The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Friday:

Everything was set. Notes in front of her on the lectern, Professor Karen Tuttle ran her hands one last time over the jacket of her conservative woman’s suit and patted her tightly-bound bun of black hair, then launched into her prepared speech. Intelligent green eyes looked out at her listeners from behind gold-rimmed reading glasses.

“There is no such thing as magic,” she declared. “No spells, no curses, no amulets. There is no monkey’s paw, rabbit’s feet aren’t good luck—certainly they weren’t for the unfortunate rabbits they came off of—and no one gets three wishes from a genie.”

As she looked out over her lecture audience, Prof. Tuttle sighed, waiting for the inevitable challenge. She devoted a considerable portion of her time to traveling around the country giving talks like this one, and had come to expect resistance. People wanted to believe there were mysterious things in the world, things science simply couldn’t explain, now or ever. They wanted to believe in a world where they could get anything they wanted, however grandiose or bizarre, just by saying the right words or performing the right (simple) ritual.

Sure enough, a young man in the second row spoke up: “How do you know, Professor? I mean, sure, a lot of that stuff is fake, but just because something can be faked doesn’t mean it can’t really happen. Just look at the murders and disasters and so on that you see in the movies: everyone knows they aren’t real, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t real ones.”

Tuttle frowned, annoyed. That argument was sure to be persuasive to her audience. It had just the right sound of plausibility. She marshaled her thoughts before answering.

“Young man,” she said at length, in her driest academic voice, “by that logic, anything might be true, anything might exist. Anything at all. But I’m not holding my breath waiting for a flying saucer to land on the lawn at Greeley Quad”—the building complex at Mason University where she was delivering her talk—“and for a purple unicorn with pink spots and a British accent to come out and ask to be taken to our leader.”

The professor got the loud laughter she’d been aiming for. Red-faced, her youthful opponent shrunk down in his seat.

“The point,” she addressed her audience once the hilarity had died down to occasional snickers, “is that beliefs in magic and the supernatural are supported by no scientifically convincing evidence. When people have claimed to have such evidence and have submitted it to scientific examination, it has invariably been exposed as false.”

She went on with her lecture. There were no further interruptions. When she’d finished, though, the young man who’d asked her the impudent question came up to her.

“You shot me down pretty good,” he admitted. “But you didn’t really answer me. Just because you personally don’t know of any evidence for, let’s say, magic, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Professor Tuttle felt an angry retort rising to her lips. Before she could deliver it, however, the young man spoke again.

“Look,” he said, “what if you really could find evidence? Evidence of real magic?”

“Not likely,” the professor snorted.

The other reached into an inside pocket of the neat navy jacket he was wearing and pulled out a card. “DR. ABADDON, MASTER OF MYSTERY AND MAGIC,” it read in big bold letters. Then, below, in smaller type, it said, “Appearing nightly at the Thirteen Club. Shows at 8:00, 10:00, and midnight.” In even smaller lettering, the club’s address was printed across the bottom.

“What’s this?” Prof. Tuttle asked as the card was passed to her.

“Just take in one of Dr. Abaddon’s shows,” came the reply. “If what you see doesn’t interest you, that’s that. Otherwise—well, you’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

The young man walked away then, before Professor Tuttle could say anything. When he was gone, she nearly tossed the card away, but something stopped her.

What would be the harm, after all? she asked herself. It was Friday, and her next scheduled talk wasn’t until next Tuesday. Why not drop by the Thirteen Club and amuse herself figuring out how Dr. Abaddon’s tricks worked?

The Thirteen Club lived up to its name. Twin columns of lights, thirteen lights to a column, framed the doorway. Inside, thirteen overhead lighting fixtures were complemented by thirteen wall sconces, modeled after those which might have been found in a medieval castle but, of course, holding more electric lights rather than torches.

Thirteen pairs of tables were arranged to give everyone seated at them a clear view of the raised stage where the club’s entertainers performed.

A comedian was telling jokes, or what he evidently considered jokes, from the stage when Professor Tuttle arrived. The club was about three-quarters full, but there was still a table open in front. Prof. Tuttle took it. A tuxedo-clad waiter promptly appeared, and Tuttle ordered a drink. It was still a few minutes before eight o’clock.

Her drink arrived just as the elaborately-wrought grandfather clock resting against one side wall chimed eight. As soon as it had finished, the club’s master of ceremonies announced loudly: “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you for your amusement and amazement that master of mystery and magic, DR. ABADDON!” He swept his right arm up and out in a theatrical gesture.

There was a loud WHOOMP! and a sudden geyser of purplish-black smoke. Then, from out of the smoke cloud, there appeared a very tall dark-haired man in a tuxedo with flame-red lapels.

“Good evening,” the tall man said. “I am Dr. Abaddon, master of mystery and magic. Tonight you will see things you would never believe, if you heard about them from someone else. I will be your guide into a world in which things exist which are far beyond your mundane experience: the world of the supernatural.”

Professor Tuttle sniffed as she sipped her drink. Dr. Abaddon certainly had his patter down, but so what? Nevertheless, she watched carefully as he went through his act.

It was a good one, she had to admit. Abaddon worked without the traditional assistant, but he didn’t need one. He passed his arm through a large ring, the size a lion-tamer might use, then stood in its center while several volunteers from the audience raised it—and he, too, rose, as if there were suddenly a solid panel under his feet within the ring. When the volunteers lowered the ring again, Abaddon picked it up and once more passed his arm through it. He conjured fire. He set up two rectangular frames at opposite ends of the stage, walked through one, and seemed to disappear, reappearing through the other frame seconds later.

“Mirrors,” Professor Tuttle said to herself. “Maybe holography? Although I don’t see where they could’ve set up the equipment.”

Finally the show was over. The Professor had to admit she was impressed. She approached the emcee and asked to be allowed to speak with the magician.

“No, ma’am,” she was told. “The Doctor doesn’t speak to audience members off stage.”

Disappointed but not ready to give up, the professor pushed. “Are you sure you can’t make an exception? I’d really like to speak with him, if it’s at all possible.”

“I’m afraid I really can’t do that,” the emcee said. “Perhaps you’d like to speak to the manager?”

Abruptly, a deep voice cut in: “It’s all right, Bill. Send her on in.” Professor Tuttle recognized the voice as Abaddon’s. The magician appeared—as if by magic, Tuttle thought—from somewhere in the shadows and bowed, sweeping his hand toward a backstage door.

The Professor accepted the invitation. She followed Dr. Abaddon backstage to a suite, evidently his dressing room. The door had an upside-down five-pointed star on it, the two top points thrusting up like horns and the bottom point forming a beard. A black-magic symbol, very theatrical.

Once they were inside, the Professor accepted the Doctor’s offer of a seat. When she’d sat down, he pulled up a chair of his own and sat as well.

“Now,” he said, gazing intently into her eyes, “what was so important about seeing me?”

The professor needed a moment to focus. Up close, Dr. Abaddon’s eyes were most disconcerting, a strange golden color with just a hint of red. She’d never seen eyes like those. She found it difficult not to be drawn into them.

“My name is Professor Karen Tuttle,” she managed at last. “I’m a physical chemist by profession, but I’ve spent a good deal of time over the last several years as a lecturer and writer on the subject of popular superstitions.”

“Ah,” Abaddon said, nodding. “And you came to see me because . . . ?”

Professor Tuttle recounted the story of her lecture at Mason University and of the youth who’d essentially dared her to see the Doctor’s act.

“I see,” murmured Dr. Abaddon. “He challenged you to debunk my act if you could. To find out how I do my . . . tricks.”

“Well, yes,” the Professor said.

“And have you?” Abaddon’s smile was faintly mocking.

“Well, no,” Professor Tuttle replied, face flushing. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. I wanted to ask you if you’d, ah—!”

“Explain how I do it?”

Face flaming, the Professor nodded.

Abaddon’s smile widened, showing even white teeth. “Why, it’s simple, my dear Karen—I can call you Karen, can’t I? It’s magic.”

Karen Tuttle sputtered. “That’s, that’s nonsense! There’s no such thing as magic!”

“Oh?” Dr. Abaddon didn’t raise his voice, but his challenge was unmistakable. “Then how do you explain what you’ve seen?”

“I can’t,” Professor Tuttle admitted. “But,” and inspiration came to her, “just because I can’t explain it right now doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation.” She felt a small triumph at turning around an argument used against her.

Abaddon bobbed his head, conceding the point. Then, from somewhere, he produced a small jeweled pendant, which he offered to her.

“What’s this for?” Karen asked.

“It’s a magic charm,” explained Abaddon. “Once you put it on, it will change you into, let’s see, ah, yes,” he passed his free hand over the ornament several times and muttered something Karen couldn’t hear, “an exhibitionist and nymphomaniac. It’ll recruit you for our little club here, as an enthusiastic stripper, and you’ll leave everything else behind.”

Professor Tuttle snorted. “Isn’t that a rather adolescent joke for a man your age, Doctor?”

“Appearances may be deceiving,” Abaddon answered cryptically. “And if it’s a joke, then surely you’ve nothing to fear in accepting my little gift.” And he held it out once more.

Karen hesitated. There had to be a catch somewhere, she could just smell it, but she didn’t see it. Reluctantly, she took the proffered talisman and started to put it into her briefcase.

“No, no,” Abaddon stopped her. “Put it on, dear Karen! Put it on!” He glanced at her slyly. “Or are you afraid it will really work?”

Reluctantly, Professor Tuttle passed the charm over her head, letting it drape itself around her neck and dangle down onto her generous bosom as it was meant to. After a moment, she exhaled forcefully in relief; nothing had happened.

Well, she asked herself irritably, what else did you expect?

“Nothing seems to have changed, Doctor,” Professor Tuttle observed tartly. “So much for your magic charm.” She reached up to remove the amulet from around her neck.

“Humor me,” responded Dr. Abaddon. “Leave it on for a while. What do you have to lose?”

Feeling somewhat trapped, the Professor nodded. It wouldn’t do to have it seem she was afraid of Abaddon’s “magic.”

“All right,” she agreed aloud. “But I have to say, Doctor, that I’m not impressed so far.” And with that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the Thirteen Club, smugly satisfied that she’d had the last word. Only when she was halfway home did she realize she hadn’t gotten Abaddon to reveal the tricks behind his stage act. She’d been neatly diverted.

Karen was still fuming over that when, in her apartment, she undressed to take a shower. Abaddon might not be a real magician, but he’d played her like a hand of cards. Now she was more determined than ever to show him up.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bathroom, naked except for Abaddon’s necklace, she fingered the gem idly as she looked herself over. She liked what she saw: a five-foot-nine-inch woman with rich black hair bound tightly in a bun, with firm, quite large breasts above a taut stomach and narrow waist, lushly flaring hips and long logs which tapered to small feet. Her heart-shaped, pretty face was unlined and could have passed for that of a woman nearly a decade younger than her actual age of thirty-eight.

She unbound her hair, letting it cascade in lush dark waves down to her shoulder blades, and stepped into the tub. As she reached for the shower faucets, she forgot about removing the pendant around her neck. It remained in place as she lathered her hair and then soaked in the hot stream from the showerhead.

Karen’s mind drifted as she luxuriated beneath the hot spray. Eyes closed, hands kneading her hair and body, she remembered Abaddon’s boast that his “gift” would turn her into a nymphomaniac and exhibitionist, a stripper for the Thirteen Club. It was ridiculous, of course. But as she stood there, she pictured herself peeling sinuously out of a sexy costume in rhythm with the pounding beat of sexy music. She imagined prancing to the sound, playing to the audience; saw herself swinging teasingly around one of the brass poles which had stood on the club’s stage and taunting her audience.

“Come on, boys!” her fantasy-self said. “Give it up for Karen! You know you can’t help it!” And the audience hooted and cheered, tossing money at the stage. . . .

She shuddered in ecstasy. Startled, she opened her eyes, breaking the spell she’d been weaving. She’d actually made herself come, right there in the shower!

Embarrassed and still horny, she soaped and rinsed herself thoroughly again, then shut off the water and got out of the shower. Draping a towel around herself, she went into her living room and sat down on the couch.

What was happening to her? She’d never let herself go like that before, not even in private! It was almost as if Abaddon’s amulet were really working after all

She shook her head, sending droplets of water flying from her damp dark mane. No, that was impossible, she thought. It was the power of suggestion, nothing more. She had started to reach for the pendant to remove it, but now she let her hands drop. If she took it off now, it would be like admitting that Dr. Abaddon’s “magic powers” were for real. She’d be damned if she’d do that!

Karen got ready for bed. She fell asleep quickly, but her slumber was hardly restful. All night long, she was immersed in feverish dreams of stripping, showing herself off to strangers on stage, on the street, anywhere, and of having sex with anonymous men. When she finally woke in the morning, she was sweaty and moist and felt hot. Abaddon’s pendant still lay nestled between her breasts, its chain a line of coolness around her neck and down to her cleavage.

Saturday:

After breakfast, she tried to work on her next lecture. It was hopeless; the words didn’t want to flow. Finally she gave up and spent several hours reading, then watched TV.

As evening approached, she turned off the television, bored with it. She tried again to pull together her lecture notes, but had no more luck than in the morning. At last, swearing, she left her apartment.

Somehow, without quite intending to, she ended up at the Thirteen Club. It was too early for Dr. Abaddon’s first show. Instead, a buxom redhead dressed in a spangled bikini, long opera gloves, high heels and a feather boa was writhing on the stage.

Ordinarily, Professor Tuttle would have been contemptuous of her as a cheap slut. This time, it was different. Karen watched in fascination as the redhead unburdened herself of her scanty costume in time to the background music. The moves she made seemed to imprint themselves firmly on the professor’s brain. So did the wild applause coming from the men, and some of the women, in the audience. By the time the big-boobed babe scampered off backstage, clad in nothing but her spike-heeled shoes and carrying the rest of her garb in one hand, Karen Tuttle was picturing herself in the performer’s place and breathing raggedly.

She stayed to watch the next dancer, and the next, and the next after that. Finally, the emcee came on to announce Dr. Abaddon’s first show.

With a shock, Karen realized she’d been sitting there, slack-jawed, for almost two hours. Several empty glasses sat on the table before her, fossil remains of drinks she didn’t remember ordering. She’d lost herself thoroughly in fantasies of taking the dancers’ place.

With an effort, she forced herself to stand and leave as the Doctor went into his act. Guiltily, she imagined she could feel his mocking eyes burning at her back, sense him enjoying the fact that she didn’t dare confront him.

Home again, she took a shower—a cold one. Afterward, she tried to read some of her technical books, something she’d always found helpful in focusing her mind. It didn’t work this time; the words seemed to dance on the page, and she had to think hard to follow them at all. At last, frustrated, she gave up and turned on a late-night comedy program she usually didn’t watch. Tonight, she found it hysterically funny. Her mind dissolving in laughter, it didn’t occur to her that she was still wearing the pendant, or that she hadn’t taken it off once since she’d first put it on.

Sunday:

Karen awoke feeling rested. To her relief, there had been no repetition of the steamy dreams of the night before—or if there had, she didn’t remember them.

She still couldn’t focus on her lecture. Looking over her notes and the source literature she’d brought with her, she had trouble even staying awake reading the stuff. My God, she thought as she plowed through the material, what a snore! This is how I’m spending my time? She had to force herself to concentrate even to understand some of it—and if it was this hard for her, she thought, no wonder so many people in her audience didn’t follow.

She managed to make a little progress, but not much. Finally, bored, she left her apartment for a walk.

As she strolled down the street, she found herself acutely conscious of men’s eyes on her. She knew she led a pretty dry life for the most part; between her professional work and her debunking lectures, little time was left for socializing. It was nice to know that she was still attractive. Smiling, she began swinging her hips a bit more as she moved on.

Daydreams began to fill her head. She pictured herself in a tight halter top and short-short skirt, fishnet stockings and thigh-high white boots with high, high heels, strutting along as men gaped. She imagined herself dancing in some bar somewhere, naked except for a fur boa and pumps, whirling around a pole up on stage. Like one of the strippers at the Thirteen Club.

She recoiled as that thought came to mind. Dr. Abaddon’s mocking words about what the pendant was supposed to do came back to her: “change you into an exhibitionist and nymphomaniac . . . recruit you as an enthusiastic stripper for the Thirteen Club.” Was it really happening?

Karen’s hands went to the pendant’s chain. Take it off, she thought to herself. I’ve got to take it off. . . .

The words echoed in her head. Take it off. Take it off. Take it off! TAKE IT OFF! She began breathing harder as that one sentence boomed louder and louder and more images of herself stripping and prancing before drooling men filled her head. Her hands fell away from the amulet and began massaging her taut belly and breasts through her blouse. Her fingers dug in and pulled upward, rolling up her shirt.

Panting, sweating, she managed to stop before she peeled it off over her head. She didn’t roll it down again, though; instead, she left her midriff bared. It was the most she could manage. Several male passersby hooted their approval as she turned and fled back toward the safety of her rented rooms, where she spent the afternoon watching television.

As evening approached, she began to feel hungry. Bracing herself, she left her apartment again, intending to stop at a quiet restaurant.

Somehow, it didn’t work out that way. She found herself in a bar, a dimly-lit place whose NO SMOKING PERMITTED signs were barely visible through an acrid blue haze. They served food, at least, and she ordered a thick roast beef sandwich and a beer. When her order arrived, she bit savagely into the sandwich.

Halfway through her assault on her food, she heard an unexpected, somehow familiar voice. “Come here often?” it asked.

Turning, she saw the young man from her lecture audience who’d challenged her to check out Dr. Abaddon’s show. A flustered Karen Tuttle responded, “No—no, I just sort of wound up here.” Despite herself, Karen smiled; the kid was really good-looking. Maybe five-ten, well-built, with a square youthful face framed by short, curly blond hair. If only he were just a few years older—!

She blushed. Thank God she hadn’t felt so attracted to him back on Friday night. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why she was so drawn to him now; she had other things on her mind.

“So did you take a look at Dr. Abaddon’s show?”

“Yes, I did,” responded Karen.

“What did you think of it, Dr. Tuttle?” The curly-haired youth smiled. He had a lovely smile, Karen thought. She’d do almost anything to make him smile like that. . . .

With an effort, she refocused her mind to answer his question. “Very, um—very skillful,” she groped. “He’s a talented performer, certainly.” She changed the subject: “What’s your name, anyway? I feel funny talking to you like this, off campus, when I don’t even know who you are.”

“Call me Nick,” the young man answered, favoring Karen with another dazzling smile. His eyes met hers with a hint of mockery. “And may I call you Karen?”

Karen took a big swig from her beer stein and said, “Sure, why not?” She smiled back at her new young friend Nick. Somehow, the difference in their ages didn’t seem so important anymore.

Nick took the empty stool next to Karen and ordered two beers. “You don’t mind if I order for you, do you?” he asked solicitously.

“No,” Karen replied. “No, of course not. Thank you, Nick.”

“You’re welcome.” Nick smiled again, and Karen felt her pulse race. Gawd, she thought, it’s like I’m a teenager again or something. She smiled back at him.

They chatted over that round of drinks and several more. A warm fog slowly descended over Karen as the alcohol took its toll. She found herself laughing and flirting with Nick. No, the difference in their ages wasn’t important after all. . . .

Nick said something.

“Hunh?” A drifting Karen had missed his words completely. “Wha’d you shay? I mean say?”

“I said,” answered Nick, “I think it’s time I went home. Would you like to see my place?”

Karen giggled. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?” She was still vaguely aware that there was something less than appropriate about her going come with a man easily fifteen years younger than she was. The thought kept drifting farther and farther away, however. All thought seemed to be drifting away, lost in the haze settling over her brain. It felt so good not to have to think.

Nick had to help her out of the bar and down the street to his car, an expensive-looking late model sedan. The drinks she’d had seemed to have hit her hard. She barely noticed him bundling her into the passenger side of the front seat. As soon as he settled into the driver’s seat, she laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.

Karen’s next memory was of Nick raising her into a sitting position. “Wake up, Karen,” he was saying. “We’re here.”

“Mnnhh,” she mumbled. Then, a measure of awareness returning, she asked, “Your place?”

Nick nodded. He got out, came around and helped Karen out of the car. As she got out, she got a look at where they were. “This isn’t campus housing,” she observed.

“No,” agreed Nick. “I prefer to live off-campus.” Smiling, he ushered Karen into the red brick apartment building in whose parking lot his car now sat, then into an elevator. They went down one floor.

Karen made a surprised noise, and Nick responded, “A basement apartment’s cheaper, of course. It’s not a bad place, really.”

And it wasn’t. Nick’s apartment was spacious, and had small windows right at ground level which looked as if they’d let in a fair amount of light during the day. His furniture wasn’t fancy, but it was all in good condition, and—unusual, in Karen’s limited experience, for a bachelor—the place was immaculately clean and tidy.

Not that she paid a lot of attention to that. Her head was starting to clear, and she was beginning to regret having let this smooth-talking kid take her home.

“I really should be getting home,” she said.

“I’ll take you home in a minute, Karen,” Nick said. “I just wanted to show you my place.” He went into the kitchen, and Karen heard the sound of something clattering. “I’m making tea. Would you care for a cup?”

“Yes, please,” Karen heard herself say. Well, what was the harm? Maybe it would help clear her head.

A few minutes later, Nick emerged with a small tray holding two china cups, both steaming, and an old-fashioned teakettle. He set the tray down on the coffee table in his living room.

“Sit, sit,” he said, waving at the comfortable couch behind the coffee table. Karen sat. Nick sat near her, and they sipped at their tea. After a bit, Karen realized Nick had moved closer. He reached for her.

“No,” she protested weakly. “Please.” She knew she should stop him. She should get up, leave. . . .

She didn’t.

Nick’s hand closed on the chain bolding Dr. Abaddon’s charm around her neck, and drew the amulet forth from its hiding place in her bosom. She’d completely forgotten it was there.

“What’s this?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it before.”

“Your magician gave it to me,” Karen answered. “Dr. Abaddon. He claimed it was magic, said it would make me . . . never mind.”

“And did it make you,” Nick grinned boyishly, “never mind?”

Karen blushed crimson. “Of, of course not,” she stammered. “I—”

Whatever she’d been about to say was smothered as Nick let go of the amulet, put his arms around her, and covered her mouth with his own.

She could have broken free then. She could have pulled away and run out of the apartment. She’d come in Nick’s car, but she could have gotten a cab home, even at that time of night. But she didn’t.

Instead, blood roaring in her ears, she responded hungrily, grabbing at Nick and pressing her lips against his, forcing her tongue between his teeth.

She hardly noticed as he stood up, lifting her with him, and carried her into his bedroom. She didn’t quite remember how their clothes came off; her next awareness was of clamping her legs forcefully around Nick’s firm body. They toppled sideways onto the big captain’s bed.

The next several hours passed in a fever. Nick and Karen writhed together, Karen’s body thrusting mindlessly as Nick pumped into her. Every touch seemed to burn through her like fire as she spun through a universe of pure animal sensation. At last, she fell asleep; her last awareness was of Nick nibbling her nipples, each tiny nip sending jolts of pleasure through her.

It was magic. . . .