The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As I trot through London streets towards my office, I positively vibrate from how scandalous that sounds. ‘My office’—such a mischievously masculine phrase. Oh, what if I abandoned my dress, and wore a white shirt, with a tie, and, and trousers even! With my hair bundled under my hat, I should seem a lad just graduated from university, headed for his first job. I would walk, as the morning rush around me does, with a morning paper beneath our arms. All of us ‘businessmen’ would trudge, po-faced, through the smog and sound of the city—to work!

Oh, but I abuse my husband’s leniency too much already, for I’ve the indecency to revel in this unseemly chore, to revel at any work outside his house. Playing dress up would be a bridge too far; he may believe suffragettist nonsense has swelled in my mind again, that I support women in the workforce.

No, my husband has set me to work for perfectly sensible reasons, or, rather, owing to an epiphany. One afternoon, you see, I was mesmerising another wayward waif (one who refused to cook for her husband!), when a revelation bowled down my husband.

‘By crikey!’ said he, slapping his knee. ‘We’ve been giving away salvation for free!’

Turning away from my thralled trollop, I assured my husband I had no want for money, for I acted on the spur of duty. ‘By my work I better the world,’ I said, ‘and that is God’s will.’

‘Maybe so,’ said my husband, ‘but it’s not mine.’ He put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me close. ‘My dear, if a vagrant begged you for food, would you give it him?’

I was about to say, ‘Of course,’ but he concluded:

‘Why, obviously not. You make him earn his daily bread, by work or pay. Similarily,’ he said, waving at the mesmerised girl, who was drooling, ‘why should we grant indulgences to these sluts sans fee?’

Initially, and shamefully, I resisted his logic. Like a respectful wife, however, I attributed the perceived illogic to my own irrationality. How fruitful I did not question him, for now I can further spread my charity across the England, as all the best charity is: by trade. A member of my husband’s society lets it to us free of charge. (Convincing his wife ejaculate tasted of chocolate was payment enough, he told us.) Now, I have a nine-to-four job helping concerned kin correct their wives, sisters, daughters, mothers, and mistresses. In a month, I have done everything from encouraging a mistress to eat fewer cakes, to informing an eighteen-year-old her father’s pick of fiancé for her was eminently sensible, to convincing a mother that her son did have the right to cane her when she misbehaved.

Ah! Now I have arrived at my office. The brass plaque reads: ‘Feminine Management Consultant’. Very euphemistic, as we don’t want the public stumbling upon my secret trade; those who know, will find us. I open the door, and enter the warmth of my office. The single room is small, but cosy rather than cramped, even with two desks arranged like an L within it. From behind one of the desks, Eugenie stands, giving a slight bow.

‘Mrs Leashem,’ she says. ‘Shall I make the tea now?’

She always arrives earlier than me, and always greets me with that question. Such a hard working lass! I must give her a treat.

“Oh, that would be lovely!’ I say, before realising I sound to informal for an office. ‘Tea would be satisfactory, Miss Goodson,’ I say in my most masculine voice.

She nods before setting up the teapot on our little stove. As she works the fuel, I watch her back, and wonder how nice she would look in a shirt, a tie, and trousers. She already had short hair. Her feminine figure would be a problem. Her breasts would push against her shirt, while her wide hips and big bum would-

‘Mrs Leashem, you’re blushing.’ Eugenie left the water to warm behind her

‘Have we any clients today?’

She opened the ledger and bent over it. ‘A… Mrs Mary Runamouth is coming soon.’

‘And what name did her husband leave when he made the appointment?’

‘He didn’t. She—’

The front door flung open. The stench of lavender perfume preceded sight of the woman in the doorway. She wore a clearly expensive red dress and the kindly patronising smile of a kindergarten teacher. Shutting the door, she strolled towards me.

‘I found the door unlocked,’ she said, ‘and thought, “How terribly unprofessional.” But then I saw you two girls, and thought, “That explains that then”. You see,’ she adopts a teacher’s tone, ‘it is a scientific fact our female minds can hold no more than three things at once. You were probably thinking of: the coming day, making tea, and looking pretty—no room for locking a door in there.’ She taps my forehead.

I take one step back. ‘You are?’ I ask.

She takes a step forward. ‘Mary Townsend Runamouth is my name.’

‘And nature,’ I mutter. I take another step back, but she closes the distance, from no aggression, I sense, rather from a delusion that I desire her in my personal space. My bum hits my desk; I am trapped. ‘You have rather,’ I say, ‘definitive views on female psychology.’

‘Of course I do,’ she says, ‘for the matter is definitive. ‘You see—’ She presents her long fingers, ‘women’s nails grow faster than men’s; one of the many ways our frail bodies divert energy away from our brains.’

‘Have you any evidence for this?’ I ask.

She smiles and gives a happy sigh, as though a child had asked her where snowflakes come from. She strokes my cheek. ‘I know you want to work in a big office, with lots of paper, pens, and ledgers with numbers in them, but the female brain can’t cope. After a day or two, our little brains overheat, and we will relish the thought of cleaning our hubbies’ clothes. That’s science.’ She hovered her finger in front of my nose. ‘And you can’t fight science. What you’re doing here—’ she fluttered her hand, slightly, to gesture at the room, yet kept looking in my eyes. ‘— is a fluke of nature. You can do one thing really, really well. But beyond that skill, don’t tax your pretty little head.’

‘What is my skill?’ Oh, please reveal you’ve entered the wrong building.

‘Mesmerism.’

Bugger.

‘It’s like cooking, isn’t it?’ she continues. ‘A skill rather than an art; a bit of practise and even precocious little dears like you can master it.’

‘Do you know what mesmerism is?’

‘Don’t know the specifics,’ she continues, ‘but what I’ve picked up from my girlfriends tells me it’s the use of magnets to move iron around the womb, thus removing the cause of unfeminine behaviour.’

‘Close enough.’ I turn to Eugenie. ‘Miss Goodson, bring the lady a chair.’ I escape from Runamouth’s proximity to my desk’s chair. I venture, ‘You wish your daughter mesmerised?’

‘Oh, no! Why, silly-billy, I’ve not my daughter with me, have I?’ she says, easing into the chair Eugenie provides. ‘I want to be mesmerised.’

From my shock, I was about to question her, but she prattled on: ‘My girlfriends and I were having tea one morning, when Mrs Sarah Cleverclogs came late.’ The name rang a bell. ‘Sarah fancies herself a modern bluestocking—bless her—all trying to be as smart as menfolk, silly girl. But that meeting, why, she could barely muster a duosyllable word; her wit, once sharp as tack, was now blunt as a pebble. I asked what had happened, and she told me of a girl her husband introduced her to, a most magical girl, a girl who by strange arts could make another girl do anything, had dulled her mind.’

Oh, yes, her. A pleasant enough girl, and intelligent. Her husband was… not, and did not wish to feel inferior. ‘And you—’

Runamouth continues: ‘The other girls at the tea sat in horrified disbelief. I, however, saw salvation.’ She leans forward in her chair. ‘I am a very good wife. I defer to my husband in everything; I don’t even speak to my mother, for my husband thinks she’s a bad influence. But I have one deformity.’ She looks from side to side, as though bandits hid under the furniture. She whispers, ‘I talk too much.’

‘I see,’ I say. How lovely that our wishes align; she desires a stiller tongue, I desire her voice no longer grate my ear.

‘Oh, but, would that be too difficult for you?’ She looks as though she had overburdened her child with a shopping basket.

‘Not at—’

‘For if it is, there are men, I hear, on the Continent who can mesmerise…’

And so she prattles on. She pauses only so I may start, only to be interrupted by her again. She will ask me questions like a schoolma’am does, the simplest questions designed to check if I have paid attention for the last few seconds. Such a girl would be difficult to trance. For one, she will pipe up at the slightest silence, pulling her out of any sleep I’d give her. Second, she is both aware and sceptical of my mesmeric abilities. When my fiancé mesmerised me, so many months ago, I was unwitting. My droopy eyes and compliant yawns I thought a symptom of boredom. Had I known what his swinging pendant was doing to my mind, I may have resisted. (Perish the thought!)

This girl here knows I shall try to control her. While she is willing, her scepticism erects a wall. Were I to intone, ‘Your eyes are so very heavy,’ she’d merely think, ‘Oh, bless the dear, she tries so hard.’ Thus, she counteracts my efforts with patronisation. No, as my husband said to me when he first taught me this art, ‘In mesmerism, take your target, as in sex, from behind.’

She is still talking: ‘And then my husband took me over his knee, in full view of the whole party—’

‘Mrs Goodson!’ I say, stopping Runamouth in the middle of her anecdote. ‘That tea, bring it here.’

Eugene pours tea for Runamouth and me. The brown stream glitters in the air, and cannot help but catch Runamouth’s eyes. The smell, too, thick and pleasant flutters Runamouth’s lids. I choose my teas for their soporific qualities. They cannot put a girl to sleep, but they can ready her for sleep.

Runamouth says, ‘Oh, but I have shopping, and cleaning, and so much other to do. I know you’re a very polite girl, but can you not, please, get your magnets out and lay them on my pelvis. We may have—’

‘We will drink tea,’ I say, my voice loud, but not harsh, like an organ. Eugene stops pouring, before retreating with the tray to the corner of the room. ‘This tea—’ I take a sip. ‘—aids the process. The… iron in it will help magnetise the humours in your womb. Drink.’

‘Oh, well, if it will help you.’

As she picks up the cup, I say, ‘Pick up the cup.’ As she puts it to her lips, I say, ‘And place it to your lips; sip slowly, slowly.’ She sips.

She began to return the tea to her saucer. ‘Return the tea to your saucer.’

She gives a light chuckle, entirely devoid of malice, but rife with patronisation. ‘Is this another little ritual you have, telling me to do what I have already determined to do? Why I—’

‘You must smell this tea,’ I say over her. ‘You must smell its wondrous scent.’ I raise my cup and inhale, my eyes closing as I do, a moaning smile forming on me.

‘Well, I suppose…’

She raises her cup. ‘Raise your cup, and breathe deeply.’ Her breasts heave as she breathes in and out. She lets her eyelids flutter. ‘Now drink. Take a long, slow, sip.’ She sips, as I coax her along. Soon she stops, her eyes a little glassy. At my suggestion she sets her cup down.

She speaks again, but now her voice slouches from her mouth, so slow, so relaxed: ‘Well, this is lovely. What kind of tea—’

‘Shhhh…’ And with that I blow away all her words, leaving her lips fumbling, with nothing to do.

In her silence (she looks quite pretty, when silent), I talk about this and that, the tea, the weather, the world, in my most soothing tones. To all eyes that may happen to glance in, it might seem Runamouth listened politely to my ramblings. Upon examination of her eyes, however, such a spectator would wonder whether she listened at all. Her eyes are not glazed; a light remained, but one suggesting no intelligence, only awareness, a light which would shine on everything benign and untoward.

I break of my aimless ramblings, and speak to the point. ‘You were ignorant of mesmerism ere you came here.’

She sits silently and still, the silent stillness of one clueless of how to move or what to say.

‘Does it hurt?’ I ask. ‘Does it sooth? Is it all you hoped it would be?’ Seeing her lips move, readying to speak, I say, ‘Don’t answer.’ Her lips glued together.

I touch her tea cup with the tip of my fingers. Lukewarm. Ah, thank goodness; what I am about to do shall be entirely in good fun. ‘Pour your tea over your head.’

She takes her cup by the handle, raises it above her head, and then lets it splash down on her. As she sets the cup down, as though she has merely finished sipping, milky drops trail around her wide eyes. No resistance flashes in those, spare a dash of confusion. What little sentience remains in her clearly wonders why I ordered that, and more importantly why she obeyed.

‘Do not worry,’ I say. I would continue my fun, but as an office girl, I must fulfil my order. She commissioned me to rid her of her over-active tongue. I shan’t do that precisely, for how better way to pluck a weed than by the roots. ‘Mrs Runamouth, what is something you are certain of?’

Her lips and eyes twitch.

‘I mean, merely,’ I continue, ‘what is a fact so sure to you, you’ve little occasion to remember it. The sun rising? The Earth’s roundness? Your name?’ I sip my tea. ‘What is your name, in full?’

‘Mary Townhouse Runamouth,’ she speaks the syllables with the monotonous regularity of a metronome.

I smile. ‘You know that for a fact. Or rather, you believe that for a fact. And what is a belief?’ She’s about to answer my rhetorical question, but I continue, ‘A belief is not a fact, certainly. I once believed a man lived in the moon, as surely as I believed the sun revolved around the Earth. No, belief is a state of mind, a feeling which can attach itself to any statement, true or false. What is your name?’

‘Mary Townhouse Runamouth.’

‘Feel the belief beneath those words, how firm that belief is, how inviolable. Hold this belief, hold this feeling; no matter what I say, hold this feeling. Repeat after me: My name is Mary Townhouse Runamouth.’

‘My name is Mary Townhouse Runamouth.’

‘Hold the feeling, as you repeat: My name is…’

She blinks, before repeating, ‘My name is…’

‘Repeat: My name is Fanny Dick Winterbottom.’

She tenses, but soon words flow out, ‘My name is Fanny Dick Winterbottom.’

I chuckle, and say, with mock incredulity, ‘What is your name?’

‘Fanny Dick Winterbottom.’ Her blank face shows no hesitance or resistance.

I sip my tea. ‘See how fickle belief—She’ll lay down with any old words. Who is monarch of Great Britain?’

‘Queen Victoria.’

‘Hold that feeling,’ I say, as though a doctor imploring a patient. ‘Our monarch is an aardvark called Terry. Who is our monarch?’

‘Terry the Aardvark.’ Not a hint of confusion in her eyes.

‘So, we are reigned over by an animal?’

She pauses, clearly working the implications of that through her mind, but she nods eventually.

‘Mrs Winterbottom,’ I say, assuming a more matronly tone, ‘you informed me your defect was an overactive tongue, but I argue that is immaterial. A husband deplores only those tongues deployed against him; should a cacophonous tongue ally with his own, he will hear it as bird song. My dear, your problem is that dissenting thoughts leap to your tongue.’ I slap the table in good humour. ‘Well! Let’s ensure naughty thoughts never again soil your mind.’ I rub my chin in mock contemplation. ‘Mrs Winterbottom, voice your most shameful belief.’

Call me depraved, but I adore the panic that peeping through her trance. Her lips twitch as though a spider attempted to crawl from between them. ‘I-I,’ sh says, ‘think women should h-have the v-v-vote.’

We sit in silence a moment, I in surprise, she in shame. Quite without my permission she starts speaking, such is her desire to absolve herself:

‘I-I mean, only vote about things we understand, and only vote to keep us in areas we understand. Should it come to the ballot the right of divorce, why, women should vote nay.’

So eager a defence that I suspect the lady protests too much. No matter, her rationalisation shall perish with her belief. ‘Worry not, I shall cure you of such wicked thoughts. Now, what we’re about to do may feel icky, but for your soul—for your husband’s piece of mind, more importantly—you must do as I say. Bring to mind that abhorred suffragist belief, let it encompass your mind.’

She flushes, and surely the heat of guilt runs over her neck. Her forehead drips sweat.

‘I see it in your mind, a belief so large and full. Ah, but belief is but a feeling, attached to arbitrary words. What scribbles does this belief hold: “Women deserve to vote.” Why! That shan’t do. Thankfully, these scribbles are but crumbs, which the slightest breeze could blow away. I shall blow them away, blow them away with my words, and thereafter my words shall sit atop your belief.’

I take a deep breath, like the wolf who harassed the three pigs. ‘Women are too foolish to vote.’

Her ruddy cheeks, glistening skin, and intent eyes all come into relief as my words wash her guilty opinions away. Her eyes flutter, until she resumes a wide-eyed blankness, the sweat dry on her skin.

‘Mrs Winterbottom, what do you think of female suffrage?’

Almost imperceptibly, a smile starts on her face. ‘We are too feeble-minded to vote.’

‘Good girl,’ I say. ‘From now on, whenever your husband voices an opinion that contradicts with your own, something like this will occur. You will bring to mind your silly opinion, feel the full force of your belief—then your husband’s words shall usurp the throne of your belief from your silly opinion. Never again shall you disagree with your husband.’

A smile bloomed on her face, just as heat festered on the back of my neck.

‘Now, Mrs Winterbottom, I just need to sort out a few remaining matters with you. Just take a little nap, let your tired eyes close.’

She yawns, and her eyes flutter shut. I finish correcting her mind, and returning to her her real name. I also leave a few gifts for her husband; for example, she shall find her arousal peak with his own.

I snap my fingers, and her eyes snap open.

‘Thank you, Mrs Leashem,’ she says automatically. ‘Already I feel infinitely more agreeable.’ She opens her purse. ‘You must have your fee.’ She counts out five pounds onto my desk.

‘Is that all?’ I rest my chin on interlocking fingers.

She looks confused, then a glazing passes over her eyes. When lucid again, she says, ‘No, of course not! Blessed doctress, you deserve more.’ She opens her purse. ‘Oh! But I have no more money. Then, I must pay you—’ Here she stands, and bends towards me over the table. ‘—with my lips.’

I meet her puckered lips in a brushing kiss. Oh, affection—sisterly affection—worth more than gold.

When we break from our kiss, my cheeks burn, and hers not at all.

‘Although it shames me to ask for more,’ I say, ‘I ask you do one more thing for me: tell all your girlfriends I am the most wondrous councillor you’ve had. Should they ask what I council, fabricate an answer relevant to their wants. To recompense this deception, I shall service their needs.’

‘Yes, I will, Mrs Leashem.’

After we say goodbye, she skips from the office.

I recline in my chair with my eyes closed. Though I’m a practised hand at mesmerism, it nonetheless wearies me. Controlling my voice, my bearing, so to exert a masculine authority over these waifs—My muscles stiffen just thinking of it! I stretch and writhe in a most unladylike manner. Thankfully, only Eugenie may see me.

‘How easily these girls open their minds,’ I say. ‘Eh, Eugenie?’

No answer. I look at Eugenie. She sits glassy-eyed and droop-jawed. Oh, I am far too good. I prime my fingers to snap, but stop. Ere I wake her, I shall have some fun. My lips brushing her ear, I whisper, planting my little prank.

Still stood by her, I snap my fingers. ‘Well, Eugenie?’

Ignorant of my question, she blinks.

‘What did you think of our Mrs Runamouth?’

She pauses and looks to the ceiling. ‘Meow, miau, meow,’ she says sagely. She purrs and rubs her ear with the side of her limply clasped hand. On her face is a look of utmost contemplation, before she leaps into a deeper exegesis of the meeting: ‘Mau, mew, mew, purr… Meow, meow.’

‘We agree entirely.’

I tickle her chin. She growls in pleasure.

‘Now, Eugenie,’ I say, depriving her of tickles. ‘I must admit I am tired. I say we lunch.’

‘Mau!’

I spin around, my back to her. ‘Let us treat ourselves! A restaurant; oh, but which?’ Back still to her, a grin grows on me. ‘My mind’s a blank. You tell me where we shall go.’

‘Purr… Mau, meow, meow.’

My hand above my head, I snap my fingers and say, ‘Aware.’

‘Meow, mew, me-o-o-w, m-m-mew.’ Mew by meow, her caterwauls grew less confident and fainter. Oh! The red face she must have.

I spin to face her, giggles rising in my throat.

Only to fall to the pit of my stomach. Yes, her face is red, but so too are her crying eyes. She hiccups meows. Those feline mannerisms that once seemed cute, now resemble an animal ready to be put-down. I hug her, hold her shuddering breast to mine, and rest her chin on my shoulder.

‘There, there. Kitty-no-more, kitty-no-more,’ I trigger her.

Her murmurs remain unintelligible, but now sound human. I snatch a few words from them: ‘Fail,’ ‘weak,’ and ‘why.’ What a scoundrel I was; I let my amusement blind me to Eugenie’s delicate mental state. Is not the reason I tend to her so closely because mesmerism took to her so poorly the first time? And here I have mesmerised her so callously, I might just as well have pushed her in a pond.

I pull back from our embrace, putting space between us, but still keeping our arms upon each other. I look her in the eye and say, ‘Calm yourself, calm yourself. I’ll take it all out.’ I shifted to my mesmeric voice; her so recently slumbering mind should still be susceptible. I touch her forehead, and pull away my fingers, as though I retrieved tissues. ‘See how the mesmerism comes out, all the suggestions, all my words; all that remains is you.’

A shudder waves over her, leading her to fall into my embrace, burying herself deeply in my breast. For a while, I stroke her hair, assuring her that all will be right. Her sobbing heaves weaken to shivers, finally to rasping breaths.

‘Eugenie,’ I whisper, unsure whether she has drifted to sleep after such exhaustion. ‘I will still treat you to lunch. Anything you desire.’ No response. ‘Ice cream?’ She jolts slightly. I smile. ‘Shall I buy you a cone of ice cream?’

She stirs, her hair rustling against my dress as she raises he head, her eyes meeting mine. Her eyes are moist and red and flickering with a weak but growing fire.

‘One day,’ she says in a cracking whisper, ‘we shall eat ice cream far away.’