The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There are two kinds of men: those who love to be hypnotized and those who haven’t been hypnotized yet.

“Hypnosis for Girlfriends”

It is a love story. He fell in love with her—of course he did; men fell over if she so much as looked at them. But once he was at her feet, she realized she had fallen for him too—that she needed him, relied on him, as much as he needed her.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, especially because at the beginning he just looked like prey. She met a lot of men; captured the ones who appealed to her; broke them like ponies; then either sent them away or demoted them to occasional-servant status. It was fun. But if the truth be told, it was also starting to be a bit wearying, a little stale.

And at first he seemed like just one of those playthings. Handsome, in an adorably dorky junior-professor-at-four-year-liberal-arts-college way. And just a little socially awkward; not the life of the party. Standing a little apart, as if wondering how long he had to stay before he could politely leave.

Putting men like him at ease was one of her major skills. Away from the protection of the herd, he would be easy prey.

The party was given by her friend Juliet. Juliet was a perfect hostess—warm and outgoing, she knew dozens of people from different walks of life. She had the look of a model: tall, striking, and African American. She made her living as a life coach and sometime radio host. She’d met Elle—as she met many of her friends—when she interviewed her on the show, asking questions about relationships and marriage. Most of her listeners were women, and Elle knew how to signal subtly to those who were looking for a relationship with a man who knew his place. Elle’s appearances on the show had brought her a number of intriguing clients; also a few male clients who sought her out for hypnotherapy in order to improve their social lives. She didn’t date clients; but she did a great deal to make them more useful to the women in their lives. They usually thanked her later.

Juliet was a great reader and drew the most bashful of authors out of the back aisles of the bookstore and onto the airwaves. So when Elle introduced herself to this cute potential victim, she wasn’t surprised to hear that him say he was a writer. Then she heard his name and she was truly surprised. Louis Hensel—everybody had heard of him. He’d published a novel, Your Dream Is Now Valuable Intellectual Property of Our Corporation, five years ago. It got great reviews, and a lot of people raved about it—probably many more than had actually read it. Since then, though, nothing. She hadn’t even known he lived nearby.

They were standing by the window. When he told her his name, she put one hand on his arm, as if casually, and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I loved your book,” she said. “Really.”

He was intrigued. Not hooked yet, but interested. Why wouldn’t he be? She knew men found her attractive; she’d dressed carefully for Juliet’s party, precisely because she was shopping for a new toy. His eyes, more or less reflexively, looked her up and down—the black stiletto sandals, the tailored black pants, the ivory silk shirt open just far enough to give a hint of lace beneath it. And there was nothing a man liked to hear more than that he was a genius.

“I’ve worked with a lot of writers,” she added.

This was a key moment. If he was too egotistical to ask her what that meant, he was probably not worth pursuing. On the other hand, if he did, his reaction to the answer would tell her a lot.

“Really?” he said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a hypnotherapist,” she said.

The word “hypnosis” always got a reaction. Sometimes it was fear or horror, but much more often it was this: a small start of surprise; an almost undetectable dilation of the pupils. Whether he knew it or not, he was nibbling at the bait. “Really? And you work with writers?”

“Sure. I do a lot of work with creative people—artists, writers, musicians. Sometimes they get caught or blocked. Hypnosis definitely can help with that.” She threw that in because there were rumors that his second book was behind schedule.

“And that works?”

“Sure. Anyone who has that level of imagination is a good candidate for hypnosis. A few sessions can make a big difference to a very suggestible subject.”

“Suggestible?” This was a code word, and he reacted just as she wanted. “I’m not sure that would work on me. I’m pretty hard-headed.”

She was faintly amused. “Oh, I’ve read your book. You have a great imagination. I don’t think I’d have much trouble—I mean, you’d have much trouble going under.”.

Now he took the bait. “I doubt that.”

“Want to bet?”

He couldn’t back down now. “Sure—I guess . . . .”

She looked over her shoulder. “Juliet!” she said. “Louis just bet me I can’t hypnotize him!”

Juliet embraced the idea as she did everything. “Oh, fabulous!” she said. “Of course, this is what the party needs.” She raised her voice. “Hey, everybody! My friend Elle is going to hypnotize Louis!” And to Louis whispered, “Don’t worry, Louis, she’s a friend—she’ll take it easy on you!”

He was stuck—backing out would make him look silly and weak. Elle took a dining chair and had him sit there. She had once read a book about Aleister Crowley—an English hypnotist who had claimed to be a warlock—and wanted to try something he had done. This was her chance.

There were a dozen or so others at the party. “I need a shiny coin,” she said. “Who’s got one?”

Everybody turned out pockets and purses with no luck. The problem, it turned out, is that American coins aren’t shiny. Aleister Crowley had bright gold sovereigns. She had dull grey quarters. Louis was watching, faintly amused. If she didn’t act fast, he would slip the hook and swim away. “Give me something shiny!” she called to Juliet. Juliet was already there, with a shiny silver Victorian tablespoon. Perfect.

She handed him the spoon. “Hold it in your hand and just look down at it while I talk to you for a few minutes,” she said. “Quiet, everybody!” The room fell silent.

She was standing over him, just a little closer than was comfortable for him. She was looking down at him; he was looking down at the spoon. It was a power position for her, a submissive one for him. “Hold it comfortably in your hand,” she said, pitching her voice just low enough to reach his years. “Watch the spoon. Let your eyes slide over it, notice how smooth, how shiny, your eyes slide over the spoon and my voice slides over you, my voice is smooth, my voice is the only thing that matters, my suggestions are in the spoon, my voice is in the spoon, you are in the spoon, you are letting go and drifting into the spoon, following my voice into the spoon, and the spoon is getting heavy and in a minute you will not be able to hold it, and when you drop it you will go down with it into a deep comfortable sleep where my voice and my suggestions are all that matter, heavier, everything I tell you becomes the truth the moment I say it, my voice is all that counts, every other noise will just relax you more, so heavy you can’t hold it up, your hand relaxes, your body relaxes and when you drop the spoon you will sleep, sleep, sleeeeeeeeeeeep . . . .”

His head dropped. As she spoke she had watched his face relax, his jaw, his mouth. That mouth… it intrigued her… she wanted to…. Then she remembered where she was. It was not like her to drift like that. She straightened up, raised her voice and turned to the crowd. “Okay, everybody! He’s under!”

They were astonished. “Just like that?” Juliet asked. Juliet was looking at her friend with an amusement.

“Just. Like. That. He’s a good subject. Now let’s have some fun.” She pitched her voice lower again. “Louis? Can you hear me? Nod your head if you can hear me.”

His head slowly moved up and down. She suddenly wanted to hold it between her hands and drop him further, lay him out at her feet . . .

Focus, Elle, she told herself.

“Good, you’re doing so well, I’m very pleased,” she said. “Now listen, using the power of your imagination we are going to have a lot of fun. In a few minutes I will count to three, and when I say ‘three’ you will open your eyes, feeling wide awake. You won’t remember being hypnotized, you will be certain you were not hypnotized, and when I ask you about it you will be sure you were not hypnotized. But here’s the funny thing. When you wake up, the English language will have only one word in it, and that word will be ‘hypnotized,’ so that no matter what I ask you, you will only be able to say the word ‘hypnotized,’ do you understand? Nod your head. Good! All right I am going to wake you now, you don’t remember being hypnotized, okay, one, two, THREE! Open your eyes, wide awake!”

He shook his head, as if he’d just had a brief lapse of attention.

“How do you feel?”

“Hypnotized.”

Everybody broke up. But Louis seemed unaware that he’d actually said anything funny.

“Did you enjoy being hypnotized?”

He shook his head vigorously. “Hypnotized!”

The laughter seemed to puzzle him. “Hypnotized! Hypnotized! Hypnotized!” he explained.

“Of course you weren’t,” she said.

He smiled. “Hypnotized.”

She looked down at him. “Look at me, Louis. Forget all about that now, you know all your words, now let go and look into my eyes. Deeper. You’re going back to sleep, one, two, three, sleep! Now listen carefully. You are so relaxed in the chair that you can’t get up. You cannot rise out of the chair. Your muscles are switched off. You can’t get up, go ahead, try.”

The crowd fell silent as they saw him struggling to push himself out of the chair—try and fail. “That’s fine, Louis,” she said. “Now relax and go deeper. Deeper, that’s right, just so loose and lazy, deeper.”

While he slumped in the chair, she turned to Juliet and her friends. “He’s a great subject,” she said. “Now I’m going to give him a little help. Louis, can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Good boy,” she said. “Well, now, in a minute I am going to tell you to sleep deeper, and when you do you will picture yourself writing, you will see yourself writing quickly, easily, with great pleasure because what you write will please you, you will have fun with your characters and story, it will be great fun, you will concentrate easily, writing with great skill, remembering that your story is in the spoon. Now when I count to three, you will sleep for five minutes dreaming of the spoon. One, two, three, sleep!”

His head dipped lower. She turned to the group and put a finger over her lips. “Let him sleep,” she said. “He will wake up in a minute probably not remember anything. I will be right back, I need to go the ladies’ room.”

She walked through the group. Not many people watched her go, because the spectacle of the famous writer was too engrossing. Instead of the powder room, though, she stealthily went down the hall to the front door.

Before she left the room, however, she turned and looked at him resting in the chair, with the others gathered around whispering, not realizing that would wake him up until the five minutes had passed. She enjoyed the sight. As he turned to go, she realized she felt as calm as he seemed to—calmer than she had felt in years. A bit puzzled, she slipped into the night.

After five minutes, Louis suddenly took a deep breath and sat up straight. His eyes opened and he looked around. “When is she going to hypnotize me?” he said.

“You don’t remember?” Juliet asked in a surprised tone.

He shook his head. “You guys are goofing on me, right?” He looked around. “I need a beer.”

He tried to get up.

Tried and failed.

He was stuck in the chair. He knew he had leg muscles, but he couldn’t use them.

He blushed deeply. “What’s going on?”

The group was laughing. Juliet looked around. “Where’s Elle?” she said.

She was gone. And Louis was stuck in the chair.

“You must have been hypnotized,” Juliet said.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” Juliet said, a touch of surprise in her voice. “Maybe she forgot to remove the suggestion! Are you sure you can’t get up?”

“My legs won’t bend,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

At that moment, Juliet’s cellphone rang. She snatched it out of her purse. “Elle? Where ARE you? Louis is stuck in—” She listened for a moment, then held the phone out to him. “She wants to talk to you.”

He snatched the phone. “Listen—” he began.

“Hold onto the phone,” she said. “It’s comfortable, like the spoon. Hold the phone and go deep, deeper, deeper, sleep.”

In minute without preliminaries, she had put him in trance. “Can you hear me?” she asked.

“Yesss,” he whispered.

“Okay, Louis, when I tell you hang up the phone you will feel wide awake. All my suggestions will be removed. You’ll feel wonderful. You’ll remember that I hypnotized you easily and quickly, you will be proud that you went so deep so quickly with so little resistance, you will be happy your are such a good subject, you will be eager to be hypnotized again, and you know that anyone who laughs is really jealous because hypnosis feels so good, it is the best feeling you know. You will feel totally calm and relaxed and when you write words will come easily and quickly to you. Tomorrow you will call the number I am about to give you and you will invite me to dinner.” She recited her cell number, then said, “All right, here we go, you will follow every suggestion, one, you feel great, bright eyed, clear, two, looking forward to writing, eager to go into hypnosis again, THREE! WIDE AWAKE!”

She hung up.

His eyes opened, he stood up and began to stretch luxuriously, as if he’d just had a wonderful nap.

He saw everyone looking at him; some were snickering. “What?” he said. “You guys are just jealous.”

He was hooked; and besides, her Aleister Crowley trick had worked. A woman at a party had once bet him that he couldn’t hypnotize her; he gave her a shiny coin, talked to her briefly, then left the party and never come back. The woman wasn’t able to get out of her chair until hours later, when a doctor came and gave her muscle-relaxant injections. As a wicked hypnotist, Elle was much nicer than Crowley had been.

The next morning he called and asked her to dinner. When he hung up, she realized she was relieved. She’d actually been worried he wouldn’t call.