The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1. School Daze

Jan and I have been out of college for 12 years, married for 11. I was in the engineering school, but I took some psych and music electives—there were more girls than guys in the classes and not to beat on a stereotype, but they were way more attractive than the E-school girls. The psych and sociology majors had to take statistics in their first or second year, so I was popular with them because I understood it and could explain it.

Jan, Soraya and Betsy were all psych or soc majors and lived together in a four-person suite. Their fourth, Nicole, had left school with mono after two weeks and hadn’t been heard from since. We were all good friends and hung out together, part of a larger circle that didn’t have too much in the way of hooking up or heavier commitments within the group. Betsy had a boyfriend back home, Soraya was betrothed to a distant cousin in Iran, but the marriage was looking less and less likely as she and her parents became more Americanized. She used the commitment, such as it was, to her advantage. I loved to watch the reactions of guys who came on too strong as she would draw herself up to her full five feet three inches, adopt a formal and indefinably foreign demeanor, thicken her almost-undetectable accent, and blow them off with a “Sorry, I am betrothed.” Jan had dumped her last boyfriend, referring vaguely to his kinky proclivities, and the girl I thought I was interested in turned out to be a party-hearty sorority slut after she pledged. I hated the mixers, the beer and the barf.

I was in their suite, helping them with stat. When we finished that, we were going to pool our notes for the upcoming psych exam. We got through the stat stuff pretty quickly and moved on to psychology.

“… OK, brief therapies and rapid intervention techniques,” Soraya said as she pulled her thick, black hair back and secured it with a scrunchy. “EMDR, cognitive therapy, hypnosis…”

“Bennett says hypnotists are quacks,” said Betsy. Dr. Bennett was one of the professors; he had a clinical practice in town.

“Quacks? That’s a little strong. Why?”

“He says that only licensed psychologists should practice hypnosis.”

“Then my uncle would be out of luck,” I said.

They turned to me, waiting for an explanation.

“He’s an ob-gyn,” I said. “He delivers babies under hypnosis.”

I told them that he’d gone to France and to exotic New Jersey to study the technique with a guy named Elman who specialized in teaching doctors and dentists. He had never, to my knowledge, cracked a psychology text.

“But that’s different,” said Betsy. “He’s dealing with pain, not with psychological issues.”

“Are you kidding? He says these women are wracked with all kinds of fears and phobias, old wives’ tales and misunderstandings. He says that it’s more than half the battle.”

She was about to object when Jan spoke up. “My sister-in-law had her baby under hypnosis. She said it was wonderful. No pain, just a little discomfort, and she could push when she needed to and all that other stuff.”

Jan’s brother was about 10 or 12 years older. The family joke was that her mother had had two only children.

“But not everybody can be hypnotized,” said Soraya.

“Not so,” I said. “Anyone can be hypnotized enough to get some useful results for therapy or pain management. It’s true that people differ in their susceptibility—some people can go into a trance very rapidly and some can go much deeper than others, but everyone else is more or less in the middle.”

“And you know this… how?” asked Betsy.

“I’ve hypnotized a bunch of people. Read my uncle’s books. Talked to him about it, got some instruction, watched him do it. It’s pretty straightforward.”

Uncle Jack liked me and was flattered by my interest. He actually gave me some coaching. I’d hypnotized a dozen friends and cousins on a handful of occasions, so I felt reasonably sure of myself.

“So you’re a hypnotist, huh?”

“Yes, and I don’t quack. Would you like a little demonstration?”

They looked at each other and a smiling I-will-if-you-will unspoken communication passed among them.

Betsy’s eyes were merry with a hint of Celtic mischief. “OK, what do we have to do?”

I had them move their chairs together and I pulled the table out of the way so I could stand or sit in front of them. Chairs scraped. Some giggles and teasing went back and forth. I turned the radio down, but not off. They had it tuned to some chick-R&B sappy love song station; I figured it would help mask any distracting noise from other rooms or the hall. They got settled and looked at me expectantly.

“OK, I’d like you to clasp your hands together like this,” I said as I demonstrated the classic handclasp suggestibility test position. “Focus on the spot where your thumbs cross. I touched the spot on each of their hands, giving their clasped hands a squeeze as I did so. Concentrate on it as your hands become more and more tightly locked together, like they’re glued tightly together. Keep focusing on that spot….”

When I figured they were ready, I had them try to separate their hands. Betsy and Soraya laughed in surprise when they couldn’t; Jan was focused intently on her hands, unsuccessfully trying to pull them apart, but saying nothing, not looking up.

Soraya finally separated her hands and Betsy shook hers apart a moment later. Both noticed that Jan’s were still tightly clasped.

“Jan! You can pull them apart!” Betsy tugged on one of Jan’s arms. But she couldn’t.

I said, “And now you can separate them,” and pulled gently on her wrists. As her fingers unlaced, she looked up at me and said, wonderingly, “They’re… apart.” I recognized the trancey look on her face and noted, good subject.

“But that’s just the power of suggestion,” said Betsy, “not hypnosis.”

“The only difference is a matter of degree,” I said. “I compound one suggestion on another and pretty soon you’re in a deep trance.” I knew from my reading that phrases like that were part of a good induction.

“Here, let me show you. Sit comfortably in your chairs. Hold your left arm straight out in front of you. That’s right, locked at the elbow. Straight and stiff. Good.”

I manipulated their arms, suggesting stiffness and rigidity with my motions, then piled on the suggestions. Pretty soon all three were trying to move their arms and couldn’t.

“But I can move them easily,” I said, as I bent each arm at the elbow and turned their hands inward so their palms were facing them. This was going really well. They were fully engaged. I was having fun; so were they. Betsy’s blue eyes were wide, staring up at me; Soraya’s eyes were inky pools set deep above her high cheekbones. Jan already looked unfocused, dreamy, ready to go into a deep trance.

“Now look right here,” I said, as I touched the center of each of their palms. “Concentrate on that spot as your arms get heavier and heavier, as your eyes follow that spot down, as your hand gets heavier, so heavy, as it sinks towards your lap. You feel your whole body relaxing, relaxing as you concentrate on the sound of my voice, arm sinking down, eyes beginning to close….”

Soon each of them was slumped in their chairs. I deepened their trance, had them open their eyes, and did some of the usual stunts while they were in waking trance. I had Betsy forget the number six. She counted her fingers, counted my fingers, counted Jan’s fingers and shook her strawberry curls in an attempt to clear her head each time she came up with the wrong total. The other girls laughed and tried to help her when I asked her to divide 12 by 2, but she couldn’t get it. I handed Soraya an imaginary ice cream cone and told her it was a very hot day, that it was melting and dripping from the bottom of the cone. Her pink tongue darted here and there. She pantomimed the licking and slurping perfectly until I told her it was all gone.

I turned to Jan. Her hazel eyes met mine, her features slack, her wide, dark mouth slightly parted.

“Jan, when I count to three, you’ll find that your feet follow my direct orders, do anything I tell them to do, but you won’t hear me give them the orders; they’ll go directly to your feet. And when I count to three, you will believe that you’re not in hypnosis, have never been hypnotized, and that hypnosis is just a bunch of crap. You’ll become aware of this suggestion and it will be over when I say ’remember.’ Ready? One, two, three!”

Jan looked at Betsy and Soraya and said, “I don’t know why you’re going along with this crap. It’s all a big fake.”

“Feet, take Jan over by the door.”

As she stood and walked to the door, I asked, “Where are you going?’

“Nowhere. I just need to stretch my legs.”

Betsy and Soraya, though still in waking trance themselves, smiled at her excuse.

“Feet, you’re burning hot. You need to get out of those shoes.”

Jan told me I was a phony as she used the toe of one of her little canvas sneakers to pull the heel down on the other, then used her toes to remove the other sneaker. Her toenails were painted a cheerful blue. Her feet were delicate, with slim ankles ascending into her jeans.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking pointedly at her feet.

She looked down, realizing that she had removed her sneakers. “Nothing. My feet were hot in those things.”

“Feet, get on Jan’s chair.”

She walked to the chair and stepped up onto it.

Betsy called, “Jan! What are you doing? Why are you on the chair?”

“I can see better from up here,” she said simply.

Soraya asked, “Are you hypnotized?”

“No, hypnosis is a load of crap. I’ve never been hypnotized. I don‘t think it would work on me.”

“Jan, you can sit. And remember,” I said. “Soraya, ask her again.”

Soraya complied. “Are you hypnotized?”

She looked confused for a moment as she got off the chair and sat down. “I, um, guess I am.”

After Jan’s little jaunt around the room, I really had their attention. Jan was clearly in an eyes-open trance. Soraya and Betsy were in that in-between stage where they would go under with just a word or gesture.

“Look here,” I said. “Close your eyes and go into a deep, deep trance. Continue to relax as you listen to the sound of my voice.”

I sat across from them, taking the opportunity to look at them as attractive women, not just the friends I hung out with. Exotic, slim-hipped Soraya, the very image of a Persian princess. The spray of freckles across Betsy’s cute little nose, the swell of her generous breasts against her flannel shirt, Jan’s shiny walnut hair, classic features, full lips, the pulse beating above her collarbone, exposed by her torn sweatshirt. I felt a warm glow. My friends were sexy, desirable. Especially Jan. My eyes drank her in. That’s when I realized that I had a raging hard-on, that my jeans felt like they were bursting, that my mind was suddenly racing with erotic possibilities. I’d never thought of hypnosis as sexy before, but I was certainly thinking that way now.

I got a sudden brainstorm. “In a moment, I’m going to have you open your eyes. When I count three, you’ll see that I’m sexy and attractive and you’ll do your best to let me know that you think I’m very desirable. Ready, one, two, three!”

Betsy blinked a couple of times, oriented herself, and stretched, and I got a better look at the shape of those breasts under her shirt. She looked at me and giggled. She blushed, turned her head a bit and gave me a flirtatious look.

Soraya pulled the scrunchy from her hair, shook it out, her head down a bit. It fell around her shoulders, framing her face, accentuating her dusky skin. She gave me a smoldering stare through half-lidded eyes. Her smile was pouty, daring.

Betsy got up, hooked her arm through mine and pulled me to my feet, saying, “Ooh, Burt, I think we ought to go for a walk; get away from other people for a little while.” She held my arm close to her, pulling it into her breast. Soraya looked daggers at her and muttered something in Farsi under her breath.

Jan, to my surprise, walked over to the radio, turned it up a bit, and walked right up to me, ignoring Betsy’s hold on my arm. She draped both arms around my neck and pressed against me, singing softly along with the radio:

Tonight, my love,

Will the stars spell out your name?

Darling, do you feel the same?

Is it written in the stars?

She pulled me into her swaying dance, slipping one of her legs between mine. She felt my hardness against her belly, pulled back a little, looked up at me through dreamy eyes, smiled, and said “Mmmm” as she pulled herself more tightly against me, grinding her hips slightly.

Betsy let go of my arm. Soraya stared helplessly. Even in their hypnotically enhanced amorous state, they could see that they had been trumped. Jan had taken it to another level. And while it was enjoyable in the physical sense, I realized that things were getting out of control. I liked the attention, but we weren’t friends with privileges. I peeled Jan off me, held her at arm’s length, and said, “When I count three, each of you will be out of hypnosis, wide awake, feeling great. Ready, one, two, three!”

Soraya and Betsy laughed, but Jan looked stricken. She started to say something, but only a sob came out. She ran to one of the bedrooms and slammed the door.

Soraya ran to the door, murmured something into the crack, but all I could hear in reply were muffled sobs. She looked at Betsy and shook her head. A quick, whispered exchange, and the girls closed ranks.

“Nice going, sport,” Betsy said, handing me my books and my backpack. “I think you’d better leave.”

I packed up, trying to figure out how a fun evening had gone so wrong. I attempted to make amends, but she pushed me towards the door. Next thing I knew, I was out in the hall, Betsy’s final words stinging: “Great demo. See you in class.”

The next several days were hell. The three pointedly walked away from me after class, they hung up when I rang their room. Other friends were asking what was wrong, but the girls weren’t talking and I didn’t know what to say.

I knew I had to square things with Jan, but she avoided me when we were in the same places and evaded me the rest of the time. I finally followed her to the library and saw her go into a carrel.

I waited until she got settled, slipped in, and sat across from her.

“Go away.”

“Jan, please. I’m so sorry; I don’t know what to say. I just want things to be right again between you and me, with all of us.”

“And that’s exactly the point, isn’t it?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “It can’t be the same anymore. You changed the game. Changed the balance and flow.”

I looked at her dumbly, not knowing what to say.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

I continued to do my imitation of a baffled armadillo.

“You and your damned hypnosis, you treated the three of us like your personal play toys, your little harem, you chauvinist jerk. But the worst part….“ She teared up. “You stripped away my defenses. Let the cat out of the bag.”

“You mean…?”

“Yeah, I care for you, you son of a bitch!”

I looked around in alarm. She lowered her voice to a fierce whisper.

“I did a pretty good job of hiding it. From the others, even from myself. And obviously from you. I felt so vulnerable! I still do! I’m sitting here, bleeding all over the table, and you’re just staring at me.”

Something broke inside me. I realized in that moment that I loved her. Not as a friend, not like the others. Not out of sympathy, not out of pity. Not out of a need to give her something back. I just loved her.

“I love you,” I blurted.

She looked dismayed, then angry. “Oh, that’s just fucking wonderful. Now we can be boyfriend and girlfriend and live happily ever after, right?”

“I, uh…”

“Relationships are complicated, Burt! If we’re a couple, it changes the way we fit together with Betsy and Soraya. We all want to be friends, but if two of the friends are lovers, what then? I don’t want to break up the group. They’re my roomies and my best friends. So are you, except for the roomie part.” She smiled a little at this; my heart leapt to see a hint of happiness on her face.

We talked some more. She took my hand. I took hers in both of mine. We stood. We kissed. We kissed deeply. No, we didn’t screw in the carrel, but I’m sure there are plenty of other members of the Second Floor Stacks Club.

She finally pushed me away, folded her arms, and looked up at me with her head tilted, one eyebrow cocked and a wry half-smile. I’ve gotten to know that look well in the intervening years. Depending on the smile, the look in her eyes, whether her hair is forward, half around her face, or defiantly back, it can mean, “You’re on thin ice” or “Come here and make love to me.” Or any of half a dozen other permutations.

“You’d better go,” she said. “We’ll work this out.”

And we did. Things were a little weird for a while, but the group remained intact, we were—and still are—friends. Word got around regarding some, not all, of our hypnosis session and I did some other demonstrations and would occasionally be called upon at a party or to do some two-bit hypnotherapy to help people get through exams. Jan, however, studiously avoided any of those situations. I never brought up the subject of hypnosis when she was around and she was silent if anyone extolled my skills. Needless to say, I started putting a lot more thought into my suggestions.

We became lovers. She was an absolute tigress in bed—with one reservation. The only way she’d have sex was on her back, missionary style. We’d get seriously turned on sometimes, pulling one another’s clothes off in our eagerness to get skin to skin. I’d pull her down on top of me, but just when I’d be ready to seal the deal, she would manage to flip us over and take me on her back. Once when I was giving her a backrub, we got pretty amorous. I started to slide up between her thighs and you would have thought I was going for her butt. She all but decapitated me with her leg as she swung it over me to get face to face.

I also found out that she didn’t like oral sex, giving or getting. Which is a shame, because she’s delicious. Not to be gross or anything, but some women just have an unfortunate crop of bacteria that brings to mind every bad joke about shrimp and seafood. Not Jan. But apart from the physical stimulation, she mostly just endured it. The only time she touches my cock is to provide a little guidance if she’s a bit dry.