The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I don’t understand,” Mom said, her brow furrowed. “How is it going to help you study if you hypnotize me?”

At the sight of my smile, Mom relaxed slightly. I’m not much of a looker, but I’ve been told I have an incredibly charming smile—and not even my own mother is immune to it.

“It’s simple,” I said, hoping that this would work. I’d spent hours trying to come up with something, and this was the best line I’d managed to devise. “Self-hypnosis is difficult, but if I can practice on someone else first, I’ll be able to get the hang of it in no time.”

Not true. None of that was true.

Self-hypnosis, in fact, was total bupkis. The point of hypnotizing someone is to implant thoughts into their head…why on earth would you ever need to hypnotize yourself? If you want to get a thought into your head, you can just…y’know, think it.

But I hoped Mom would buy it. After all, she hadn’t done the months of research on the topic that I had.

That was why my grades were suffering, to be honest. I’d learned about hypnosis, and started experimenting. It had taken me a while to find someone who’d let me try it out on them, and then once I had…it was all so easy.

Okay, so “easy” might be overstating it.

“Okay Linda,” I said, flashing her my smile. “Deep breaths. Shut your eyes and listen to my voice. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in…breathe out.

“I’m going to count down from thirty-nine, and each time I say a number, I want you to breathe in, and then breathe out.”

Why thirty-nine? Well, it was a bit of an in-joke between us, and she grinned when I said it. I hoped that the tinge of humor would help her relax, remove any suspicion.

If this was going to work, I knew she had to be completely trusting. Fortunately, Linda and I had known each other since we were kids.

My name is Terry, by the way. I’m a fairly average guy in most ways, I suppose. I guess I’m a little smarter than most people…that’s why Mom was so shocked to see my grades starting to slip.

That’s what made me realize what I could use as an excuse to hypnotize her.

I’m not really into sports, although I do like going to my Dad’s place to watch the game every couple of weeks. Not because I particularly want to watch the game, but it’s nice to have something that’s just the two of us, y’know?

Mom and Dad split up when I was twelve. Since then, Dad has had a new girlfriend every couple of weeks (or months, if they’re really getting along) and Mom…well, Mom tried dating for a couple of years, and then I guess she just gave up.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s because of me.

See, I’ve always been the jealous type. Nothing weird about jealousy, right? Sure…unless you’re a thirteen-year old kid who hates his Mom’s boyfriend.

And not just in the “someone is dating my Mom and it’s not my Dad” kind of way (trust me, after thirteen years of seeing how unhappy they were together, I was over the moon when my parents divorced). More like “I literally want to tear this guy’s skull out of his head and shove it up his ass if he even thinks about touching my Mom” kind of way.

I never said anything, of course, but it’s entirely possible that Mom noticed how I acted whenever someone came around, and decided to stop dating—decided that it wasn’t worth how much it upset me.

Or I dunno, maybe she just got sick of dating.

Like I said, I think I’m a pretty average guy in most ways. A little smarter, a little less interested in sports, the owner of an unexpectedly charming smile…

…and I’m totally in love with my Mom.

Actually, no. “In love with” is understating it. I’m obsessed.

A year or two after Mom stopped dating, my hormones kicked in, and suddenly all I could think about was sex. Maybe that’s another area where I’m not really average—I was jacking it nine, ten times a week; it was non-stop.

And every time I came, it was Mom that I was thinking about.

And not that I think this is an excuse or anything like that (I get that my Oedipus complex that won’t quit isn’t normal) but my Mom is a stone-cold fox.

Whenever she goes out, she dresses relatively dowdily, but when it’s just me and her at home, she’ll often wear whatever. Yoga pants, nighties…the best is when she picks up one of my T-shirts and just wears that.

And yes, I mean just that. No bra, no jeans. Just my shirt and a pair of panties. We’ve gone entire weekends in the past with the outline of her nipples clearly visible through my shirt, with me desperately trying to maintain eye-contact, and slipping out of the room to jerk it whenever possible.

Anyway. I am getting really distracted here. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, Linda.

“Twenty…”

Linda breathed in, then breathed out.

“Nineteen…”

She breathed in, then out.

“Eighteen…”

In, out.

“Seventeen…”

In, and then out.

The deep breaths was important. That was the first thing I’d realized from reading about two dozen books about hypnotizing people. None of them really went into why, but I reckon it’s got to do with slowing down the heartbeat and causing a rise in blood pH. Like hyperventilating.

People don’t realize that something as simple as “breathing” can have such a massive effect on your brain, so they’re generally happy to do it without question.

Like Linda.

“Ten…”

In, out.

“Nine…”

In, out.

“Eight…”

In, out.

“Six…”

In, out.

I looked carefully at my friend. She hadn’t even noticed that we’d skipped “seven”—that was a really good sign.

Now, obviously hypnosis isn’t as simple as “get someone to breathe a bunch and then you can put ideas in their mind”. But Linda was in what some of the books referred to as an “early trance”—she wasn’t susceptible yet, but she was definitely slightly dazed.

The fact that she hadn’t even twitched when I missed a number meant that her guard was down. And that meant it was the perfect time to take her to the next level—a full trance.

“Two…”

Breathe in, breathe out.

“One…”

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Okay Linda,” I said gently, trying to keep my voice as soothing as possible. Anything that jolted her out of this state would mean starting again, and while watching her breathe as we counted down from thirty-nine had been sort of interesting, it wasn’t really something I was keen to repeat. “Your mind is nice and clear for me, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied softly, and I smiled. The counting really had worked—using a phrase like ‘your mind is clear’ would normally have resulted in a sarcastic look and a quick retort from Linda, but in this pre-trance state, she hadn’t even questioned it.

“Your mind is like a blank canvas, and we’re going to paint on it. We’re going to do it together, you and me. Are you ready to paint on the canvas?” I asked, and she simply nodded in response.

“You’re holding a nice, heavy brush.” I noticed her hand twitch slightly at my words, which I think was a sign that it was working. “There’s a big bucket of thick, black paint next to you. You’re going to dip the brush into the paint can, until the black paint is oozing off it, okay?”

Again, Linda nodded.

“Now, take that brush and paint the canvas. Long, strong strokes. Start from the top and go down. Are you painting the canvas for me?”

“Yes…”

“Good girl,” I said, and smiled once more when that didn’t get a reaction.

Linda despised being called a ‘good girl’.

“The black paint is so heavy, so dense. You can’t see anything through it…you can’t think anything through it. Keep painting, but the more you do, the more your mind slows down. It’s getting harder to move, harder to breathe, harder to picture anything. All you can see is thick black paint now, isn’t it?”

“Yess…” she said, but her words were slightly slurred. She sounded as if she’d just woken up, and I decided to use that imagery.

“It’s making you sleepy. So sleepy, so weary. But you can’t sleep—you can’t sleep, because your friend is here talking to you. It’d be rude to sleep, wouldn’t it?”

“Mmmm…” she said in reply, not even able to form words.

“The canvas is almost painted now, but you’re too tired to even finish painting it now, aren’t you?”

“Mmmm…”

“You’re so tired that all you can do is sit, sit and listen to my voice. Isn’t that right?”

She nodded, and her eyes fluttered.

“Don’t sleep,” I said sharply, and she sat up slightly at my words. “You don’t want to be rude to your friend, do you?”

Linda shook her head ever-so-slightly in response.

“The polite thing to do is listen to your friend, isn’t it?”

“Mm…”

“The polite thing to do is listen to your friend Terry, listen to my voice, and do everything I say.”

Again, a tiny nod.

“The polite thing to do is answer all of my questions honestly—you’re too tired to lie, too sleepy to hold anything back. You’re going to be completely honest with me, Linda: you’re going to do everything I say, right?”

“Mmm…”

“Let your body relax. Your body is completely relaxed—it’s like you’re laying in a comfortable bed, sleeping soundly. And most of your mind is asleep as well. You’re completely unconscious, except for your ears and mouth. You’re going to hear everything I say, and you’re going to reply to the best of your ability. Do you understand me, Linda?”

“Yes,” she said, slumping back. At a glance, you would have thought she was asleep, but her response was loud and clear, and I could tell that she was listening.

“Good girl,” I repeated. “You and I are going to work together, Linda, because we’re friends. I’m going to pick up that heavy paintbrush and finish painting the canvas black. You know that you can trust me, because I’m helping you—I’m finishing something that you couldn’t finish.”

She didn’t respond, and so I pressed on.

“I’m helping you. I’m your best friend, and I’m here to help—when I finish painting that canvas black, all your worries and fears will be painted over…and I’ll be the one who helped do that. Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Of course,” she whispered, and for a moment I felt a pang of guilt. Was I really about to fuck with one of my oldest friends? Just as an experiment?

Then I imagined my mother in this state, docile and malleable. An erection began to form in my pants, and it wasn’t long before my boner made the decision for me.

After all, you can’t do anything under hypnosis that the subject doesn’t want to do. Every single one of the books had been very clear about that.

“I pick up the paintbrush and finish painting the canvas. The thick, black paint covers everything—it covers your mind, it covers your body. It’s covered every part of you—it’s tight, but not constrictive. It’s warm, thick, heavy, covering up your worries, covering up your anxieties. Your whole world is black paint, except for my voice. You trust my voice, because I helped you finish the painting.

“I painted over the parts you’d never paint over. I painted over your doubts, your worries. I painted over everything, and now all that’s left is trust. You trust my voice, because I’m your friend, and now you don’t have to worry about anything in the world. How do you feel?”

“Good,” she replied, after a moment’s pause. “Relaxed.

“Free.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Now, I want to ask you a few questions…”