The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dr. Susan Jones, newly-appointed head of the history department of Freedom Christian University, luxuriated in her lavish office. Feet up on the polished surface of her rich oak desk, she leaned back in the plush captain’s chair which went with it.

She’d had some serious work to do cleaning out the legacy of her predecessor, the late and—at least by her—unlamented Professor Joshua Carstairs. The same man who, in private “progress meetings” with her, had done everything possible to paw her over and pressure her into an intimate relationship, had made a point of emphasizing his piety in public. His bookshelves had been loaded with Biblical translations and religious tracts, and a truly hideous reproduction of an insipid nineteenth-century painting of Jesus had burdened one wall. Almost all of it had gone, though Susan had kept a couple of the more valuable Bibles. The large gold-plated cross she’d had mounted on her door was proof enough: she’d put it up not only to maintain appearances, but as her own private joke. So was the plaque hung next to the door, which read THE DEVIL HATH POWER TO ASSUME A PLEASING SHAPE.

For Dr. Jones owed her position, quite literally, to a pact with the Devil.

Burning with anger after a lifetime of abuse and humiliation by men, she had researched occult books until she’d found a ceremony for summoning demons. One night, she’d performed the ritual in the basement of FCU’s library, more to vent her frustrations than out of any real expectation that it would work. But it had.

The being she’d summoned that night had known what she wanted without her even having to say it aloud, and had granted her wish. Now she could make men do anything she wanted, and had lesser control over women. In addition, she could assume any of three forms: her own, that of a beautiful demon with red skin, horns, hooves and tail, or an intermediate form, a human version of her demon shape. She liked that form best, and had used it when she’d seduced her student Jerry Chisholm and later when she’d taken Carstairs.

Professor Carstairs had died from her violent lovemaking, and she’d seen his spirit rise from his corpse only to plunge, screaming silently, out of view. Presumably, he was now roasting in Hell. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy, as far as she was concerned.

The cross on the door was Susan’s private reminder that in the middle of a university established by a TV preacher and run by zealous bigots, the Devil had a foothold. Despite what one read in books and saw on TV and in the movies, the religious artifacts didn’t bother her at all; she’d put up the crucifix with her own hands.

Susan’s watch beeped. Glancing at it, she thought, Damn! Where does the time go? It was time to get ready for her Medieval History 204 class. She licked her lips. Jerry would be there. Perhaps after class, they could . . . !

Dean Caleb Mather was not a happy man.

The phone call he’d just received had been from the Reverend Dr. Charles Kellogg Bryer himself. And he was not a happy man either. Someone had apparently called him to complain about his decision to appoint Susan Jones to the department head’s position vacated by Professor Carstairs’ untimely and embarrassing demise. It was bad enough, the Reverend Doctor had admonished him, that Carstairs had had to be replaced under such circumstances, but to give the chair to a woman? And not even a true member of the faith!

Dean Mather had stumbled all over himself verbally, trying to explain why he’d done it. The truth was, his memory of his interview with Dr. Jones was rather foggy. She’d looked into his eyes, and talked about her qualifications, and he’d listened, nodding, and after a while, she’d said other things he couldn’t seem to recall, and he’d kept nodding and agreeing . . . and suddenly the interview was over, and he was shaking her hand and congratulating her.

Bryer had not been pleased. And now he was coming here, personally, to “look into things.”

That was not good news. Mather had found his perch at FCU a comfortable one, and quite a nice little position from which to dip into the University’s funds. He’d been building a nest egg for retirement in accounts in the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands. If Bryer had found out about that, he was dead meat.

Medieval History 204 went about as it usually did. The attentive students sat in the front, the ones—mostly boys—who were only taking it to fill out their schedules sat in the back, and the rest were scattered between them, clustered in little cliques. Jerry, Susan noted with amusement, was sitting farther toward the front than he used to. She went through the day’s lecture abstractedly. These days, her classes didn’t seem as important as they once had. What did it matter whether young people learned about the past, as long as they did as they were told?

Such thoughts might once have disturbed Susan. Since her transformation, though, less and less bothered her. She was having too much fun.

At last, the end-of-period buzzer sounded. As her students filed out, she intercepted Jerry Chisholm.

“May I have a word with you, Jerry?” she asked quietly.

“Sure, Dr. Jones,” came the response.

“Come on, Jer,” a voice urged. It belonged to a muscular young man whom Susan recognized as belonging to FCU’s varsity football squad. Brad Connor, that was his name.

“In a minute,” Jerry answered. “I have to talk to Dr. Jones a second.”

“It’s all right, Jerry,” Susan said. “Brad, I need to speak with you, too. Come on down here.”

Brad did so, looking nervous. His grades were not what they should have been, and if they didn’t go up soon, he might be suspended from football.

Once the three of them were alone, Dr. Jones said quietly, “Pay attention, Jerry.”

Jerry froze. His eyes widened and went blank. “Yes, Doc-tor Jones,” he droned.

“Holy shit,” Brad gasped. “What just happened? It’s like he went into a trance or something.”

“He did, Brad.” As she’d hoped, saying that made Brad whip around to stare at her. She locked eyes with him, and he was lost.

“Keep looking into my eyes,” she instructed him. “Keep looking, and listening to my voice. You’re falling now, Brad, falling into my eyes, relaxing, falling.”

Brad’s face went slack. “Relaxing,” he whispered. “Falling. Into . . . your eyes.”

“That’s right. You’re falling. Lost. Only my voice can guide you, save you.”

“Falling. Lost. Only . . . your voice can guide me. Save me.”

“That’s right, Brad.” Susan smirked. Brad would make a handsome new toy. “My voice is guiding you now, to a safe, warm place. Let my voice fill your mind, let it become your thoughts. It’s so safe, so warm, to let my voice tell you what to think.”

Brad sighed. Eyes still fastened on hers, he repeated, “Voice . . . guiding me. Safe. Warm. Your voice . . . is my thoughts. Tells me . . . what to think.” His head bowed and he stood there, arms at his side, next to the equally still Jerry.

“Very good, Brad.” Smiling, Susan transformed. “Look at me again, Brad.”

Brad obeyed. He gasped; the change in her appearance was shocking even to his mesmerized mind. “You’ve . . . changed. H-how . . . ?”

“It’s not important,” she told him, just as she had told Jerry. And just like Jerry, he accepted that. She could see it in the way in which he relaxed back into his comfortable trance.

“I’m beautiful. You want me. You have to have me,” Susan commanded. “Nothing else matters. Take me.”

And again he obeyed, seizing her and tearing at her clothes. But it was she who rode him to the floor and finished the job of removing both her clothes and his. It was she who continued to ride him as he bucked and shuddered beneath her, pumping into her. And at last it was she who ended it and commanded him to stand and wait for her next order.

Through all this, Jerry had stood there oblivious. Lost in his own world, awaiting his mistress’s command. There was nothing else. Now it was his turn.

Eventually, she was finished with him too. As the two of them got to their feet, Susan looked mischievously from Jerry to Brad and was tempted to have them do each other.

But no, she decided. Just watching wouldn’t be as much fun as participating, no matter how much of a turn-on it was to be able to make these young studs perform on command.

In any case, she had an appointment. She had just time enough for a quick shower beforehand.

She dismissed the boys and left, humming cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Jones,” Dean Mather said, motioning her to a comfortable chair beside his desk.

“Good afternoon, Cotton,” Susan said. The trigger word took effect instantly: the Dean’s eyes glazed and his body went rigid.

Susan studied him with amusement. She’d gotten a kick out of using the name of the famous colonial-era preacher who was Dean Mather’s remote ancestor (so he said, anyway) as the keyword to put him under. Of course, she could easily have re-hypnotized him without it, but the trigger saved time with him as Jerry’s, and now Brad’s, would.

“You love me, don’t you, Cotton?"” she asked.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Love you.”

“And you trust me absolutely.”

“Yes. Trust you . . . absolutely.” Mather’s eyes were wide and blank.

“I’m your absolute ruler, your mistress,” she stated. “From now on, when we are in a meeting together and I have spoken your special word, you will think of me as Mistress Susan and call me by that name unless I say otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress Susan,” Mather said.

“Then tell me things, Cotton,” she commanded. “Tell me the things you don’t want anyone else to know.”

It was a revelation. The words spilled out of him as Susan listened avidly. Before long she was jotting notes: bank names and phone numbers, account numbers, passwords, the whole sordid story of his years of quietly plundering FCU. She’d been hoping for some tawdry affair or fantasy to come out, but this was much, much better. She could loot Mather’s secret accounts at will, and not only would he be unable to protest, she could fix it so he had no idea what was happening. She might even be able to get him fired and take his job as she’d taken Carstairs’.

Mather was still speaking, babbling in hypnotic delirium. “Reverend Bryer is coming. Mustn’t let him see . . . anything wrong.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. Well, well, well, she thought. Things just keep getting better and better. She chuckled, a throaty sound, deeper than her usual voice. Almost inhuman.

“It’s all right,” she soothed her mesmerized puppet. “Just tell me when he’s coming, and I’ll help you get ready for him.”

“Yes, Mistress Susan.” Mather visibly relaxed. “Tell you . . . when he’s coming. You’ll help me . . . get ready.” He sighed happily. “Thank you, Mistress Susan.”

“You’re welcome,” she responded. Mather relaxed even more, almost falling asleep. “Now tell me all about Reverend Bryer’s visit.”

And Mather did, murmuring his way through the details. When he was done, Susan rubbed her hands together in glee and did a little excited dance, her high-heeled feet clattering on the office floor like hooves. It was perfect! She’d get a chance to work over the arrogant religious poser who’d created FCU and stuffed it with narrow-minded fools like himself.

Susan was so turned on by that thought that she took Mather right then and there, changing into her sex-bomb form and dragging him onto his desk for explosive sex. She was careful, though; she didn’t want Mather having a heart attack before Bryer arrived. That would spoil everything!

After getting herself and Dean Mather dressed again, Susan sat him in his chair and instructed him carefully: “I’m going to leave now, Cotton. When I close the door behind me, you will wake up relaxed, alert and happy. You will not remember what we did. All you will know is that you told me Reverend Bryer is coming for a visit. Do you understand what you must do, Cotton? Repeat my orders, if you understand and accept them.”

“Yes, Mistress Susan,” the Dean answered drowsily. Then he reeled off her instructions.

Susan nodded, satisfied. “Very good, Cotton.” She shifted effortlessly back into her Dr. Susan Jones persona and left Dean Mather’s office, closing the door gently behind her.

The day arrived pleasantly enough. When the Reverend Doctor Bryer’s limousine drove through the gates of Freedom Christian University, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and students, faculty and administrators were lined up waiting the welcome the great man. Dr. Susan Jones was there, arrayed with the other department heads. Dean Mather there. Jerry and Brad were present as well, lined up with their classmates in name order. For all the ceremony, they might all have been receiving the President of the United States, not simply the university’s founder and primary funder.

The first day was a standard dog-and-pony show, with Bryer being escorted all over campus to see the facilities, listen to speeches praising him and his ideas, and attend a gala dinner. It was the next day when they got down to business, meeting in the conference room adjacent to Dean Mather’s office. At Mather’s insistence, Dr. Susan Jones was present.

“Why do you need her with you?” Reverend Bryer had asked harshly. “My business here is with you. You’re supposed to be in charge here. Does this Miss Jones”—he deliberately refused to use her academic rank—“do your thinking for you these days?”

Actually, she did. Mather didn’t know that, however. “See here, sir,” he had bristled, “that’s uncalled for. Dr. Jones has been very useful since Professor Carstairs’, er, unfortunate departure. She deserves an opportunity to contribute.”

Reverend Bryer had relented, and so Susan was present, representing the faculty as Dean Mather represented Administration. She had suggested to Mather that only the two of them meet with Bryer to keep the discussion “manageable.” She meant, of course, manageable by her.

The Reverend’s unctuous piety on television didn’t match his private character. “Dammit, Mather,” he fumed as soon as their conference began, “what’s going on here? I haven’t spent all this money and put in all this time on this fucking place to have it all dragged through the mud, and maybe me with it, because some idiot couldn’t keep his pants on!” He glared at the administrator. “You’re supposed to keep that sort of person out of here!” The glare grew fiercer. “And if you can’t manage that, at least try and keep it out of the media! There was video, for God’s sake! Video!”

“But-but-but-but—!” Mather sputtered, too spooked even to try to defend himself.

Susan stepped in. “Relax. I’ll handle this . . . Cotton.”

Caleb Mather’s face emptied of expression. “Yes, Mistress Susan,” he intoned.

“What the hell—!” Reverend Bryer lunged half out of his chair, gripping the armrests fiercely as he first goggled at the suddenly stupefied Dean Mather, then turned, thunderstruck, to face Susan. “What did you do to him?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Susan chuckled. “He’s deeply hypnotized, Reverend Bryer. Right now, he’ll do anything I say. And if I don’t tell him to do anything, he’ll stay right where he is, unaware of anything around him. It’s very convenient.”

“Witchcraft!” Reverend Bryer cried. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an ornate cross, brandishing it in front of him as if it were a gun.

Susan looked into his eyes and calmly took the crucifix from his hand. “That won’t help you, preacher. This isn’t some medieval fantasy. Holy relics and symbols of faith hold no power over me.”

She kept gazing into Bryer’s eyes. “I, however, have power over you. Keep looking into my eyes, Reverend. You can’t look away. Try to take your eyes off mine; you can’t, can you?”

Bryer struggled, but his eyes stayed locked on Susan’s. He whimpered in protest.

“Don’t fight me, Reverend,” Susan ordered. “Relax. Keep looking into my eyes. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? You don’t want to look away. You can’t remember why you ever wanted to look away. Relax, and fall into my eyes.” Reverend Bryer sighed and sat back down, leaning forward to stare at Susan’s face. “That’s right. Fall into my eyes, and let my words become your thoughts. Your only thoughts. Yes.”

“Eyes . . . beautiful,” Bryer managed. A little saliva began to collect at one corner of his slackly smiling mouth. “Your words . . . my thoughts. My only thoughts.” Then he fell silent and sat waiting for her next words, his next thoughts, to arrive.

Susan regarded the two men who sat before her helplessly in her power. What a rush! Once, she might have had misgivings about manipulating people like this—but having gained the power to do it, she found herself loving it more and more. So what if other people thought it was wrong? They were only human—what did they know?

Her experiences with Professor Carstairs and Dean Mather had given her ideas. Susan had brought two special items with her. She brought out the first one, an audio recorder, turned it on and began to interrogate Bryer.

When she was done, she had enough on tape to destroy the TV evangelist. He had confessed all sorts of things. Some of what he’d said could get him sent to prison if it came out. A lot of the rest was the sort of confidential financial information she had also gotten from Mather—but Bryer’s worldwide organization represented a lot more loot. She could make herself a very, very wealthy woman at his expense.

As for Bryer himself . . . Susan looked him over speculatively. He was a handsome man in his mid-fifties, with thick gray hair in a Ronald Reagan pompadour. He looked trim and athletic beneath his Armani suit. Why not?

A wicked idea came to her, and she giggled. Oh, yes.

Susan addressed him. “Reverend, I’m going to count to three. When I reach three, you will be awake, alert, but unable to resist having sex with the first woman you see. You will find that woman utterly overpowering, no matter what she looks like, and will not be able to stop yourself. You will keep going with her until she tells you to stop. Nothing else will matter to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the preacher mumbled. “Understand.”

Susan took out the second object she’d brought along: the same video recorder she’d used in her tryst with Carstairs. She positioned it carefully atop one of the filing cabinets next to the door, aiming it so that it would have a view of most of the room. Then she changed into her tawny seductress form. I’ve got to think of a name for this identity, she thought as the transformation completed. Dr. Susan Jones never looked this good, and Lilibat isn’t human. Later, though.

“One. You are beginning to awaken.” Bryer’s eyes began to show a little life.

“Two. You are becoming aware of the world around you once more.” Bryer’s face regained expression, though he remained relaxed and unmoving where he sat.

“Three.”

Bryer blinked, then gasped. In front of him was the most beautiful, the—yes, the sexiest woman he had ever seen, or even imagined. His body responded instantly.

Susan saw it happen, and smiled coyly at him. “You like what you see, don’t you, Reverend Bryer?” she asked, sure of the answer.

“Oh, God, yes,” Bryer moaned.

“Stay where you are a moment, Charles—I can call you Charles, can’t I?” Susan’s smile grew dazzling. “Just watch me get ready.”

She peeled slowly out of her clothes, humming a sexy tune. Bryer watched, gaping., breathing raggedly. “Yes, baby,” she cooed, “just watch, and enjoy, it feels so good. . . . ”

Finally she was done. Then she started undressing him.

“No,” he protested feebly. “I’m a married man, I’m a married man, I’m a married mmmphhh—!” The final word was muffled as she reached behind his head and pulled it forward, burying his face deep in her bosom. Suffocating, he instinctively tried to push away, but when his hands came up, they fastened on her breasts and began rhythmically caressing them, all efforts at breaking loose abandoned. “Mmmph . . . mmmphh . . . mmmmmm.” Spots began swimming before his eyes as he spiraled happily towards unconsciousness.

Just before he could pass out, Susan let go. Bryer lifted his head with a shuddering breath, then grabbed her and flung the two of them onto the conference table. Sprawled atop Susan, he wormed out of his pants and shorts, pulling them off over his shoes and socks while she pulled his shirt off. Seconds later, Susan had whirled them around with shocking strength, mounting herself atop him. His body didn’t care—it pumped into her desperately, buttocks heaving, legs clenching as semen spurted into Susan. And again. And again. He was a machine, and she was at the controls.

Then, just at the moment of yet another climax, Susan shifted form again, becoming the demon Lilibat. Bryer’s eyes widened in terror as the exotically beautiful she-creature rode him, her barbed tail flicking excitedly above her, her horns glinting with reflected light.

It was too much. He gave a strangled cry as he came once more at the same instant his heart spasmed and stopped. Then he sagged back onto the table and lay very, very still.

Susan got off him and watched in fascination as, again, a ghostly image of a man she’d killed formed over the body. And once again, with a silent scream, the specter plunged out of sight.

A familiar voice rumbled, “Congratulations again, daughter of Lilith. You have sent us another soul destined for eternal torment.”

Susan turned. Yes, her demonic recruiter was visible again.

“You are doing well,” he told her. “But beware of overconfidence. All mortals are foolish, but some are less foolish than others. Your actions are drawing attention. And remember: you may command any mortal male to do anything you wish, but females can be made to obey only those commands not against their,” he grimaced, “moral standards. Remember also what will happen if any mortal speaks your demon name backwards.”

“I remember, Dark Lord,” Lilibat assured him. “I have no desire to be sent below any sooner than is absolutely necessary. With the gifts you have given me, I like it here too much! I don’t intend to let anyone know the name you gave me—and if no one knows the name of Lilibat, no one can ever say it in reverse.”

She paused, then asked curiously, “Just what will happen if I order a woman to do something she considers immoral?”

The demon lord scowled. “If that happens, our contract will be voided regarding that female. She will then be immune to your powers completely and forever. And you will have made an enemy who can harm you.”

“Ah,” Lilibat said, demon eyes glowing. “I appreciate the warning, great one.”

The fiend facing her nodded curtly, then vanished as he had before.

Susan retrieved the video camera and the audio recorder and stowed them in her bag, then contemplated Bryer and Mather. Still naked and in her demon form, she smiled savagely, imagining what would happen if she simply left the entranced Mather here with the dead TV preacher. When they were discovered, it might be enough to wreck not only the two men, but the university itself. If so, it would be ironic; she’d heard rumors of the weird scandal which had wrecked the college on whose campus FCU now stood. Lightning would have struck twice.

But no. That would end Mather’s usefulness to her. She needed him, at least until she’d seized his hidden assets. Susan looked down at the body of the Reverend Dr. Bryer and sighed. She’d gotten carried away with him, killing him before she’d had a chance to loot his much larger holdings. Now she’d be lucky to get a piece of them before they passed into other hands and the passwords and so forth were changed. She’d have to see what she could get through Mather’s own pipeline into Bryer’s wealth. She shook her head ruefully, causing her horns to ripple with reflections again.

Then she changed back into Dr. Susan Jones, dressed and spoke to the hypnotized Mather.

“Dean Mather,” she said, “In a few moments, I will count to three. When I reach three, you will leave this room. Then you will awaken, relaxed and happy, and remember nothing of what happened here. You will not even notice me as I leave. This meeting never happened; Reverend Bryer was supposed to meet with us later. You have no idea how he ended up in this room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress Susan,” he responded.

“Very good,” said Susan. “One. Two. Three.”

Mather stood up and left the room. Seconds later, Susan followed him. He was already at his desk when she passed through the door from the conference room into his office, bent over paperwork; he didn’t even look up as she passed through. On her way out, she commanded Mather’s secretary to “adjust” her own records of when Mather’s meeting was to have occurred, and to forget that it already had.

One anonymous phone call later, police and reporters descended on FCU like an invading army. Susan watched with quiet glee as Bryer’s body was brought out and the cops interrogated the hapless Dean Mather and his snooty secretary. Eventually they got around to her, too, but she handled it easily. She was in no danger in any case; she could always control her questioners if she had to.

Once the cops had left, Susan set to work again. Over the next few days, the passwords and account information she’d gotten out of Bryer would make her very rich indeed. Secretly rich, of course; sudden wealth would be no easier for her to explain than it would be for Dean Mather if his own financial situation were exposed. She still needed her dowdy Susan Jones identity for now, until she grew bored with FCU and its people. When that time came, Dr. Jones would simply disappear, and her gorgeous alter-ego would emerge to claim the treasure in her own name. Whatever name Susan decided on.

From now on, everything would be whatever she decided on. Who could stop her?

No one, she gloated. No one at all.