The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

SOYLENT GREEN, the poster read, IS PIZZA. It was the first thing you saw after you pushed open the door into our corridor, on which lay the AREA 51 SECURITY ZONE notice, and faced a Gray smoking dope with the legend TAKE ME TO YOUR DEALER. A reasonably standard first-year University Halls; perhaps a little more SF-oriented than most, but no less and no more immature. In case you haven’t realised, we’re nowhere near Roswell; we’re in northern England, about midway up Britain. A corridor of ten inhabitants on the second floor of a Halls of Residence, mostly Arts students, all Arts if you count Psychology as an art rather than a science. I, who have never quite been able to see how such a collection of suppositions and untruths could rank as a science, count it as an Art but think the whole classification system is screwed. Also because I don’t like calling myself a scientist, and nor does Kitty—who is probably better than me. I’m apt to start sniping at test subjects.

I came up the stairs and saw her looking uncertainly at the poster. I came to a halt and said, as uncertainly as she was looking at the poster, “Can I help you?”

She gave a shocked start—at times, these can be ridiculously easy to generate—and spun around. I smiled awkwardly, but this is deliberate; being slightly uneasy yet friendly often seems to help calm them down. It’s good to know someone’s as worried as you are.

Even if, like me, acting is a consuming passion and they’re faking it utterly. As it stood, I was just surprised to see her. Physics students don’t often come our way, and aside from propping up the College quiz team for those important inter-college bouts, I’d had no contact with her. I wasn’t sure she even recognised me.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, smiling uncomfortably. She waved her head toward the poster. “What the hell is that all about?”

“Soylent Green? Sci-fi film. About a culture in which food is made from humans. Soylent Green is people, Soylent Green is pizza...” I shrugged. “It was funny when Kyle bought it.”

“You’re Kyle,” she said, spotting the flaw in my defence immediately. I remained unfazed by dint of bugger all effort. It had been expected, more or less.

I shrugged again. Very expressive gesture, your basic shrug. “And for once I was actually hoping an attractive girl didn’t know my name... OK, I was drunk, it was funny at the time, I offloaded it on the Halls. Also figured if I found it funny, a couple of the other sci-fi junkies on the corridor would, and they did, and we haven’t got round to taking it down and putting up the Tequila poster. Anyway, that can’t be all you came up here for, surely?”

She shook her head, looking distracted. “No, no... Sorry, the Tequila poster?”

“Tequila; have you hugged your toilet today?” I intoned, and then grinned. “I have a theory that you start to regress when you reach the Sixth form. We’re currently back at about thirteen-year-old status, only with more chance of sex.”

The distraction ploy was working. She was no longer thinking about why she’d been nervous.

I remembered my manners. “Uh, you wanna come in?” I asked, gesturing past her.

“Uh... sure.” Back to the nervousness. I supposed that was fair enough.

“Tea?” I asked. At ten in the morning it was a little early for alcohol even by student standards. It being a Saturday, probably no one else in the corridor was awake yet, let alone conscious.

“Uh... sure.”

“Talkative, aren’t you?” I smiled over my shoulder at her, letting her know I was kidding.

She smiled back, a little melancholy. “I am, normally. It’s just...”

“What?” I asked softly, filling the kettle. “I have a policy on this stuff. I don’t tell anyone.” I put the kettle on, dropped a couple of teabags into the pot in anticipation, and took the seat across the Formica table from her.

“This you might, though,” she said. “It’s... it’s a little weird.”

“I’m guessing ‘kinky’ might be a better word, since you think I’d want to tell people,” I said, really curious now. “And since lads my age are renowned for telling dirty and often biologically unlikely stories. But I won’t, I swear.”

“Well...”

The kettle boiled. I smiled apologetically. “Hang on,” I said gently, and stood up. “I swear it’s not normally this quick.”

She laughed a little. I transferred the contents of the kettle to the teapot and put the lid on, and left it to mash. “Five minutes, OK? Sorry I can’t get it sooner, but this sounds like a multicupper problem and I’m damned if I’m gonna brew them one at a time.”

Told you I’d make a crap psychiatrist. Still, I’m not really aiming to be one, so it’s not a problem.

It’s just a degree; any degree can boost your employment chances, even the Currymaking one I understand one campus runs. I honestly don’t know what I want to be yet.

“A multicupper?”

I looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, right... It might take a while to get you to explain the problem, is what I mean. More than one cup of tea. Hence the absence of individual preparations, and their being superseded by the teapot.”

“Ah,” she said. “Realisation.”

I smiled; a bad joke, if vaguely intelligent, generally means I’ll like the person who made it. I do have trouble with people whose jokes come off every time. What was it Cleese said... “An Englishman would rather be told he was a bad lover than that he had a bad sense of humour”... and sadly my jokes don’t come off every time.

I nodded. “Anyway, you were, uh, saying?”

“Well... No, this was stupid.” She made to get up; I waved her back into her seat. “Tenner says I’m going to hear a shitload more stupid stuff than this in the next three years.”

“I doubt it.”

“You really have a mania in your head about this one, don’t you?” I said, grinning. I checked my watch. “Tea,” I said decisively. The five minutes weren’t up, but I decided it was near enough. It helps people get their secrets out in the open if they think there’s the slightest chance not everyone is paying attention.

“I want to be hypnotised,” she said, abruptly.

“Oh?” I asked, feigning indifference. As it was, well, like I told you, my interest was piqued and then some. “Want some help smoking? Can’t be weightloss. Tell me it’s not weightloss.” I sneaked a glance over my shoulder. Looked like she was half-glad, half-panicked. I diagnosed that the comment she’d just made was what she wanted to get out into the open, and couldn’t for the life of me work out why.

Although wanting to be hypnotised did seem to be laying it on a little thick.

“No,” she said. “Well, that is... I dunno. I hadn’t got much further, but... no. No. What I really want...” Her voice trailed off.

“Sugar?” I asked. “Go on.”

“Uh, no. Thanks. Uh... Look, this is the real weird bit. I thought what I just said was the weird bit, but... no. It wasn’t. Uh... I want to be hypnotised into having sex.”

I passed her her mug and made a noncommittal noise. “You, ah... You can’t be having... how the hell can I put this without sounding rude... You can’t be having trouble with, ah...?”

My voice trailed off. I really hadn’t been ready for this. Somewhere along the line faux-confusion to draw her out of herself had folded into genuine confusion.

“Oh, no,” she said, immediately. “No, nothing like that. It’s just...” She sighed. “You see, I have this kinda fantasy...”

She fiddled with her mug. “Yes?” I prompted her. “Or don’t I want to know?”

She told me.

Once she’d got going, she went into great detail. It got boring, which is not a view I often take about sex. By the standards of some of the stuff I read here before posting, it was also incredibly dull.

She and I sat in silence for a while as I digested what she’d told me and she fiddled yet more uncomfortably with her mug.

“Interesting,” I managed at last. “Had you got a particular hypnotist in mind?”

“You’ll do fine,” she said immediately. “I mean... if you can hypnotise me... oh, shit. Sorry. Uh...”

“Well, I can,” I said. “And... and I wouldn’t say no to having sex with you,” I said, hitting her back with the acceptance-as-insult she’d used on me. I grinned. “Actually, I’d love it. But I haven’t done it... er, practised hypnosis... much before, so I’ll only agree if you’re sure...”

I let her imagination, which was clearly much better than mine, fill in horrendous if incredibly unlikely blanks between the lines of that last comment. And still she didn’t hesitate.

“Sure,” she said. “Uh, when...?”

Girl, you got it bad, I thought. “Well, we can do it anytime, so long as you let me restock my rather depleted sock collection first.”

“Sock collection... Oh! Oh, right...” She laughed. “All is clear now. But... I am on the pill,” she said.

“OK. Now, this is going to sound rude, but there’s no nice way of saying it. What about the other thing people wear condoms for?”

“I’m clean,” she said. “Definitely. One of my friends went down with something, and we’d been out with the same guy, so I got myself checked. And I’m clean.”

“Sounds fine by me. Look, I’m sorry about this, but... I really am going to have to ask this or it’ll bug me for ever... how did you—”

“Get this fixation?” she completed. I nodded slowly. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But, er... well, I think it started when I was about eleven, and I was spotty, wore glasses, no one noticed me...”

“Nasty,” I sympathised. “The ugly duckling syndrome. Oh, shit... that wasn’t supposed to come out like that, it was supposed to be a compliment. I mean...”

“Yeah. I didn’t realise until afterward that they did actually quite like me, they were just waiting for me to come out of my shell. But, uh... well, I started to get interested in sex, and since no one seemed to notice me, I... I dunno, I just suddenly thought hypnosis could deal with that and by the time I’d found out it couldn’t, I was masturbating over the idea of hypnotising people as much as the idea of having sex with them afterwards. Then, a year or so afterward... I dunno, everything just... flipped. I wanted to be under someone’s control.”

I nodded, as understandingly as I could. “So, early puberty, yeah? I suppose the age also explains... well...”

She nodded. “I found a video my brother had left lying around. I must have watched it a thousand times. I don’t think he ever realised where it had gone. It, uh... it made an impression.”

We retired to my room; immaculate, which I think shocked her. The truth was, I nearly tripped over my laptop power cable, which would have jerked it off the desk and smashed it, yesterday. And I almost did so because I couldn’t see it under the camo gear I’d been wearing for a costume bar crawl the day before that I’d just dumped anywhere. I went on a cleaning frenzy, which explained it.

“So, um, how does this work?”

“You’re the one who’s been obsessing about it since childhood,” I pointed out. “I’m a psychology student who read the chapter because it was the only thing in the textbook that sounded interesting after I’d checked schizophrenia. You tell me.”

“I—I don’t know.”

Ah, I thought. “Scared to check in case people guessed?” I asked, as sympathetically as possible.

She nodded.

“You’d be amazed how much you can do before it becomes obvious to anyone else,” I said, gently. “Especially if they’ve no reason to suspect you, and still more if they’ve never heard of your particular fetish. And I doubt many of them would. All they’d think is you had an interest in hypnotism.”

She smiled slightly, and shrugged. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

“True,” I said. “Still, we’re just killing time. Now, if you’d just lie back and make yourself comfortable...”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. And pick out something you can look at for as long as it takes.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, watching my door fixedly. I looked over at it; she seemed to be inspecting Bruce Lee in mid-kick. Fair enough; I’ve done it myself. The man’s a god.

“Right,” I said softly. “We’re going to use that as your focal point. Now, as you look at it I want you to count down from one hundred, and as you count down I want you to imagine the number in your head, in big numerals, maybe on a stopwatch, or a microwave timer, or something. And you just do that and try not to notice anything but what’s going on inside your head and your focal point. Try to keep your thoughts on that path alone, and don’t concentrate too hard on it. If you lose your place, that’s fine. Now, counting out loud, if you please...”

“One hundred,” she said, softly. It was phenomenal; I’d practised an induction on Kitty before, but as we slipped down the numbers and I took her down below full consciousness I came to suspect she’d put herself half in trance by the time I even began the induction, simply from eagerness. While Kitty had been willing enough, and so had I when I’d returned the favour and let her practice on me, we hadn’t actively wanted to go under. And yet event hat should have been a hindrance.

Before she reached sixty I was fairly sure she wasn’t consciously aware of what I was saying to her; it was all going straight to the subconscious, raising it from the depths, allowing me to guide her consciousness into repose. By forty I was sure she had no idea; I’d now persuaded her to count silently except for five-number intervals and was holding a conversation with a breathy, half-asleep, naïve version of her. This subconscious personality—not the right term at all, but how it seemed—was perfectly willing to discuss any topic I raised, and as far as I could tell it was being full and frank on all subjects. Certainly the speed of her responses made it difficult to imagine she was fictionalising the whole thing.

At twenty-five even this subconscious personality seemed dormant, or at least unable to hold a conversation. I would make a statement, and she would respond. I worked for a while on deepening her trance, though I doubted she’d emerge from it; she wanted to be down there. And then I began to suggest what she’d wanted suggested, what she’d wanted so much to believe...

Her eyes were still fixed on Bruce, but they didn’t seem to register. I smiled. Somehow this was getting to me; it was kinda fun. Oh, great, I thought. Now she’s got me doing it... Ah, what the hell.

I suddenly realised I hadn’t made all the preparations necessary. I dived into the cupboard and dug out the few peripherals I’d dragged over to university. Quite why I’d got the microphone in the first place, and quite why it was so crap, I didn’t know. But it was fine for Claire’s purposes.

It wasn’t long before I woke her up.

“Action,” my recorded voice said. Claire’s eyes opened. She sat up in bed as, to all appearances, I walked in and shut the door.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “No—no—get back, get fucking back...”

“Not particularly likely,” I said. I waved one hand in a manner reminiscent of the famed Jedi mind trick. “Your shirt,” I said, in a different voice, a more commanding voice. I was enjoying myself; playing the villain is always fun.

Claire’s hands jumped back from their defensive posture and began frantically to undo the buttons on her shirt. The rest of her body seemed utterly unaware of this. “W-what do you want from me?” she quavered. The last button slid out of it’s hole and she shrugged the shirt off, discarding it carelessly on the floor. Her arms returned to their defensive posture.

I repeated the gesture. “Your jeans,” I said, in the commanding voice. Her hands fell to the button on the waist. Still she didn’t seem to have the faintest idea what was going on. “I should have thought that was obvious, my dear,” I said in my normal voice, “given what you’re doing.” I pointed at her crotch and her busy hands, which finished with the zip and now gripped the waistband, beginning to tug down. Her buttocks pulled up a little as she lifted herself off the ground so that her jeans could slip under her without difficulty, then she lowered herself back into place, following my gaze and continuing to slide her jeans off.

“I’m not doing anything,” she said, as she dropped her jeans over the side as well.

“No,” I replied, “you’re not doing anything that you’re aware of. Big difference.” And I laughed; a pantomime/horror B-Movie laugh, a laugh Ming the Moronic would be jealous of, really exaggerating it. Method acting this ain’t. As she cringed, I gave her The Gesture again; “Your bra.”

Her hands jumped of their own accord to her shoulders and slipped the straps down. Then they ran down her back and unclipped the fastening, an action I sadly couldn’t see.

One hand returned to it’s defensive purpose while the other drew the bra away from her lovely, full breasts and dropped it on the floor. Her nipples were already rigid, her breasts seemed almost to quiver in anticipation. I took a moment to admire, before dragging my rugby top over my head and leaving that too on the floor.

Her eyes widened as, in the universe her consciousness occupied, my intentions became clear. Too much previous had been edited out for her to know, but she was living in her brother’s video, the character rather than the actress, during the scene for the love of which she’d almost worn the tape out. She saw me merely as the personification of evil, and I have to say it’s better than playing the pizza boy.

“No...” she whimpered.

“No?” I asked, playing with her. “Let me ask for a moment what you think you’re wearing.”

“What I normally wear, fuckhead,” she snapped back.

“Are you sure?”

She looked down at her almost nude body, then looked up and practically snarled. “Of course. What, did you want me to think you’d magicked it off me or something?”

“I don’t use magic, my dear,” I said. “I don’t have to.” The Gesture once more. “And your last line of defence.”

Her hand fled downward and her thumbs took refuge in the waistband of her panties. She began to slide them down her legs, raising her butt again momentarily to make it easier.

She continued to stare sullenly at me even as her hand released the lacy garment.

Another Gesture. “Realise,” I said. She glanced down again, her head ducking involuntarily and bobbing straight back up. There was a pause, during which her eyes became even wider and her mouth slowly changed into a perfect O of panic. Then her head lowered again, and rose up. “Shit,” she said. “Shit! You fucking well do use magic!”

“I do not,” I replied equably. I repeated the Gesture once more. “Remember,” I said.

Silence fell. Eventually she ventured, “I... you... I... How did you make me do that?”

“I possess remarkable powers, my dear.” I said. The Gesture was repeated yet again. “Your tits are fun to play with.”

Hands leaped into the air, fastening on her rock-hard nipples. She began to caress, to stroke, occasionally to pinch, to moan in ecstasy. Yet her eyes, if becoming a little unfocused, never left me. The Gesture once more. “Roll over,” I said. “Support yourself on elbows and knees. Keep playing with your tits and let your hole grow wet. Keep your knees slightly apart so that I can enter you.” This all seemed overlong, so I repeated the gesture even as she turned around and presented a perfectly-formed backside to me. I unzipped and shed my trousers, then dropped my boxers. I climbed onto the bed behind her and slid an exploratory finger inside her; sopping already. I entered her carefully and then forgot my cares. We romped away to orgasm.

A little while later, my recorded voice said “Cut.” Claire came out of trance.

“Thanks,” she said as she left.

“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, readily. “And that’s not going to be the end of it, I hope?”

“No,” I said. “Provided we find some other scenes to do as well.”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of other ideas...”

I watched her descend the stairs, and I smiled.