The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I wasn’t going to let him get any ideas. I was in Peter Roi’s apartment for a one-on-one crash course in how to land a job, nothing more. For that reason, I wore nothing more causal than a grey blazer and pantsuit, and nothing more inviting than a frown.

‘You must have cuter clothes than that, Kate,’ said Peter, closer to me than I would like. The only seat in this room was a ring-shaped sofa, surrounding a round tea table, with only one gap for entrance and exit. I sat a whole diameter away from him, but the couch wrapped us close. ‘And I’m sure you look lovely when you turn that frown upside down.’

‘One,’ I said, ‘I am here for business. Two, in professional settings, my name is Katherine, not “Kate”.’

I couldn’t say I was surprised by Peter’s superficial attitude towards me. Before coming to his place, I knew that, apart from his ‘How to ____ in Ten Days’ series, he wrote books with titles like: Retreat to the Kitchen: Reclaiming Traditional Femininity, Equality in Value: How “Unequal” Relationships Can Help Both Lovers, Women Beware Women: Advice to Modern Brides. I’d not read any of those books, for the same reason I didn’t read defences of feudalism. I could not deny there was a romance to these archaic relationships. I myself often fantasised about a career in the home, dependent on a kind, firm, financially secure gentleman. But, as I said, fantasies, as silly as wishing to be a princess pining for her knight.

I admit that if I had known Peter had such retrograde beliefs before I signed up for his one-on-one job-interview workshop, I would have chosen a different tutor. Given his beliefs, I was surprised Peter chose a woman as a pupil.

‘But, Katherine, you say comport yourself for a professional setting, and yet isn’t that your problem?’ said Peter. ‘You just can’t get a profession?’

Hmm, I didn’t detect any sexism in that voice, no implicit ‘because you’re a girl’ at the end of it. Even when he sipped his tea, it did not seem like patronising punctuation.

‘I admit I have not passed the interview stage lately.’ Read: Ever. ‘But as I am here to learn interview skills, I assumed it best to dress and comport myself as I would at an interview.’

I sipped my tea for emphasis, but it was such a soothing blend that my train of thought pulled the brakes and slowed to a chug. And the stereo music, this new age tinkling of strings—whenever conversation ceased, the music trickled into my mind, making my thoughts frolic with other subjects. I had to concentrate. I wouldn’t let this man think me weaker than tea and music.

‘If you expected me, Peter,’ I said, ‘to come here with a wide smile and a short skirt, then you have misunderstood this meeting’s purpose. I am not like the women you think you know, who dream solely of snagging a “strong man”.’

Peter smiled, but I detected some offence in it. He took a file of papers from beside him and said, ‘People always get my position wrong. I never suggest all women should become housewives. I merely suggest that many women do not allow themselves to consider the possibility of being a housewife. They dismiss their deep desires as “fantasies”.’

My face prickled with embarrassment. That last sentence hit me, but only half hit me. I have fantasies, but they stem from no “deep desires”.

‘Well then,’ I said, ‘do not count me among your sleeper-housewives.’

He smiled, shuffling through the papers from the file. ‘The personality test you did on my site. Do you think I’d be talking to you if I didn’t like what I saw?’

So now he was trying to butter me up, telling me sweet nothings about my aptitude. He probably sold a book on this ‘strategy’ for wooing career women.

‘In my experience,’ I said, ‘personality tests are twaddle.’ I sipped my tea to give myself an air of sophistication, but the tea was so nice, my eyelids fluttered, ruining the effect.

When I recovered myself, I fell into eye contact with Peter. I realised this was a first for the evening. Previously, his eyes preferred documents, sliding over me, looking where I looked, and when they fell on my eyes, they rolled right away. Now his green eyes poured into mine. I needed to look away, I shouldn’t have this warmth swelling in me, I couldn’t show it on my face, not to him. But, no, no, I shouldn’t look away, averting my eyes would look worse. I was a careerwomen who looks all sexists dead in the eyes, their big, inviting, warm eyes.

‘Kate, you remind of a woman I know.’ Peter’s voice had softened, running through my ears. ‘Susana. She was so like you, a woman with eyes on her career.’ His tone rose and fell with the sway of the new age music. ‘What she wanted, she took. What she couldn’t take, she worked for, laboured, toiled, fought for, tirelessly. She was so like you, she was capable, but she was stuck on a rung of her career, unable to pull herself up.’

My tea almost slipped from my hand, so I set it down, without looking away from his eyes.

‘Susana went to a party, frustrated, annoyed, stressed, hopeless. At that party, she met a man. Thomas, his name was. She didn’t know why, but she knew she could talk to Thomas, tell him all about her frustrations, how something held her back from advancing, something she couldn’t budge by herself. Thomas told her he had a way to help her, a little trick to focus her mind.

‘Thomas told Susana of a girl so like her, called Briana. Thomas was a senior year classmate with Briana, that is, if you could truly be classmates with the top student. With Briana, it was all study, study, study, work, work, work. She was successful, but an emptiness in her stomach told her she wasn’t. Only one time a day did she relax, and even then, she relaxed for only thirty minutes. Briana loved watching this old Japanese cartoon, about a headstrong and busy princess and her loyal but mischievous knight.

‘One day Thomas caught Briana watching the show, fascinated by the show. On the TV, the princess told the knight, as always, that she was busy, too busy to have fun with him. She had court to attend, treaties and decrees to sign, correspondence to write. She simply had no time to spend with her knight. Oh, but her mischievous knight was clever. He said he had discovered a magic spell which would save so much time. Rather than walking all the way to each other, or sending messengers, they could communicate mind-to-mind. The princess was over-joyed and told him to cast the spell.

‘The knight obliged. “To link our minds,” he said, “first you must—Look into my eyes. Look deep into my eyes. Do nothing, relax, and just allow what will happen to happen. Relax. Let my mind enter yours, realise your thoughts can take a nap, let down their guard, and let my mind enter yours. Let my thoughts mingle with your thoughts. Let my words enter your ears and become your thoughts. My thoughts feel so warm in your head, so big and warm that you give my thoughts all your attention, so big and warm that your own thoughts want to be like my thoughts. My words, my thought, my mind are stronger than your mind. My mind is in your mind. Your mind cannot help but submit to my mind, my thoughts, my words.”

‘And then the knight woke the princess with a snap.’ Peter snapped his fingers.

Peter was now sitting next to me. I had not seen him shift around the sofa to sit by my side. But I must have. My eyes had not left his eyes. As he spoke, his eyes had become a fixed point in space, had become all space, had become gravity that bends all space towards it. And even now, when I was aware of the room surrounding us, I could not look away from his eyes.

‘The knight stood before the now very softminded princess, whose every thought bowed to his words. He made her do silly things, like making all the lords and ladies of her court swear allegiance to her bottom, or signing a decree banning underpants, or penning an essay about why the knight was the most handsome man in the land, and why the princess was a real sourpuss.’

I giggled. Why did I giggle? These weren’t jokes. They weren’t even funny. They were just silly. Something was fuzzy, dizzy, melty in my head. Was… Was Peter hypnotizing me.

‘When the knight explained what was going on, everyone in the castle laughed, and the princess turned bright red.

‘Now Thomas (remember Thomas?) saw someone else was blushing, Briana, who was fascinated by the hypnotized princess. Briana told Thomas the show was so unbelievable. That smart and headstrong princess should have realised and resisted the knight’s hypnotism. No way would she have succumbed.

‘Thomas said, “Oh, really? Then I suppose a smart and headstrong girl like you won’t succumb when I tell you to—Look into my eyes. Look deep into my eyes. Know that you know you are being hypnotized. Know that you know that even when you realise you are being hypnotized, resistance is so hard, hard because you need to want to resist. The princess couldn’t want to resist because she wanted to submit, submit all of her thoughts. You can’t want to resist, because you want to submit, want to be hypnotized. You want to let my eyes flow over your smart, headstrong mind, dulling your smartness, softening your headstrongness. You want my eyes in your mind.”

‘And then Thomas, to wake Briana, snapped.’ Peter snapped his fingers.

Peter had his arm around my shoulder, pulling my face close to his. I should be frightened, should find this grasp around me terrifying, but his grasp was an embrace, which only made me feel safe, so safe I could just listen to his stories. And they were just stories, stories about girls being hypnotized. If I felt a little hypnotized, that just showed what a good story-teller Peter was. I wouldn’t actually get hypnotized.

‘At the party, Thomas told Susana about how he made Briana unwind. That smart girl, always go get-em, never resting, not even on the weekend. Thomas made her think less and smile more. They went on a date, her first date, and not a single thought of school entered her blissfully spacy head

‘Now, Briana wasn’t the only one with a spacy head. During the two tales, Susana had fallen into two little trances. She had a good idea of what advice Thomas was going to give her for her anxieties. And while those trances did feel so nice, so relaxing, she was not the kind of woman who got hypnotized. Susana was an independent careerwoman, who sorted out her own problems, and she told as much to Thomas

‘Thomas just said, “I know. I know you are trying to solve all your own problems, fight all your own fights, but now you’ve found a problem you can’t solve, and a fight you can’t win. You want something, but your own efforts cannot reach it. A really driven woman would stop at nothing to get what she wants, even if that means leting someone help her reach what she wants. See your problems through my eyes—Look into my eyes, look deep into my eyes. In my eyes, you see your problems. In my eyes, you see yourself. You are your problem. You refuse help, when you most need it. A truly strong woman knows when she is not strong enough, and when others have the strength to help her. A truly strong woman knows when she is weak, and when others are strong. You are a truly strong woman, knowing you are weak, and I am strong enough to help you. When I snap my fingers, you will awake, and you will beg me to help you, beg me to hypnotize you.’ Peter snapped his fingers.

I was now sitting sideways on Peter’s lap, his arm hugging me to him. He looked down into my eyes with a warm smile, so warm it kindled a smile on my lips. I felt so open, so open that with any other man I’d feel vulnerable. But with Peter, knowing he could see all of me, all into me, just made me feel safer. With a man like Peter, I understood why some women might want to dedicate their lives to a man, to caring for his home, brightening his day. His mere presence was a lighthouse. I wanted to check his ring finger, but his eyes… I couldn’t look away from his eyes.

‘Um,’ I said, ‘that story you told me gave me some ideas.’ Peter just smiled, refusing to finish my obvious request. ‘I came to you not just for job-interview tips. I, I came to you because I needed guidance. When I read your books on job-hunting, it wasn’t just advice, it felt like a firm, kind voice was guiding me. I need you to guide me. Please, Peter, please, hypnotize me.’

I was pleading by the end, but Peter didn’t look down on me, or rather, didn’t think poorly of me. He hugged me closer, and I snuggled into his chest.

‘Kate,’ Peter said, ‘Look into my eyes, look deep into my eyes…’

I let his mind enter mind, let him decide what was right for me.

Look at all the other interviewees gawping at me. They knew this job was mine. I was just waiting for my turn with the interviewers.

When I was called in, I strutted into the room. Peter told me: ‘An interview was decided in the first ten seconds, so knock ‘em dead.’ By the bulging eyes on that fifty-year-old male interviewer, I think my demeanour had knocked his heart up a gear. Well, my demeanour and my professional garb. ‘Be something they’ve never seen before,’ Peter told me, and so he picked out clothes for the perfect first-impression, something that says I’m confident and have got nothing to hide. What better than daisy-dukes and a check-shirt tied off just beneath my tits.

There were three interviewers: the fifty year-old man who’d had all his blood migrate downstairs; a woman in her late-thirties who gave my tits, tummy, and thighs glances like I was a fine meal and she was a Michelin inspector; and then there was a seventy year-old, who, from the way he could concentrate on his papers, clearly wasn’t my target audience.

‘Ms…’ stammered the fifty-year-old.

‘Call me, Katy,’ I said with a smile. Like Peter said, ‘Don’t be all fuddy-duddy with the interviewers.’

The fifty-year-old continued stammering, until the woman yanked the baton from him. ‘What drew you to our organisation, Ms Welles?’

‘Miss,’ I stressed, as I displayed my un-ringed finger in front of my chest. Like Peter said, ‘Spice up the professional appeal with a bit of sex appeal’—how can a double positive make a negative?

I answered, ‘Well, I saw that your company’s employees are eighty percent males under forty, and I thought—Yum-my!’

‘Put them at ease with a joke,’ said Peter. Didn’t seem to be working.

‘Seriously though, I felt your company needed a feminine touch.’

The woman closed her notes, put her pen in her pokcet, and leant back in her chair. She was a tough cookie. ‘What would you say is your greatest weakness?’

Peter said give no ‘nothing answers’. Don’t say, ‘I’m a perfectionist’. Be honest about your faults but spin your faults right.

‘When I’m sucking cock, I can’t swallow,’ I said. The fifty year-old slammed down his mug as he coughed his throat out. ‘Ooh-arr!’ I said, ‘Looks like he’s having the same trouble.’

The sighing seventy year-old scanned through my resume. ‘You write under Previous Experience, “Raising cocks”. Shall I give you the benefit of the doubt and assume poultry.’

‘Well, that too,’ I said, before winking at the woman. ‘But I can soak pussies just as well.’

‘I think we’re done here,’ said the woman.

I shot to my feet and planted my hands on their desk. ‘Don’t you want to hear about where I see myself in ten years?’

‘Madam,’ said the seventy year-old, ‘I assure you, you shan’t be here.’

And that’s how it went for weeks, for every job interview I had lined up. No matter how I refined my performance, they all just dismissed me without giving me a full hearing. Some wouldn’t let me in the door! No matter how tight I wore my shirts, how short my shorts, how much underwear I let peek out, how little underwear I wore, nor giggling, nor pouting, nor promising to show my interviewers a good time, nothing but nothing was good enough. I was beginning to think Peter’s hypnosis hadn’t worked.

When next we met, I brought this up.

‘Peter,’ I said. ‘Can you hypnotise me again?’

We sat side by side on his round sofa in his living room. We were good, professional acquaintances now, so I snuggled up to his side, and laid my head on his shoulder. I had changed from my job hunting clothes into my bra and panties and socks. Peter wore a suit, because that was the classy kind of guy he was. He may have been a sexist, but he was a real gentleman.

‘Is our last session not working?’ he asked.

‘Oh, no,’ I said, looking up into his eyes. I didn’t want him to think I was ungrateful for him putting all those brilliant ideas in my head. ‘I know I’m doing a hundred and ten percent better than I was before, but the interviewers just don’t seem to realise. Some firms are even returning my applications with notes saying they’ve “heard of me”.’

Peter smiled and it made me smile. ‘Oh, I think the hypnosis is working just fine. But just in case you can improve, how about we roleplay a job interview, so I can pinpoint where you’re going wrong.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ I chirped.

We brought together arms chairs and the tea table to stand in for an interview room. I needed to get into my ‘uniform’, so I stripped off my bra and panties, and pulled on my too tight daisy-dukes, and buttoned up my belly-bearing check-shirt. Sat opposite each other on either side of the tea table, we began.

‘Miss Welles,’ Peter said, adjusting imaginary glasses, and examining an imaginary sheet of paper with such scrutiny that I giggled. ‘Miss Welles!’ he said with pantomime sternness. ‘This is important.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Roi, sorry, Mr Roi,’ I said with a stone face, before we both broke into titters. ‘Oh, and please, call me Katy.’

‘Katy,’ said Peter. ‘An adorable name for an adorable girl. Katy, what drew you to my organisation?’

‘Apart from the hunky boss?’ I asked, earning his modest smirk. ‘But seriously, I felt your organisation could do with a feminine touch.’

‘I’ve always felt that,’ said Peter. ‘And it seems you have more than just a feminine touch’

His eyes ran over my breasts and thighs, thrilling me like a boyfriend’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I think you could do with a touch from the feminine.’ I winked as I shook my prime assets.

‘What would you say is your biggest weakness?’ Peter asked.

‘Well, when I’m sucking cock, I can’t swallow,’ I said. ‘But I just need some practise.’

‘A sexy girl like you should have plenty of opportunity to practise,’ he said.

‘I’m just looking for a sexy man to practise with,’ I said with a wink.

He smiled. ‘Oh, darn, this should have been done at reception, but could you show me some identification.’

Oh, ho! He was already having me display my killer app. I stood up, and started fingering, but never quite letting my hands enter my pockets. ‘Oh, yes, sir, but, oh, drat! My shorts are just too tight!’ I pouted at him. ‘Can I get a big, strong man to help me get my card out.’ I spun around and stuck out my bum, or rather, my two back pockets.

Peter pushed aside the tea table to approach my offering. He grabbed my left cheek, and I gasped. It wasn’t the touch itself that thrilled, but that he just did it, grabbed my arse without any hemming or hawing.

‘Can’t feel anything in here, or at least no I.D.’ He grabbed my other cheek, like his hands were coated in aphrodisiac. ‘Nor here.’

I pressed my shoulders into his chest, and my bum into his rock hard cock. ‘Try the front,’ I said.

His hands slid down my waist, stroking down my thighs, and stroking between them. ‘Can’t feel anything,’ he breathed in my ear. ‘Maybe, those shorts’ll be less tight if we take them off.’

‘Take them off,’ I panted.

He undid the button, undid the zip, and I pulled down my daisy-dukes and kicked them away. I had no underwear to remove.

‘I remember,’ I said, arousal clouding the script Peter had given me, ‘that I hid it between my tits.’

He spun me around. I hoped he would tear my shirt open, so we could get to the end of stoking our fires and just get to fucking, but he undid my shirt one button at a time. He pulled off my shirt, so I stood naked before him. He ran his hands around and between my breasts, before caressing them. My eyes rolled back.

‘Katy,’ he said, ‘I can’t find any identification in here.’

With more discipline than I thought I had, I pushed myself away from him. I ran my hands down my naked body. ‘But, Mr Roi, isn’t all this identifying. If you ever need to know it’s me, I can just show you.’

‘A nice idea, Katy,’ said Peter. ‘But for that to work, I’ll need to know “all this” intimately.’ He pulled me to him, pressing my breasts and pussy against his clothes—oh, why was he still wearing clothes. ‘Will you oblige?’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ I gasped, and gasped greater when he hoisted me up, and cradled me in his arms.

Peter carried me to his bedroom, laying me on the bed, before stripping out of his clothes. For someone who wrote for a living, he worked out a lot. That cut body, no wonder he could lift me up. I just hoped his physical prowess extended all the way.

Nude, he walked towards the bed, cock hard. Getting on the bed, he asked, ‘Do you want the top, or bottom?’

‘Bottom,’ I said, laying back and spreading my legs.

‘Rough, or gentle?’ He crawled over me, till we looked into each other’s eyes.

‘Gentle,’ I said, wishing these questions would end and he would stick it in. ‘Gentle, but firm.’

He kissed me, as he entered me. I moaned into his mouth, while he rose and fell into me, while I rose to his falling, and fell to his rising. I wrapped my arms around him, refusing to part my body from his, as he continued to thrust into me. He kept going, even as I grew too aroused to respond. I pushed my face into his neck, as he pushed deeper and swifter into me. Arousal twirled in my tummy, fogging my mind, faster and thicker, until, in long, shuddering moment, my mind bloomed in light. We rolled onto our sides, smiling into each other’s eyes.

‘Well, Katy,’ said Peter. ‘You have the qualities I’m looking for. You’re hired.’

‘Really!?’ I squealed. ‘I passed the interview!? Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally! I’ve finally passed an interview! I’m a… a…’ Confusion dampened my joy. ‘What am I?’

‘My personal assistant.’

‘What does a personal assistant do?’

Peter smiled, cupped my face, and spoked in cooing tones, ‘My personal assistant won’t have to do stuff like taking my calls, or checking my correspondence. But she won’t have an easy ride. She’ll have to clean my house, cook my food, do the shopping (from my bank account of course), and, well, as you’ve already shown willingness to fuck the boss, we’ll add that to your duties.’

‘What… what will I get paid?’ I asked. It sounded nice, but there was something odd about this.

‘You’ll have to live in my apartment, so that’s accommodation provided for. You’ll have all your meals on the company—well, all the ingredients on the company, and access to the company kitchen. And for any little thing you want, you’ll receive an allowance.’

‘Isn’t… isn’t that a housewife?’ I asked. I came here to get a job. I was going to show this chauvinist what a career-minded girl looked like. I didn’t come her to become his housewife. This made me angry. Or, at least, it should make me angry.

‘Yes, that is a housewife,’ he said, ‘and doesn’t that sound nice?’

His words cut through my confusion. It did sound nice. Being a housewife had always sounded nice, but I had dismissed as something I shouldn’t feel. What did it matter how I should feel? What I wanted now was to cook for, clean for, sleep with this wonderful man who helped me realise what I actually felt. I hugged Peter, smooched him, thanked him.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ she said. ‘I’ll be the best housewife you could hope for, Mr Roi.’

‘I’m your husband,’ he said. ‘Call me Peter. But don’t think being a housewife will be easy. It’s your job from the moment you wake up till the moment you fall asleep. I expect my housewife to look impeccable at all times.’

‘I’ll do my makeup every day before you wake up, and I’ll wear floral dresses.’

‘I expect my housewife to defer to me in all financial decisions, even when we’re just ordering at a restaurant.’

‘I’ll let you order for me.’

‘And I expect that you shall obey me with a happy heart.’

‘My heart, my whole self, is yours.’

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Your first day on the job, and you’ve already helped me so much with the new book I’m writing.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s called Hypnotise Yourself a Housewife.’

Everything since the hypnosis came flooding back. All his trigger words were gone, all his suggestions dispelled. I realised it wasn’t professional to bear your legs and belly at a job interview, nor was it within the bounds of etiquette to reveal you had trouble swallowing. Under hypnosis, he had told me to make a big, sexy fool of myself.

‘Are you angry?’ Peter asked.

‘A little,’ I huffed, but even this was an effort, trying to keep the smile off my face. ‘Not really!’ I smooched him. ‘If you hadn’t played that cheeky trick on me, I wouldn’t be your housewife. And besides, hypnotists are meant to make their subjects do silly things.’

‘But can you do one more silly thing for me?’ he asked. ‘This time without hypnosis.’

‘Anything, Petey,’ I said.

He rolled over to take something from his bedside drawer. He put between us a small box, small, so small it could only contain- Oh!

‘Will you marry me?’ he asked. The diamond of ring managed to glitter even in the dim light. ‘What? Did you think I’d have a “housewife” in name only?’

The proposal was entirely natural, inevitable given what had come before. Yet, to face the question in reality stopped my voice in my throat. But my muteness was like a river stopping against a log: it built pressure, till my, ‘YES!’ burst our eardrums.

Even when the ring embraced my finger, my excitement refused fade. I swatted Peter’s shoulder. ‘Why did you have to propose now? I won’t be able to get to sleep.’

‘I have a way to fix that,’ said Peter. He held my face in his hands. ‘Look into my eyes. Look deep into my eyes…’