The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Session one:

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Jill Herbert said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, Doctor.”

“Now, Ms. Herbert,” soothed Dr. Julius Alexander, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. And clearly you felt you needed some sort of help, or you wouldn’t have made this appointment in the first place.”

“Well, er, yes, I suppose,” Jill said weakly. “But—no one has to know I’m coming here, do they?”

“Not if you don’t want them to,” Dr. Alexander assured her.

“That’s a relief,” Jill said. “It’s so embarrassing. . . .”

“Let’s review your problem, shall we?” The therapist looked at his patient over the dark rims of his glasses. “You’re having trouble sleeping lately, and it’s interfering with both your work and your social life. Is that right?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill agreed.

“When did this problem start?”

“About two months ago, just after I started dating Ben,” Jill said.

“Tell me about Ben,” Dr. Alexander said.

“He’s such a nice guy,” sighed Jill. “He’s tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed; if there’s anything wrong with him physically, it’s that he’s a little on the heavy side. We met at a concert, and found out we shared all kinds of interests. I even took him to dinner with my folks last week.” She smiled, reminiscing. “He and my dad got along fine. It’s funny; they even look sort of alike.”

The doctor looked thoughtful at that. After a moment, he said, “Ms. Herbert, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to try something.”

“What did you have in mind, Doctor?”

“Nothing too dramatic,” came the reply. “Something you said suggested that your current difficulties may have their roots in some memories buried deep in your subconscious, memories which may have gotten stirred up lately. I’d like to try bringing those memories out into the open where you and I can confront them.”

“What do I have to do, Doctor?” Jill sounded nervous.

There was a small metronome sitting on Dr. Alexander’s desk. The therapist reached over, pulled its arm back and released it, starting it swinging. Each swing produced a small ticking sound, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

“Relaxation often helps us remember things we’ve forgotten,” observed the doctor. “Once the mind isn’t working so hard, it can stop dashing back and forth, back and forth, and focus on the one thing we want to pay attention to. Don’t you find that true, Ms. Herbert?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill said, following the steady sweep of the metronome arm with her eyes.

“We focus on the one thing that matters, pay attention to it and don’t allow ourselves to be distracted as things move back and forth, back and forth, competing for our attention. We relax, and let go of all the clutter, all the unnecessary thoughts and worries which keep us from remembering what we want to remember. Back and forth.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill sighed, eyes continuing to follow the motion of the metronome. “Back and forth.”

Dr. Alexander smiled. Jill had visibly relaxed, her head drooping, although her eyes remained open and fixed on the moving arm of his prop. Her repetition of the phrase “back and forth” was a further sign that she was slipping into a light trance, her mind surrendering control.

He passed his hand quickly in front of his patient’s eyes. She didn’t blink, just kept moving her eyes back and forth, back and forth. Yes, she was under.

“Jill, can you hear me?” He paused. “I can call you Jill, can’t I?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill breathed. “Hear you. You can . . . call me Jill.”

“Very good, Jill.” The therapist drew a deep breath. It was time for the next step.

“Jill,” he said, “continue to listen to the metronome. And as you do, I want you to imagine yourself opening a door.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill whispered. “Opening . . . a door.”

“On the other side of the door there is a set of stairs leading down. Can you see them?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Dr. Alexander instructed, “I want you to go down those stairs. They are very special stairs, Jill. Magical stairs. As you descend, you will grow younger. One year for each step. And at each step, for each age, you will remember clearly everything that happened to you when you were that age or younger, and nothing from when you were older, because it hasn’t happened yet. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Doctor.” Jill’s voice was very soft now, her face dreamy. “Special stairs. When I go down . . . I will get younger. One year for . . . each step. Remember everything that happened to me . . . that age or younger but nothing from later because it . . . hasn’t happened yet.”

“Very good, Jill. Now listen carefully, because this is very important.” Dr. Alexander paused again, carefully considering his next words. “Now on each step, piled against one side, there are thrown-away memories. Things you didn’t need or didn’t want to remember. Among those memories, on one step or another, you will find the ones which have been bothering you lately. When you do, you will describe them to me. Do you understand me, Jill?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill answered.

“Very good, Jill. Now start down the stairs. Let the steady ticking of the metronome guide you. Tick . . . one step. Tick . . . another step. Tick . . . ”

Jill’s face softened even further as she descended the stairs in her mind, receding into her past. Finally, she stopped, looking agitated.

“No, Daddy!” she shouted, her voice that of a frightened teenage girl. “No, don’t! Don’t hit me! Please!”

“Calm,” the therapist instructed. “These are only memories. They can’t hurt you. Just describe them.”

“I went out with Ronnie, and Daddy found out, and he hit me.” Jill sniffled. “He doesn’t like it when I go out with boys. He called me a slut, and a Jezebel, and he yelled at me, and he hit me!”

“How old are you now, Jill?”

“Sixteen,” said his patient. “I’m sixteen.”

“And is this the first time he’s hit you?”

“No,” Jill admitted. “He always hits me when he thinks I’ve been fooling around with boys . . . or when he’s been drinking. Daddy drinks a lot.”

“And how do you feel about this?”

“I don’t want to feel anything about it,” said Jill. “I don’t want him to hit me. I want to be a good girl.” She whimpered. “I want to be a good girl, but Daddy says I’m a bad girl. And sometimes I have bad thoughts about boys, and I’m scared Daddy will find out and hit me some more.”

“Tell me about these bad thoughts, Jill,” commanded her therapist.

Much later, Jill opened her eyes. “What happened, Doctor?” she asked. “I feel like I fell asleep.”

“No,” Dr. Alexander said. “I just helped you to relax and access some deeply buried memories.”

“What memories, Doctor?” Jill was puzzled. “I don’t remember anything at all after you had me look at that metronome thing on your desk.” She glanced at it; the arm was no longer moving. “Did you hypnotize me?”

“Yes, Jill,” acknowledged the doctor. “Don’t worry, I didn’t make you cluck like a chicken or anything.” Jill laughed. “I just put you into a relaxed state where you could look at some things you find difficult to face while you’re fully awake.”

“But then why don’t I remember that stuff now?”

Dr. Alexander sighed. “I instructed you that when you woke up, you would recall only what you felt comfortable remembering. The memories I dredged up were obviously very troubling to you. It may take a number of sessions before you’re able to face them while awake, but I’ll help you.”

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Alexander,” Jill gushed.

“You’re welcome.” Dr. Alexander stood up, and Jill Herbert followed suit. “Our session is over for the day. You can write me a check on the way out, or speak with my receptionist and have the charge put on your credit card.”

“Thank you again, Doctor,” Jill said, and left the office.

“The pleasure was mine, I assure you,” the doctor murmured after his patient had left.

Reaching for the phone on the small metal cabinet to the right of his desk, he picked up the handset and speed-dialed a number.

“Panjit Singh here,” a deep voice with a lilting Bombay accent answered.

“I’ve got another one for you, Pan,” Dr. Alexander said.

“Beautiful?” The voice on the other end was eager.

“Oh, yes.” The doctor described his patient: five feet eleven inches (he translated into the metric equivalent for his foreign listener), platinum-blonde hair in a Brigitte Nielsen cut, green eyes, lush bosom tapering to a tiny waist, then swelling again to abundant hips; trim, tapering legs ending in delicate feet. “A perfect package, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ah, yes,” hissed Singh. “But is she ready for delivery?”

“No, not yet,” the doctor confessed. “I’ve only had the one session with her so far, just enough to learn a few useful things and plant some preliminary suggestions. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

“Thank you,” Singh said. “When will she be ready?”

“I’ll let you know,” promised Dr. Alexander.

“Until then,” Singh responded, and hung up.

Session six:

“Relax,” intoned the doctor. “Watch the metronome swing back and forth. Back and forth. Relax. Listen to the ticking of the metronome, and my voice, and think of nothing else as you open the door and descend your special staircase again. Tick . . . step. Tick . . . step. Keep going until you reach the place we’ve talked about. Remember, nothing you find there can hurt you.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill responded. It was much easier now. Each time they had revisited these memories in successive sessions, she had been less afraid. If he had wanted, the doctor was sure, he could have had her confront them consciously by now. But he had other ideas.

She reached “sixteen years old” in her mind, the place they had found during her first session and which he had spent a great deal of time exploring since then. But for what he had in mind, Ms. Herbert would have to be regressed further. It would be necessary to reach the deepest roots of her psychological trauma in order to use it as he intended.

“Jill,” he said, “I want you to continue down the stairs. Listen to the metronome, and my voice, and go further down. Deeper. Continue to grow younger as you go down your magical stairs, until you reach the very first time your father ever hit you. And as you descend the stairs, tell me your age as you reach each step farther down. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill said in her teenage voice.

“Very good, Jill. Now listen to my voice, and the metronome, and go down further. As you go down the steps, you will continue to grow younger, and at each step, you will tell me what age you are. Do you understand me, Jill?”

“Yes, Doctor,” came the answer. “Listen to your voice and . . . the ticking . . . and go further . . . down the stairs. Keep getting . . . younger. Tell you . . . my age on each step.”

“Very good, Jill. Go ahead now, down the magic stairs.”

Tick. “Fifteen. I’m fifteen.”

Tick. “Fourteen.”

Tick. “Thirteen.”

Tick. “Twelve. . . .”

When she reached “six,” she suddenly stopped and began to cry softly.

“What’s wrong, Jill?” Dr. Alexander asked softly.

“Daddy hit me,” she sniffed. “He said I was bad and he hit me. He never hit me before.”

“And you don’t want him to hit you, do you?”

“No,” she snuffled. “Don’ wannit. Hurts. Scares me. Daddies aren’t supposed to be mean.”

“That’s all right, Jill.” The doctor paused. “I’m going to fix it for you so your daddy never hits you.”

This was the tricky part. He would have to build a new set of memories for her, one she’d prefer to her real ones. Right here was where he needed to start.

“You need to go down one more step for me, Jill. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Doc-tor,” Jill promised in a soft, little-girl voice.

“You have gone down one more step. How old are you?”

“Five, Do’tor,” Jill said, her voice even younger now.

“Now Jill,” her therapist instructed, “I want you to look across from the stairs you came down. There’s another set of stairs going up. Do you see them?”

“Yes, Do’tor,” responded the childish voice. “’Nother buncha stairs goin’ up. I see ‘em.”

“I want you to go up those stairs,” Dr. Alexander said. “They lead to another place. Another life, where Daddy never ever hit you. Take one step up. How old are you?”

“Six, Doc-tor,” came the answer. “I’m six.”

“Now listen to me, Jill, because this is very important. More important than anything else in the whole world.” Jill nodded, wide-eyed. “When you are on these stairs, or in the place they go up to, you must trust me completely. You must believe anything I say, do anything I tell you to. Everything I tell you is for your own good. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doc-tor. When I’m on these stairs or . . . where they go up to . . . believe anything you say. Do anything you say. Everything you tell me is . . . for my own good.”

“Good girl.” Now to start building the new, improved Jill. “Now the first thing to remember is that the Jill on these stairs, and in the place they go up to, never ever gets hit by anybody.”

“Never ever?” Jill’s eyes widened more. “Promise?”

“I promise. Let’s go up the stairs together, shall we? And as we do, I’ll tell you what your life is like as you grow older, step by step, year by year. Listen to the ticking sound, and my voice, and step up—that’s right; now step up again. Tell me your age as you come up each step, and I’ll help you remember what really happened in your life.”

“Seven.” The doctor began to speak, reading off the script he had thought up.

“Eight.”

“Nine. . . .”

At “sixteen,” he stopped her. He’d been carefully steering her memories and strengthening his hold on her. Now for the first test.

“Jill, how do you feel about your father?”

“Gee, Doctor, that’s kind of personal, isn’t it?” the teenage Jill said coyly. “Never mind; he’s an okay guy, I guess.”

“Does he ever hit you?”

“No, of course not!” Jill sounded indignant. “Daddy’s not like that!”

“Never mind. I had to ask.” Phase One was successful. Now for the next test.

“All right, Jill, now listen carefully.” Time to plant a control trigger, the first of several he’d need. “From now on, when you hear me call you ‘Jezebel,’ you will instantly become completely obedient and do anything I say, no matter what it is. ‘Jezebel’ will be your signal that what I’m about to tell you must be obeyed without question, because it’s for your own good. You will obey when you hear me say ‘Jezebel’ even if you are at the top of the other set of stairs, being the Jill whose Daddy was mean. Do you understand me, Jill?”

“Yes, Doctor. I will obey . . . when I hear ‘Jezebel.’ Even if I’m . . . at the top of . . . the other stairs, being the Jill whose . . . Daddy was mean.”

“Jezebel, take off your blouse, please. Pretend I’m your boyfriend and you’re trying to turn me on. We’re all alone, no one else can see.”

The “Jezebel” trigger worked perfectly. Smiling seductively, Jill writhed in her seat, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, then peeled it off over her head and tossed it aside.

“Leave your arms up, yes, like that, and wait.” The doctor got up and took a video camera from one of the cabinets lining his office. He set it up facing Jill, turned it on and said, “Now dance, Jezebel, dance as if you were a stripper, or a belly dancer.”

And Jill obeyed, standing up in a lithe movement and then writhing eagerly as the camera ran. She was no professional dancer, but she was plenty good enough. Her impressive bosom came close to hypnotizing the doctor himself as it bobbed and jiggled with her gyrations. Finally, he pulled himself together and croaked, “You can stop dancing, Jezebel.”

She obeyed, and sat quietly, folding her hands in her lap, as he put the video camera away.

“Now Jill,” he finally said, “let’s continue on up the stairs, shall we?”

“Yes, Doctor,” she said obediently.

At last they reached the “top.” Dr. Alexander said, “Jill, look down at yourself, please. Do you see anything unusual?”

Jill looked down, and suddenly giggled. “Why, I’m topless, Doctor! How did that happen?”

“I told you to take off your top, and you did it. Does that bother you, Jill?”

“Why, no, Doctor, of course not,” she chirped. “I trust you completely. I’ll do anything you say. Everything you tell me is for my own good.”

Perfect. Jill Mark II was utterly obedient and accepting. Her inhibitions had been left behind along with her repressed memories of her abusive father. The next step would be to submerge Jill Mark I completely. Her new persona would have to be strengthened until it began to take over even when she was not in trance. Then she’d be ready for the final step.

But that would take more sessions, more preparation. In the meantime . . .

“You’re feeling very warm, aren’t you, Jill?” Dr. Alexander suggested. “Very warm.”

“Y-yeah,” Jill gasped, beads of sweat suddenly popping out on her forehead. “Why’s it suddenly . . . so hot in here, Doctor?”

“It’s not the room,” he explained. “It’s you. You’re hot. Sexually hot. You need sex, now, right now.”

Jill moaned. “Y-yeahhh,” she managed to say. “God. Need. Sex. Please.”

Her eyes fell on the doctor. “Please, Dr. Alexander. Please. I . . . gotta have sex. Gotta. Please.” She leaned toward him, thrusting her breasts at his face, then slithered up onto his desk.

Oh, yeah, thought the doctor. Before I deliver this one to Singh, I’m going to have some fun myself. Oh, YEAH.

Then she was on him, her breasts squeezing against his face, dizzying him. Her hands tore at his shirt and pulled him toward her onto the desk. His own hands reached for her skirt and pulled it down, along with the panties underneath. Careful, he told himself; I have to maintain control of the situ—the sit—nnnggghhhh.

Thought stopped as two bodies moved together. They hardly noticed as they toppled off the desk onto the office carpet. Totally nude by now, they ground into each other, Jill’s right hand pulling the doctor’s buttocks, driving him into her, her left tangled in his hair, mashing his head into her bosom. Dr. Alexander’s arms encircled her as he pumped into her, draining himself dry in shuddering ecstasy. A few minutes later, he spurted into her again. And then again.

Much later, when the doctor floated back to reality, his patient was sleeping peacefully with her head on his chest, a dreamy smile on her face. He wanted nothing more than to drift off himself, but he didn’t dare. If she woke up and came out of trance while he was out of it, he was done.

Propping himself up on one elbow, he nudged Jill gently. She murmured and opened her eyes, and he tensed, prepared to use her “Jezebel” keyword if he had to.

“Doctor,” she said softly. He relaxed; her eyes had the unfocused look which indicated she was still deeply under, and her mouth hung slightly open.

“Yes, Jill. I’m here.” Dr. Alexander sat up, and propped Jill up as well, gazing into her eyes. “Listen to me, Jill. It’s time to go back. Time to go down the stairs that led you here, and up the stairs back to the other Jill’s life.”

“But I don’ . . . wanna,” she protested drowsily. “Other Jill’s Daddy . . . hurt her. Other Jill’s . . . not happy.”

“I know,” he soothed. “But it’s only for a while. And I’m going to help you, give you some ideas you can take back with you that will make the other Jill happier. And maybe after a while, you won’t have to go back at all.”

Jill sighed. “Prom-ise?”

Dr. Alexander smiled. “Promise.” He looked his patient over appraisingly, then said, “You need to get dressed now, Jill. It’s time to go home.”

Meekly, Jill obeyed. As she put on her discarded garments, the doctor dressed himself. When they were both fully clothed again, he sat her in the chair facing him again, sat down behind his desk, and spoke.

“Jill, when you leave here, you will feel relaxed and happy. You will find yourself less inhibited than before. You will fantasize about being a sexy dancer for Ben, and you will find dance classes which will prepare you to act out that fantasy, and take those classes. You will find that your fantasies, and acting out those fantasies, will help you to sleep at night. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor,” responded Jill. Softly, she repeated his instructions.

“But Jill,” the therapist cautioned, “you will not remember that I told you to do this. You will accept that your fantasies and your actions are all your own idea.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Jill nodded. “I will not remember . . . that you told me to do this. All of it is . . . my own idea.”

“Very good, Jill.” The doctor restarted the metronome, which had run down. Jill’s eyes immediately began to follow its moving arm. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Watch the metronome. Listen to its ticking.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Imagine yourself opening the door to your special stairs. Do you see the stairs, Jill?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Dr. Alexander pitched his voice carefully as he continued. “Go down the stairs, Jill. Down, one step for each tick. Grow younger again, one year for each step. Are you going down the stairs, Jill? Are you getting younger?”

“Yes, Doctor. “Going down . . . the stairs. Getting . . . younger.”

“Tell me when you reach the lowest point you were at before, when you were five, Jill. Tell me when you are five again.”

Silence, for a short time. Then: “Do’tor?” A child’s voice. “I’m five.”

“Very good, Jill. Now look over, and you should see more stairs, going up to another door.”

“I see ‘em.”

“Very good, Jill.” They were getting there. “Now I want you to go up those stairs, one at a time, and as you do, you will grow older again until you reach the door at the top of the stairs. You will grow up into the other Jill, the one who came to my office. But you don’t have to look at anything on the stairs this time; just go up, and grow up.”

“Yes, Do’tor.”

“Go up the stairs, Jill, and grow older. Tell me your age as you reach each step. Start up the stairs now, Jill.”

“Yes, Do’tor.” A moment later, “I’m six, Doc-tor.”

“Seven.”

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

“Ten. . . .” Jill’s voice grew noticeably more mature as she counted up, and her face took on a more adult expression. Finally, at “twenty-nine,” she reached her imaginary door and passed through it.

Dr. Alexander halted the metronome with a finger. “Jill, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jill replied.

“In a moment, I will awaken you. When I do, you will remember only that I helped you to relax, and that coming here for more sessions will help more. But you will obey the instructions I have given you, believing they are your own ideas. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor. In a moment you will . . . awaken me. I will remember only . . . that you helped me, and that coming here will . . . help more. But I will obey . . . your instructions. They are . . . my own ideas.”

“Very good, Jill. I will now count to three, and when I reach three, you will awaken as we agreed. One.” Jill’s eyes, which had been moving back and forth mechanically, steadied.

“Two.” Jill sighed.

“Three.” Jill blinked again, and sat suddenly upright.

“How do you feel, Jill?” her therapist asked.

“Wonderful, Doctor!” Jill gushed. “Our sessions always make me feel so free. And I’m sleeping so much better!” She smiled wickedly. “I had the naughtiest idea just now. Something for Ben.”

“Don’t tell me,” Dr. Alexander said. “Spring it on your boyfriend.”

Jill grinned. “I intend to, Doctor!”

She was whistling as she left the office.

After Ms. Herbert left, Dr. Alexander sat at his desk quietly for a while, elbows on the desktop, hands clasped together beneath his chin. A most productive session, he thought, smirking. A few more, perhaps another two or three months’ worth, and she’d be ready for delivery. Then he’d collect his bounty from Singh. Another installment for his retirement fund.

And in the meantime, he’d collect from Jill. Both money, and . . . ! He licked his lips.

Then he pressed the intercom button on his phone and asked his receptionist to send in his next patient.