The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

One Night

There came a rap on the door, just loud enough to be heard. I probably wouldn’t have been able to discriminate the timid taps from the old, shoddy windows rattling in the wind, if it weren’t for the forced jolly rhythm. “Shave and a haircut,” I muttered to myself, immediately conscious that I hadn’t had either in a few days. I probably looked terrible.

Opening the front door, I looked down on a blonde dandelion clock, just on the point of telling the time. Karin wasn’t the smallest person I knew, but standing six inches down below the doorstep, the top of her head was level with my chest. “Hey,” I forced myself to smile, “Good to see you!”

She murmured something that could have been “hi” or “yes”, and came into the house. I reached past her to close the door, and followed her in without asking questions. Karin had almost certainly—based on my piecemeal knowledge of psychology, and occasional observations of her behaviour—been suffering from chronic depression for much of the previous year. I didn’t want to bring bad memories to the surface, so I’d never asked what was wrong, but having been in that state myself a few years earlier, I would do anything possible to help a suffering friend.

“Oooh, Grimm!” her face turned upwards and her eyes flashed momentarily with happiness as she saw the new DVD box on top of the TV. It was only for an instant, but anything that distracted her from her worried could be a welcome relief.

“Yeah, it just arrived. Didn’t I mention it the other day? I was just about to watch it, if you want to join me.” I gestured towards the couch, and went to get a fresh bucket of Häagen Dazs from the freezer.

One episode after another of the awesome modern fantasy scrolled past. It was more romantic and less violent than I’d expected; in the company of other guys, I would probably have been embarassed to admit how much I liked it.

“He deserves that,” Karin commented as an oddly-named werewolf fell to the floor riddled with bulletholes, “That Susan woman looks like she hasn’t had a good night sleep in days.” I nodded in agreement, and made some half-hearted comment about them being called the children of the night for good reason. I noticed, though, that it had been his behaviour at home, rather than the murders, that made the monster deserve to die. Is she projecting? I wondered. It seemed likely enough; I’d heard enough to know Karin was having some kind of domestic trouble, and the times of her blog posts recently implied that someone was really not helping with her insomnia.

Still, I wouldn’t press her for answers. I could easily believe I was the closest friend likely to be awake at an unsociable hour; that made me someone she could run to if she didn’t feel safe at home, but not really a close confidant. We carried on watching the TV, not needing to talk about things that might bring pain, but sharing an occasional couplet of dialogue between scenes.

“I always thought it might be kind of hot,” she blushed as she said it, maybe wishing she could take the words back or at least not complete them, “to be ... ”

“Controlled?” I offered, glancing at the psychic demon on screen, claws twitching another character around like a puppet.

“Helpless.” She finished, “Not having to think.”

I smiled for real this time; that mental image was intriguing to me for entirely different reasons. There was something enticing about the thought of a thrall, unable to resist my will, just enjoying whatever task she was given. Especially if the thrall were as cute as Karin, still looking quite a bit younger than 23. I’d love to see a smile on that face again.

“Well, if you want to feel something like that ...” I left the offer hanging in the air. She knew I’d been training as a hypnotherapist when we first met, and had seemed vaguely interested in how it might feel. But I couldn’t push it, especially not on a night where we were both so emotionally fragile. Still, if I’d suspected a few years ago that she’d had submissive tendencies, I might have acted quite differently then.

Ten episodes into the series, my housemate came in to find me watching the TV in near silence with the subtitles turned on. The icecream was already gone, and there were two wine bottles on the coffee table beside the empty carton. I raised a finger to my lips to forestall greeting, and lifted the edge of a blanket to show Karin’s face. “So stressed,” I shaped the words with my lips, “She’s not sleeping well lately, so I thought I’d let her rest.” I wasn’t in such a comfortable position, but our couch was often decorated with a dozen cushions, blankets and throws. I’d done my best to cover Karin without disturbing her, and slid a cushion between her head and my shoulder. Now, the best thing I could do to help her was just wait.