The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bobbi Bubbles and her best friend Renee Storm watched from the wings as their friend and fellow performer Cherry Tang went through the sinuous motions of her act onstage. Cherry was a short Asian girl with bobbed black hair who liked to wear Oriental-themed costumes. Tonight she was dressed like something out of The Mikado.

She wouldn’t be for long, of course. Already one layer of the bulky outfit was coming off, in time to the bogus “Chinese” music playing in the background. Guys in the audience were cheering and clapping.

Suddenly someone brushed past Bobbi and Renee—a tall, lean bald man in a tan overcoat, who rushed onstage and lunged at Cherry. He raised his arm and brought it down violently; there was a metallic gleam from something in his hand.

Cherry screamed and crumpled to the floor. She lay there unmoving.

The bald man whirled and raced back the way he’d come, pushing past Bobbi and Renee again. As he did, he raked them with cold gray eyes.

Then he was gone.

“Get an ambulance!” came a cry from the audience. “Call the police!”

Somebody did. All too soon, two patrol cars and an ambulance had converged on the Gemstone Theater. The cop cars weren’t exactly unfamiliar—the Gemstone had been raided more than once—but the hospital van was. Bobbi watched as the still form of Cherry Tang was loaded into it on a stretcher.

Someone nudged her. She turned to see Renee, in costume like her; they’d been scheduled to do a number together tonight.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Renee said. “We can’t let the cops start asking us questions!”

“Why not?”

“Think, Cottonhead!” That was her friend’s nickname for her; although both of them were blondes, Bobbi’s hair was a very light shade. Renee’s, by contrast, was darker, with just a hint of red. The nickname also reflected the fact that Bobbi was a bit of a bubble-brain, not that it mattered to the guys who saw her dance. “That creepy guy who got Cherry—we both saw him, coming and going, and he saw us! He knows we can describe him to the police. What if he comes after us before they catch up to him?”

“But can’t we ask for protection?” Bobbi didn’t see what Renee was driving at.

“Yeah,” came the answer. “And maybe we’d get it—as material witnesses, locked up in jail. You want that?”

“No, of course not.” Bobbi frowned. She hadn’t thought of that. “Then we’ve got to get out of here right now!“ Renee tugged at Bobbi’s arm. “Just grab something to toss over your outfit, and let’s run! We can see about getting some regular clothes later.”

The two dancers managed to get out of the Gemstone without running into the police, who were interrogating everyone in sight. Both were concealing their assets underneath long coats.

“We’ve got to get out of town,” Renee said. “The cops’ll be looking for us, and they’ll probably know by now where we live, from questioning the others. How much money have you got on you?”

Bobbi rummaged through her purse and brought out a thin wad of bills. “Not a whole lot,” she said sadly. “We need to go to the bank.”

Renee nodded, agreeing. If they were going to take it on the lam, they would need money. And unfortunately, she didn’t have much more on her than Bobbi did. “There’s one down the street.”

They never made it.

There was a TV store next to the bank, and the screen of every set on display in the window featured pictures of the two of them. The sound was inaudible through the window glass, several of the display sets were showing text crawls. STRIPPERS SOUGHT IN SLAYING, read one, while another said SEXY SUSPECTS SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING IN DANCER’S DEATH.

“Uh-oh,” said Renee, shaking her dark-blonde head. “I think we’d better get out of here right away, and forget about the money for now.” Looking at the portraits of both of them glowing on the TV screens, she muttered, “Damn, I wish we had hats. Big, floppy hats! And sunglasses.”

They managed without the big hats and glasses, however, reaching the bus station without running into trouble. Renee bought a pair of tickets out and came back to where Bobbi waited.

“So where are we going?” the lighter-haired woman asked.

“Someplace called College City,” replied Renee. “I went on one of the terminals”—she gestured toward a round table where there was a ring of screen-and-keyboard setups—“and looked it up; there really is a college there, a campus of the state university. It’ll take about four hours to get there.”

“Okay,” Bobbi agreed uncertainly, nodding. Her fluffy halo of white-blonde hair bounced.

“I’m not exactly sure what we’ll do when we get there,” her friend confessed. “We barely had enough for the tickets.” She sighed. “I wish we dared go to an ATM when we got there. By now, though, our pictures have probably been on TV all over the state.”

“I didn’t think of that,” admitted Bobbi.

“Never mind,” sighed Renee. “Now come on. We don’t want to miss the bus.”

The trip to College City was uneventful. By the time the two women got off the bus there, the sun was setting.

Bobbi’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry,” she complained.

“I’m hungry too,” Renee said. “I’m not sure what we can do about it right now, though.” Or, she thought, about finding a place to sleep. They might have to risk the cash machines after all.

The bus had let them off on the outskirts of the college campus, near a cluster of dormitories. Renee started toward the buildings. If they were careful, maybe they could get someone there to help them. If nothing else, college dorms always seemed to have food; maybe they could cadge supper.

In fact, as Renee started toward the buildings, there already seemed to be a distinct hint of fried chicken on the wind. The two blondes headed toward it.

“You sure this is gonna work?” The speaker was a young dark-haired man in a green letter sweater. He was seated in a comfortable chair in the middle of a cluttered ground-floor dorm room in Haley House.

“Sure it will,” came the response from a tall brown-haired youth of about the same age, apparently his roommate, who was munching on a chicken leg. A large bucket of fried-chicken pieces steamed on the sill of the open window. “They use hypnosis to cure smoking all the time.”

“Yeah, they do,” said the first young man. “That doesn’t mean you can!”

“Oh, come on,” said the second. “What’ve you got to lose, anyway, Bob? If I can’t do it, then I can’t. And if I can, maybe I can help you quit.” He grinned, waving the half-eaten chicken leg in his hand toward the bucket on the window. “What, you think I’m going to make you cluck like a chicken or something?”

“Naah, I trust you, Pete,” answered Bob. “Go ahead, do your stuff!”

Neither of them noticed as a hand reached into the chicken bucket, snagged a leg and withdrew.

What are they doing in there? Bobbi wondered. One of the guys inside stood over the other and produced what looked like an old-fashioned pocket watch with a shiny brass cover. He dangled it by its chain, letting it swing back and forth. It almost looked like—!

“Just relax, Bob, and watch the watch. Watch the watch swing back and forth, Bob, see it, Bob, swing back and forth, Bob, see the light flash off it, keep your eyes on it and relax. . . .” Pete said.

Watching from outside, Bobbi couldn’t help following the motion of the watch with her eyes as the brown-haired kid swung it back and forth and droned on at his friend in the chair. The light flashing off it pulled at her, and the way the kid kept saying “Bob,” it was almost as if he were talking to her, even though she knew he wasn’t.

Bobbi forgot the half-eaten chicken leg in her hand and let it drop to the ground. She finished chewing her last bite mechanically, then focused completely on the scene inside the dorm room. The watch went back and forth, back and forth. . . .

Vaguely, she was aware of the sound of a bell somewhere far away, bonging. One, two, three, four . . . it reached seven and stopped.

“Come into the light,” Pete was saying. “Keep following the watch, and relax, and come into the light, come in, Bob, come in, relax and come in. . . .”

“No dice,” Bob said, shaking his head. “I’m not going under, Pete.”

His friend swore softly. It wasn’t working! And that damned bell in the Anderson Hall clock tower wasn’t helping, ringing out the hour right in the middle of his induction.

Suddenly an unfamiliar voice, a female voice, made itself heard. “Come into the light,” it sang softly, “relax and . . . come in. . . .”

“Holy shit!” Bob and Pete yelled together. A beautiful blonde girl was at the window, climbing in. Only a fast lunge by Pete saved the bucket of chicken from being knocked to the floor.

Bob helped Bobbi the rest of the way in. Once inside, she stood quietly, blue eyes wide and vacant.

“What’s your name, honey?” Bob asked the mystery girl. She said nothing.

“Come on, baby,” Pete said. “Tell us your name.”

“My name is . . . Bob-bi Bub-bles,” the babe answered. Then she fell silent again and stood passively, arms at her sides.

“What is she on?“ Bob passed a hand in front of the blonde’s face; she didn’t notice.

Suddenly Pete laughed. “Don’t you get it? She’s hypnotized!”

“What do you mean, hypnotized?” Bob was skeptical.

“She must’ve been right outside the window,” Pete surmised. “Look”—he held up Bobbi’s right hand—“her hand’s all greasy. I bet she smelled our chicken and came over and grabbed a piece while I was working on you. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” Bobbi answered. “Smelled . . . chick-en. I was . . . hun-gry.”

“She must have been watching while I tried to hypnotize you,” Pete went on. “It didn’t work on you, but look at her! She went right under.”

Suddenly another voice rang out from the direction of the window. “Bobbi? Hey, Bobbi! What are you doing in there?” A moment later: “Bobbi?”

Pete stuck his head out the window. There was another overcoat-clad blonde out there. What was this, a convention? “Are you a friend of hers?”

“Yeah, I am,” Renee answered. “What’s going on in there? Why won’t she answer me?”

The young hypnotist cleared his throat. “I think you’d better get in here—no, not that way,” he said as she started to climb through the window. “We’re right by the front entrance. Wait a minute and I’ll bring you inside.”

He was as good as his word. A minute or two later, he ushered Renee into the dorm room.

“What’s the matter with Bobbi?” asked Renee, her voice sharp.

“Um, ah, you see,” Pete began nervously, “she’s, well, hypnotized.” He hurried through an explanation.

“You mean, you did this to her? Well, undo it! Right now, buster!” Renee glared at Pete.

“I was just about to,” he responded apologetically. He took the pocket watch out and began swinging it in front of Bobbi. “Bobbi, watch the watch, follow the watch and listen to my voice. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Bobbi whispered.

“Yes,” echoed Renee. “Watch the watch. Follow the watch. Listen to . . . your voice.”

“Fuck!” Pete nearly dropped the timepiece. He turned; sure enough, the dark blonde now wore the same sort of vague expression as her companion.

“Weren’t you supposed to be bringing a girl out of trance?” Bob said. He looked as though he couldn’t figure out whether to grin or frown. “Maybe it’s just as well it didn’t work on me! I want to stop smoking, not get turned into a zombie.”

“Shut up,” Pete snapped. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it! I just have to figure out what went wrong.” He put the watch away and backed off, looking thoughtful.

Bob stepped up to Bobbi. “Give me your coat, honey. I’ll hang it up for you while Mesmero over there cogitates.”

“Yes,” Bobbi said. “My coat.” She unbuttoned the heavy garment and let it fall away.

“Oh my holy God almighty!” Bob gasped. Underneath, of course, Bobbi was still wearing the costume she’d put on for her act with Renee, the act they’d never gotten to perform. It concealed little of her spectacular figure, and drew attention to what it did conceal: a tight fur-trimmed bodice and panties over seamed sheer stockings and five-inch spike heels.

With an effort, he pulled himself together enough to ask, “Bobbi, honey, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a dan-cer,” she answered.

“What kind of dancer, Bobbi?”

“An ex-ot-ic dancer,” she burbled. “Like Sa-lo-me, you know, Sa-lo-me, she dan-ces at the Pal-ace.” She pouted. ”I want to dance at the Pal-ace.”

Bob had an idea. He’d gotten a miniature CD player-recorder for Christmas, and had burned songs downloaded from the Net onto a number of the mini-CDs it used. Music with a throbbing beat filled the room.

He turned back to Bobbi and said, “You’re on, Bobbi baby. You’re at the Palace, just like Salome, and the music is playing. And what does Salome do when she hears the music?”

“Salome dan-ces,” crooned Bobbi, arms coming up to lock behind her head as she struck a sexy pose on tiptoe.

“Oh, God, yes,” croaked Bob. “Salome dances! Go, Bobbi baby, go!”

And she did. Her upflung arms, hands linked over her head, tousled her hair as she shook her bosom wildly. Then her hands unclasped and came down to pull at the bodice. It had a Velcro fastener, allowing her to slowly peel it open. When it was entirely unfastened, she wriggled teasingly out of it, letting her bountiful boobs swing free.

“Ga-ga-ga-ga—!” Bob was drooling, unable to speak. Bobbi’s dance was a dream come true for the college student.

Pete gasped, “Make her stop, Bob, before the whole dorm hears us!” He could hardly tear his own eyes away.

Caught up in the moment, Bob did exactly the opposite. Finally able to speak, turned to the other girl and asked, “What about you, honey? Are you an exotic dancer too?”

“Yes,” Renee said. “Exotic . . . dancer too. I’m Bob-bi’s part-ner sometimes.”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” gloated Bob as Bobbi continued to strip and prance to the music. “What’s your name, honey?”

Renee told him.

“Well, Renee,” he said, “your partner’s dancing now. She’s dancing at the Palace.”

“At the . . . Pal-ace?”

“That’s right. Nnngggh!“ Pete said, He was having a hard time focusing on Renee with her gal pal bouncing her boobs in the background. “In fact, that’s where you are, too. You’re with Bobbi at the Palace, and the music is playing. Do you know what it’s time to do, when the music is playing?”

“Time to . . . da-ance,” Renee warbled. ”Dance to the mu-sic.” She arched her back seductively. Both of the guys gasped. “Dance with Bob-bi.”

She began to peel as Bobbi had. The other girl, of course, had had a head start, but that didn’t matter to their panting audience. Only when both had stripped down to their high heels did Pete, wheezing, stumble over to the CD player and shut it off. As soon as the music stopped, both women slowed to a halt and stood quietly, covered in nothing but glistening perspiration.

Both students were dreadfully aroused by then. Bob’s head was spinning with lust as he turned to Pete and gasped, “We can’t just let it go like this. Unggh. Gotta . . . oh, God, we’ve gotta go for it!”

“Go—ahnnnhh!—go for it. Yeah.” Pete shook his head to clear it. “Lemme think.”

After a moment, Pete spoke to the hypnotized honeys. “Bobbi, Renee, you like it when you dance, don’t you? You like it when you strip. Say ‘Yes, sir’ if that’s true.”

“Yes, sir,” the dancers answered in unison.

“In fact, it turns you on. It makes you hot. So hot.”

“Yes . . . sir,” the girls repeated. The suggestion’s force was bolstered by the fact that it was actually true, for both of them, although usually they didn’t do anything about it and the feeling didn’t last.

“You’re hot now, aren’t you?” Pete smiled. “You’ve been dancing at the Palace, and you’re so hot you can’t stand it.”

The blondes moaned, running their hands over their naked forms.

“My name’s Pete,” the hypnotist introduced himself. “And this is Bob, my friend. You like us, don’t you?”

The women said nothing. Instead, they advanced on the two college students. Bobbi pressed herself against Bob, smothering his lips with hers, while Renee twined herself around Pete, trapping him between her thighs and pressing his head down until his face sank into her cleavage.

Neither youth ever remembered clearly how he’d gotten out of his clothes, but it was only a few minutes later that two pairs of naked bodies sank down, lost in a fog of pleasure. They moved against each other in ancient rhythms, and there was pleasure, and that was all that mattered. Briefly, once, Pete pulled away slightly as a worried thought came to him that they were making a lot of noise. What if someone came in? Then Renee lifted her breast with one hand, pressed his head against it with the other so that his lips met her nipple, and he forgot.

Morning came with the sound of birds chirping and sunlight streaming through the window. The noise and the light brought Pete to groggy awareness.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. His head was propped against the side of one of the two beds, and a girl with honey-blonde hair was fast asleep on top of him, her lips resting against his collarbone. He sat up, gently moving the girl, and surveyed the room.

Sprawled across the other bed were Bob and Bobbi, dead to the world. Both were smiling. Pete got up, padded over and gently prodded Bob.

“Mnnh? Nh?” was his friend’s reaction. “Lea’ me alone, lemme sleep. . . .”

“Wake up,” Pete insisted, shaking Bob again. “C’mon, man, wake up!”

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Bob answered grumpily, peeling his eyes open. “What’s the big deal?” Then, as memory returned, he surged up into a sitting position.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed. “That was real?”

“It sure was, pal,” Pete said, smirking. “Now all we have to do is figure out what to

do next.”

“What to do next?” Bob wasn’t quite yelling, but he was close. “What we do next is get these girls out of here, before the shit hits the fan! What do you think the dean’d do to us if he found out?” He buried his head in his hands. “Jesus, we are dead meat!“

“Never mind the dean, kid,” a woman’s voice said. It was Renee; she was awake. “If I were you, I’d worry about the police.”

Pete cringed.

Renee laughed sourly. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not planning on pressing charges. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to the cops! That’s how Bobbi and I ended up here in the first place.”

At that, Bob raised his head. “What do you mean?”

Renee gave a capsule account of what had happened to Bobbi and her, finishing, “So you see, we don’t want to get the cops involved. We just wanted to lie low for awhile—hopefully till the cops nabbed that creepy guy I told you about, the one who stabbed Cherry.”

She gestured toward Bob’s bed, where Bobbi still lay. “I didn’t figure on her getting hypnotized like that. Can’t you bring her out of it?”

“Bring me out of what?” Bobbi sat up. “Hey! How’d I get here?” A moment later: “How’d I get naked?“

“Bobbi, honey,” Renee said, “take it easy. Let me explain—!” At that moment, the clock in Anderson Tower bonged out the hour: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven A.M.

Bobbi stiffened, then relaxed. Her eyes lost focus.

Renee saw it. “Bobbi?” she called out, alarmed. “Bobbi, honey—Cottonhead—can you hear me?”

Bobbi didn’t answer. Renee tried snapping her fingers in her friend’s face—tried it several times. No use.

“Jesus!” Renee whirled to face Pete. “She was awake—and then, just like that, she was gone again!”

Pete scratched his head. “I don’t get it. I didn’t give her any post-hypnotic triggers—anything to make her go under again once she woke up. I—” A vague memory surfaced, and light dawned. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Bob and Renee said simultaneously. They looked at each other and laughed.

“While I was trying to hypnotize you last night, Bob,” Pete explained, “the Anderson bell tolled. It was just seven o’clock.” He paused. The others’ blank looks cued him to go on: “Don’t you get it? She’s responding to the bell as a trigger! She woke up fine—but as soon as she heard the bell toll seven again, she went right back into trance!”

“Well, get her out of it, dammit!” demanded Renee.

“I’ll try,” promised Pete. “But I couldn’t do it last night. I’m not sure I can do it now. I didn’t even set up that bell trigger; her own subconscious mind did that, associating the sound with going under, I guess.” He rummaged through his things and produced the pocket watch he’d used as a focal object in last night’s session. “Renee, baby, you’d better not watch. Last time, you ended up hypnotized yourself. You must be very susceptible.”

The dancer bristled slightly at the casual “Renee, baby,” but took the college boy’s advice just the same. It had been weird: one minute she’d been watching Pete try to wake up Bobbi, and the next, she’d been waking up in his bed. In between there was only a vague memory of a dream about performing with Bobbi at the Palace in L.A.

Unfortunately, Pete was right: he wasn’t any more able to bring Bobbi out of her spell than he had been the evening before. Finally, sighing, he gave up.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he admitted. “I promise, though, I’ll keep working on it.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing, period,” snorted Renee. “And you’d better figure it out fast, buster. Bobbi’s my best friend. I didn’t bring her here to have her turned into a guinea pig for some underage Svengali.”

Stung, Pete said nothing. Just for a moment, he was tempted to deliberately hypnotize the dark-blonde dancer. That’d show her—but no. It wouldn’t be right, and besides, trying to hypnotize someone was how he’d gotten into this mess in the first place. As soon as he managed to un-hypnotize Bobbi, he was calling it quits.