The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Analysis

There’s something wonderfully ironic about my life. I spend my work week telling people what’s wrong with them and how they can get better, but everyone assumes I’m perfectly normal. Next to most of the people I meet during an average week, I am, or at least I like to tell myself that. The consequence of the job is hellish on my private life. I can’t engage someone in conversation without hearing the spaces between their words; I learn their unmet desires, their kinks, their obsessions. What bothers me, though, is how transparent people can be. You learn that early when you’re the gay kid in small town Alabama. But that’s another story all together, because this one is about possession. No, not the demonic kind; I don’t believe in that crap. This possession is real and tangible and I fully acknowledge my weakness to it. Believe me, I’d love to tell you it was because of hypnosis and that I’d found the best hypnotist in the world who molded me to his whims. I’ve tried that and in retrospect I may’ve had one or two really good hypnotists along the way, but no, this isn’t hypnotically induced possession, this is real. I’m possessed by smoke.

When I’m aroused, I smoke cigars. It’s almost to the point that I can’t climax unless I’m smoking, and the only thing that will make that better is when I am to that point. The funniest thing about it, though, is that I’ve found my smoking arouses others, too. I realized that thanks to a hypnotist. It was the closest thing I’ve ever had to an analysis of my own when this one hypnotist let me know how entrancing my smoking was for him. He’d used a series of questions to relax me and had me smoke for him the whole time. It’d been a long week and I was looking for some relaxation, so it was incredibly easy to let go this time. Sure, other times I’ve tried hypnosis, I’ve tried it because I was looking to get off, which for me, is more than mere masturbation. It’s about getting off to how other people want me, and trust me, they do. I don’t think I’d go so far as to call myself an Adonis, but my body is muscled and toned and my face is easy to look at. I can tell you almost as much about abdominal exercises for the perfect six-pack as I can about the way the human mind works. Some people collect stamps, but I work out and make my body my hobby. The problem is that most of the time, I don’t want the people who want me. I humor them with replies to e-mails, occasional chats, and I may turn on my cam and give them something to make their night, but in person, I’m a very different person. I’m more than a little bit on the bashful side. I’m also careful, a bit uptight, and a little awkward. That’s a result of the whole gay childhood thing, or at least that’s how I see it myself. This one hypnotist, though, he seemed to see it differently.

He was a smart guy, and the one night I’m talking about was the time he decided to find out more about what I thought of myself and compare it to what he thought. He asked if I’d ever read any of the stories online that talk about smoking and hypnosis. I asked if he meant the ones that were sexy or the ones who were written by child molesters chronicling their latent desires to possess the object of their affection. We laughed about that, because he knew the stories I referenced and said he’d always thought the same thing and wondered how long it would be before those sites were shut down. He clarified that he meant the sexy ones and I said that I’d read those, too.

“Did you enjoy them?”

“I don’t know if I enjoyed them so much as wished I could have that experience.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I guess that’s more a question for you, but seriously, I don’t know that I believe that sort of change is possible with hypnosis.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it may be possible, but it’s not possible for me, because I can’t imagine letting myself go that far. I’d love the experience, but the idea of change isn’t something I embrace.”

“I know you’re guarded, but what would happen if you did go far enough to experience it for a moment without change?”

“You think that reframing it is going to get me to go there?”

“No, boy, you should know by now I’m not interested in pulling any fast ones on you. I’m just wondering what it might be like for you. Imagine it.” It always felt good when he called me ‘boy,’ but not because it was him doing it. I have a submissive side that dominates my sexual identity and ‘boy’ touches that.

“Well, I really can’t answer that because I don’t see it as a possibility.”

“I see.” He laughed and got up from his chair and walked to the bureau against the wall. He picked up one of his pipes and stood there filling it. I knew well that was the sign that we were about to start the hypnosis for the evening, and I already wanted a cigar. I had my own, but generally he’d offer me one from his humidor, which often had Cubans among the selections. I asked him once where he got Cohibas but his only response was to smile and tell me to enjoy them. The thing about patterns is that people come to recognize them and respond to them. I wasn’t surprised so much as relieved when he turned slightly and asked if I wanted a cigar. He didn’t have to ask me twice, but after I selected and clipped it, he stopped my hand midreach for the lighter. “I want to do this a little differently tonight, boy.”

“Okay, what’d you have in mind?”

“First, I get to smoke, and then you’ll smoke for me.”

“Smoke for you?”

“Oh yes. Relax. It’ll be enjoyable. Trust me. You’ll find that smoking for me is unlike most anything we’ve done before.”

“Could you load that answer with anymore imbedded commands?”

“Yes, boy, I could, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, you could.” We both laughed, and he took the lighter and motioned for me to take a seat. He followed and sat across from me, noting that there was nothing as satisfying in smoking as the first draws on a pipe or cigar and the thickness and complexity of flavors in the smoke. That was enough to make my mouth water. I didn’t watch him so much as I stared at him as he struck the flint and put the flame over the bowl of his pipe. He had a habit of lighting his pipe by breathing through it. Inhaling, he’d draw the flame into the bowl and little smoke escaped as he drew it in his mouth. Around the third time he did this, thick, white streams of smoke flowed parallel from both nostrils down across his mouth, his chin, and on past his chest. When he was satisfied with the burn of the tobacco, he’d close the lighter, remove the pipe, and open his mouth. A whiff of white smoke escaped before he drew it into himself, then, on this night, looking at me with a smile in his eyes, he exhaled a perfect stream of smoke toward my face. The cloud expanded and I breathed it in.

“Someone’s hungry for smoke.” he said, and I laughed, noticing as I did a small exhale of my own. “That’s all right,” he continued, “soon enough you’ll be smoking for me. Now, where were we? Oh yes. You don’t see yourself in those stories, because you can’t imagine yourself in them. Right?”

“Right. Well, no, not exactly. I actually do imagine myself in them, but I don’t think it’s possible that I really could be in them.”

“Relax. That’s what I said, isn’t it? You don’t think it’s possible to imagine yourself in the stories that you could be in.” I started to answer, but paused, because I couldn’t quite figure out why what he’d just said was wrong, but knew it was. I smiled. “Yes? That’s it, isn’t it?” He replaced his pipe to his mouth and puffed rhythmically, exhaling in my direction while I spoke.

“No, I’m saying that I’d love to be the person in those stories, and I can see myself in them, but I don’t think it’s possible to actually be that person.” His tobacco was different tonight. The smoke didn’t have the same sort of spiced smell it usually did. Tonight there was a smell that was familiar but just out of reach to place it. However, at this point I was hungry for smoke and less inclined to play name that smell. I was also getting a little irritated with his questions. They were different tonight and that’s the thing about smokers. If you need to smoke and can’t, irritation happens.

“You notice there’s a difference in my smoke, boy. This one has Latakia in it; it makes the smoke more pungent. Try it, but only one puff.” He smiled as he handed the pipe to me and continued, “You are the person in those stories and you want to imagine yourself as the person in those stories.” I took the pipe from him and pulled hard. I exhaled and actually made an ahhh sound as I did it. “Relax. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, something like that.” I begrudgingly handed the pipe back to him and settled back in my chair. I wanted to say more to make sure he understood what I meant, but he kept talking.

“Very good,” he said, as he took the pipe and had a few puffs of his own. “How were your workouts this week? Did you feel the burn or whatever you’re supposed to feel in your abs?” I raised up my shirt and told him he could see for himself. “Those are nice, boy. Flex them for me. Good. Now relax for me. You know how you like showing off that body of yours for anyone who will take notice.” I smiled, maybe laughed a bit, because it was true. “You’ll smoke that cigar soon enough. Don’t worry, just relax and put it in your mouth to have it ready. Imagine you’re smoking it now.” I closed my eyes and sucked hard and felt the reward of smoking. I mean, I knew I wasn’t smoking the cigar, but I was so in need of the smoke at this point, it was easy to imagine it. He kept talking and I don’t really remember at what point I realized that I was smoking the cigar. He must’ve lit it for me; I don’t know. In fact, I don’t remember a lot of the time I was smoking for him that evening, but it felt good. It felt great, actually, and it was easy to be that guy smoking for him. It felt great to be that guy in all of the sexy stories, walking to the cigar store for more cigars, being on all fours and falling deeper into trance, realizing that even though I was a non-smoker, what I really needed was a cigar, having to face my new boss and walking out of the office smoking, but most of all it was easiest to be the guy in the story who gets started smoking cigars and realizes that other changes take place. Not those unreal body modification changes but changes in attitude. That was easy. That was fucking easy to accomplish and it felt fucking great. I’d been working with this guy long enough not to give a fuck whether or not I pulled out my cock and stroked it, so I did. “Smoke for me, boy. Let it possess you.” And I put that cigar in my mouth and kept it there while I stroked my cock with my left hand and kneaded my balls with my right. I inhaled that smoke and exhaled cloud after fucking cloud. I worked the shit out of my nips and knew I was gonna blow my fucking load any second. “You know what you must do slave.”

I shifted the cigar to the side of my mouth and speaking in a cloud of smoke I replied “Fuck yeah, Master.” I closed my eyes, bit down on my cigar, came, and had one of the most intense orgasms I’d ever had. Everything was fuzzy and I just sat there for what seemed like forever. I opened my eyes and saw the dead stub of a cigar between my fingers.

“You might want to clean yourself up.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I laughed, but felt a little embarrassed and a little confused. I put the stub in my mouth, and stood up in one of those ridiculous, contorted ways to keep my ejaculate covered privates away from the rest of my clothes, even though there was already semen on my pants and my shirt. I went to his bathroom and cleaned up, all the while trying to recall everything that had happened. I was drying my hands on a towel, when I saw a lighter on the counter and fired up what was left of my cigar. There’s nothing quite like a Cuban. Its smoke is smooth in a way that Dominicans can’t touch. I went back to his living room and found him smoking his pipe once again.

I started to comment on the cigar when he said, “There’s nothing quite like a Cuban, is there?” I laughed and said that there wasn’t. I was going to say that I was thinking the same thing, but I figured that would be redundant. We went through the silly formalities of saying good night, but I knew it was time to leave. What I do remember about that night is that when I reached out for a handshake, he grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand in front of my face and said “Remember, boy, when you need it it comes until you cum.” It took me a moment to clear my head, but I didn’t understand what that meant at all.

But, yeah, we fucking talked most of that night about those stories. The fucking hot as hell sexy ones and the ones that scream out for that guy from Dateline to pay those authors a fucking visit. Shit. It’s the sexy ones that I go back to and read like the one I’m reading now. It’s so crazy hot to smoke a cigar while I’m reading them. That’s one thing I know about myself. When I’m horned up, fuck it. I’m useless unless I can smoke like a mother fucking chimney and beat my cock like it owes me money. Don’t think I don’t know that you’d fucking get your rocks off seeing me flex my biceps while I blow some smoke across them. I’m a fucking sexy ass smoker because I know that the smoke controls me. That’s right, dammit, I’m possessed by it. I may be typing that I want to smoke your cock like I fucking smoke my cigar in your chat window, but I’m sending an e-mail to that bastard of a hypnotist at the same time asking him about the next time he can fucking tell me more about myself. Fucking know it all, but I can fucking see right through him just like I do everybody else.

I fucking love to blow my load like I’m doing now. My balls are as tight as that little bitch fucker I chatted with the other night and when that first spurt starts, I’m hauling on my cigar like a fucking madman. There’s so much sexy smoke in the air I can’t see my cock shooting but know it is when a wad hits my fucking chin and the feeling that blows my fucking mind. Yeah, that was what I fucking needed.

But yes, the guy I chatted with the other evening, he’s another example of one of those people who’s so transparent that it’s actually sad to have a chat with him. That’s the curse of working my job. Trust me, you’d be surprised at everything someone has to say when you learn how to listen.