The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

This happened some time ago. I was working as a journalist in the features section of a broadsheet, so life was reasonably easy. We didn’t deal with politics, or cutting edge stories. Everybody on the cutting edge thought we did soft stories, soft work. I didn’t mind that—try reading a story in newspaper written a hundred years ago about a long dead politician and see how much that grabs you by the throat. There’s cutting edge and then there’s walking, talking irrelevance. What it meant was that I had plenty of time to goof off in the daytime, and almost as much time when I hit the night shift. If you filed enough copy, you could spend most of your time cruising around town.

About the same time I’d started at the paper, I’d also started to take an interest in hypnosis. Well, a serious interest. I’d always had an idea in the back of my mind that it was a curious, kinky thing—going right back to the time a stage hypnotist had super glued the hands together of a dozen people sitting around me.

Anyway, around this time, I did a story on a stage hypnotist and his act. In some parts of the country, stage hypnotism is banned but this guy had made a decent living dressing it up as part of a magic and mind reading routine. As part of the story, he gave me a quick demonstration, putting me under a little and telling me some quirky, hair raising stories about his experiences on and off the stage—they weren’t for publication, but if I’d been working on a tabloid I could have done a series on ‘sex and the hypnotist’ and made a fortune. Being under hadn’t been that special—I don’t think he took me very deep—but it made me very mellow and I wrote him a very nice profile.

After that encounter, I’d done a bit of reading and a bit of experimenting, and I began to develop a bit of a party routine around it. I was pretty well in the Mandrake school of gesturing and waving my hands about and trying a bit too hard, but since it was only being done for fun, goofing off with the stereotypes was the way to go for entertainment purposes. I’d started with my girlfriend, and after a couple of goes, had impressed her enough (because it really relaxed her) for it to turn up in chatter at parties and dinners.

The first time I did it with someone I didn’t know very well was a bit like being a virgin and having sex with a stranger. It’s a different ball game to someone you know. You have to pay attention to cues and signs, to keep track of what’s going down, because the reactions will be different and sometimes unexpected. You can’t rely on familiarity, you have to be attentive, and it’s better if you don’t do a Mandrake. Anyway, the first time was at a dinner party, and I managed to induce a light trance, and the guy did a few amusing things (the hands routine is helped by physiology as much as by hypnosis) and after a few laughs, we all packed up and went home, and nobody probably thought anything more about it.

Except me. It’d been a real confidence booster. I mean, my girlfriend might have been doing it half to please me, but here was a guy who’d made a real pill of himself in front of his friends, and when he woke up didn’t have a clue what he’d been up to. I liked it, I liked doing it, and thereafter, whenever I could turn the conversation around, I’d often manage to get the odd willing or curious or defiant victim.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, and sometimes it was somewhere in the middle. The few times it worked okay were a buzz, but a lot of the time, it fizzled out. I guess it would have slowly dropped out of my party tricks repertoire, except for a party I went to after we’d put the paper to bed for the night.

One of the women who worked at the paper came along with me—this was in the days when the old image of the hard drinking journo had given way to lots of pretty, ambitious young things who’d do anything for a cadetship, especially if it gave them a crack at television further down the track. I’d always thought this woman was a major fox—Carol was in her late twenties, and she had dark hair, and a pretty, chiselled face, a bit pixie-ish, in the Audrey Hepburn style, and she was thin, but with breasts that were way out of proportion to the rest of her body. Now you might think this is just objectifying her, but she was a helluva object, and she knew it and relied on it. I think she didn’t mind me—maybe even liked me—but I sort of had a girlfriend, who wanted to become a live in one, and she definitely had a husband. Or so I thought at the time.

At the party we got to talking about hypnosis, and she expressed a little scepticism, along with some curiosity.

Now scepticism’s about the best mind set, for me anyway—it sets up a little barrier of resistance in the mind of the subject, and that helps create focus, and focus gives concentration, and next thing you know, it’s trance time.

Anyway, after a bit of talk about what it meant and what it felt like, she decided she wanted to give it a go. I did a standard induction routine. I like to use a candle or something like that—not because it’s more effective, but because it’s a good stage prop, and you don’t have to work as hard to get a result, and the focus is on the dancing flame and not on you.

What surprised me was the way she went under. It was almost instant and it seemed pretty deep. I got her to do a few of the usual party tricks—sniffing some vinegar, and having a sip and thinking it tasted like high class wine. She did everything first go.

It amazed me just how quick and how deep she’d seemed to go. I’d never encountered anything like this before. Statistics seem to suggest it’s a one in ten kind of thing, but for me it’d been more like a one in fifty batting average. Just before I brought her out of it—there were a number of onlookers who’d gathered as the tricks got more amusing—I whispered in her ear, half out of curiosity, half out of what the hell, and half serious titillation—that the next day she’d feel an incredible urge to ask me out for a meal.

Repeating the suggestion a couple of times—that she’d act on the urge, and ask me out for a meal—and watching her nod that she understood, that she agreed—made me think it was working. I repeated it again a couple of times—you can never have enough repetition—and she nodded to show she knew what she had to do, and then I gave her suggestions to forget all about what just happened—except the meal thing, which would re-surface in her mind naturally the next day. Then I woke her up.

If nothing else, I thought, I might get a free feed. Around dinner time the next day—we’d just both clocked on for the late shift—she came up to me, and we started to chat, and slowly but surely, she worked herself around to popping a question—why didn’t we go out for a meal. Once she’d managed to get the question out, you could see relief in her eyes, as if she’d just managed to get a load off her mind. It was easy to say yes, and I knew exactly the place I wanted to take her to.

Around the corner was an Italian restaurant which was probably decorated by the art department of “The Godfather” with leftovers from the set. There were tablecloths with red and white squares—the finest gingham cliché money could buy, and mirrors waiting to be shot at, and best of all, candles on each table, and this being the evening meal, the candles were lit.

I wasn’t quite sure how she was feeling, but I was a hotbed of lust and intrigue. We put in our orders, and then sat there talking, in a civilised way about this, that and the other. The meals arrived quickly—the management was used to journalists turning up for a quick feed before heading off to work—and we didn’t talk much as we finished off the pasta.

She seemed a little nervous, and I used that as an excuse to suggest that she should relax. Almost immediately, she seemed to slump a little deeper into the chair. I told her to look at the candle, to look at it flickering and twisting and turning and dancing, and so on, the usual kind of soothing, repetitious spiel you need, and soon enough she was closing her eyes and drifting into a trance. Shortly after she closed her eyes, the waiter turned up and asked loudly if we both wanted coffee. She didn’t waver, didn’t open her eyes, didn’t wake up, and I gave him the order and waved him away.

It was enough evidence for me that she’d gone under again, and that she’d done it pretty quickly. I deepened the trance and watched with fascination as her breathing got deeper and more regular, her head sagging a little, her eyes closed, her moist lips just a little open. I figured she was pretty deep, and so I took the plunge and suggested she open her eyes while staying in the trance. Now this is usually a point where some people snap out of it—once they’ve got a visual reminder of where they are and what they’re doing, reality re-asserts itself and they either go back to a lower level of trance or come out of it altogether. She didn’t—she just opened her eyes ever so slowly, squinting and blinking a little, then looking at me with a kind of dull passivity. She looked blank and open and defenceless.

It was as much as I could do not to jump the table and start fucking her there and then. She was well on the way to being a somnambulist, a level of trance I’d only come across a couple of times. I told her to stare at the candle, and to stare at my eyes, go even deeper, act naturally, drink her coffee, and tell me about her sex life.

It all came spilling out—things I’d never imagined, things I’d never thought possible. When she was a teenager, she’d run away from home and hung out with a couple who were the publishers of a post Alex Comfort sex magazine. That’s how she’d got into journalism. It was all that liberal, try thirty different positions, sex as ice cream treat kind of stuff, and she’d read what they’d written and believed every word. That’s how she came to be part of a triangle with the husband and the wife had divorced him and they’d sold the magazine. Then she’d discovered she thought she was bi sexual and lived in a relationship with a lesbian, before she’d met her current husband and settled down to middle class marriage. It was more than I expected or needed to know, and it gave me the courage to dive in the deep end. I told her she’d forget everything that had happened, and moved into the end game.

I suggested that the next day, she’d ask me around to her house when her husband was away. I knew I was on safe ground here—he often went interstate for meetings, and I knew from some chit chat in the office that this was one of those busy weeks. I didn’t do much more—we’d already been through a couple of coffees and the waiter was starting to look at us in a funny way. Instead I brought her out, with a suggestion that she wouldn’t remember anything, just in time for the third coffee to arrive, and for her to be a bit bemused because she couldn’t remember ordering it or drinking any coffee at all. I picked up the tab—between this sort of future prospect and trying to score a free feed, the choice was easy.

I don’t know why I suggested her place rather than mine, but thinking back it was the right thing to do—there’s something relaxing and secure about being in your own environment, something that makes you think you’re in control. And if she did invite me back to her ranch, it was also a good signal that things were moving in the right direction. Sending a suggestion that she come over to my place was just a tad crude and obvious. I spent the next day in a state of anxiety, half waiting for the call, and disappointed when it never came. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, but it seemed for the moment that the game was up.

The next day I was in at work on the morning shift when the phone rang. She was on the line, and sounding a bit nervous, just like she’d been before. Again we chatted around the point—she was chasing some information for a story, and I gave it to her, and just as she was about to hang up, she blurted out a question—why didn’t I come around to her place for a coffee. She had a few other points in the story she could use some help on.

I said sure as casually as I could manage, hung up and raced out to catch a taxi. Within fifteen minutes, I was standing outside her door.

When she answered, she seemed a little flustered, even confused as to why I happened to be standing on her doorstep. I reminded her about the coffee and the story, and stepped past her, making my way into the kitchen, keeping the mood as casual as I could manage.

She caught up with me, and put the kettle on. She was wearing a casual top and jeans, and not much else because it was a warm summer’s day. As we chatted—she sounded a little strained and forced—I managed to confirm that her husband was interstate for the rest of the week. When she said it, she made it sound like she was irritated with him.

With the coffee made, we stepped into the living area which looked out on the garden at the back of the house. It was strange being in this place—I’d only been there once before for a dinner party—and she also seemed a little uneasy, as if she wasn’t in the habit of drinking coffee at home with co-workers.

As we drank our coffee—she gulped hers—I thought it was time to get it out in the open. I asked her if she was a little tense, and when Carol said she was, I said she should relax, imagine she was looking at a candle—the candle at the restaurant, at the flickering, dancing flame. She immediately began to relax, and I felt encouraged to go into the full spiel.

Sure enough, she listened, and her eyes closed, and she slumped into the couch, and I deepened the suggestion, and she was quickly into a very deep trance.

Now at this point, you have to put yourself in my shoes. Here I was with this woman, Carol, who was incredibly attractive to me, in her house, with her in a deep trance. She was sitting in a way which made her look very relaxed, very open, very appealing. I could make a further move, or I could just chalk it up as another successful experiment and go back to work. All the signs she’d given me suggested that deep down she knew in some way what was happening, what might happen. I stood alongside her and weighed the odds, my pulse racing. Carol just continued in the trance. I had the chance to give her a close inspection, and she’d neither know nor care. She truly was very attractive, and I could see everything—the shadow of her breasts, the long line of her thighs, and her lips, which were moist and a little open as she breathed in and out in a deep, rhythmic way.

I didn’t know what to do—leaving her in a deep trance on the couch, I stood up and wandered around the house, seeing all kinds of things which gave me an insight into her way of life. As a journalist you get to do this sort of thing regularly—go into people’s lives, into their houses, intrude, poke about, look at pictures on the wall, look at the clutter people collect, and then use bits and pieces as colour in a piece.

The most interesting space, and the hardest to get into, is always the bedroom, for what it does or doesn’t say. What the main bedroom said to me was that Carol and her husband were sleeping apart, and that said as much as I needed to know. The room didn’t have any of her personality in it—it had the sense of a man who had swept anything female out of it into another space.

I went back into the room where she was still sitting, and asked her if she was relaxed. She nodded and smiled, and I suggested that she was very relaxed, but maybe the room was too hot, that she was feeling hot, very hot, and that to get cool again, she should take off her clothes.

Now this is a cheesy routine I’ve done at parties, where you generally have to stop when you get past the first layer. As Carol only had the top and the jeans, she would be fairly naked pretty quickly, and it was an easy test to see if she was prepared to go the distance. To my pleasure (and a little surprise) she took off the top, showing off her breasts in a black brief bra which bulged a little under the weight.

Next she stood up and removed her jeans, showing the rest of her body, barely concealed by the black lace panties she was wearing. This was the kind of underwear that matched her looks.

I couldn’t believe I’d reached this point so quickly, so easily. As she stood there, relaxed, not really wanting to do anything, except show herself to me, I realised I’d have to start thinking ahead a bit more quickly. First I suggested she was still feeling a little hot, but it was more like a sexual heat. Being dressed like this was making her feel incredibly sexy. She wanted to stroke and caress herself, her breasts, her nipples, her clit.

As I sat watching, she stood in front of me, and began to stroke herself all over, and was soon writhing on the spot. I could barely hold myself in, but managed to keep my voice sounding deep and relaxing (with a great deal of effort) and suggested that she was now so aroused, she would come. Her breasts were jiggling in her bra, and each time she moved her fingers up and down and around her clit, I could see the juices glistening as she moistened up.

It didn’t take long before she climaxed, and at that point her eyes opened briefly, and she registered that I was sitting in front of her, watching her and her every move.

This could have been the moment it all fell apart. Quickly, I told her that now she was completely relaxed again and that she should sit on the couch and close her eyes. The moment passed, she closed her eyes, and Carol returned to the couch and slumped into it.

I gave her a few deepening suggestions, and then taking a deep breath, I said she would go into the bedroom and get undressed, and lie there waiting, and soon she would be joined by her dream lover, and she would say hi dream lover and make passionate love to him in a way that he’d never experienced before.

She immediately stood up and headed into a bedroom—not the one I’d been in, but a smaller one with a three quarter bed. This was where all her things were, and I knew now I was finding out a lot about where she was in her life. I watched as she took off her bra and panties and slid under the sheet. I was now so hot myself that I took off my clothes as quickly as possible, leaving them in a tangled heap on the floor. I came up to the bed, and pulled back the sheet, and for the first time got a good look at her breasts, still firm and jutting into the air, though she was lying on her back. The nipples were hard and long, and the pigmentation small and deeply pink.

It was the moment of truth. Slowly, carefully, I reached out and touched the nipple nearest to me. Her body flinched a little, and I said, ‘hi, it’s your dream lover’. She immediately said ‘hi dream lover’ back to me, and I stroked her breast and she sighed and relaxed a little.

I stood looking at her—it still had a faint air of unreality to me. Here she was, eyes closed, lying on the bed, deeply relaxed in a trance, and I was stroking her breast and it was feeling good for both of us. I looked around her room—saw a teddy bear on top of the cupboard and a number of other bits and pieces that suggested the girl was still alive in the woman—as I caressed her body.

I could only stand looking for so long, then told her to move across a little—as much as she could in the small bed. I slid in beside her and she snuggled up to me, as if she’d known me for a long time. I began caressing her all over, taking my time to explore every nook and cranny. That’s what I like about a first fuck—the chance to discover a different body, a different shape. Her cunt lips were moist and pink, and she’d had a brazilian wax so her pubic hair was neatly shaped. I began to stroke her clit, then started to tongue and suck her on the nipples.

This made her relax even more, and so I proceeded to bring her to a state of limp excitement (if you can understand that contradiction, you’ll know exactly what I mean). She lay on the bed, arms and legs spread wide, her head to one side, eyes closed, as if she was sinking down into the mattress, deep into it, floating on a cushion of support. I moved on top of her, and slid into her, easily. She was very moist, so moist I had no trouble sliding right in, up to the hilt, and there I rested.

Then I asked her what she would do for her dream lover, and she immediately wrapped her legs around my back, and clenched them tight, and began to pump me with her vaginal muscles. It was expert, practised, incredible, and I almost came at once.

Just holding on, I slid her legs up over my shoulders so that I could thrust into her as deeply as possible, and whispered in her ear that each thrust would take her closer and closer to orgasm, so that by the time it’d happened twenty times she’d come, and it would be a deep and satisfying come, the best she’d ever had. I thought I’d better limit the number of thrusts—it was going to take all my concentration to hold on and get there, but I compensated by making them very long, slow, deep thrusts. As we moved together, I could feel her building and building, and by the time we reached twenty, she was reaching a shivering climax, that made her scratch and claw my back. While she was still coming with little after shocks, I came too.

We lay there for a little while, cuddling up to each other, and yet for all the fuss we’d just been through, Carol was still clearly in a deep trance. As I recovered, it began to drift though my clouded mind that there still had to be one more step. I had to get out of the place, and she had to be in a state of mind where she would invite me back ...

So I began to stroke her, and she responded like a luxuriating cat, and I suggested that whenever she heard me, and me alone, say the words ‘candle power’, that she’d go into a deep trance and do whatever I said, and after repeating that a number of times, I suggested she’d soon hear the door close, and when she did, she’d take that as a cue to get up and go and have a shower, and in the shower, she’d remember that she’d been visited by her dream lover, and she’d remember everything as if it were a dream, a dream that turned her on, and maybe she’d come in the shower, as she soaped herself and remembered, but in any case as she finished the shower, she’d wake from her trance, from the dream, not remembering anything except the really exciting dream she’d just had, and then she’d go on doing whatever she was doing before the dream, with everything back to normal ...

It took a little while, but eventually I was satisfied. There was one problem of course—I had to leave as part of the program, so what happened in the shower would be between her and the soap—but that was okay. I was hoping that there’d be more visits by the dream lover, and he’d be able to find out what happened in the shower ... and maybe that’d be a good starting point for the next visit. Suddenly life on a dull newspaper had taken a turn for the best ...