The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My hand, hovering over the Enter key, was trembling. Here was so much that I’d invested in, that I’d cried and obsessed over, and then my finger came down and it was gone.

The indicator said “Formatting Disk – 1% Complete”. The estimated time was half an hour. I couldn’t sit here and watch this, every rotation of the hourglass cursor a knot in my stomach. I went for a walk.

Half of my life for the past four years was being erased back there. Something like four-hundred files, all hidden in a sub-sub-sub-folder of a nondescript folder inside of ‘Jenna’s Documents’, probably a quarter-million words that I’d written. Nothing you could ever put into a book. Probably a quarter-million words people had written back.

They were internet chat logs, the majority of my personal correspondence since I’d moved into my first apartment and hooked up my first cable modem. In them I wore about a dozen different names, but always something that, to the right pair of eyes, would be immediately recognizable.

‘sleepygrrlxxx’, ‘hypnoslut69’, ‘mkmeursl4v3’. I’d worn them like a calling card, like a follow-me slipper and, unerringly, they had.

Men, women, men pretending to be women. And they’d all come to me for one thing: my mind.

Let’s go back to before I’d ever heard the word ‘hypnofetish’. I was in grade school and didn’t know what sex was, but every time a pretty girl got put in a trance in a cartoon, even when it was silly with spiraling eyes and she clucked like a chicken, I felt my stomach tremble and heat went in a line from between my thighs to a point right between my eyebrows.

I’d slip off my training bra and my nipples could cut ice like figure skates, and I’d sit very straight up on the edge of my bed with my legs spread and stiff. I’d touch my nipples and whisper “Yes, Master. Yes, Master. Yes, Master” over and over until something would sizzle and I’d touch what I didn’t even know was my clit and my eyes would roll back.

I’d fall back on my bed, panting, sticky from the waist up with sweat and with other things from the waist down, and I’d think: my parents didn’t just come home, did they?

My sister didn’t hear me through the wall, right?

I wasn’t so much worried about them hearing a moan as I was worried my voice had risen and I’d blurted out “Yes, Master, I must obey!” in a soulless, robotic monotone and they’d never look at me normal again. It was bad enough, I thought, that I touched myself in naughty ways you weren’t supposed to let boys do to you. What would everyone think if they knew I imagined myself hypnotized when I did it?

And I kept growing up, and I kept being more into hypnosis and less into magazines with hot muscular actors and guitar geniuses and professional wrestlers, but a jewelry-store catalog with a well-dressed guy in a suit inspecting a pocket watch made me weak. You know the way your legs get shaky and your thighs turn to water, needing to be touched and stroked and spread, that’s how I’d get, picturing myself slumped on the couch with this guy swinging his watch back and forth in front of me. Droning on about things I couldn’t consciously hear, my eyes rolled back in my head and my mouth hanging open, my body so relaxed and just ready to fall asleep.

Except it was a sleep where I wouldn’t wake up. I’d just stand and strip and kneel and obey.

This was all in my head long before the Internet. This was just for starters.

Four years, and I must have had hundreds of conversations with people. They fluttered through my head as I walked away from my apartment, from my computer with its fan whirring to cool the hard disk as it erased itself at seventy-two thousand revolutions per minute.

Those conversations were always pretty one-sided after a certain point, my responses dwindling down to a steady stream of “Yes.”

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, Master.

Oh... yesss.

The premise was, I’d always play like I didn’t know I was going to be hypnotized or what that would be like, and a lot of the time these guys played along. Whether they could tell I was a veteran who just got off on acting naïve or not, they’d just talk to me in that familiarly subtle way, lulling me a bit without coming on too strong, and then they’d turn the trick and I’d be in a trance, under their control, helpless. Just how I liked it.

I was almost always out of my shirt and pants by this point, and usually my grown-up, non-training bra, too. I’d be staring at the screen, pressing my breasts together as though to present them to the unseen hypnotist, trying to do this with one arm while I scrunched my panties up around my slit, my heart starting to pound as I felt myself get wet. That was my helpless pussy, I thought. Helplessly hypnotized. I was a helpless, hypnotized slut, so controlled I got wet only when commanded.

Now THAT got me off.

And now it was gone.

I knew for a long time I had to stop, that spending two or three or four evenings out of the week staying up late with one hand on the keyboard and the other stuffed in my undies was not a healthy way for a young woman to conduct herself. For a long time, I fantasized about being hypnotized to stop, but never sought that out – no normal therapist would take what I wanted to get over in stride and, as hot a fantasy as it was, I didn’t trust myself to get involved with someone unethical. Every night here I was logging on, begging to be used.

So I’d give it up for a while. ‘iminatrance’ would stop visiting her regular chat rooms, and I’d satisfy myself with just reading the log files of her sessions, the ones where she became a robot, a doll, a dumb slut, a devoted servant. Always getting relaxed, always getting sleepy, always getting blank.

Always getting hot, getting off, on the kind of silly, schlocky mesmerism I was too afraid to volunteer for at college stage acts, that I hunted down on television and stayed up all hours to tape, that I’d download and watch when I needed to cum but a chat partner had gone the boring, repetitive route, demanding a picture and a phone number and probably also my first born.

Then one day, bored and horny, I’d read a chat log and think: maybe just one more time.

And ‘underyourspell69’ would log on, and then the next night and the next, and maybe I’d go through four or five nicknames in a year but I’d always end up spending five weeks on for every week off.

What stopped me for good was, one day I signed on from work. For years you can go along making decisions, and one day you just make the wrong one. The network administrator in our office was a rumpled geek named Herman, and he came by my desk at the end of the day, when the rest of Accounts Receivable had gone home.

I wasn’t logged into my chat client then, hadn’t been for more than fifteen minutes during lunch, long enough for a quick roll in the virtual hay and a trip to the bathroom afterwards to “relieve” myself.

So I’m shutting down my computer, putting my notebook and iPod back in my briefcase next to my soiled panties, when Herman walks into my cubicle and knocks on the wall.

“Knock-knock!”

I crossed my legs tightly because there was nothing under my skirt but reddish curls, and I smiled at Herman and asked what he wanted.

He smiled back, and then made a show of turning all serious when he told me there was a problem: they’d caught me “looking at porn”. And the way my stomach trembled when someone started putting me in a trance, now it was trembling the other way, the bad way.

I kept my face carefully blank – I’d had a lot of practice – and told him he must be mistaken. He leaned in closer to me and looked over his shoulder, and he whispered loud enough that anyone in the next couple cubicles would have heard.

“You logged into some adult chat room around lunchtime. I have the logs, and this is a problem. I have to report you for this.”

My carefully-blank stare faltered, and maybe the tickle at the corners of my eyes showed wet and brimming because Herman stood back and bit his lip. He said he didn’t want to report me, but he could get fired if he didn’t and someone else found the logs. He said he wanted to help, and could he come over to my place later that evening for a drink?

It wouldn’t have taken hypnosis at that point to make me stunned, confused, and open to suggestion. Since he hadn’t asked me to drop to my knees right there and suck him off, I didn’t feel like I could say no to his request. So he would come by at nine, and I drove home in tears with my hands shaking, and I was glad all I’d had for lunch was a sandwich because my stomach was still doing the not-good kind of flutter.

I spent the next three hours in a non-hypnotic, non-sexy daze – I can’t even remember what I made for dinner – and when Herman rang my buzzer at nine sharp I shrieked. I let him in, and he brushed past me and looked around. He sat on my couch without taking off his shoes and I followed him, not sure what to do with myself.

He suggested we drink some wine. I shouldn’t have, but I agreed.

By the end of a bottle, I’d decided to sit next to him. Still in skirt and hose from work, clean underwear in place, I curled my legs underneath me on the couch and watched the wine swirl in my glass. My face felt flushed and hot. I wanted him to just get it over with already, to tell me what my indiscretions would cost, but my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. Once my glass was empty, his face started floating around above the collar of his shirt.

In reality, it was my head that was swimming. I was about to demand a resolution when he asked if I had anymore wine. I shouldn’t have, but I went unsteadily to my cupboard and pulled out my other bottle. He refused to stop making small talk until that one was gone.

I probably wouldn’t have done it, even after two bottles of wine, but Herman told me my career and my reputation were on the line, and that he’d have no choice but to go public with my chat logs if I didn’t do what he said. If I did, he assured me, he’d take very good care of me. I must have been drunk enough for this to touch my submissive streak, because when he coaxed me down from the couch and I was on my knees between his legs, he called me a good girl and I took him in my mouth.

It had been a long, long time since I’d given a blowjob that messy, or, I hate to admit, that enthusiastic. I squeezed my lips around his length and closed my eyes tight, so there was nothing but the feel of him hard and throbbing under my fingers, against my tongue, and the wet slurping sound as I took him deeper into my throat.

He didn’t come in my mouth. He pulled out and I swallowed, hard, tasting him along with the dark, smoky overtones and hint of blackberry from our Cabernet. I was breathing hard and didn’t know how I felt, but my nipples were stiff under my blouse and when his hands grabbed hold I didn’t resist.

The fact is, I was so drunk and horny I didn’t even strip. Herman just had me bend over the arm of the couch and he reached under my skirt and slid the day’s second pair of panties down my legs. I squirmed them off, already fingering my clit and thrusting my hips, moaning for him, waiting for him to slide the thick shaft so recently in my mouth back into my needy little body.

When it was done he held me and touched me on the couch for a little while, and it would have been almost sweet if this hadn’t been blackmail.

The rest of the week I couldn’t think of anything but Herman gloating over me while I sucked him off, Herman knowing my filthy secrets. I imagined him on my computer in my apartment, reading all my chat logs and laughing at me while I knelt under my own desk, slurped one of his balls into my mouth and jacked him off with the hand that wasn’t busy frigging myself.

He hadn’t come by, hadn’t asked me for anything else, and he hadn’t reported me, either. But I knew he would. I couldn’t concentrate at work and whenever I got home, flushed and horny and angry and confused, there was only the computer full of my obsession. And I couldn’t even get off in chats anymore, or reading the pages and pages of past indiscretions, because even with a hand in my panties and the word “hypnotized” on my lips I just kept thinking about how stupid I’d been, and how everyone would know.

What a freak I was. What a fuck-up. What a sick perverted weirdo. Everyone at work, they’d stop talking to me. And who was I going to confide in? My friends would think I was sick and my parents scowled when I even mentioned regular sex, let alone this weird kinky shit I’d been dedicating myself to for years.

So after a weekend of drinking and being depressed I decided to destroy it, all of it, the whole shameful history of my fetish. There would be no evidence for anyone to find, and maybe without the weight of all those sessions, all that time spent, I could finally stop it and just be normal.

That was about as likely as suddenly developing a taste for pussy. But I made my computer start formatting itself, locked my door behind me, and went for a walk.

I’d probably walked half a mile, and the sun was almost set. It was maybe nine o’clock and right about the time I usually logged on as ‘mindlessbot1982’ or ‘sleepyandblank’. Already I was craving it, sitting there, stiff and attentive in my chair, being hypnotized, letting myself think less and less and get more and more excited and aroused.... It was warm out, but my nipples were standing up under my tank top, and the feel of my shorts rubbing between my thighs as I walked was getting more and more enticing. And just when I was contemplating jogging back to my place, slamming the door shut, and jilling off without even taking off my sneakers, I found myself standing outside of an internet cafe.

I’d never been in this place before. After all, until a half hour ago I’d had my own computer. There was no real reason for me to go in now, but... I’ll just check my email, I thought.

The place was almost empty. There were rows of computers but only one occupant, a man with a shaved head and dark-rimmed glasses. He didn’t even glance up as I came in, just kept pecking at the keyboard, ignoring the stack of notebooks piled next to him and the tall latte cooling on top of them in a paper cup.

The coffee bar was around a corner from the computers, attended by a mousy, dreadlocked clerk who just polished the same spot over and over with a cloth, flipping through a magazine.

I took a computer as far from either of them as I could and logged into my email. Nothing but a couple ads from Amazon – as someone who read that, you may also enjoy this – and a list of unappealing “matches” from an online dating site, though I’d closed my account there months ago.

Well, that was that, but on the computer’s desktop was a chat client. I froze when I saw it, the stylized black and white letters on its icon seeming to form a slowly-twisting spiral.

I couldn’t log in here, could I? Why not? No one would trace it to me this time. I was halfway to clicking the button when I remembered my computer at home, the dozens of chat logs, hundreds, years of time wasted on a fetish slowly erasing itself from my hard drive. From my life. Wasn’t I doing that to leave the fetish bullshit behind, and the time I’d wasted and the trouble it had gotten me into?

I could just go home. My cursor hovered over the icon. If I didn’t look at it too carefully it whirled, inviting me to stare.

I should just go home.

I double-clicked the icon. The chat client sprang open, filling the screen.

I typed in my nickname, ‘josswhedonfan<3’, the one nick I’d used for anything other than hypnosis. That’s what I’d do: I’d just hang around the Firefly room for a while. I hadn’t been in there for a year.

I scrolled the room list down, by reflex, to H. To the end of H, right before IceCreamSocial and IceQueensPalace, to HypnoticFantasies.

I’d scrolled down too far, silly me. All I had to do was scroll up again. I clicked on HypnoticFantasies, and the room opened.

I should probably have just closed the chat client and left. But in seconds I had three private messages:

From BobNoSis: a/s/l? :)

From SleepMyPet: you long to obey

From Trance4U: a/s/l/h u hypnotist?

I should definitely have closed the chat client and left. Gone back to my apartment, maybe watched some TV. Maybe throw in The Brides of Fu Manchu DVD I rescued from the ninety-nine cent bin at the video store.

Instead, I ignored the private messages and just watched the room for a while. Nothing much was happening, a little flirtation and innuendo, like any other corner of the internet.

I used to watch this all day, in between trances, some role-play and some real.

After five minutes, I was bored, reminding myself I was leaving this behind. Then, a new private message.

From Deep_Serenity: Get lost on your way to the Firefly room? I’d have expected to see you in there. :)

That was weird, but it was the first non-cliched opening I’d heard yet. I told Deep_Serenity that, yes, I’d gotten lost, and could he help?

Oh, precious Internet. I never flirt like that in real life.

He told me it was okay to get lost sometimes, that you could end up in places you’d never before imagined. I recognized his lead and decided to be blunt.

“Places like under hypnosis?”

“Yes. If you’d like to follow me.” He ended that statement with an ‘at’—symbol followed by a dash and a parenthesis, and the chat client turned the sequence into a little yellow face with a gaping mouth and big wide eyes that radiated circles for a few seconds before leaving them fixed and blank.

Oh, I loved it when people used that emoticon. I felt its blank stare in my nipples.

I really, really should have closed the chat client and left. Gone home, watched Stripnotized 12, the one where the hot models are brainwashed by a computer program.

I didn’t. Instead, I let him lead me, and lead me he did.

Deep_Serenity was appropriate, and not just for the Firefly reference. I was locked in one of the deepest trances I’d ever experienced, completely forgetting the whole being in public thing, the graduate-student type sitting a few rows over. I was deep and relaxed enough that realizing I was moaning softly in pleasure made me blush without breaking my mesmerized focus on his words. I swallowed the sound even as I let my arm become a helium balloon and lift up off my lap, and when it dropped back to my thighs they became so heavy they couldn’t move.

I sat paralyzed from the waist down except for my throbbing clit, letting some internet guy hypnotize me in a public cafe. I so should have closed the client and left.

This was the hottest thing I’d ever done.

He was good, and he was gentle, and he had me wrapped around his little finger in under fifteen minutes. I was rubbing my thighs together and the delicious sound they made was the only thing I could hear besides his imaginary voice in my head when Graduate Student coughed from behind his monitor.

The sound barely registered, but some desperate, vestigial safety device in my head told me to wake up. Wake up, it said, because you’re maybe thirty seconds from just sliding your thong aside and slipping two fingers in your pussy right here in the internet cafe.

I listened. I thanked Deep_Serenity, but I was in a public place and needed to go. He was very polite, apologetic, et cetera. I closed the chat client and left.

As I left, I caught a glimpse of Graduate Student’s eyes slipping from my face to my legs, to my bright orange shorts riding high as I quick-stepped. I hoped he hadn’t noticed a sheen on my inner thigh.

And part of me deeply hoped he had noticed. I practically sprinted back to my place, tugged down my shorts and thong, and made myself moan loud enough that the twenty-nothings upstairs would be fantasizing for weeks.

Not yet satisfied, I crawled a couple steps before getting back to my feet, staggering into my office... where my computer was done formatting, had reset itself, and was now sitting there with a little white cursor – lonely on a black sea – pulsing next to the message “Non-system disk or disk error. Abort/Retry/Fail?”

Dammit. How was I to get off now? Of course, that was the point: no more wasting my life with this silly fetish. But I needed to cum again, and I needed to be hypnotized to do it. I’d have to do it the old-fashioned way.

Under my bed was this tacky metal jewelry box my mom gave me the day I moved to the big city. I’d never seen her wear the contents, but I’d loved playing with them when I was a kid. It was hideous costume stuff, and I’d never worn it either, but in among the beads and gumball-sized fake pearls lay a pocket watch, its gold chain coiled like a snake.

I lifted it out of the box and sat on the edge of my bed. The watch was a big antique thing, and I held it up so the shiny disk hung by my eyebrows, and I started it swinging.

Back and forth. I imagined the words, and started to mouth them, repeating them.

“Back and forth. I’m getting sleepy.

“Very, very sleepy.” I’d ditched my bra, and my tank top was pulled up above my protruding nipples.

“Back and forth. I am falling asleep.

“My eyes are getting heavy.” My pussy was getting wet.

“Back and forth. My thoughts are disappearing.”

My voice was sleepy, emotionless. My free hand crawled robotically into my lap.

“Back and forth. My mind is going blank.” I stroked my clit in time with the swinging watch

“Back and forth. I cannot think.” I repeated those two phrases over and over, my cadence matching the watch’s swing, my finger on my clit, breathing harder and harder as I kept my voice steady, my eyes watering and my nipples throbbing.

And finally I came, clutching the cool metal of the watch to the burning skin of my breasts, falling back on the bed and bucking my hips helplessly against my hand with the same rhythm I’d known since I was thirteen.

And as I lay there, naked, wishing someone else was holding the watch, I started crying. It had been kind of an emotional evening.

The rest of the week was worse. Herman came by my cube pretty much daily, never demanding anything outright, but hinting less and less subtly that he’d be wanting something soon, or else.

My skin crawled every time he walked away from my desk, envisioning all the things he might make me do. All the fantasies he might like to live out at my expense.

And my skin crawled in a completely different way when I started to imagine myself not blackmailed but hypnotized into indulging him. Standing mindlessly at his command in my own apartment, or entranced underneath his desk, deep-throating him while he revoked my network access, no longer an accountant but just the IT department’s fucktoy....

I wanted to run to the bathroom and ruin my pantyhose getting off, and I wanted with equal fervor to throw myself out my eighth-floor window. Instead, I sat at my desk and tried to work.

Every evening, with my home computer still unusable, I found myself back in the internet cafe.

Deep_Serenity was nowhere to be found, so I fooled around with some of the regulars in chat, role-playing here, letting myself go under there, typing my hypnotized obedience to men, women... whatever.

On Friday I walked into the cafe and Graduate Student was back, slaving over the books at a workstation again, another untouched coffee perched on his desk. This time I took a computer directly across from him, so the only things between us were our monitors.

The same part of me that kind of wanted to be the office slut – if I could be hypnotized into it – wanted him to hear my whispered moans of obedience, wanted him to glance under the table and see my panties around my knees, wanted to imagine he was the one hypnotizing me from across the table like we were playing some mind-fuck version of Battleship.

Deep_Serenity was back this time, and my heart fluttered a little. He was glad to see me, and was already slipping me under even as we exchanged pleasantries about the weather. Wasn’t it a warm, wonderful evening, he asked. Warm, clouds, sleepy, etc. Soon I was staring slack-jawed at my screen, everything beyond the chat window fuzzy and forgotten. Graduate Student could have come around behind me and started fondling my tits right through my shirt – I was sitting up at rigid attention, so they were certainly on display – and i wouldn’t have noticed, I’d have only sighed at the pleasure and gone deeper.

I couldn’t remember what we were chatting about, my thoughts chained to his words. But once I was deep, dangerously deep, unaware of where I was and starting to forget being anything but this virtual hypnotist’s slave, he told me to do a funny thing, and I obeyed.

He told me to stand up. I did so, slowly, carefully, the way a will-less doll should. And though I kept staring straight ahead, I could see Graduate Student gaping up at me, looking like he’d never seen a dazed, pretty woman before in his life.

Graduate Student told me to look into his eyes, and I did. And he told me I could still see the words on the chat screen and, in my mind, I did that, too. And he introduced himself as Michael.

I think I might have said something like “Nice to meet you.”

And when I woke up, I realized I wasn’t sitting at my computer anymore, I was sitting next to him – to Michael. To Deep_Serenity. And if that moment of pure, stark disbelief had lasted any longer I’m sure I’d have just dropped dead, but instead he smiled and asked me on a date.

You remember a really good first date when it doesn’t feel like a date at all. Michael and I clicked at once, not so much because we had everything in common but because we shared the one deep, dark, secret thing that made us tremble in our naughty dreams. Whenever the small-talk between us lulled, we only had to fall back to talking in whispers about trances and sleeping and triggers and obeying.

The second date was a little more formal, a little more romantic, and otherwise the same. And at the end of it we went back to his place, a cozy apartment not unlike mine near the university, and after a drink or two he asked me if I’d ever been hypnotized in real life.

I was sitting snuggled up with him on the couch, and when he asked I leaned back and looked at his deep, dark eyes and my heart was suddenly hammering.

No, I said, I hadn’t. His smile asked the next question, and mine – accompanied by a blush down to my already-stiff nipples – answered it. He slipped from the couch and rummaged around in his bedroom while I finished my drink and smoothed out my skirt, telling myself to relax.

What a joke. Blood was pounding between my naughty bits and all I could think about was fingering myself while he dangled a watch in front of me and made me his slave.

And when he came back from the bedroom and he really was carrying a pocket watch, smaller than mine and silver, but oh, so shiny, my mind almost went blank all on its own.

He didn’t even have to lift the thing away from his side. I was already gaping like an idiot, desperate to be put under. He didn’t even have to say a word as he raised the watch and it started to swing, my eyes glazed over and I saw nothing else.

My hands in my lap were already so heavy I couldn’t move them, but they would have slipped under my skirt in a second if he’d commanded it.

When he sat next to me on the couch and finally did begin to speak, I was already too far-gone to make out the words. All I knew was each thing he said went straight into the soft, pliant mush that was my mind, prepared for this moment by years, and every breath as I fell deeper and deeper made my whole body tingle with lust.

The first thing that happened when I came to my senses was, with me already naked on the couch, we fucked like rabbits.

He should have gotten a towel when he’d gone off to get his watch, because when I peeled off my panties for him I was dripping wet. When he guided me onto my back and lifted my hips off the couch so he could plunge himself into me, the slippery sounds my body made were barely drowned out by my ecstatic moaning.

I hardly remember how we made it to the bedroom, because he took his watch out again and my entire body seemed to disappear. He took me again on his bed, holding the watch above me this time, so I could glue my eyes to it and moan “Yes, Master! Must... OBEY! I’m- I’m h-hypnotized! HYP-no-tiiiiized...”

And so forth. There might have been more, but I don’t remember a thing. Judging by the way my body was limp and exhausted in his arms the next morning, we didn’t get a lot of sleep.

Everything was wonderful after that. A co-worker fixed my computer – “Why’d you format it?” he asked. “Viruses,” I replied – and I never even installed chat software this time. Whenever I felt the need to get off I just had to think about the last time I was with Michael, the muscles in his arms standing out rigid as he held himself over me, swinging his pocket watch. I just thought of the things I eagerly let him do to my body and mind, and my eyes rolled back and my legs turned to rubber.

Everything was sunshine and rainbows for a couple weeks. Then Herman came by my cubicle.

It was first thing in the morning. It was a Friday, and I was one of the first in the office. I’d gotten there early so I could call it quits at four: Michael and I were going to spend our first weekend together, and I had errands to run before we headed to the lake. My computer was just booting up when Herman came right into the cube, leer-first, and put a hand on my shoulder. I flinched away from him.

“What do you want?”

“I keep thinking about that night we had at your place. We should do that again.”

I glared at him.

“Yeah,” he continued, “we should do that again, soon. I think it would be a really good idea if you agreed.”

I felt that bad, sick feeling in my stomach again. Now that I’d found Michael, the idea of serving Herman’s needs – hypnotized or not – wasn’t even arousing as a fantasy. But he had me like a fish gasping on a hook. If he went public with what I’d done in my moment of stupidity I wouldn’t just lose my job: all my co-workers, most of my social circle, would think I was some kind of sex freak.

Which I was, I guess. But I thought about Michael, and how, if I was a freak, all that mattered was I’d found another freak. And I told Herman, no. I told Herman to get the fuck away from me. He said something threatening and stormed back to his cave.

He probably ratted me out right away, but the call didn’t come until four, just about the time I’d planned on leaving. My whole body went cold when the phone rang. Even when you expect this kind of thing, you never really expect it.

After hanging up, I got up and walked out of my cube. Every step felt slow and surreal, and I imagined everyone standing in the entrances of their cubes as I walked past, chanting “Dead Woman Walking”.

I sat down in my boss’s office, in the chair across his desk, the chair in which I’d sat to be hired. I’d been so excited, so proud of myself that day, fresh out of college. What I felt now was nothing like that.

“Jenna,” he began, “we’ve got a bit of a problem, here.”

My boss was in line for Understatement of the Year. I didn’t say anything.

“The thing is, we’ve got reports that someone at your workstation accessed...” he glanced at something on his desk, kept his eyes averted, “inappropriate materials, on Tuesday, May fourteenth. Now, I need to know: was this you?”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I whispered it first: “Yes.”

“Hmm?”

“Yes.” It didn’t feel the same as saying yes to Michael. My boss still wouldn’t look me in the eyes.

“You realize this is in contravention of the company’s policies for acceptable use of Internet access?”

“Yes.”

“And that it’s grounds for dismissal?”

This had turned into something out of my chat logs, an interrogation in which each question had only one acceptable answer. I knew the answer well enough that my mind could go somewhere else while I spoke it, over and over.

I imagined Herman, his gloating face, his little eyes gleefully watching me pleasure him. Watching me debase myself, naked, on hands and knees, and my pussy would be soaked because I was a weak, submissive slut, and I’d do anything to be used and controlled, that was why I was in here in the first place....

At some point I agreed to hand in my resignation first thing Monday morning, and I found myself in the parking lot, trying to unlock my car. My hand holding the key was trembling so bad I was scratching the paint. I wasn’t crying, but my eyes burned like they wished there were tears and every few seconds I’d stop hyperventilating long enough to sob.

Other people were leaving the building, coming to the lot. I made it into my car and lay across the bench seat so they wouldn’t see me. My whole body was shaking by now, my vision blurry, and my gut convulsed with that feeling you get after doing half a bottle of Tequila on a dare, that feeling like you made a big mistake and you’re about to pay dearly.

If I sat up, I was going to be sick. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled my cell phone out of the cup holder and called Michael – I had to use voice dial because my fingers were too shaky to hit the numbers.

When he picked up, I think I sobbed instead of saying hello.

“Jenna? What’s wrong?”

“F-fired... they fired me. Need you, please.”

“What? Fired? Are you at work? Are you okay?”

“No. Yes. At work, in my car. Please, I don’t think I can drive—”

“I’ll come get you. I’ll take the bus. What’s the address?”

I gave it to him and, after some confused reassurances, he hung up. I closed my eyes and tried to just pass out, wanting the ground under my car to open and swallow me up.

Michael knocked on my window. I jerked up in the seat, hitting the horn with my elbow. He opened the door and I slid over, letting him sit only long enough to pour myself into his arms. I cried a lot, and he stroked the back of my neck and whispered things to me. After a while, with my eyes squeezed shut and face pressed into his turtleneck, I told him what had happened. Mumbled that I was a filthy slut.

He was quick to tell me how ridiculous that was, but I’d left out the part about my evening with Herman. I tried to protest, to deny his affection. But he told me he didn’t care what I’d done, even told me he loved me. I think I said it back, had no idea if I meant it. He helped me into the passenger’s seat, drove me home, undressed me, and put me to bed. Then he undressed himself and slid in at my back, hands wrapped around me to cup my tits.

Men must think women go to bed every night wishing for a pair of hands on their boobs. But I moaned a little, grateful for him, and went to sleep.

We ended up canceling our plans and, instead, he offered to shack up with me for the weekend while I tried to figure out what to do next.

Saturday afternoon I told him to hit the library and work on his thesis. I needed time to do some covert shopping.

Dinner was keeping warm in the oven and the wine was on ice when I went into my bedroom and unwrapped the packages I’d bought. The things inside were for me, yeah, but they were really a present for him.

I stripped, showered, and slipped on a lacy black pair of panties. They were silky, and the way they hugged my skin, warm and sensitive from the shower, felt incredible.

The thigh-high stockings were even more erotic than that. And they were made to hook right onto the bottom of the corset.

I’d never worn one of those before. It was a faux-corset, fastening in the back with a zipper, but it was ribbed and tight enough to force me into military posture, and it squeezed my breasts into a big eyeful of cleavage.

Wearing it felt hot. Imagining Michael seeing me in it made my breath quicken, and imagining what I was going to do when he saw me made me want to pull out my pocket watch and get off right there on the bed.

The front-door buzzer rang, and I let Michael into the building. And then I did fish the old watch out from its box. My new platform heels were waiting in the hall. They were black, shiny, and made me look even more like a sex object than I did already.

Perching on the heels, my calves and thighs held stiff, my bare butt clenched like it was awaiting the paddle, I unlocked my apartment door.

I had to hurry, before he got up the stairs. Hurrying in my sex-doll outfit was as hard as anything.

Kneeling was harder. But I tucked my legs underneath me, felt the hard heels of my shoes pressing into my ass, and I lifted the watch.

Without even telling it to, my hand started it swinging. My eyes started following it, and they couldn’t stop.

I didn’t feel the heels of my shoes anymore. Or my stockings rubbing together. I was being hypnotized, more deeply than I’d ever been before.

My only regret is, I couldn’t see the look on Michael’s face when he walked in the door. Walked in and saw me there, kneeling at attention, tits pressed together by the corset with my eyes wide and blank, following the watch held up by my rigid arm.

When he took the watch away, my eyes followed it. My arm was too deeply relaxed to move and it just hung there, floating above my head. He kept the watch swinging, and touched my hand. As if by his command, it floated down to rest with the other on my thighs.

And then he took me really deep.

He asked me what it was I’d been planning.

“A present for you,” was all I’d say.

I was still there behind my glazed eyes, still thinking and aware, but my will was gone. I couldn’t have spoken or moved of my own volition if I’d wanted to try.

I didn’t. This was hotter.

Somehow, my eyes slid from the watch. They locked on the bulge straining in his pants.

My tongue wet my lips, making them glossy under the kitchen light, and I managed to whisper, “please...”

He undid his belt and fly one-handed, the other keeping the watch swinging within my vision. Its flickering motion tightened the ropes I’d slipped around my mind, but my eyes already had another goal. He was so big, throbbing and ready. The only thing I could see, I moaned as he slid into my mouth. I could move just enough to suck him off.

He helped me bob my head up and down, gently. I didn’t need the help for long. My heat was working its way through the hypnotism, and soon I was giving him head with mechanical earnest. My hands wanted to slither inside my panties, which now felt far too tight against my swollen sex.

But my hands wouldn’t move unless he commanded them to move. And that was hotter than anything I could do with my fingers.

Since I couldn’t use my hands to help me, I sucked his cock deeper into my throat, until his trimmed hairs were tickling my nose. I slowly let him draw it back out, closing my lips around the tip so it left my mouth with a wet smack. Then I leaned back in and started working on his balls.

Michael moaned helplessly as I sucked his balls into my mouth one after the other. They were full, throbbing, and when he started jerking his cock I knew he was close. And I wanted to swallow it.

I grabbed the head of his cock between my teeth, almost a threat, and he obediently took his hand away. I plunged back down over the length of his member just as he started to spurt. I closed my eyes and, on my knees, strapped into a fetish outfit, Michael’s cum filling my mouth, I knew what it felt like to be a hypnotized slave.

And I wanted to feel that way forever. All I wanted at that moment, as he pulled out of my mouth, stroking my hair with a lover’s caress, was to be bent over and taken. Fucked in my hot, dripping pussy and my ass at the same time.

Forced, on my hands and knees, to obey my Master. Maybe I could stare at a spiral while he took me.

So I asked him. No: I told him.

“I want to be your slave.”

He smiled, knelt down, and kissed me, tongue twisting with mine, one hand exploring my tightly-encased breasts.

And he pushed me over, gently lowering me to the floor. Letting me stretch out my legs. Helping me get my panties off over the fuck-me heels.

My hands replaced his over my tits, helping them spill out of the corset. I played with my nipples while he kissed my slick, sticky thighs.

Just before he started tonguing my clit, he asked me a question: “You want to be my slave?”

“Yes, Master.” My voice was as needy as I’d ever heard it. “Oh, yes. Please make me your slave.”

“My sweet, obedient, hypnotized pet.” He licked in a circle.

“My brainwashed toy.” He licked again. I was just moaning now, beyond speech.

“My mindless love doll.” He licked again, again, and I came. Came hard enough to make my head spin.

“Of course, baby,” he said. He went back to my swollen pussy. Getting me worked up again, damn him. I could hear him picking the watch up off the floor.

“Whatever you want.”