The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Life was good for Paul Bennett. In fact, it was great, a daydream come to life. Thanks to an unexpected side effect of his operation for cancer of the larynx, his voice could totally control any woman who heard it face to face. It didn’t work over the telephone, although he could command a woman to respond to orders given that way. And men were completely unaffected. Still, it had changed everything.

Even at work. He’d spent years seething under his female supervisor, Charlene Sands. A beautiful ball-buster, she had taken a special dislike to him, and had done everything she could to stick it to him. Now—he grinned—he was sticking it to her, every chance he got. And she loved every minute of it, because he told her she did.

Thanks to her, he’d met Paula Roberts, a high-powered stock trader who handled Ms. Sands’ own investment portfolio. A brief conversation and Paula was eager to do anything she could for him. She was on the way to making him, if not rich, at least well-off. And in private, she performed other, much more intimate services.

Paula, in turn, had arranged for him to meet Jennifer Berne, a top lawyer for one of New York’s priciest firms. Now Jennifer was on call, free of charge, whenever he might need legal advice. Paula had also put him in touch with a real estate broker who had set him up with a fancy condominium, also free of charge. Other women had been happy to help him out with such things as a new car, new clothes, even a gold Rolex like the one he’d tried unsuccessfully to make Dr. Steiner hand over while he’d been hospitalized.

Given his hold on his boss, he could have goofed off as much as he liked at work. Paul, however, was in his own way an honorable man. That was why he was now knocking on the front door of Mrs. Sylvia Cortez. Back before he’d gone into the hospital, before he’d gained his new tone of command, he had gotten her to buy an expensive life insurance policy on herself. He hadn’t included her husband, and Mrs. Cortez hadn’t brought the subject up—and then Mr. Ramon Cortez, age forty-nine, had dropped dead, and she’d gotten nothing at all. The widow Cortez, understandably, was ticked off; she had notified the company that she was cancelling the policy unless Paul was fired. If he hadn’t had his new edge, he’d be out of a job right now. Still, he’d made a bad mistake, so he meant to fix things.

And if, along the way, he collected a little bonus, who was to complain?

The widow Cortez took her time answering the door. When she opened it and saw who was waiting, she screamed, “You! What the hell are you doing here, you sack of—!”

Paul interrupted smoothly. “Calm down, Mrs. Cortez. Relax. Let me come inside, and we can talk.”

For a moment, the angry woman stiffened. Then the tension went out of her face and body, and she responded, “Yes, Mr. Bennett. Please come inside.”

A few minutes later the two of them were seated at the kitchen table, and Mrs. Cortez was coming back from the stove with two steaming cups of coffee. She sat down, placing one cup in front of Paul, who said, “I understand you’re upset about the policy, Mrs. Cortez. I can’t really excuse my error. Might I ask, though, why you didn’t ask me yourself to insure your husband too?”

Mrs. Cortez scowled. “It was my husband’s idea. He said if I got the policy, he’d be covered anyway, and adding his name would just jack up the premiums. Cheap bastard, I find out when he died neither of those things was true!”

“But then,” Paul asked carefully, “why did you make such a fuss? Why try to get me fired? It wasn’t my fault, not really.”

“Yes it was,” she answered. Paul suspected that if not for his prior suggestions, she’d be yelling. “He was cheap, and he was wrong, but it’s your job to know these things, and you let me down. Now the only way that policy pays me is if I die—and I won’t need it then, will I?”

“Mrs. Cortez—Sylvia, I can call you Sylvia, can’t I?” She nodded. “I think we can come to an arrangement. If you still want to cancel the policy, we can do it, but,” and Paul brought out a folder full of papers, “I’ve been authorized to offer you a lump-sum payment as if your husband had been covered, for a policy of two hundred thousand dollars instead of the five hundred thousand on the original contract. That will be acceptable, won’t it, Sylvia?”

It ought to be, Paul thought. That kind of sweetheart deal didn’t happen every day. Usually, it was the kind of thing offered to settle a court case. Charlene Sands would have had his head for proposing such a thing, if she weren’t on her knees to him inside her own head. How she justified it to her own higher-ups wasn’t his problem.

Sylvia Cortez nodded again. “Yes, Mr. Bennett.” She signed the papers from the folder and accepted the check enclosed with them. The check went into her cleavage.

That gesture drew Paul’s attention. Sylvia Cortez was about his own age, but looked years younger. She had a thick mane of wavy bright-red hair, dark brown eyes, full lips, and a terrific body, with a massive bosom, a slim waist, richly curving hips and long legs. For a widow, she was dressed rather arrestingly, in a short wine-red skirt, sheer hose and glossy black pumps with five-inch heels. Her blouse was cut to show off her endowments prominently. Business done, he found his mind wandering, drifting into the inviting cleft between her breasts.

He smiled. Why not? Before, he wouldn’t have dared. But now, things were different.

“Listen to me, Sylvia,” he said. Her gaze swung to his face and locked on. “You’re so lonely, aren’t you? So hot. You need a man. Now.”

Sylvia’s eyes widened, then glazed with lust. “Oh, God, yes,” she panted.

“Let’s go into the bedroom, shall we, Sylvia? It’s better there.”

She led him though the house to her bedroom, where a big four-poster bed rested between two side tables with lamps on them. The right-hand table also held a cordless phone.

Sylvia hesitated. Breathing hard, she protested, “This—I shouldn’t, it’s too soon, he was a prick but he was my husband, no. . . .”

“None of that matters,” Paul instructed her. “Strip for me, Sylvia. Strip, and feel pleasure doing it. You want to, you need to. You’re high, so high, flying, clothes just get in the way. Strip for me.”

She did it, giggling as she undulated out of her clothes. Watching her, Paul felt himself rise to the occasion. His own breathing grew fast and shallow. His world narrowed until there was only the woman writhing before him, the woman and the bed.

At last Sylvia was nude, except for her high heels, which he’d had her keep on. At his command she continued to dance, hips swaying, big breasts bouncing.

Finally Paul couldn’t stand it anymore. “Bed, Sylvia,” he moaned. “Now. Please. Fuck me, as long and as hard as you can.”

Sylvia grabbed him and the two of them toppled onto the bed. She tore at his clothes, as much hindering as helping his own frantic efforts to get out of them. When he was naked, they collided, Sylvia coiling about him like an anaconda. They moved together, and there was pleasure, over and over, until Paul drifted off to sleep. Even after that, Sylvia continued to thrust and grind against him; he had commanded her to continue as long as she could, not merely as long as he could, and she obeyed. Finally, exhausted, she passed out too.

Hours later he awoke to find her still asleep, arms around his neck, legs tightly clamped around his thighs. When he stirred, she woke up as well.

“Mmmm,” she murmured. Then, “What—what happened? Oh, my God!” She threw herself away from him.

“What did you do to me?” she cried. “I’m a respectable woman! But you told me things to do and feel, and I did! I even—!” She crossed herself. “Brujo! I always thought those old stories were just stories, but you’re a brujo! A witch man! Get away, get out!” She looked and sounded terrified.

“Now Sylvia,” he cajoled, “you don’t believe that. There are no witches. There’s just me—Paul—and I didn’t force you to do anything. You wanted it, and you want more, isn’t that right?”

Her face softened as his words adjusted her thinking. “Yes, Paul. I do want more.”

“Later,” he responded. “I need to get home now. I have to go to work in the morning.” He picked up his discarded clothes and put them on, then went out into the kitchen and collected the papers he’d had her sign for the settlement.

As he reached for the kitchen door, she grabbed at his arm, pleading, “Don’t go, Paul, please!” Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and it didn’t seem to matter to her that she was still nude.

“I have to, Sylvia,” he said. “Don’t feel bad. I’ll come back.” And maybe he really would, he thought to himself. The widow Cortez, once her initial attitude problems had been talked away, had been a tigress.

Having been told not to feel bad, Sylvia, of course, relaxed. She let go of his arm and watched, smiling, as he left.

As Paul got into his car and drove off, a trench-coated figure across the street from the Cortez home watched. The mystery figure spoke briefly into a cell phone, listened for a moment, then nodded, got into his own vehicle and left as well.

Paul was a half-hour late to work. Once, that would have meant he was in trouble. Now, he knew he could talk his way past it. Especially since, after all, he had legitimate good news.

“She agreed, master?” Charlene Sands asked,. It had amused Paul to program her as he had Rhonda Marks, so that she called him “master” when they were alone. He’d learned enough since that first episode to have added the instruction that she wouldn’t notice she was doing it.

“Yes, of course.” Paul presented Ms. Sands with the papers, handing them to her across her desk. She scanned them quickly, taking in the essential points. She might be a helpless puppet to his voice, but her professional skills were intact. He found them useful, at least for now.

She carefully filed the documents. Later, the necessary computer entries would be made. Paul had pulled it off, put out a bad fire. She found herself smiling at him. She remembered how she’d once held him in contempt, and shook her head. What had been wrong with her? She gazed at him dreamily.

Paul saw her looking at him, smiling, her eyes half-lidded and not quite in focus, and smiled back. He felt a stirring.

“Let’s celebrate, Charlene,” he said. Hearing her trigger, his enslaved boss shuddered and began breathing rapidly.

“Oh, master,” she moaned. “Please.”

For the next hour or so, the office’s sound-proofed paneling got a workout. When it was over, Paul left, satisfied, and returned to his cubicle as if nothing had happened. At his suggestion, Charlene remembered only Paul’s delivery of the papers and a conversation about the Cortez policy.

Paul was coming up in the world. The top bosses had started to take notice of him as they never had in the old days, when Charlene had been doing everything she could to hold him down. Within two more months, partly on her recommendation, he’d been promoted to Supervisor-One, Charlene’s own rank. This meant a small office of his own and a substantial jump in salary and benefits. The day the promotion came through, he bought a new car.

But he was getting bored. He had a real-life super-power, for God’s sake, and he was selling insurance? Couldn’t he do better?

Of course he could, he told himself. All it would take was money, enough money to cut the cord—to make sure he didn’t have to depend on a paycheck. And he knew how to get it.

Paula Roberts was the key. One evening, as they lay nestled together in the big bed in Paula’s fancy penthouse apartment, he told her to arrange a meeting with some of her female friends in the financial community. “They should be top people, as well connected as possible. The kind of women who’d be in a position to know all sorts of things ordinary investors wouldn’t. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master,” Paula responded. Paul was finding he liked all his women to call him that. It increased his feeling of power, made him feel like a sultan or something out of the Arabian Nights. He could get hard just listening. “But, master,” she stirred and looked at him, troubled, “you’re taking a risk. If anything goes wrong, they could be charged with insider trading. You, too. You could go to jail!”

“You let me worry about that, sweetheart,” Paul said. “Just get them together for me. And of course,” he smiled down at her, “do try to pick for beauty too, if you can.”

“Yes, master,” she agreed.

Looking down at Paula’s dark head, he wondered what was really going on in there. He’d had to be careful with her, as with some of the others whose brains he needed along with their bodies; he’d tried to leave as much of her original personality intact as he could. But going too far in that direction risked leaving them aware of what he was doing to them and capable, perhaps, of working against him somehow. Not for the first time, he wished he could read minds as well as manipulate them.

The meeting was a big success, at least from Paul’s point of view—which, after all, he told himself, was the only important one. With the help of the new connections he made, Paul was able to draw in a lot more money. It became necessary for him to concern himself with hiding his new wealth from the IRS and other inquisitive forces. He established bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands, keeping just enough money in his own regular accounts to allow him to live comfortably while preparing for the next step.

Finally, the day came to take that step. In Charlene Sands’ office, he announced that he was quitting.

“But . . . why, master?” Charlene was distraught. She could no longer even imagine that she had once despised him.

“It’s simple, Charlene,” he said, his casual use of her sexual trigger fogging her mind. “I’m done here. I’m tired of peddling insurance. I’ve done it for fifteen years, and it’s enough. I’ve got other priorities now.”

“But, master,” she whimpered, “what about me? Don’t you love me anymore?”

Now, at last, was the moment he’d been waiting for, setting her up for.

“No, Charlene,” he said. “I never loved you. But you love me, don’t you. Blindly. Slavishly.”

“Oh, God, yes,” she sobbed. “Please don’t leave me!”

“Charlene,” he said, sending shudders of pleasure through her again. “Don’t cry.” Her tears stopped as if a faucet had been turned off. “Charlene, let’s celebrate my rise in the world, why don’t we? You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you . . . Charlene.”

The repetition of her name drove her to an animal frenzy. She leaped at him, hurling him to the floor, and tore at his clothing, growling. For a time, the two of them focused only on each other.

When it was over, Paul rose and dressed. Before leaving, he bent over Charlene, who was still sprawled on the floor, and whispered a few sentences into her ear, finishing: “Do you understand, Charlene? Will you do as I’ve asked?”

“Yes, master,” she responded drowsily. “I will do as you’ve asked.”

Paul left the office, whistling.

Leaving Hamilton Insurance was very liberating. Paul was free to spend much more time with Rhonda and Jasmine. He visited Sylvia Cortez again, too, and spent occasional nights with Paula Roberts. His investments were expanding rapidly, aided by the inside information his growing net of business moles provided.

He went out often, sometimes taking his “nurses” along. One evening, at Rhonda’s suggestion, they went to a nightclub where a woman hypnotist billed as Lady Mesmer was performing. The idea appealed to Paul’s sense of irony, given his own situation.

Six feet tall in spike heels, wrapped in a clinging red gown, her black hair piled high on her head, Lady Mesmer was breathtaking. Her act was apparently genuine, too. After the show, Paul talked his way backstage and had words with the performer, whose real name turned out to be far more prosaic.

He threw more parties at home now. A lot more, and a lot louder. Finally, one night, someone called the police.

When the harsh knock came on his door, Paul didn’t answer at first. When it came again, louder and more insistent, he opened the door to see two uniformed cops, a man and a woman.

“Yes, officers?” he asked politely. He had to be careful; the man, after all, couldn’t be “handled” as the woman could.

“We’ve had a complaint, sir,” the male officer responded. “Some of your neighbors say your party here’s too loud.” He had to raise his voice to be heard. “You need to turn it down!”

“Come on inside, officers, and we’ll discuss this.” The cops came in. “Let’s go into my den.” Looking around, Paul spotted just the person he needed. Fortunately, she wasn’t too drunk yet for what he had in mind. He signaled her to follow him and the officers into the den.

Once the four of them were in the comfortable room and the door was closed, cutting off a lot of the noise, Paul made introductions. “Officers, I’m Paul Bennett, and this is a friend of mine, Maria Delgado. She’s a performer at a local club.”

Maria picked up her cue. Reaching behind her, she unclasped the necklace she was wearing and brought it up in front of her. The pendant it bore, which normally nestled at the top of her cleavage, dangled, catching the light from the overhead fixtures as she raised it to eye level and set it gently swaying.

“Yes, that’s right,” she confirmed. “I’m a performer at the Club Sixty. I use this pendant as part of my act. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the male officer said. “It’s . . . beautiful.” His eyes locked onto the swaying ornament, as did his partner’s.

Still gently swinging the pendant, Maria went on, “I call myself Lady Mesmer in my act. The pendant’s an attention-getting device. It gets your attention, doesn’t it, officers?”

“Yes,” the two cops answered together, eyes following the motion. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. . . .

“Relax,” Maria said. “Keep watching the pendant, and relax. Back and forth. Soothing. You’re watching the pendant, and relaxing, you’re relaxing, and watching the pendant, swinging, back and forth, relaxing, so-o-o relaxed.”

“Yes. . . .” the cops chorused.

Maria gestured toward the couch against one wall. “Why don’t the two of you sit down?” The cops sat, and the hypnotist walked over to them, still gently swinging the pendant.

“Very good,” Maria said. “Keep listening to my voice. Keep watching the pendant. Now close your eyes”—the cops obeyed—“that’s good, but you can still see the pendant, swinging, back and forth, so pretty.”

“Yes,” the dazed officers repeated in unison. “Pendant. Swinging. Back and forth. So pretty.” Behind their closed lids, their eyes continued to move, following the motion of the gem they still saw.

“They’re under, master,” Maria announced. “They were very susceptible. I guess as cops, they’re used to taking orders.” She giggled. “You know, this guy’s cute! Can I play with him?”

Paul grinned. “Why not? Just make sure he wakes up convinced everything’s okay here. I can take care of the woman; you can wake her up now, if you like.”

Maria nodded. Facing the hypnotized cops, she addressed them: “What are your names?”

“Pete Hannity,” the male officer said.

“Julie Benson,” his partner answered.

“Very good. Now Julie,” Maria continued, “I’m going to count to three, and when I reach three, you will open your eyes and be fully awake and alert. One. You’re starting to awaken. Two. Your eyes are opening.” Julie’s eyelids fluttered up. “Three. You’re awake.”

“Of course I’m awake,” the female cop said. “Hey, how’d I get over here?” Her eyes flicked over to her partner, seated next to her with his eyes closed. “Pete—what’s wrong with him? What’s going on here?”

Paul stepped in. “Relax, Julie. Pete’s just taking a little nap. Everything’s fine here.”

Caught instantly by his voice, Julie bobbed her head. “Yes, sir.”

“Come with me and join the party, Julie,” Paul urged. “Everything’s okay here, and no one has to know if you take a little time off. Pete won’t mind.” Glancing at the zombified Hannity, Paul smirked. “He won’t even notice.”

He ushered the female officer out the door, closing it behind him. Just before it shut, he caught a glimpse of Maria bending over the entranced Officer Hannity, easing off his uniform jacket as she murmured further suggestions to him. Yes, indeed, he thought, she was a handy woman to have around. Her hypnotic skills could make up for some of the weaknesses of his own powers. As long as he remained in charge, of course.

The rest of the party went very well. Officer Julie Benson’s tabletop dance, which ended with her clad only in garter, heels and uniform cap, was the hit of the evening, applauded by everyone. Along with a few other choice bits of the festivities, it got preserved for posterity on video, and several of the partiers snapped still photos while it was going on. After Officer Julie’s public performance, Paul took her into his bedroom for a more private one. About two in the morning, as the party wound down, Paul got Julie dressed and collected her partner from the den, where he found the cop bucking and pumping, naked, under an equally nude Maria. When he arrived to break up their private celebration, Maria pouted, “Aw, so soon?”

Paul laughed, looking at the sweat-drenched form of Maria’s partner. “Much more, and it’ll be a one-time deal—you’ll give him a heart attack!”

Maria’s laugh echoed his. “Good point.” She got up and leaned over the supine Officer Hannity. Addressing him, she said, “Peter, in a little while I’m going to wake you up. Before I do, you need to get dressed.”

Drowsily, the officer complied. When he was done, she continued: “Peter, in a few moments I’m going to count to three. When I do, you will awaken and go home. You will notice no evidence of any wild party like the one reported to you. In the morning, you will remember only that you found the complaint against us was unjustified. You and Officer Benson stayed for a few drinks, then left and resumed your regular patrol duties; of course, you don’t have to mention the drinks in your report. Repeat my instructions if you understand and will obey without question.”

Officer Hannity repeated her instructions, adding, “Understand. Obey . . . without question.”

Rummaging among her discarded clothes, Maria produced a card advertising Lady Mesmer’s act. She placed it in Hannity’s jacket pocket and said, “Sometime soon, you will find a reason to visit the Club Sixty and catch my act. When you do, we will talk more. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Hannity replied. “Understand. “Visit Club Sixty . . . soon. Catch your act. Talk more.”

“Very good, Peter,” Maria said. She dressed herself quickly and then went on. “One. You are beginning to awaken.” Hannity stirred.

Paul held up a hand. “Wait,” he commanded.

Maria stopped. “Yes, master.”

Paul spoke to Julie. “Officer Benson, when you leave this room, you, too, will notice nothing out of the ordinary. When you leave my home, you will immediately forget what you saw here and what happened to you. You will remember only that you and Officer Hannity investigated a call about a disturbance, but found nothing.”

“Yes, master,” Julie responded.

“There,” Paul said. “You can finish up now, Maria.”

She nodded, turning back to the waiting Officer Hannity. “Two, Peter. Your eyes are opening.” Hannity’s eyelids rose slowly. “Three. You are awake, relaxed and alert.”

Officer Hannity looked at Maria for a moment, blinked, then looked at Paul and said, “Sorry to trouble you, sir. Obviously we got a false report.”

Then he and Officer Benson left Paul Bennett’s home, oblivious to the evidence of debauchery around them.

Paul sent the remaining guests home, and had Rhonda and Jasmine clean up the mess. Finally, he went to sleep.

Yes, life was good. . . .