a date with her?

Janice smiled at the personal message she got from Albert one Saturday afternoon. She had tried not to read too much into the poetic tag, even though she had wondered, and now that she read Albert’s rendition of recent events, she knew.

And she knew the problem.

“Come meet me on IM,” the administrator typed.

There, Albert read a message that reminded him that the hard part—their professions of their feelings—had already happened, and that the rest would be “child’s play.”

“Do you want to meet her?” Janice typed.

“Yes,” Albert replied, the first of a series of questions and answers where Miss Jan assured Bertie that this would all be “child’s play” again and again. By the end of the evening, forgetting the “Miss Jan” reference—forgetting most of the conversation, in fact—Albert was ready to set a date with Lyn.

Janice sent her friend the translator one more, quick note.

So, there was Lyn, sitting in a Milford coffee shop, nervously wondering if she had done the right thing.

And, after a few minutes, there was Albert. She couldn’t help but smile upon seeing him.

They sat in their booth and chatted over a long, slow lunch. They held hands. They even hugged. And they chatted some more . . . but somehow, the whole conversation stalled.

When the teenage waitress came over and freshened their iced teas, she kind of blushed and look at the floor: “Somebody just asked me to give you a message: ‘Child’s play.’”

The two looked at each other as if scales had just fallen from their eyes, as if it were the first time they really saw each other. It was difficult to tell if he grabbed her or she him, but they were soon kissing. And Lyn knew, and she smiled and kissed Albert some more. They were told that the check had been taken care of, and they didn’t even stop to question that as they left a large tip and went out the door together, kissing almost every moment.

Far in the back of the diner, in a corner booth, a shapely blonde with very intelligent eyes sipped her coffee, paid two checks, and smiled.