The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sometimes the induction is the seduction. Sometimes that’s enough. And sometimes we just don’t know what we want—and find something else instead.

Lena was in my music theory class. As electives went, it was a tough one. We had to perform as well as learn a lot of historical, mathematical, and practical stuff about music. Lena was medium height, quiet, more than a little shy. Brown hair, big, soft brown eyes. She was round and soft, smoothly and pleasantly curvy. Lena was a superb musician—she was utterly enraptured by every aspect of music—but she was too nervous to perform in front of the class. She enjoyed playing in ensemble, but hated soloing. So Dr. Morgan would have her perform solo, after class. Morgan, who was also the head of the department, had a thing for her. He was always trying to get her alone in the practice rooms, which were cozy—and soundproof.

Lena and I were friendly, but we didn’t date. We saw each other around the campus, and at concerts or parties, though. One day over breakfast in the cafeteria, she was complaining bitterly to me about Dr. Morgan and his lecherous behavior.

“If I could just perform in class, I’d never have to be alone with the old creep.”

Thinking back on it, the “old creep” was probably 35 or 40. “Why do you get so nervous?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just since I’m a music major, so much depends on my performances. And that man will flunk me unless I put out for him. I just know it.”

“Hmm. Maybe there’s a solution.”

“What, get my uncle Guido to bump him off?”

Lena was Italian. “Do you really have an uncle Guido?” I laughed.

“Yes, but he’s just a nice old man who plays the clarinet. But what’s your solution?”

“Build your confidence. Set your shyness aside so you can play in class and in concerts.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. And I just get even more nervous.”

“Ah, but you haven’t tried Dr. Lucky’s never-fail technique.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Hypnosis.”

Her eyes grew round in surprise. “You mean you could hypnotize me to be more confident?” Lena knew I was a pych major and also knew that I was into hypnosis. She had expressed interest in trying it some time, but the opportunity hadn’t presented itself yet.

“Does that really work?” she said, with some excitement. “I want to try it. And get Dr. Moron off my back.”

We compared schedules and found that our afternoon was open. The dorm was too chaotic, roommates too pesky, but I had scouted the ideal place. The biology department had a greenhouse with an attached old building, an odd, cylindrical stone structure, two stories high. The music department used to use the upper floor for practice rooms until it got its new building with the soundproof rooms. The bio department never expanded into the empty space, and nobody ever went there. So I told her to meet me at the old practice rooms.

Lena was waiting for me when I got there. She was highly motivated.

We went through the normal pre-hypnotic preamble, but rather than using a standard technique, I asked her how she would expect to be hypnotized.

“Oh, um, I guess you would tell me to look into your eyes and say stuff to make me relax,” she said expectantly.

“OK,” I smiled, “let’s do that.”

I pulled up a chair and sat knee to knee with her. I told her to get comfortable, and she wiggled around a bit. She took a deep breath, blew it out, and said, “OK.”

“Look into my eyes, Lena. Look deeply and directly into my eyes. Concentrate on them; think of nothing else. Look deeply and directly into my eyes.”

It was the first time that I’d really studied her eyes, since I was looking just as intently at her as she was at me. Her irises weren’t really brown, not that dark brown, but a burnt-orange color flecked with black that gave an overall impression of brown. Very pretty. Her eyes were huge, and she was holding them open more than usual.

“As you look into my eyes and concentrate on the sound of my voice, you’re beginning to relax. A feeling of calm and quiet is coming over you. A deep, peaceful feeling that grows stronger as you look into my eyes.”

Her pupils dilated all at once as she lost focus. She gave a little involuntary gasp as it happened. I knew what she was experiencing—the rest of the room had suddenly gone gray and fuzzy, and all she could see were my eyes. It was a pretty powerful effect. Irrelevant to hypnosis if the truth be told, but powerful nonetheless. Those old-time hypnotists knew a thing or two about eye fixation and how to use it to their advantage. I also mused about the number of women I’d encountered who made some kind of sound as they entered hypnosis. Her mouth had formed a surprised little O as it had happened, and it remained that way.

“Your eyes are getting very heavy now, and they want to close. That’s right, heavy, heavier, they’re closing... closing... they’re closed, comfortably closed.”

I continued to deepen her trance, and I could study her a bit now that I didn’t have to maintain her gaze. Her lips looked soft and full in her relaxed state, and her lids were tranquilly closed over her big eyes. Her chest was rising and falling slowly, her bra and upper breasts faintly visible through the semi-sheer white blouse. Her bosom was abundant without being overstated, and she had a natural cleavage. She was well proportioned, and her hips flared fetchingly in her black jeans. As she got older, she’d have the kind of figure of which guys would remark, “Built for comfort, not for speed.”

I had cracked one of my hypnotherapy books in the intervening hours, and had found a couple of confidence-building and performance anxiety scripts. I took her through them, tailoring them to her circumstances, had her visualize feeling successful and triumphant after performing in class. An hour or so had passed since we’d started. I knew she’d need a couple of more sessions, plus some self-hypnosis time, if it was really going to make a difference, and gave her some suggestions to strengthen her motivation and resolve.

I awakened her with a swimming up from underwater analogy and she broke through the surface with a big smile and a stretch. She was still a bit trance-y though, as happens sometimes, and would easily have slipped back into the trance state with the slightest urging from me. Speaking of urges, I had a familiar one in my pants, and I was more than a little tempted to press my advantage.

Instead, I talked about scheduling a follow-up session and telling her how to do the visualizing on her own. She nodded, hanging on every word. She rose when I did, and I walked her back to the dorms. She was still looking at me in a “My hero!” kind of way as we walked into the commons room.

Her friend Phyllis called out, “Lena! Over here,” and we both walked to the sofa she’d commandeered.

“Guess what! Lucky’s solved my problem with Dr. Moron!” and went on to describe our afternoon session. Phyllis looked at me a little suspiciously, and I filled in the blanks and described how the program would work and how it would benefit Lena.

They were fast friends, and proof of the adage that opposites attract. Where Lena was soft and curvy, Phyllis was lean, firm, sharply drawn. Lena’s brown-on-olive color scheme couldn’t have been more different from Phyllis’s coppery red hair, freckles-and-cream complexion, and startling green eyes. Normally, I’d have been wildly attracted to her, but her personality was brash and bold, her speech peppered with four-letter words in a time when girls didn’t curse much. She partied hard, and one of the girls’ dorm hallways supposedly hat a hole in it, higher than her head, made by her foot. Phyllis knew savat, or French kick-boxing, according to campus legend. She’d come to the school with a wise-in-the-ways-of-the-world attitude, and was protective of shy, innocent Lena

Lena adored Phyllis’s verve, bawdy energy, and bravery, and kind of lived through her, often at the same parties, but generally on the sidelines. There was nothing lesbian about their relationship that I could detect; just the best of friends. I wasn’t sure, though, what Phyllis got out of the relationship. Maybe a calming influence, maybe a reminder of her own more innocent days.

“Frankly, I’d just off the son of a bitch if he laid a finger on me.”

“Yeah, right, Phyl,” I said. She just gave me a look. Phyllis knew she got under my skin, and appeared to enjoy it. Lena, meanwhile, had dropped the “My hero” look, and the conversation went on to other things. I looked at them there on the sofa. Sweet, demure Lena and bawdy, bold Phyllis. I imagined them in medieval times: the milkmaid and the barmaid.

We had a follow-up session a couple of days later. I’d neglected to give her a key phrase for rehypnosis, so we pretty much repeated the original scenario in the old practice rooms.

“Look into my eyes,” I began, and she did. And seconds later her eyes dilated and she gave that same little gasp. From there, it was just a process of deepening the trance, going through the performance anxiety scripts, and reinforcing her confidence. She had the same hero-worship look on her face afterwards, but it wore off after fifteen or twenty minutes. In this, and subsequent sessions, she never needed a shortcut for rapid induction; gazing into my eyes had become the trigger.

And she started to play in class! She could play flute, clarinet, and piano, and she did it well. I think Morgan was a little disappointed, but Lena gave me a little look of triumph after each in-class performance. We did one more session to prep her for the end-of-year recital, which came off beautifully. Then it was June and I didn’t see her again until the following September.

I was sitting in the cafeteria, alone at a table for two, and Lena slipped into the chair across from me. We talked about what we’d done that summer, what courses we were taking. Suddenly, she leaned forward on her elbows, arms crossed under her breasts, bringing her face closer to mine. She looked hard into my eyes. A moment later, her pupils dilated and she gave her characteristic gasp. Her eyes seemed to get larger and larger, and I realized that she was leaning closer and closer to me. Our noses were inches apart.

She blinked and shook her head, as if to shake off the trance. She swallowed, struggled to form words, and said, “I wanted to see if it still worked.”

“No reason for it not to,” I replied.

She blinked again, blushed, and smiled in embarrassment, “Oh, wow, I almost fell on top of you!”

Well, if the table hadn’t been in the way, you would have impaled yourself on me, I mused. I liked the feeling that this unbidden mesmeric power gave me.

“Can we go someplace to talk?”

“How about the old practice rooms?”

We walked to the old greenhouse building, chatting about campus stuff, and climbed the stairs. She turned to me, eyes wide and dilated, and said, “Hypnotize me.”

“You are hypnotized, Lena,” I said with a slightly trembling voice. “Deeply hypnotized. Relaxing more, going deeper....” If anything was going to happen between us, this would be the time.

Her face was upturned to mine, soft and lovely in the filtered light coming into the room. We kissed. Gingerly, then deeply. We hugged, and she gave another of her signature gasps when she felt my bulge press into her tummy. She curled a leg around mine in response, a mute surrender, a symbolic opening of herself to me. We kissed and caressed. Her breasts were like bouncy, warm puppies, and she stroked me hesitantly through my jeans.

We were both breathing hard when we separated. I walked her over to a couple of chairs and we sat down. She was more in heat than in hypnosis, but she got a trance-y look every time she looked at my eyes. I knew she was way out of her depth and that she had assigned the Svengali role to me. Trouble was, I didn’t have any real feelings for her.

“Lena, we should talk,” I began lamely.

“Oh, Lucky, I’ve been thinking about you all summer! I couldn’t wait to see you again. I almost called you a hundred times. I’m so glad to see you again!” The words came tumbling out of her. “And then when I saw you, I just had to know if it was still there, that awesome feeling I got when I looked into your eyes...” Whereupon she looked into my eyes again, with the usual result.

“Do you feel like you love me, Lena?”

“I do, I do! Oh, this is so embarrassing! But I can tell you anything. And I keep wondering how you feel about me. I mean, you’ve never said anything, but you were so nice last year when you helped me with my problem, and I thought, ‘He cares about me, he really does,’ but then I wasn’t sure....” The words were tumbling out again.

I was feeling extremely guilty at this point—I hadn’t wanted to lead her on—and I was wracking my brain for ways to let her down easy.

We both jumped as we heard a hollow thump and a shuffling step-step, step-step on the stairs. We turned to the doorway and a short, round young woman entered, lugging a cello. Part of me observed that they were about the same shape and size.

“Oh, excuse me!” she cried. “I didn’t know there was anyone here. The practice rooms were all full, and I....”

“That’s OK, we were just splitting,” I said. Lena and I gathered our books and headed out. I glanced at my watch and realized I was late for a meeting with my advisor. “I really do have to split,” I said. “But we do have to talk some more.”

She nodded as I walked away. I glanced back once, and she was still standing in the same place, with a hopeful, wistful smile on her face. Oh, man.

I didn’t see Lena for several days after that. We didn’t have any classes in common, and I didn’t call her or stop by her dorm. I was hoping that she’d somehow get the clue and stop mooning over me.

I was sitting in one of the booths in the cafeteria with some of my friends, talking about nothing. One or another of them left for various classes and such, and I was sitting alone in the booth. I’d seen Phyllis across the cafeteria, talking with some of her friends, and I was surprised to see her come over to the booth and slide in across from me.

She put her elbows on the table and looked directly and intently into my eyes with those amazing green eyes of hers. Mine widened in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing if it’s true.”

“If what’s true?”

“That you have hypnotic eyes.”

“Look deeply and directly into my eyes...” I began.

“No! Don’t say anything. Lena says that you can hypnotize by just looking, and I don’t believe it.”

“You’re a tough one, Phyl. Well, can we talk about other things while you’re staring?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Sure, whatever. Besides, I’m not hypnotizable. People have tried.”

“Yeah, you’re too ornery, too contrary.”

She looked mildly pleased at that. “You’d probably do the exact opposite of what I told you to do anyway,” I continued.

“Right on, dude.”

Her pupils had started to dilate a little at this point. I got a little thrill as I realized that I knew exactly how this one was going to pan out.

“So if I told you that your eyes were getting tired, you’d feel more alert than ever, right?”

She blinked once. “Absolutely.”

“So you’re feeling very alert. Closing your eyes is the farthest thing from your mind.”

Her eyes started to look lidded, heavy. The pupils had dilated a lot, so I knew she wasn’t focusing anymore. “You absolutely don’t want to close your eyes.”

They closed. I loved the look of surprise on her face.

“And now that they’re closed, you can open them any time you want.” I let the contradiction rattle around in her mind for a moment. “They’re not stuck closed. In fact, you can open them right now.”

She tried, really she did.

“You bastard! What did you to my eyes?!”

I ignored her. “And you could just get up now and walk away. There’s nothing holding you here. In fact you want to try to get up and just walk away.”

Phyllis pushed her palms against the table, and got nowhere.

“Damn you, how are you doing this?”

“I guess it’s just my hypnotic eyes,” I said innocently.

“So what are you gonna do now,” she said crossly, “fuck me?”

She always managed to stun me with her bluntness. I paused a moment and said, “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think I’m your type, Romeo.” There was nothing impairing her caustic wit, just a couple of reverse-effort suggestions that had created catalepsies in her eyes and limbs. “But hey, if that’s your thing....”

She didn’t know how much it really was my thing, or that I was getting off on her seemingly helpless physical state. I had read about recalcitrant subjects, the ones who would fall forward when you suggested falling back. The books said they were one in a thousand, or rarer. And here she was, sitting right across from me, in a wonderful fit of Irish temper.

“Come on, Phyl, what’s this really about?”

“It’s about Lena, asshole. And how long are you going to make me sit here with my eyes closed?” She struggled one more time to open her eyes.

“You wouldn’t want to relax and feel calmer, more comfortable, would you, Phyllis?”

Her features softened visibly, and she said in a lower voice, “OK, OK, I give up! Can we please just talk?”

“All right, from now on, when I tell you these things, just let them happen, OK?” I figured she was in enough of a trance to accept some straight suggestions instead of all these convoluted reverse suggestions, which were hurting my brain.

She just nodded.

“I’m going to count backwards from five to one. When I reach one, you’ll be refreshed, alert, wide awake, feeling great.” I took her up through the numbers, and she opened her beautiful green eyes with a smile, in spite of herself. She shook her head, as if to clear it, and looked at me with cautious respect.

“Shit, you really can... how the hell.... Oh, forget it! We need to talk about Lena.”

I hung my head morosely. “I know.”

She looked surprised. “You do?”

“Damn right! She thinks she’s in love with me. She has this outrageous crush on me...”

“I know! I know! You’re all she talks about! I keep telling her you’re not worth it...”

“Hey!”

“Only kidding. No, not really. I know that you don’t have a thing for her, and I think it’s cool that you helped her last year. But I thought you were just trying to get laid. I mean, if you just needed to get your rocks off, I’d rather you screwed me than her.”

I looked at her in shock. She burst out laughing at my expression.

“She’s such an innocent,” she said. “She’s a virgin, and when she’s not thinking about her music, she’s in romantic dreamland. Trouble is, it’s you she’s dreaming about.”

Shamefaced, I said, “I know. I really wanted to keep it just friendly the other day, but she got all turned on just looking at me, and had pretty much talked herself into being in love with me and me in love with her.”

“Now you’ve created a monster with your ‘look into my eyes’ shit. She deserves better than to be under your spell or whatever the hell you call it.”

With new regard for Phyllis I said, “Jeez, you really are a good friend. But why are you working so hard to protect her?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Because she’s such an innocent. Because she deserves a guy who’ll cherish her and her music, and protect her from the rough spots.”

“Hmmm. Well, it ain’t me, Babe,” I said, quoting the song. The Byrds hadn’t yet made it into a folk-rock anthem. Dylan was all over the campus radio station, and all of us singer-guitarists emulated him in one way or another.

“Yeah, you and I know that, but how are you going to let her down easy? If you hurt her, you bastard, I’ll rip your arm off and beat you with it.”

I must have looked alarmed, because she grinned at her own outburst. I said, “Hey, I’m enough of a two-bit psychologist to know that it’s got to come from inside her. She’s got to realize that I’m not right for her, that I’m not the one she’s looking for.... Hmm.” I got a far-away look as the wheels started turning.

“What? What?”

“I think that’s it—music, the Dylan song.”

Phyllis looked puzzled.

“You know how powerfully she’s affected by music?”

“Yeah...”

“And how, um, powerfully she’s affected by... me?” I blushed. “Some of us are playing in the student center next Saturday, and If I played ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ and some other tunes while establishing some rapport with her, I think the lyrics would affect her deeply, that she’d take them to heart.”

“It sounds very convoluted to me. Why can’t you just tell her, or if you think this song thing would work, just sing her the song?”

“Well, it’s hard to break up with somebody that you’re not actually going with. And given her natural shyness, I worry about her withdrawing into her shell now that she’s put all her cards on the table. And she’d think it’s too big a deal if I showed up with my guitar and started singing to her. And I’ve been studying some new stuff on indirect hypnosis....”

“Indirect?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of subliminal, phrases that take on special meaning for the subject, even in a crowded room. So if you made sure she was right down in front at the Center...”

“Subliminal. Jeez, you’re scary, Lucky. Anyway, I see your point. I’ll make sure she’s there. We’ll see if this works.” She gave me a dangerous look again, then softened. “Maybe you’re not as big a prick as I thought you were, Lucky.”

Saturday night rolled around and a bunch of us were tuning up in the student center, doing mic checks, playing impromptu riffs. We were doing short sets, four or five songs apiece, joining one another for harmonies and accompaniment. Lena and Phyllis were there early, and sat in the front row.

I’d pretty much tailored my set to Lena. The first one was Gordon Lightfoot’s “I’m Not Saying,” a rollicking song about a guy who won’t make a commitment or promise fidelity. Whenever I would sing a particularly apt line, I’d look at Lena. She was fully focused on me, but not at a level of rapport. Then I did Phil Ochs’ “Changes,” a hypno-breakup song if ever there was one. I looked intently at her as I sang,

I broke off eye contact at that point and just focused on the song, not looking at the audience at all. I looked back at Lena as I began the last verse:

Her eyes looked a little teary as I finished the song’s complicated fingerpicking run and waited out the following applause. I started the next one without any patter or introduction. I stared meaningfully into her eyes, and they got big and round, and her mouth made that little O shape.

Phyllis was looking as intently at Lena as I was, but Lena was oblivious. She looked a little stricken; the music was carrying the words into her. I could see big tears welling up, then leaking from each eye as I finished,

Lena looked like she wanted to get up and run from the room, but Phyllis put a hand on her arm. Both of them were looking at me as I turned to Bob, another one of the music majors, who was playing upright bass behind me. I counted off a fast “two-three-four,” and we launched into a jazzy, up-tempo version of “Smile.” Davey started banging on the big old upright piano as I sang,

The audience was kind of derailed by the switch from folkie to swing, but got into the upbeat tempo and started to clap along. Phyl clapped, looking at Lena. Then Lena clapped along. Bob and Davey took instrumental solos, eliciting cheers and whistles from the crowd. Then I reprised the last verse, “willing” the words into Lena, my eyes locked with hers, right up to the last flourish. We ended to warm applause. Lena had a smile on her face and Phyllis, under the guise of brushing her hair back, gave me a surreptitious OK sign.

I faded into the background and did a few harmonies and some accompaniment as other performers came up. Later, I was putting my guitar back into its case when Phyllis came up to me and said, “She’s gonna be all right. That worked out better than I would have thought. Were you doing that indirect stuff?”

“Yes, just by establishing ‘meaningful’ eye contact whenever the lyrics were particularly appropriate. It’s a technique developed by Milton Erickson, although I’m pretty sure he never did it with song lyrics.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Lena was chatting happily with Bob as he wrestled the bass back into its big, brown, soft case. Phyllis looked, too, turned back to me, and smiled.

“Nice work, Doctor,” and stuck out her hand.

I couldn’t resist the temptation. I’d read several accounts of Erickson’s hypnotic handshake technique, but had never tried it. I took her hand, made eye contact, shook, and did that complicated little release maneuver as I withdrew, leaving her hand, as Erickson described it, “going neither up nor down, but just suspended there.”

Phyl stood there blankly, arm still extended. I said softly, “You can put your arm down now,” and it fell to her side. She continued to gaze at me. I did nothing to extend or deepen the trance, but just stood there for a minute. Finally, she collected herself, blinked, and shook her head.

“Did you just hypnotize me again?”

“Yep.” I tried to keep a cool demeanor, but inside I was turning handsprings that it had worked so well. She was actually an excellent subject, but no one had ever taken the time to get through her offensive defenses.

“How the hell...? You are scary, Lucky! No one’s ever been able to hypnotize me before, and you’ve done it twice while I hardly noticed. That’s pretty cool.” She didn’t sound angry.

“All I’m doing is harnessing innate abilities and desires that are inside you,” I said with feigned innocence.

She looked at me sharply at the word “desires.”

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” she said defensively.

I smiled, “Next you’re going to tell me that you’re not as tough as people think you are.”

She looked pretend-hurt. “I’m not! But I am pretty tough.” Her look turned mildly flirtatious. “It’s up to you to figure out just how tough, though.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

“But let’s give it some time.” She looked surprised, just realizing what our conversation was leading to. “I don’t want to hurt Lena or have her think that something was going on between us all the time.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, extending my hand. “Shake on it?”

She put her hand behind her back. “Not a chance, Buster.”