The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Before we get started,” Ralph Vorelli was saying to Elle, “remember you promised me no hypnosis.”

“I promised that I wouldn’t hypnotize you, and I won’t,” Elle responded. “So let’s just talk a while. Remember you’re allowed to tell me what you’re thinking.”

That was right, he thought. For some reason, it was clear that this place, this office, this therapist, would be the place where he could say whatever he thought and discuss whatever he wanted and everything would be all right. This was a safe place. He didn’t know why, but it was, and he was delighted to be here.

“Well,” he said, “I came here because Emma wanted me to.”

“Didn’t you want to come?”

“I guess—sure—I guess so. I want Emma to be happy. I want us to stop fighting. I want things to be better at home. I wanted to see you again. So I came.”

“And are you willing to make changes so things can be different at home?”

“I guess so—if I thought there was some hope things would get better I’d do a lot of things to make them better, sure.”

“What needs to be better at home, then?”

“We need to stop fighting about every little thing.”

“How do you fight?”

“Mostly because I want to do one thing and Emma wants to do another. For example, I might want to stay home and work in the garage and she might want me to go out with her somewhere, shopping or to a church event. And I don’t know why she has to have her way all the time. She’s so—bossy—she’s so bossy. I can’t stand it, she’s. SO. BOSSY.”

“You don’t like it when she’s bossy?”

“It scares me.”

“Tell me how that feels.”

“It feels like I can’t breathe. It feels like I am panicked.”

“You’re panicked? You can’t breathe?”

“No, I can’t—I can’t.”

By this time, Ralph’s eyes were closed and he was clearly looking deep into his memory.

“What would happen if you breathed?”

“It’s a feeling—I don’t want to have it—”

“What is the feeling about?”

“Emma! It’s about Emma being bossy—it’s about me—”

“Ralph, this is the place where you are allowed to say what you want, it’s the place where you tell secrets, what is it that you want from Emma? You don’t want her to be bossy?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want.”

“I . . . want . . . her . . . I want her—I do want her to be … bossy!”

“You like it when Emma is bossy?”

“Yes! Yes, I do! Yes—I want—I want— “

“Ralph, relax. Look at me, Ralph, relax. We are just talking. You can let go of that thought, you can let go of the fear, you can just talk to me because this is the room where you can share secrets, understand?” Her eyes caught and held his. “Nod.”

He had visibly relaxed now. He nodded. “Yes, Dr. Murphy,” he said.

“What would it be like if you let yourself enjoy when Emma was bossy?”

“It would be … relaxing.”

“Why?”

“You’ve met Emma. You know what she’s like. She’s . . . she’s smart. She knows what to do. She knows her mind and she knows what’s best for both of us. I watch her at the hospital. When she comes into a room, parents relax, I can see it—because they know she will decide and her decision will be a good one.”

“And you’d like to have that feeling?”

“Yes, it would be relaxing.”

“And if you relaxed, what would you feel . . . then?”

His face took on a puzzled expression. “It would feel . . . sexy.”

“You’d be attracted to her?”

“Oh, yes, I’d want to do her right there and then, or let her do me, or . . .”

He seemed to be getting a bit agitated, so she made a soothing sound. “That’s fine Ralph, just relax, let it go now, you’ve told the secrets and so they can drift away and you can forget what we talked about. We’ve had a very productive session,” she said. “And here’s what I want you to do. I am going to write you a prescription; you will read it and follow it. Then you and Emma will come back to see me next week. I think things are going to go very well if you follow my suggestions, okay?”

He seemed limp in the chair, on the verge of sleep. She scribbled on a pad: RALPH VORELLI IS ENTITLED TO ENJOY EMMA BEING BOSSY FOR ONE WEEK AND IT OFFICIALLY WON’T COUNT.

“Here, read this.”

He read it and smiled somewhat vaguely.

“Put it in your pocket now and forget that you have it. You have already decided to follow it and you don’t need to paper and you don’t need to remember it. But when you see Emma you will give it to her without thinking about it, and when you do she will make love to you in ways you’ve only imagined. Now you can go.”

He folded the paper, put it in his pocket, and got up. “It’s funny, I feel a lot better.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “We got some secrets out.”

“Did we?” He looked puzzled. The session was fading in his memory; he wasn’t sure what she had said or what he had told her, but he felt lighter, as if a big rock had been lifted off his shoulders. “Wait—Dr. Murphy—you didn’t hypnotize me, did you?”

“Of course not,” Elle said rather sharply. “I said I would not hypnotize you and I did not. Next time you come we will try some hypnosis, and you will enjoy it. But I did not hypnotize you this time. Now off you go.”

Obediently he turned and left.

When the door had closed, Elle pulled out her phone and dialed seven digits. “Emma?” she said. “It’s Dr. Murphy. … Yes, I saw him. … No, it went very well. … I think we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough. Now you remember the instructions I gave you? Yes, the talking points. Just look him in the eye, talk softly and gently, and be specific. You don’t need to use hypnotic language, just be very direct, tell him what you want him to do and wait … That’s right, I think you’re going to be surprised. Listen, I will need to see you both together. How’s next Thursday? Yes, same time.” Emma knew what to do when Ralph gave her the prescription, because Elle had told her in great detail; Elle wasn’t sure Emma remembered being told, but she knew what to do to Ralph then, and she would.

Elle clicked off the phone and noticed that she was idly fanning herself. Was it hot in here? She picked up her voice recorder and began:

“Case file R.V. Husband diagnosed with conflicted submissive tendencies. Hypnotic susceptibility established by observation and suggestion during attendance at public demonstration. Trance was induced indirectly by a third party in the guise of completing a questionnaire. Response: excellent. Trance depth: medium. Potential for deeper trance. Questioning elicited information sufficient to suggest that with suggestion and behavioral training he can be induced to resolve his conflicts and assume a role as submissive partner. Prognosis: positive. This case suggests approaches to a new treatment modality for certain dysfunctional marriages. Will see the couple together within a week for follow up.”

Elle was still fanning herself when she finished dictating her notes. She picked up her phone and punched a button. “Louis?” she said. “Have you finished your writing for today? . . . Oh, good boy. Listen, I want you to make us both a Manhattan and bring it down here now. … No, dinner can wait, I’d like us to enjoy cocktail hour.” She clicked off, pulled a handkerchief out of her purse, and mopped her brow.

Five minutes later, Louis was in her office carrying a tray.

She took one of the two glasses and sat comfortably on the couch. He was still standing, so she patted the place beside her and told him to sit down.

“Louis,” she said, do you think I am bossy?”

She could see him struggling not to answer, but she had told him always to tell her the truth, so at last he nodded. “Yes, Elle,” he said.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

He took a sip from his drink, and tried to speak. Nothing came out. She smiled faintly; he looked like a fish gulping in the air. “I feel—” His voice trailed off.

“Speak up, Louis!”

“It’s—it’s sexy,” he said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it, Louis?”

He nodded.

“You need a boss, don’t you, Louis?”

He nodded.

“You don’t mind me being … bossy?”

“No, Elle.”

She looked at him fondly, letting herself feel how much she loved and enjoyed her handsome husband, whose deeply submissive nature blended with a brilliant and creative mind and the daring and style he had shown when he rescued her mother from the former Soviet Union. And she let herself luxuriate in how open he was to her, how every time she asked him to go deeper he did so without hesitation, stepping off into the depths without even glancing down because he trusted her and enjoyed her as much as she did him.

“Tell me a story you know, Louis,” she said. “A story about a bossy person, a story that you think is sexy too.”

His eyes lost focus for a moment, then a slight smile—and a faint flush—stole across his face. “Have you ever read ‘Mario and the Magician’ by Thomas Mann?” he asked.

She turned to face him on the couch and sipped her cocktail. “No, darling, it sounds wonderful—tell me.”

“It’s a fable about free will,” he said. “It takes place in a little Italian resort town. A family is staying there and then a hypnotist comes to town to entertain. A very strange little man named Count Cipolla, which means ‘Count Onion.’ He’s a little man with a riding whip. He asks people to volunteer, and he snaps the whip and they begin dancing helplessly. Then a boy in the audience points out that it’s easy to hypnotize volunteers, but he challenges the Count: Can he make the boy dance against his will? The Count says of course he can. ‘Even against your will,’ he says.

“So they settle into a kind of staring contest. The Count snaps his whip and orders the boy to dance. He stands there and refuses. The Count speaks softly to him about how much he actually wants to dance, that resistance is much less fun than giving in, that the Count’s will is stronger—and pretty soon the boy’s arms and legs begin to move and he dances and the Count leads him up on stage and cracks his whip and the boy dances, and on his face is a big blank stupid smile like he’s having the time of his life.”

She realized that as she listened she’d been unconsciously touching her nipple through her blouse. “That does seem sexy,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “What’s sexy is that the boy is happier when he gives way. The Count has taken away his will, has humiliated him and made him ridiculous but it’s still more fun than standing there refusing to do anything, because Mann says not willing is empty, and it makes the person who is not willing empty and open to another person’s will, and the Count tells the boy that’s better, that’s the way it should be.”

His face was a bit flushed now too. “Finish your drink, darling,” she said. He drained the glass.

“I’d better fix dinner,” he said, and made as if to rise.

“Oh, dinner can wait,” she said. “I loved your story and I want to think about it a little.”

He beamed with pleasure. She found it very dear how much he enjoyed pleasing her.

He definitely had this time.

“So I did like the part where the boy ends up smiling even as he’s given in completely. Did you ever picture that smile?”

“I did,” he said. “I think he looked like someone having a wonderful dream, dreaming it’s Christmas or maybe that the girl really loves him after all, something so happy that he doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t have to look at it from different angles, can just bathe in it like a big warm tub, can just . . . float . . .”

“Yes,” she said. “I can picture that smile, Louis. I can imagine how you’d feel if that happened to you—you’d enjoy feeling the smile steal across your face, wouldn’t you? You’d feel your mouth wanting to turn up, wanting to just draw back as your eyes rolled back and you’d smile and . . . then . . . you’d . . .” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “DANCE, Louis! Give in, it feels so wonderful, just smile like an idiot, you are my idiot, it feels so good to give in to my will, my will is so much stronger than yours, my will is your will . . . “

And sure enough, Louis’s arms rose up and he stood and his arms and legs began to writhe sinuously as his face was transformed into a broad blank smiling portrait of bliss.

“That shirt must be terribly hot to dance in, Louis,” she said. “You’d better take it off, hadn’t you? No, you don’t want to stop dancing, you can just tear it off, that’s right, such fun dancing, just blank and happy and oh heavens now your pants are hot too, you’d better just strip down and as you do you just give in more and more, empty and happy and totally ruled by my will because my will is stronger and my will absorbs your will and that’s the way you like it . . . “

And there he was, her handsome, fit husband stripped to his briefs and gyrating like a nightclub cage dancer, with the biggest sexiest blankest stupidest smile on his face she had ever seen. She didn’t need to check to know that his eyes were slightly rolled back in his head and that whatever he was seeing wasn’t anything anyone else could see.

This was a very nice way to end her afternoon, she thought, sipping her Manhattan. It was so sexy when Louis let her take over. Listening to Ralph Vorelli, and hearing Louis’s account of the boy and the magician, had made her think anew of why she enjoyed dominating and commanding Louis at least as much as he enjoyed her domination and commands.

What was it? Almost as long as she could remember, she’d been able to convince most people—boys and girls, then men and women—that they really wanted to do exactly what she wanted them to do, and eventually that they enjoyed obeying and would seek her out, eager to yield their wills to hers. It felt quite natural. She had a strong will, a strong sense of herself, and a world where friends and strangers eagerly helped and obeyed her, and found it sexy, and often she found it sexy too.

Never, though, had she found dominance quite as sexy as she found it with Louis. Almost from the first she’d known he was different from other men who’d thrown herself at her feet. Sometimes (perhaps this said something bad about her but she didn’t care, really) she thought of herself as—an eagle, maybe, a giant ruthless raptor sailing above the plain in search of prey. If she was a bird of pretty, Louis was by far the juiciest prize she’d captured, and every day he made the richest feast. She remembered that silly movie, JERRY MAGUIRE, in which Tom Cruise had won Renee Zellweger’s heart by saying, “You complete me,” even though they really looked about as awkward as any screen couple she’d ever seen. The scene may have been phony, but the feeling she got from Louis was not—it was a real, powerful, tidal force, something beneath words, a sense that the two of them were destined to be linked forever in a mystical dance of dominance and submission that was the best possible life for both of them. She was his mistress, he was her servant, and in becoming more and more part of each other both of them were becoming more and more the people they were meant to be. When she thought about the pleasure of dominating Louis she felt as if she were riding a huge ocean wave, or perhaps swimming on the back of a powerful and benevolent sea creature, much bigger than she was, that would carry her where she needed to go.

In her mind she remembered how his face had looked just now as she took the story he had told her and turned it against him, used it to seduce and undermine his will like the magician in the story, and fill it with her will so that she was in command of his body without any need to bother his brain. Then for some reason she remembered the times she had let him hypnotize her (well, the first time he’d done it without her knowledge but that didn’t count), and how that felt.

Then a curious thing happened.

Her left leg twitched. It moved on its own, as if someone had passed a very small electric current through it.

She looked down at it, puzzled.

It twitched again.

She heard a voice—it sounded like her own voice, didn’t it? But how could that be? Or did it sound like Louis’s voice? But how could THAT be? She stopped wondering as the voice surged over her mind and her will: “Dance, Elle! Give it up, Elle! You want to dance. DANCE NOW!” And the voice swept her will away even though she could tell it was her will, but it was more than that, it was a combination of her and Louis and that was stronger than either of them alone and it was whispering that it would feel … so … good to let go and just follow, just give in, just go blank, just disappear into it ….

Then her right arm felt light and tingly all of a sudden, and it rose up in the air, and it didn’t stop until it had pulled her to her feet and hung in the air, then with the left arm hanging beside it as both her legs began to move back and forth in rhythm with inaudible music, and she felt herself begin to smile as if someone had just told the best joke she’d ever heard, and her last coherent thought, as her eyes rolled back in her head, was that her shirt and blouse felt awfully hot and she’d be so much more comfortable naked. After that she saw and heard everything as if she were underwater, in another world, as if what was happening was actually a dream, and there was deep silence and at the same time the inaudible music leading her on and the voice in the air, and then she was naked and standing in front of Louis she danced and she waved her arms in front of him and soon he was dancing to her inaudible tune like a happy puppet and the two of them danced in a naked blank ecstasy—and then a force like magnets drew her to him slowly, closer and closer until she was climbing into him, with her legs around his waist as if she were trying to get inside of him, and he collapsed slowly backwards onto the rug with her atop him. Elle mounted him, guiding him inside her and they both exploded within seconds and then passed into blank mutual bliss with no sense where one left off and the other took began.

They awoke together some time later, and at the same moment both wondered what had just happened and at the same time wished that whatever had happened had never ended and would never end. They snuggled in silence for a few minutes until Louis’s deep sense of his duties kicked in.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “I’ll fix you something good.” He pushed himself back on his elbows in order to get to his feet.

Giving thanks that years of yoga had left her limber, she reached up one elegant leg, hooked it around his neck, and brought him down again, his face against her belly.

“I think YOU are hungry,” she said. “But you have what you need right here.” She reached behind his head and guided it firmly between her legs. “Begin with dessert, because when I get through with you you’ll be to limp to move even your tongue.”

She closed her eyes as he got to work with his tongue. It went on and on, because Louis, whatever trance state he was in, had no interest in anything except pleasing her and was in no hurry to finish and did not worry about his own needs. She put both hands firmly on the back of his head and held him, signaling that he could not escape if he tried, that his role, his place, his very meaning was to please her over and over and she lost track of the orgasms.

Then she snapped her fingers and said, “Stop,” and he collapsed to the rug next to her.

“Turn over, darling,” she said. He turned onto his side facing away from her. She snuggled close to his back. “You’ve had your snack,” she said. “But I’m hungry too, Louis. And I think I’m going to snack on … you.”

She began to nibble and nip at his back, while she whispered, “Remember, you’re helpless, Louis. I could swallow you whole and you would love it.” She put her mouth in the hollow between his neck and shoulder and began to lick and tease and nip at him with her teeth. He groaned and she said, “That’s it, Louis, you can’t keep it up, you need to scream,” and then she went back to licking and biting, working her way down his back. His moans got louder as she reached over him and took his erection in her hand. “I’m taking you from behind, little man, don’t even think of resisting because you are helpless and you belong to me, body, mind, and will.”

She stroked his cock while she whispered about devouring him alive, holding him in her talons, taking him in, and within seconds she heard him scream “Elle! Elle! ELLE!” and he exploded. Then she said, “That is all, darling, I just ate you up and you don’t exist anymore, how does that feel?”

He groaned. She stroked him with her hand and felt him already beginning to get hard again. “Louis, are you hungry?”

“No, Elle.”

“I think you are,” she said. “I think you need another snack.” She snapped her fingers.

“Yes, Elle.”

“Beg me, Louis.”

“Oh, God, Elle, please, please let me go down on you, please!”

“Very well, darling,” she said. “Just as a favor to you. But you owe me.” She guided his head back between her legs and held his head firmly. “Get to work, little man,” she said. She lay back, stroking his hair, and sighed.

The feast went on till almost dawn, by which point Louis had lost his voice from screaming.

She permitted him to serve her breakfast in silence.