The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Debbie’s parents and I continued our alternating vigil. Although I was freed from having to think about work, the psychiatrist assigned to our case recommended that we maintain an existence outside of Debbie’s room while waiting for the inevitable. However, after a month, it became apparent that something odd was going on. There was almost no deterioration of her body, despite the lack of nutrition. Debbie still lay in coma, her vital signs depressed, but still remarkably consistent with those immediately after her seizure. The doctor cautioned us against optimism because the large, dense mass in her brain was still there, the same size as it had been, or maybe infinitesimally larger. Nonetheless, it didn’t take us very long to choose the slender strand of hope, and we had her put on life support.

Our first wedding anniversary came and went, and nothing had changed. Debbie’s physical condition was enough of a medical oddity that coma specialists from all over the country were coming to visit her and pontificate on her case. They would shoo us away from her bedside while they observed her and reviewed her charts, making grave noises as they pondered. The verdict was always the same: nobody could tell us why she hadn’t started wasting away.

At the year mark, I asked Debbie to forgive me, and I went back to Meridian. I had to do something other than watch and wait. Hope was always there, but waiting for the miracle was slowly killing me. Her parents understood, bless them, and I was back on the job, minus my promotion, but otherwise, it was as if I had never left. My salary and benefits, even my accumulated vacation and sick time hadn’t changed. The president of the company even sent me a “Welcome Back, Ray,” gift, and I got my own office. Every Friday, I would pack a bag for the weekend and leave the office early, so I could spend the weekend at my wife’s bedside, reading things that I thought she would like.

I had been working for almost two months when my cell phone rang; it was my father-in-law’s cell phone. I moved the receiver to my ear, dreading the news. “RAY! COME QUICK! SHE’S AWAKE!” The world spun and I dropped the phone. I must have shouted because suddenly the entire office was at my door and everything was bedlam. I remember that my manager grabbed my keys and told me that he was going to drive me out there. I tried to tell him that I was all right, that it was good news, and he just replied, “You’d be a hazard on the roads—I know you’re going to speed—and not just a little. I’ll get you there in one piece and take a cab back to the office.”

The twenty-five minutes it took to get to felt like an eternity and I barely touched the ground from the parking lot to Debbie’s room, ignoring the desk clerk’s entreaty to sign in. She was right on my heels, unable to catch me until I barged into my wife’s room, startling the hell out of the doctors surrounding her bed. One of them opened her mouth to say something with an angry expression on her face and the clerk began to apologize and then Debbie’s mother roared, in a voice of ultimate authority, “LEAVE HIM ALONE! THAT’S HER HUSBAND! LET HIM SEE HIS WIFE RIGHT NOW!” The only person in the room who wasn’t wearing an expression of shock was Debbie’s father, whose face said that he’d heard it before.

“Ray?” I thrilled to the sound of my wife’s voice again after too many days. It was weak and a little scratchy, but it was the sweetest sound I could ever have hoped to hear. I hugged her fiercely, not wanting to let go, while she feebly, but equally as needily, returned the gesture. “Hey,” she whispered with her strained voice, “I guess I overslept again, huh?” I cried, and everything disappeared except her smile, at least until her mother’s “Oh no you won’t” declaration made me realize that there had been a conversation going on amongst the doctors. “He hasn’t talked to her in over a year. There’s nothing so urgent that it can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“But we need to get her to the hospital for some tests—”

Debbie’s mother cut off the doctor’s protest with, “She’s been in a coma for over a year. Overnight won’t change anything,” and stood there calmly with her arms folded. It only took the assembled staff a few moments to realize who was in charge. “Good,” she humphed with satisfaction. “Now let’s leave them alone. They have some catching up to do.” The room quickly emptied.

“Sorry about the voice,” Debbie began. “They said it’ll get better soon. I just haven’t spoken in a long time, and my vocal chords—” I kissed her, a long smooch on the lips, my own voice lost. “Ohhhh... I want to...” She sighed in frustration. “I can’t stand on my own, my arms are weak, and I can’t talk.”

“But you’re awake.” Debbie smiled at me, turning me into a puddle of mushy goo, and I sat on the bed next to my wife, content to hold hands, only speaking occasionally until she fell asleep. I reluctantly let go, pulled the couch over and slept peacefully for the first time in over a year.

All four parents, Debbie, and I sat in a conference room at the hospital with her doctor and another specialist. “Her tumor appears to have stopped growing,” the specialist said. “It’s maybe a hair larger than it was when you were admitted, Mrs. Grant, but it’s remarkably stable in terms of size.” Debbie beamed and squeezed my hand when she heard herself referred to by that name. “We don’t quite know why it’s behaving like this, and so we’re waiting for some of the blood assays to maybe give us an idea.” He frowned, obviously uncomfortable with mysteries. “Hopefully that will tell us more about what we’re dealing with. The good news is that you’ve told us that you’re not in any pain, and, all of the simple neurological tests are encouraging—other than a mild amount of muscular atrophy, which is to be expected and can be taken care of with physical therapy. The tumor doesn’t seem to impact your ability to control your body.”

“So... you’re saying that I’ll be able to walk and get strength back in my arms and everything?” Debbie asked hopefully.

“Yes... but it’s going to take time. We don’t want to overstress your system after what you’ve been through,” her doctor cautiously answered. “We particularly want to monitor any headaches or severe fatigue you might be feeling. Please, make sure you tell us right away, and don’t hesitate to tell your therapist if it feels like it’s getting to be too much.”

“Don’t worry, doctor, I won’t,” Debbie gravely replied. Everybody in the room except the doctor knew that she was lying—but for different reasons. During her ride to the hospital that morning, she had whispered to me that she was just itching to get back on her feet so she could lie on her back. With me thrusting merrily away from on top. She was extremely horny—after all, she hadn’t gotten any in over a year. “I don’t even have the arm strength and stamina to jill off—and I don’t have enough privacy anyway,” she had whined.

That evening, we were alone again, our parents having gone to dinner while I had accompanied Debbie to more tests and a meeting with the physical therapist. “You’d think I would have lost some weight,” she complained. I explained that her inability to lose weight indirectly might have saved her life. She gave me her sad little half smile, and the room grew quiet. “So... did you...”

“No. I couldn’t,” I honestly answered. “Being married means I made a promise, and I kept it. Truth is, I can’t think of anybody but you sharing my bed.”

“Ray...” she softly began, “if it happens again—”

“It won’t,” I firmly said.

“If it does... find somebody. You’re too good a man to be lonely,” Debbie said. “This lump in my brain is pretty serious, and now that I can tell you, I am. You have my permission—no—I want you to promise me.” We softly argued about that for an hour, until our parents returned just before visiting hours ended. I finally gave in, making the promise half-heartedly, just so that Debbie would relax and go to sleep. All of us hoped that she would wake up the next morning as she had this one, but no one dared express it aloud.

A few days after that, I was scrambling to get out of the apartment in time to accompany Debbie to her first physical therapy session when there was a knock at my door. “Courier for Ray Grant.” All kinds of unwelcome memories came back at the sound of those words. My blood turned to ice, and I seriously considered not answering the door. But I worried how Mr. Scary would react if I didn’t—it would not do to have him show up at the hospital and the alternative... was unthinkable. I accepted the cell phone with resignation, but immediately turned it off, reasoning that I could tell him that I was in the hospital, and I had to shut it off.

It didn’t ring until after I had returned home. “Greetings, Mr. Grant, and congratulations,” his all-too-familiar voice said. “I did wait until you returned home from the hospital.” So I was being watched—again. Maybe he hadn’t ever stopped. “I am happy to hear that your wife is conscious, alert, and in remarkably good physical condition.” I acknowledged that, knowing what was coming next. “With that in mind, we would like to return you to active duty—just for a little while. We want to know if your control still holds. We wouldn’t burden you with this, except that you were extremely successful in your efforts to limit the number of people who could control her.”

Ouch. I began to feel guilty again. “I know that now she’s awake you would want to figure out how much she still retains. I get that, I really do,” I said. “But can’t you just write the experiment off? I mean, you said it yourself. The brain tumor was enough of an adverse event to stop the experiment. Can’t you just leave us alone? You know I wouldn’t tell her what’s happened.”

“Would you like to see the bill? We can make that happen, Mr. Grant. And your insurance won’t cover any of her present medical expenses, since it can be rightly termed a preexisting condition.” I groaned aloud, realizing just how important this was to them—Mr. Scary had gone directly to the threat. “I thought that might get you to see things our way. I’m not asking you to command her to do anything for us; after all, she’s in a wheelchair, and I do understand your point of view. Just a simple test that will confirm the continued performance of your control keyword will be enough. In exchange, you will be directly compensated for your cooperation, and we will continue taking care of Mrs. Grant’s medical expenses.”

I was wheeling Debbie through the garden at the rehabilitation facility shortly after sunrise the following Saturday morning. All of the tests had been completed and her doctors had sent her back to the fancy long-term care center to continue her rehabilitation. Her private room and the obvious individual attention she received constantly reminded me of my part in this entire mess, and of my deal with the devil. Ultimately, the doctors still had no idea about her tumor. They couldn’t figure out where it had come from, how it had caused her to go into a coma, why she had awakened from the coma, or how long her current consciousness would last. All their tests seemed to say that she was in perfect health—if you discounted the dark thing that showed up on her x-rays and brain scans.

However, my wife didn’t seem to take anything for granted now. She wanted to watch the sunrise with me. It was too early for anyone else to be in the garden, and Debbie seemed to revel in the sounds of nature. “I promise it won’t be long before you don’t have to push me around all the time,” she smiled, before pointing out an area nearby. “That’s a really pretty nook,” she said. It’s got a nice place to sit. Take me over there.”

As soon as we had entered the semi-secluded area, she said, “Come around front so I can see you when I talk.” She reached for my zipper as soon as I got close enough. It was still way early, and no one else was in the garden, but I didn’t want her to overexert herself, so I stepped away. “Oh come on, Ray,” she urged, observing, “I’m at the perfect height.” I told her my objections, and in response, Debbie said, “I’m not as bad off as everybody seems to think, Ray. But what I’m missing right now is sex and I’d really like a cigarette. We have some privacy for a change, and I figure that I can get at least one of the two. Please?”

I gave her a wet kiss as she fondled my rapidly growing bulge. I stepped back to sit on a stone bench across from her, pulled her sweatpants and panties down, and knelt at her feet. She couldn’t quite spread her legs enough for my head, but my fingers and hand fit. It wasn’t too long before they were covered in her juices, and it was a wonderful, glorious morning filled with the sounds of nature. The garden ceased being deserted almost immediately thereafter, and I wheeled Debbie around as if nothing had happened, explaining, “She wanted to watch the sun rise,” to anyone who asked.

“I’m sorry... I didn’t think I was that loud... and I left you high and dry,” Debbie apologized. I kissed her hungrily, making the bulge throb a little more, but I didn’t care so much. Watching Debbie orgasm had been incredibly satisfying, and on a deeper level, life-affirming. “Next time, though, can you bring me a cigarette for afterwards?” she asked, grinning. “I really want that after-sex smoke now.”

Maybe this was a chance for me to undo what I had done. I could at least free her of the burden of my fetish. When we got back to her room, I softly, but distinctly, said, “CS. DS. LO. Obey and Become. Ten-Gamma-Ten,” for the first time in almost sixteen months.

Debbie replied, “What? Were you talking to me? What was that ‘CS, DS, Gamma jazz’ all about?” Shocked, I quickly concocted some story about a project password that had suddenly popped into my head, and sincerely apologized for allowing work to intrude on our time. That seemed to set her at ease, and we sat on the sofa in her room. I followed Debbie to her therapy appointment, but the new therapist didn’t want me there during the session, so I decided to go home for lunch.

I hadn’t been home more than five minutes when a courier arrived with a phone, and it only took Mr. Scary another ten to call. “Have you tested the command?” he tersely asked.

“Yes, I did. She asked me if I was talking to her. I made some cover story up, so I doubt that she suspects anything.”

He hummed in thought. “I take it that this is unusual. Are you sure that she heard you completely?”

“Yes,” I testily replied. “There was no change in her demeanor— the signs that she was in programming mode are subtle, but they are there if you know what to look for, and I didn’t see them,” I argued. “She asked me what I had said to her. That has never happened, and I don’t want to risk saying it again, either, because she could call me on it if it doesn’t work. Then she will figure out what we did to her, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“Your frustration sounds genuine, and your reasoning is sound—as usual,” he grudgingly admitted. With a sigh of resignation, he added, “It appears that the active part of this experiment is indeed finished. You may expect your payment as per usual, sometime in the next week.” The line stayed open, so I waited for the threat. “The restriction on revealing this does apply to your wife. It seems that she is returning to good health, and it would be a shame if all this progress suddenly terminates due to—a slip of the tongue. After all, I don’t think she would appreciate having been your mindless slave, and how you’ve taken advantage of her in that state. I wish you and Mrs. Grant well in the future.”

The line went dead. I hoped that this was the last time I would hear his voice. He was right, of course. I couldn’t tell Debbie anything—that was definite grounds for divorce. “My husband mind-controlled me into being a dress-up fantasy and marrying him. I was not in control of my actions when I said ‘I do.’” Even if the judge laughed, she would still leave me—and I couldn’t control her any more to make her stay... not that I would. I couldn’t live with the guilt every day for the rest of my life.

“Welcome home, sweetheart!” I said, pushing open the door to our professionally-cleaned apartment. “I left everything the way that it was for you.”

Debbie slowly walked into the kitchen. After three months of therapy, she was able to walk on her own, but still didn’t have all of her strength back. She didn’t say anything as she walked to the bedroom, and into the bathroom and back into the kitchen where she sat at the table. Her table. Smiling broadly, yet on the verge of tears, she said, “I almost thought I’d never see this place again.” My wife was home, and everything was wonderful.

Her parents took us to dinner that night. Debbie spent the conversational part of it telling her mother that she was fine and that we didn’t need to hire a maid. “Besides, we can’t afford one, Mom. Remember, I don’t have a job any more?” Before her mother could say something else, Debbie continued, “and Ray gave up his promotion to watch over me while I was in coma.” Her dewy-eyed gaze towards me was full of appreciation and love as her parents said that I was a very good man. At times like that it was almost easy for me to believe that I was.

We separated from her parents at the restaurant, and as I turned the car onto the street, Debbie said, “Gas station. Mores. Don’t argue. Please.” She didn’t light up in the car, saying, “I don’t want to cause an accident,” with a teasing smile. She headed for the bedroom, tossing “Gimme a sec,” over her shoulder. A few moments later, I heard her call with a surprised squeak, “You kept my cigarette holders!” Debbie stepped smartly out of the bedroom, posed with her short black holder and a lit More in it. She dragged freely, easily, french-inhaling as if she had been doing every day for the past two years, and I got very hard. “Don’t lecture me about smoking and the brain cancer, OK?” she quickly said. “Because if I’m going to die young, I want to have fun now. I missed being sexy for you. I missed feeling hot and sexy, and I’m that same oversexed, oversized vixen who passed out on you eighteen months ago, and I have a lot of catch-up to do.”

She dragged again, casually, exhaling with uplifted chin. “I love it when you look at me like that. It makes me feel so hot and sexy...” I tried to tell her that she didn’t have to do those things for me any more. “I know,” she throatily growled. “I want to—and if it makes you feel any less guilty, I’m doing it because I like the way it makes me feel.”

Hopelessly erect, revisiting a long-dormant fantasy in flesh, I could only nod as Debbie shot a “fuck-me” look through her tossed red hair and announced, “I’m healthy enough to take anything you can dish out—and horny enough to want it.” She headed for the bedroom. “You coming?”

The apartment reverberated with the sounds of two people hopelessly in love with each other who hadn’t been together for a very, very long time. My loving, gliding smooth thrusts quickly gave way to frantic pounding, making Debbie grunt and huff each time our hips collided. I groaned loudly, my thighs tightened and I screamed her name in ecstasy as almost two years of pent sexual energy poured out of me at once. Debbie clamped her arms and legs around me, her frantic, forceful embrace belying her weakened condition. I rolled off of her, panting and wheezing, senses obliterated, unable to move.

Debbie gave me a deep wet kiss, and looked at me with a smile of love—and pride at her continued sexual skill and attractiveness to me. “Was it worth waiting for?” she teased, knowing the answer. She reached to her nightstand, and placed a More into her long cigarette holder, lighting it without approval from me. “I know you’ll be ready soon...” And I was. Debbie continued seducing me into the early morning hours, playing to my fetish every way she could. When I couldn’t thrust, she rode; when she couldn’t ride, I licked, and when both of us could barely move, we summoned the energy for one intense five-minute doggy-style bang. Neither of us could move very quickly or very well for the next couple of days, our out-of-practice muscles stiff and sore to the point where it was another week before we could make love again.

Debbie hadn’t experienced any headaches or anything in the three months she had been at home. She was almost done with her physical therapy, and healthy enough that she was able to get around town by herself. As soon as she had medical clearance, she immediately started searching for a job, and resumed her M.B.A. studies, saying that my investment money wasn’t going to last forever. “Besides, sitting alone in the house having decadent sexual fantasies about you while you aren’t here is frustrating. I can’t jump you when you get home from work every day. If this keeps up, you’re gonna hafta buy me a Sybian.” Since she was healthy, our second anniversary took place in Europe. Our anniversary dinner took place in the same restaurant where I had proposed, and Debbie, ever mindful of our history, used the same cigarette holder throughout the evening.

The obvious enjoyment Debbie got out of playing to my fetish reduced my guilt considerably. When I came out and flatly told her that she should quit, her health being much more important than my fetish, Debbie went out and bought a pack of Black and Mild cigars. My cock was hard as I swam in a haze of cigar smoke for the rest of the evening. She said, “No lectures, Ray... live every day as if it’s my last,” and she climbed on top of me, cigar in hand and slowly rode me to an extended orgasm.

She came home from school one evening and announced, “This class isn’t hard, but it’s a lot of work. I’m kinda happy I’m not working so I can do my research.” She lit a More as she walked into the kitchen. “Another two weeks, and the project’s finished, and I’m done!” She smiled, and in a throaty voice purred, “You will come to graduation, won’t you?” Debbie chose to take a long, slow french-inhale to underscore her point and looked at me knowingly.

“Of course!” I replied. “And you didn’t have to do the french-inhale.”

I know,” she grinned, and took another drag, french-inhaling once again. Her deviish grin faded, though, and she blinked a couple of times before putting her hand to her head. “Ray? I feel kinda... funny.” I was at her side in an instant, telling her to sit down, simultaneously poised to run for the phone to call 911. Debbie wobbled on her feet, just like she had on the night she had collapsed. I reached to steady her, but she backed away, looking perplexed. She looked at me, then the cigarette in her hand. “My head hurts,” she complained, and then looked at me once more. Debbie shook her head as if to clear it.

“Wait... what... no... something’s not right,” she murmured, and repeated her inspection of me and the cigarette. Finally, she focused on the cigarette. Suddenly, the confusion in Debbie’s face cleared and she said, “Wait a minute... I don’t smoke. What am I doing with this cigarette—?” She slowly sat at the table. “Ray...” she began, looking at me and sounding bewildered, “when did I start smoking? My memory’s awful foggy...”

“I think it was right before we started going out,” I answered, partially revealing the truth, hoping that she wouldn’t remember the rest.

“Yeah... that’s right... I kinda remember that,” she distantly said, nodding even as she studied the burning cigarette, obviously trying to recall what had got her started. “I remember... I remember...” her voice trailed off. I held my breath for her next words. “I remember going out with you... and a cigar... and...”

Debbie gasped, and then she focused on me, her facial expression transforming from confusion to discovery to rage within seconds, accusing, “YOU DID THIS TO ME! I remember now!” She angrily crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, hard enough that I could hear it snap. “We were at... Peterson’s cigar bar, and ... you told me to smoke cigars and somehow all of a sudden I’m doing it!” It was not the time to point out that a More was not a cigar. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? YOU BASTARD!” She shouted, storming into the bedroom. I followed, for lack of anything better to do, stopping at the door as I watched her yank her big suitcase out of the closet. “DON’T... you DARE say anything to me!” I opened my mouth and she clasped her hands tightly over her ears. “I’m not going to let you hypnotize me again! I am not going to be your mindless zombie slave! How could you do this to me? You’re supposed to love me and now I find out that I’m some fantasy that you created and that’s the only reason why I’m here.” Debbie started to cry, and I reached to console her, but she only shouted, “DON’T TOUCH ME!” and backed away with wild, panicked eyes as she carelessly threw clothes into her bag. “I don’t know if you did it with a watch or words or touching me but just STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”

She was crying freely now and I was just a statue, frozen by guilt, fear, and an impending sense of profound loss. Debbie pushed her way past me, using the suitcase for a buffer, slamming me into the door. “IT’S NOT FAIR!” Debbie stopped at the front door and sniffled, “I thought I loved you and now I don’t know if you made me fall in love with you because you made me fulfill some fantasy in your head! I gotta go, don’t try to stop me with your magic—whatever the hell it is. I just gotta get outta here away from you.” Debbie almost ran out of the apartment, her bag not entirely closed and she dropped some clothes, leaving them behind in the hallway, too scared of me and my power over her to even look over her shoulder, let alone come back for them. I began slowly picking them up as a few neighbors poked their heads out of their doors to see what the fuss was. I quickly gathered the rest and ran back into the once-again empty apartment. As the door shut, my guilt over mind controlling my soon-to-be ex-wife had to take a back seat to another emotion: regret. Debbie was alive, afraid of me, and out of my life for good.