The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mandy Mounds smiled and looked around. There was a good crowd tonight, she saw. She waited for the music to begin.

Briefly, somewhere in the back of her mind, there was the vague awareness that she wasn’t really at a club, that what was happening wasn’t real. But that was all right. If it wasn’t real, she didn’t have to worry about it; she could just enjoy the moment. She stopped thinking about it, and the vague awareness went away.

George Custer grinned. He knew the signs. Amanda was deep in the fantasy, just as he’d intended. He shouted toward the musicians on the bandstand, “How about it, guys?”

Grinning back, the band struck up a thumping strip-club beat. As the music swelled, George turned to the hypnotized Amanda and announced, “You’re on, Mandy. Do it!”

And “Mandy” did.

First to go, unslung and dropped forgotten to the floor, was her handbag. Next was her fashionable cap: she reached up and removed it with both hands, held it pressed against her taut stomach and bowed, then let it drop as she straightened up again. Then it was the turn of the short caplet she had on over her dress, unfastened and teasingly twirled in one hand before being tossed aside. With it out of the way, the leering onlookers could get a better look at her generous cleavage.

Then she brought her opera-gloved arms up, crossing her wrists behind her head, as she stood on tiptoe, thrusting her torso forward and tilting her chin up. One leg flexed free of the form-fitting gown she wore, emerging through the slit in its side and revealing a length of elegant limb clad in sheer silk supported by a garter.

After a few moments’ posing, she brought her hands down, letting them trace the generous curves beneath her dress. More than one of the men watching let out a small moan at that, and as she heard them, she smiled.

Next, “Mandy” teasingly pulled off first one and then the other of the jeweled bracelets she’d been wearing. Bowing seductively, she placed them on the floor. Then she took the tip of the index finger of her right glove in her mouth and, still smiling and watching her audience, began pulling the glove off, ever so slowly, with her teeth. She repeated the same teasing performance with the left glove, slowly, slowly pulling it off by one silken fingertip until, with a final jerk of her head, she pulled it free altogether. Every motion was coordinated with the thumping music coming from the bandstand.

The gloves joined the bracelets on the floor. For a moment, Amanda hesitated, as if unsure quite what to do next. Then, still smiling, she called out, “All right, boys, who wants to help me out of this tight dress?”

There was an eager howl from the watching men, but George Custer held up a hand. “All right, guys, everybody gets to watch the show—but it’s my show! That’s right, isn’t it, Mandy? Say ‘Yes, Sir George’ if that’s right.”

“Yes, Sir George,” came the reply.

George moved behind the bedazzled blonde and teasingly zipped down her dress, timing his action to the music from the bandstand. When he was done, he stepped away again.

“Oh, thank you ever so,” cooed Amanda. Lost in the fantasy George had fashioned for her, she slithered out of the tight satin gown, guided by the music. George couldn’t help chuckling a little as he noticed that it seemed to be getting harder for the musicians to keep their minds on their instruments—or at least the ones they needed to make music.

With the dress off, “Mandy” stood revealed in a tight white bodice and matching briefs above her gartered stockings and high-heeled feet. The garter straps ran up he lovely legs like stripes to the belt about her waist. Unprompted, she began to turn, giving the guys on all sides of her a good look as she slid from one seductive posture to another as if posing for a men’s-magazine photo shoot. And sure enough, flashes began to go off as guys took advantage of the opportunity to collect personal souvenirs of the evening’s surprise performance.

The bodice went next, slowly unlaced by nimble female fingers until “Mandy” could wriggle free of it. It dropped unheeded to the floor with her other discarded clothes, revealing a taut torso beneath a frilly white brassiere.

By this time, flashbulbs weren’t all that was going off. Gasps and groans among the male audience suggested that some of them had been overwhelmed by Amanda’s sensuous display. Despite his past experience with such matters, George Custer himself was sweating. It was an effort to remind himself that he had to remain in control, no matter what anyone else did.

“Go, Mandy, go!” The men watching Amanda Bellingham’s sizzling strip cheered her on, happy to call her by the “stage name” George had programmed into her if it would keep her going.

“You want more, boys?” Amanda teased. “More?” She raised her hands to her bosom, spreading her long-nailed fingers and squeezing the abundant soft flesh hidden by straining fabric.

“More! More!” The answer was halfway between a cheer and a moan.

Amanda obliged. Raising her left leg, she bent to unfasten its stocking from her garter belt, then did the same with the other leg before ridding herself of the garter belt. Then she bent and unsnapped the garters, tossing first one and then the other into the crowd. She stepped out of her shoes, then eased off her right stocking, sliding it sensuously down her shapely leg until she could kick it away over her foot, and then did the same with the left. Every move followed the music coming from the increasingly distracted band: its rhythm guided her body while her mind drifted through the fantasy George had built for her.

Now wearing only her bra and panties, “Mandy” preened and posed for her audience, bending her knees and arching her back, then standing on tiptoe with hands above her head and chest outthrust, and finally slithering over to one of the refreshment tables, bracing herself against it with her hands while she leaned back, tilted her head and kicked her legs, left, right, left, right, pointing her toes with each kick. The guys watching howled with glee.

She reached for her bra clasp, twisting sinuously as she did, and unfastened it. Reaching with her left hand, she slid the right strap teasingly down until she could pull that arm out; then she did the same with the left, leaving the filmy garment supported by nothing but the ample shelf of her bosom. A final thrust of her torso took care of that, flinging the bra away. Then, smiling a glassy-eyed smile, she hooked her thumbs into her panties and eased them down, down, giving her audience a nice look at her chest as she bent to do it, until the little undergarment finally pooled at her feet. She bent and braced herself as she lifted first one foot and then the other free of the scrap of material around them. Then she posed again, triumphantly, legs spread, hands on hips, chest outthrust and head tilted back. There was a fresh round of wild applause. Responding, “Mandy” leaned back against the refreshment table again and resumed her kicking routine.

There came a new, louder round of banging on the locked doors. “What’s going on in there?” an irritated female voice demanded to know.

George laughed. “All right, guys,” he said, “I guess it’s time to wrap it up.” As his hearers booed good-naturedly, he approached the thrashing Amanda. As he stood before her, just out of reach of her flailing legs, he called over his shoulder for the band to stop playing.

As the music fell silent, “Mandy” relaxed, standing upright, facing forward and letting her arms drop to her sides. George raised his hand and began moving it gently back and forth once more, and within seconds her eyes were following it obediently.

“Mandy, that was a great show,” he told her. “But it’s over now. It’s time for you to get dressed.” He paused for a moment. “And when you’re all dressed again, Mandy, you will no longer be Mandy Mounds. You will no longer be at the Club Morpheus. You will be Amanda Bellingham, and you will be back at the party, and you will not remember being Mandy Mounds. Say ‘Yes, Sir George’ and repeat my instructions if you understand and will obey.”

“Yes, Sir George.” Amanda nodded and reeled back George’s commands word for word.

“Once you are Amanda Bellingham again,” George went on, “I will wake you up. When you awaken, you will remember nothing about being hypnotized. You will believe I tried and failed. However,” he grinned again, “you’re really turned on right now, aren’t you? Tell me if that’s true.”

Amanda gasped, “T-turned on. Ohhh, yes.” George hadn’t told her to say call her “Sir George” this time, so of course she didn’t; only as Amanda would she do so automatically.

“That’s right,” George agreed. “You got really, really turned on by your dancing, Mandy. And even when you are dressed again, Mandy, and you’re Amanda again and don’t remember being Mandy and stripping to the music, you will stay turned on. You won’t remember why you feel that way, but it won’t matter.”

“Won’t remember. Won’t, oh God, matter—!“ Fresh beads of sweat popped out on Amanda’s forehead, already glossy from her earlier exertions. She writhed in the grip of pure sensation, one hand going up to fondle her breasts, the other reaching between her legs. “Uhh. Uhh. . . .”

“That’s right,” George agreed. “You won’t remember, and it won’t matter. You won’t remember because it doesn’t matter, because you don’t need to remember.”

“Don’t . . . need to remember. Uhh. Uhh.” Amanda’s hips twitched convulsively.

“That’s right,” George repeated. “In a moment, Mandy, I’m going to snap my fingers, and when I do, you will come, Mandy, you will come hard, because you’re so turned on you can’t stand it.”

“Yes, oh, yesss,“ the blonde hissed. Her hands rubbed harder at breasts and crotch.

George snapped his fingers.

Amanda Bellingham bucked and squealed amid raw pleasure. For a timeless interval there was nothing else. She sank to her knees and arched back, removing her hands from chest and crotch to plant them firmly on the polished tile floor behind her as she shuddered in ecstasy. From somewhere there came the sound of clapping and cheering, which only added to the feelings ripping through her.

Gradually, it faded. She became aware of a voice, the voice of her thoughts: “Mandy, can you hear me?”

“Ooooo,” she responded. “Yes. Hear . . . you.” It didn’t occur to her to wonder why she was answering the voice of her own thoughts. After all, the voice hadn’t told her to think about that.

Now, Mandy, in a moment, I’m going to count backwards from three, and when I reach zero, you will be Amanda Bellingham again. You will be Amanda, and as we’ve agreed, you won’t remember about being Mandy. Do you understand, and will you obey? Say, ‘Yes, Sir George’ if you understand and will do as I’ve said.”

“Yes, Sir George.” Amanda nodded.

“That’s good, Mandy. Now, one more thing: when I count backward from three and you are Amanda again, you will act as if you are awake. You will believe you are awake. But you will continue to do as I say and believe whatever I tell you. You will think you are awake, but you will still be completely under my power.”

Amanda nodded again, accepting the new programming. “I will believe . . . I am awake,” she murmured. “But I will still be . . . completely under your power.”

“That’s right,” agreed George. “You will be aware of your surroundings, Amanda, and will think and act as though you are awake, but you will still be completely obedient to me, And to show you are obedient, you will continue to call me ‘Sir George’ when you speak to me. You will call me ‘Sir George,’ but you will not notice that you are calling me that. Do you understand, and will you obey?”

“Yes, Sir George,” came the response. “I will . . . call you ‘Sir George.’ I will not notice I am calling you . . . ‘Sir George.’”

“Very good, Mandy.” George nodded in approval. “Now I’m going to start counting. Three.” Amanda blinked.

“Two. You are beginning to notice where you really are, and beginning to return to being Amanda.” Another blink.

“One. You are no longer at the Club Morpheus. You are no longer Mandy Mounds; you are Amanda Bellingham. When I finish counting in a moment, you will not remember ever having been Mandy Mounds. You will not remember the Club Morpheus. You will get dressed without noticing you are doing so, and forget you ever took them off, because it wasn’t Amanda Bellingham who stripped, it was Mandy Mounds, and you are not her. Do you understand all that, and will you obey?”

“Yes, Sir George.” Amanda nodded.

Very well, then. Zero.”

George Custer watched, grinning, as Amanda calmly climbed back into her clothes. She clearly was not aware that she was dressing in front of a roomful of men. In a few minutes she was finished. She picked up her handbag off the floor, patted her hair into place with her other hand and blinked.

“Well?” Amanda Bellingham demanded. “Are you finished yet, Sir George? You’ve had your five minutes, and then some, or I’m a striptease dancer.” For some reason, this set off a round of snickering laughter among the male partygoers.

“You win,” George said mournfully. “It didn’t work.” He reached for his wallet. “And a bet’s a bet. I promised you a hundred dollars if I couldn’t hypnotize you.” He counted out five twenties and handed them to the blonde.

“Well, Sir George, at least you’re a man of your word.” Amanda stuffed the small wad of cash into her handbag. She still hadn’t noticed what she was calling him; that piece of her conditioning was working perfectly.

“Give the money back to me, Amanda,” George said in a conversational tone. “Hand it back, but forget that you have handed it back. Remember instead that you put the money away safely.”

“Yes, Sir George,” the blonde replied. She handed the money over as she had been commanded. George quickly put it back in his wallet. As he did, Amanda put her now-empty hand into her handbag, then withdrew it and zipped up the bag.

George pursed his lips. He’d have to install another bit of programming later, or Amanda might wonder how a hundred bucks had “disappeared” from her purse. Well, that would be easy enough. First things first, though. “All right,” the hypnotist called out, “guys, you can unlock the doors now.” Two of the onlookers closest to the entrance moved to do as he’d asked.

Amanda was annoyed. “Now see here, Sir George,” she complained, “I thought I’d made it clear you weren’t to lock up!” Briefly, her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. She could swear they’d unlocked the doors after she’d said that! When had they locked them again?

Well, she decided after a second or two, it wasn’t important. After all, nothing had really happened.

The doors opened and the female party guests who’d been locked out came pouring in. “Well, it’s about time!” one of them exclaimed. “What the hell were you guys doing in here?” Multiple pairs of feminine eyes turned to Amanda Bellingham for answers.

“Not much,” she told the owners of those eyes. “Hypnotist Lad here tried to put me under, but of course he couldn’t do it, just as I said.” George smiled at her words: since she wasn’t speaking to him, her compulsion to call him “Sir George” wasn’t triggered, and she could call him anything she chose. He knew the truth, though, and so did every other man present. Let’s just hope none of them blabs to his lady friend, he worried silently. That could be a problem. Well, he’d deal with it if it came up. In the meantime—!

What’s wrong with me? Amanda asked herself. For some reason, she felt really aroused now. God, she needed to get laid, as soon as possible!

She noticed her would-be hypnotist watching her. He was very obviously attracted to her. Their eyes met, and he smiled. After a moment, he came over to her.

“I’ve about had it with this party,” he said. “I’m sure you have, too. Why don’t we go someplace more private?”

“Yes, Sir George.” She laughed, remembering what his full name was. “Lead on, General Custer!” It didn’t occur to her to wonder why she was about to leave with a guy she’d been making fun of only a couple of minutes before.

George took Amanda’s arm and steered her toward the doors. Loud whistles and clapping from the male partiers followed the two of them as they left.

Outside, George asked, “Where’s your car, Amanda?”

“In the parking garage across the way,” came the answer.

“All right,” declared the hypnotist. “We’ll take my car, then. We’re going to my place, Amanda, we’re going to my place for the night. You don’t mind. You want to go to my place, Amanda, because you’re so horny right now, you want sex so badly, you’d go anywhere if it meant you’d have sex.”

“A-anywhere,“ Amanda moaned. “S-Sir George.“ God, what was the matter with her? George was right about how she felt: she was so hot she’d have shagged him right here in the street, if he’d said he wanted to.

A vague thought managed to pierce the fog of lust in her brain. “But Sir George, I’ll have to leave my car garaged all night. They charge by the hour. It’ll cost a bloody fortune!”

“That doesn’t matter,” George instructed her. “We’re going home to my place, and in the morning, Amanda, you’ll pay whatever they charge.” By then, he’d have had his fun and installed still more programming, as he did with all the snooty beauties he put under.

Amanda relaxed, George was right, of course. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way she felt.

Back at the party, the man Amanda had been ridiculing for his failed attempt at hypnotizing his girlfriend was grinning. He wasn’t alone, of course, but he had a special reason.

Amanda Bellingham was a high-priced model, and the man she’d been putting down was her chief photographer. Tonight’s insults had been just the latest round, for her: she treated him like a lackey, or even just a piece of equipment, rather than the respected professional he considered himself to be.

But tonight, things had gone in an unexpected direction. Boy, had they ever!

The photographer could just imagine what George Custer would be doing tonight with the still-hypnotized blonde. I want a piece of that, he said to himself.

And maybe, just maybe, it could be arranged. He’d have to see if he could look this Custer up: there couldn’t be too many guys with that particular name in this city. He’d be willing to part with a pretty penny to persuade the hypnotist to help him out.

“Yes! Sir! George! Ohhhh!” Amanda moaned as she writhed naked, sweating, beneath George Custer’s equally nude form. “Yes! Sir! George! Oooooh!“ Suddenly she gave a convulsive shudder and tightened her athletic legs around George, squeezing him like a tube of toothpaste.

Responding to the pressure, George came, spurting powerfully into Amanda’s waiting body. Stars burst in his vision for a moment. Then he slumped down atop the befuddled blonde.

Presently he roused himself. It was always this way: screwing a gorgeous woman whom he’d turned from an arrogant cock-teaser into a mindless fuck toy turned him on like nothing else. When he had sex with a hypnotized hottie, he almost seemed to go into a trance himself, at least for a little while.

He rolled carefully off Amanda. As he moved, she sighed and smiled. Her eyes were closed now, and George knew she was thinking about nothing in particular. It was time to give her more instructions.

“Listen to me, Amanda,” he commanded. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes and listen to me, if you can hear me.” Propping himself on one elbow, he began gently waving the other hand above his blonde bedmate’s face.

Amanda’s eyes opened and fixed on George’s hand in what had already become an automatic reflex. Back and forth, back and forth went her eyes, following the motion.

“In a little while, Amanda, you’re going to go back to sleep until morning. When you wake up, you will believe you are your usual self. You will still be under my complete control, but you will think and act as if you were not, except that you will not remember me hypnotizing you at the party. You will feel calm and relaxed. We will have breakfast together and I’ll take you back to where your car is parked.

“As soon as you get into your car, you will awaken for real. When you do, though, you will forget all about what happened after we left the party. You will forget ever meeting me. You will believe you simply had too much to drink and got a ride home with someone. Do you understand, Amanda, and will you obey?”

“Yes . . . Sir George,” the blonde murmured drowsily.

“But Amanda,” George went on, “from now on, if you ever hear my voice say the words ‘Sir George,’ you will at once relax and obey, do only as I tell you to do, think only what I tell you to think. Do you understand, Amanda, and will you do this for me too?”

“Yes, Sir George. I will do . . . this too.”

“Then sleep, Amanda,” commanded George. “Sleep until morning. Sleep until you hear me say the words, ‘Wake up, sleepyhead.’”

“Sleepyhead,” the blonde mumbled. Her eyes closed. “Yes, Sir George.” In moments she was breathing deeply and regularly, quite obviously fast asleep.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” The words penetrated Amanda’s head, rousing her from restful slumber. She opened her eyes and sat up, letting the blankets over her fall away to reveal her nude form. It didn’t bother her that she was naked in a strange man’s bedroom. She didn’t think about it.

George, she saw, was already dressed and standing by the side of the rumpled queen-sized bed in which she sill lay. Her own clothes were neatly arranged by the bed, everything draped over a chair except for her shoes, which stood under it. As George watched, she got dressed.

Fully clothed once more, she allowed herself to be led into the apartment’s kitchen, where breakfast was waiting: matching plates of pancakes and sausage, with orange juice and coffee beside each plate. “Go ahead,” George urged, “eat.”

Amanda did. The food was pretty good for bachelor cooking, she admitted to herself. As she ate, she was conscious of a vague puzzlement that she wasn’t more upset at having let herself go home with some guy she’d met for the first time the previous night at a party. It didn’t seem to matter, though.

Presently George drove her back to the garage where she’d left her car. He pulled up and parked outside the gated entrance. Amanda reached for the passenger-side door handle.

“I’ve enjoyed playing ‘Sir George’ to your English lady, Amanda,” George remarked casually.

At the words “Sir George,” Amanda faltered. She’d been about to . . . do something, hadn’t she . . . ? With a sigh, she let her hand drop and settled back against the seat. Her eyes lost focus as she thought of nothing in particular.

“Good girl, Amanda,” came George’s voice. “You’ll do anything I say now, won’t you?”

“Anything . . . you say,” the blonde echoed. “Yes, Sir George.”

“All right, then, Amanda,” George said. He smiled. His implanted trigger had worked perfectly. “Then go ahead and get out of the car, just as you were about to, and go to your own car as you intended.” A pause, then: “When you get out of my car, Amanda, you’ll be alert again, the way you were”—he hesitated, assembling his words carefully—“when we got into my car, but you will forget what happened just now, Amanda, you will forget it and never remember it again.” There, he thought, that ought to do it: once she got out, she’d be functional enough to get her own vehicle without attracting suspicion, and wouldn’t remember the little test he’d just run. His earlier programming might have covered that anyway, of course, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful.

“Yes, Sir George.” Amanda reached for the door handle again. This time, she grasped and turned it, and the door swung open. She stepped out and headed for the garage entrance.

George Custer waited while his latest conquest retrieved her car, and watched as she drove off. Then, smiling, he drove away as well.

Amanda Bellingham got out of her car. It was sort of embarrassing that she’d had to leave it overnight, but she’d really had too much to drink to risk driving home. She hoped she hadn’t done anything stupid; her memories of the evening weren’t exactly clear.

One thing she did remember: that loser who’d been trying to hypnotize his girlfriend. As if that silly party trick could really work! She laughed. Some people were just so gullible.