The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She heard a faint tapping at the office door. It was the boy, and from the sound of his knock, he was nervous.

That was good. His nervousness would make him easy prey. And they were so . . .cute at that age, when they realized they were in over their heads.

Way over their heads.

“You wanted to see me, Miss?” he said—or tried to say; his voice cracked and she saw him blush.

“I suppose I did,” she said without looking up. “Have a seat while I finish this.” She made a great show ticking off items on a typed list. It was quite important; it was a recipe she had found on the Internet. But it would offer him a chance to sneak a look at her without (he thought) being seen. She could feel his eyes travel from her stiletto heels to her sheer black stockings (with seams), up to her white blouse, open just enough to reveal a trace of cleavage—and worn over a black lacy bra that could easily been seen through the silky white fabric, and then finally, up to her red lipstick,.

It was a teenage boy’s fantasy, and by the time he reached her eyes, darker with eye shadow and mascara, she was regarding him with a look of fond amusement.

At once, he looked down at his feet, blushing. “Do you know why I asked you to come by this afternoon after school?”

He shook his head without looking up.

“What’s that?” She said.

His voice cracked again. “No, Miss.”

“I’ve watched you in class,” she said. “You’re very attentive. You never miss a day. You’ve always done the reading. But in class you seem . . .distracted. Is there something that is keeping you from doing your best?”

His blush flared like a forest fire. He wasn’t able to speak; he just shook his head.

“Is it me, then?” She asked. “Sometimes a teacher and a student just aren’t a good fit. You may not like my style of teaching. Would you like to switch to Coach Hansen’s class? He’s got some openings.”

He was shaking his head vigorously. “What’s that?” she said. “Speak up!”

He was having trouble swallowing. “I said . . .you’re my favorite teacher, Miss.”

“Well, you certainly don’t act like it!” She said with a musical laugh. “You’re a million miles away! Come on, look at me!”

He looked up and her eyes caught his. Hers were glittering in the light from the window. That glitter reflected in his; his pupils were like two small, brilliant beetles that had just brushed up against a silken filament, just strong enough to hold them up for a second—while the spider, unnoticed, spun more silk around them until they began to disappear in her web.

“That’s better,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “There’s no need to be nervous. You’re just meeting with a teacher, aren’t you? Your favorite teacher, you said? That’s not anything to be nervous about, is it?”

Wordlessly he shook his head no.

She settled back in her chair, holding his eyes with hers. Meanwhile she idly ran one hand up and down the golden chain she work around her neck, holding a pendant unseen between her breasts.

“Good,” she said. “Then you can just relax while I help you do better in class. Go ahead, just breathe, you silly boy, take a deep breath and relax.”

She modeled a deep breath, then an exhale, and began to match her breathing to his. “Good boy,” she said. “Isn’t that better?”

He nodded.

“Yes, it is so much better,” she said in a kind of sing-song chant. “Much better to look into my eyes and relax while we have a little chat about how you can do better in class. You want to do well in my class. I’m your favorite teacher. You want to be my favorite student. Wouldn’t you like to be the teacher’s pet?”

His face had begun to smooth out. Her eyes held his. His jaw had relaxed; his mouth hung open, and he was almost drooling. He gave a very small nod.

“Look at me!” She said in a slightly louder voice. “Look into my eyes. My eyes are huge, they are deep, look deeper into them, they are like a still pond, you want to float into them, you are floating into them, they are bigger and bigger, bigger than the moon, bigger than the sun, they are all you can see, all you can think of, and when you close your eyes you will still see them, and your whole body will relax waiting to hear my voice tell you what to do and how to feel. Look deeper as your eyes get heavier—heavier . . . heavier . . . ”

With a smug smile, she leaned forward, pursed her red lips, and blew gently on his forehead. “SLEEP!”

He tumbled backward in the chair like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. His body in the chair was now so limp, so relaxed, that he seemed almost boneless. “That’s right, good boy, sleep now as you wait to hear my voice. My voice, my suggestions, my eyes are all you care about, nothing else is important, every sound brings you back to my voice, my suggestions, my eyes, deeper, all you want to do is what I say.”

She counted down from 5, relaxing him along the way. From the look of him, it wasn’t needed, but it was good technique. She was going to work on attitudes and fantasies, and depth would help. “There NOW!” she said. “You are fast asleep! Nod your head—good boy!”

She rose and stood over him. “Now listen carefully. This is important. Every word I say becomes the truth the moment I say it. My voice is your thoughts. My will is your will. Open your eyes.”

She had removed the pendant from around her neck and was holding it in front of his eyes when he managed to open them. At the end of the chain was a small crystal vial. “Look at the vial,” she said. “Your will is leaving you now, it is following my voice into the vial, you can see it flowing out, raise your right hand when it has left you and flowed into the vial, it feels good to give it up, you don’t need it, my will is stronger than yours—” his right hand floated up an inch or two. “Good boy! Yes, your will is in the pendant. Now watch carefully as I put the pendant between my breasts, you like to look at my breasts, you like to wonder what it would be like to be between them, I am putting the pendant between them and you have no more will, I have your will, my will is more powerful than yours, my eyes are more powerful than you, my breasts are more powerful than you, you want only to obey, do you understand?”

His voice was just a faint hiss. “Yessss . . . .”

“Good boy. Now listen carefully. This is important. You are now the teacher’s pet. You are now my favorite boy. I am the only woman you can think about. The girls in your classes are silly and funny-looking, only I matter. You are the teacher’s pet, you live to serve your teacher, you think of my day and night. You are my tool, my toy, I can do anything I want with you. Nod your head, little toy!”

Another faint nod.

“Now you will tell me the truth whenever I ask you a question. Do you think of me at night and touch yourself?”

“Yesss . . .”

“Do you think of the girls in your classes at night and touch yourself?”

“Sssssometimes . . . .”

“Never again. From now on, you see only me, you want only me, there is only me, you are my pet, you are my servant, you are my property, you want me all the time, you yearn to serve me, you think constantly of my eyes, my lips, my legs, my breasts. Say ‘Yes, mistress.’”

“Yes, mistress.”

“I can do whatever I want with you. When I want, you will be my young boy. When I want, you will be my pony, when I want, you will be my pet dog, when I want, you will be my young girl too. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Good boy! Sit up now, open your eyes, remaining in a deep trance, ready to obey my every command in deep hypnosis.”

He levered himself upright, and his eyes opened slowly.

“That’s right! Bright and clear! Remaining in a deep trance, you can speak and answer and follow my commands. Now, let me ask you a question, and you must answer right away without holding anything back.”

Someone walking into the room would not have known he was in a trance. He looked perfectly normal. She was still standing over him, and his eyes traveled up until they met hers.

“Here’s my question: do you suck?”

At once he shook his head. “No, mistress.”

“Boys don’t suck, do they?”

“No, mistress.”

“But I own you now, and if I choose, I can make you suck, do you understand?”

He looked at her, slightly confused.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “Suck your finger! NOW! Suck your finger, sucking your finger is the sexiest thing you have every done, suck it deeply, deeper, lick it, good boy! Suck! You are more and more aroused, you want to touch yourself now but you know you can’t until I allow it, suck!”

He was quite a sight. His finger was deep in his mouth and his eyes were all but closed. Standing above him, she could see he was aroused.

“Good boy,” she said. “Now touch yourself. Go ahead, open your pants and touch now, you can, you have never felt anything like this, you are more and more aroused, you can’t stop sucking, you can’t stop touching, but you won’t come until I give you permission because I own you now, I own your will, your mind, and your body, keep sucking, keep stroking, and as you get more and more aroused you realize that my voice is all that matters, my will is all that matters, only I matter, you don’t matter, suck, you don’t matter, stroke, you don’t matter, COME NOW!”

Beneath her, she heard him groan. She didn’t see his face, because at the last minute she had closed her eyes in bliss. At some point she’d unbuttoned her blouse and begun touching her breast, and as he came her body shuddered with pleasure too and her vision broke up for a second into stars, and she came back to herself standing over him. He was limp now, his hand still in his crotch, his face so blank that he might have been unconscious.

She reached over and picked up a hand towel by her chair. “Okay, Louis,” she said. “Get up, take this towel, and get on the bed. You are going to sleep for 15 minutes while these suggestions sink in. Then you’ll wake, clean yourself up, and fix us both dinner, feeling submissive and happy. One-two-THREE! Eyes open!”

Louis shambled off toward the bedroom, his pants slumping nearly to his knees. She buttoned her blouse, mentally composed herself, and went back to writing a new entry for the HYPNOSIS FOR GIRLFRIENDS blog. “When your partner is deep in hypnosis, make sure to suggest that he wants to tell you his deepest secrets. The truth is that, though he may consciously resist talking about his most shameful secret fantasies, inside he is secretly eager to share them and have someone tell him there’s nothing wrong with them. If you can get a man to tell you his deepest fantasies, you have a lot of power over him.

“And if you can make those fantasies come true—you own him.”

They ate together that night. She didn’t make him stand at attention most of the time—though it was a good refresher course in submission from time to time, and, when she ate while he stood rigidly by, ready to serve, he found it at least as sexy as she did. But she enjoyed their talks, too—hearing about his writing and, at his urging, sharing memories of they years before they had met. They’d been together now for six months, and Louis never tired of saying they were the best six months of his life. “It’s like I had a secret name,” he’d said to her once, “and I didn’t know it, nobody knew it, nobody used it until I met you, and you called me by the name I’d never heard, and that was it. That—was—it!”

At that point he’d begun kissing her hand. She’d pointed down at her feet, ordering him to start there and work his way up. They’d lost the thread of that conversation, but she remembered it later. The truth was that the simplicity and eagerness of his submission turned them both on. She tried not to show exactly how much—somebody had to be in charge, after all, and it had to be her—but he knew he pleased her and he was eager to do anything—tell her any secret, do any errand, provide any household service—to please her further.

After the first few weeks, she simply turned the house over to him: shopping, laundry, mowing the lawn, dry-cleaning. He’d begun to repair small things around the house—the leak in the laundry room sink, the slow drain in the bathroom vanity, the loose paneling in the kitchen. He’d replaced the wooden steps from the deck to the yard. When she’d asked him where he’d learned to do these things, he surprised her. “I never did,” he said. “Never had a hammer in my hand until we met. But my job is to do everything—so I went to the store and bought books on home repair.”

She expected submission; she was used to devotion; but that was pretty surprising. “I’m impressed,” she said. “As a reward you may kiss my foot.”

He’d thrown himself down and begun to kiss. But after a moment she stopped him and sent him off the hardware store. A little waiting did him good.

All this activity hadn’t come at the expense of his writing. In fact, he told her, the words had continued to rush out—he’d write seven days a week unless she wanted or needed him to take a day off for any reason—and he finished the difficult avant-garde novel in four months. The first half had taken two years; but after he met her, it was easy. Even more important, his publisher was over the moon about the new novel. There would be book parties and a book tour soon; he’d begged to be allowed buy her an expensive new dress and shoes for the party, he’d made her promise to put him into a trance before his readings. “I always feel shy, and it almost makes me throw up,” he said.

“When I get done with you, you won’t feel that way,” she’d said. To herself she thought it would be fun to send him out to a bookstore event in a trance, and wake him afterwards with no memory of having wowed the crowd.

She’d had a dozen male toys before, but she now understood that Louis was different. Usually the fun ended; either the man hit the wall, became too nervous and afraid of his own submissive side and began to resist (and really, Elle worked with resistant males and their partners, she didn’t need it in her own life) or he collapsed inside and became a clingy mess, unable to think for himself. She would do a little rehab on these boys and then let them go—reserving the right to call on them for unpaid service as needed.

But Louis submitted joyfully—as he said, submission was his secret name—without any resistance; and yet, there was nothing hollow about him, nothing clingy. If she needed, or wanted, or even expressed an idle desire for something, he would take it on himself to make it happen for her. Sometimes (as with the home-handyman books) that took initiative and work; it was a point of pride for him to fulfill her every wish. She would thank him (not effusively—discipline must be maintained!) and he was say, with a smile, “I live to serve you.” It wasn’t zombie-like at all—it was, like his writing, joyful and creative.

The truth was that she usually sent her slave boys away before she really needed to. When a relationship lasted more than a year or so, it began to make her nervous. She had some insight, of course—she was a trained psychologist as well as a hypnotherapist, of course. Her strange childhood left her prepared for loss—for those she loved to disappear suddenly without explanation. When she had traveled with her parents, the friends in the cast would suddenly leave for shows in other towns, and often without a word of farewell. Only the Amazing Ray, and her parents, were constants on her life. Ray somehow ended up traveling wherever they did, and was always ready to teach her new tricks or tell him stories of his adventures in magic and hypnosis. She’d enjoyed Ray so much that she had begun to worry what she would do when he, too, vanished.

And then the day came. And it wasn’t Ray who vanished. He was there. It was her parents, vanished without a trace. And only Ray left to find a place for her to live. And then he too was gone and the grayness of life among strangers began.

Not just strangers, boring strangers, who didn’t know what the Dr. Krankheit bit was or how to fake your own death-by-stabbing onstage, or how to lure easy subjects onstage and hypnotize them to sing “Puttin’ On the Ritz” like the monster in Young Frankenstein. Not only didn’t they know, they didn’t care.

So when the real fun started with Louis, Elle began to wonder when it would stop. She knew enough to know that wasn’t the healthiest way to go through life; but the wound was deep, and insider her there were two Elles—the precocious girl who could produce a flower from a glass of water and whose teenage friends begged them to do their makeup, and the Elle who had grown up as a protection around that girl once she found herself in the gray suburban world of her mother’s sister, her aunt Sylvia.

Those two Elles, in a way, corresponded to the two parts of her life. To the outside, she appeared to be a normal, successful counselor, life coach and hypnotherapist, who saw clients in a small office at the back of the house. To those who knew her on the Web and at discreet gatherings, however, she was Elle the hypnodomme, who not only drew men to her like hungry puppies but who trained other women to loose their own inner domme and take their rightful place in the world—on top, where a woman belonged.

Somehow the two halves of her life met in Louis, which made her more nervous. Her basic rule with men had always been “treat ’em rough and tell ’em nothing,” but he was so interested by her work—utterly fascinated, in fact—that she found herself telling him her true philosophy—that women should rule and men should serve, period. Or at least with very few exceptions.

And he agreed. He wasn’t pretending. It wasn’t the fetish—or not just the fetish—talking; he was and (he now realized) had always been a devout female supremacist, a knight-errant wondering the blighted landscape of American sexual mores seeking a lady fair strong enough to accept his submission.

She was that lady fair, apparently. But still, she was sometimes nervous, listening to him breathe beside her at night. (One of the nice things about being a hypnodomme is that sex at night always happens just when you want, and never when you don’t. And if you don’t feel like talking afterwards, you just whisper “sleep” to your partner.)

Was she really that lady fair—was he really her genteel and parfait knight?

Could the story of Elle, the Backstage Girls, have a happy ending?

Her mind had wandered. He’d been telling her how well the writing was going. That wasn’t a new topic—he’d taken only a few days off after finishing the new novel, then plunged into a new project. He hadn’t told her what it was about—he wanted to surprise her, and of course she knew she could get it out of him any time she wanted, so she played along.

But what had he just said?

“I’m sorry, Louis, my mind wandered. What did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted to read some of the new project.”

“Silly boy,” she said. “Of course I want to read your homework—you are the teacher’s pet, you know.”

He blushed as deeply as his teenage self had earlier that evening.

A few minutes later, she was settled in her study with her computer in front of her and a cup of coffee (made by the houseboy, Louis, of course, to her precise specifications) at he elbow.

He handed her a memory stick. “It’s marked ‘HT1,’ ‘HT2,’ and so on,” he said.

She nodded, “You may go,” she said. “I will send for you when I am ready.”

She snapped her fingers. He backed out with a huge smile on her face—the smile she had been seeing more and more in the past few weeks.

An hour later, she heard a familiar tapping on the office door. Then his head poked around the jamb. “Elle? What do you think?”

She looked at him, trying to think of what to say. She could hardly think because of the pounding of her heart in her years.

“Do you like it?”

“I—“

“What do you think?”

“Louis . . . Louis . . What is this?”

“What . . . do you mean?”

“Louis—Louis—this is my story!”

“I know, Elle. It’s such a great story.”

“You can’t tell people this story!”

He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Elle, it’s a great story; it’s the story of how you came into existence, really, and beyond that it’s a story about men and women and how one woman learns her place and the proper place of men. Think of all the young girls who will read it and discover their true natures. If they do, more couples will discover what we have discovered. Elle, this is our chance to make a real difference!”

The pounding in her head wouldn’t stop. She suddenly remembered that the Amazing Ray would sometimes tell a volunteer to imagine being naked on stage. Some had been giddily exhibitionistic, and some had been deeply embarrassed. Elle had lived for so long as two people and now someone had pulled off her covering. She didn’t feel giddy. She was terrified.

People would see her. Louis had seen her. Everything she had built up all these years was stripped away and she was that strange little ninth-grader in pigtails wondering whether anyone would let her sit with them at lunch break.

She closed her eyes tight and put her hands over her ears. “Stop it!” she said. “Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!”

Silence.

She opened her eyes. He was staring at her open-mouthed, with a look in his eyes like a puppy who had just been spanked and didn’t know why.

“Elle, darling, I—“

“I don’t care!” she said, and stood so she was looking down at him. “Look at me,” she said. “Don’t look away! Listen carefully! I have something important to tell you, Louis! I want you to delete these files now—all of them. And I want you never to speak to me again. Don’t call, don’t email, don’t write—just go away.”

She turned her back and stalked into the kitchen. After a few minutes she heard the front door click closed.

Hypnodommes don’t cry—right? They don’t, do they? She wasn’t crying, was she?

She stood in the kitchen, definitely not crying, for a long time while the night closed in.