The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The usual legalistic boilerplate applies.

This is a work of erotic fantasy featuring mind control. Any resemblance between individuals or situations depicted herein and anyone or anything in real life is strictly in the mind of the reader. As far as I know, the mind control method exploited by Paul Bennett isn’t even possible. (But then, if it were possible, would anyone admit it?)

This story occurs in the same fictional universe as the “Nerd Science” trilogy.

Synopsis: After a throat operation, a man discovers women will do anything he tells them to.

The Yesmaster

Chapter I: The Voice of Authority

Paul Bennett opened his eyes and drew a shuddering breath, glad to be alive.

Oh, the doctors had assured him that the operation to remove the tumor in his larynx carried only limited risks; it wasn’t as if they were digging around in his brain, after all. Just the same, anything could happen under the knife.

He looked around. He was in the private room he’d paid through the nose for. Bad enough that he had to be sick, and helpless—he’d been determined he wouldn’t be crammed in with strangers while doctors and nurses pawed him over. It wasn’t that he hated people; it was just that he didn’t like having them around when he was feeling so vulnerable and couldn’t get away.

He noticed he was attached to an IV drip and several monitors. The drip, he realized foggily, must account for why he felt so detached, and why his throat only burned a little instead of hurting like hell. He looked up at the tiled ceiling; it seemed to be shifting colors in a herringbone pattern, like a television picture with bad reception. The colors were fascinating. The colors were. The colors. . . .

He closed his eyes, and the world went away for a while.

When he woke up again, his head was clearer. He could look at the ceiling without hallucinating or passing out. There seemed to be some activity around him; a very pretty nurse, he realized, was disconnecting some kind of tube from his throat, and he’d already been detached from the intravenous setup.

He tried to say something, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

“Shh,” the nurse responded. “It’s all right, Mr. Bennett. Don’t try to talk just yet; I’m only just now taking out your tracheal tube. You’re doing fine.”

Paul allowed himself to be soothed. He didn’t really have much choice, after all; either he’d be okay or he wouldn’t, but he was in no position to leap up and make a break for it. After a while, he went to sleep again.

The next time he awoke, the same nurse was in the room. He was more alert this time than before, so he was able to notice that she was more than just pretty—she was gorgeous! Great legs, firm rear, slim waist, tits to die for! And round, pretty face as well, with large blue eyes. A few wisps of blonde hair escaped from under her uniform cap.

He must have still been a little woozy, because, eyes fixing on her impressive chest, he blurted, “Hey babe, nice rack! How’s about peeling off that starched shirt and giving me a good look?” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he cringed. Oh my God, he thought, did I say that out loud?

What happened next was totally unexpected. The gorgeous nurse stiffened, then, eyes widening, casually unbuttoned her blouse, and tossed it aside. Then she leaned forward over him and said, “Is this good enough, Mr. Bennett?”

Paul was stunned. This couldn’t be real! It sure looked real though—and really great! He could feel himself growing hard beneath his hospital gown.

“Very nice, babe,” he said to the nurse, who held her position as if turned into a statue. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Rhonda, Mr. Bennett. My name is Rhonda Marks.” The girl’s voice sounded perfectly normal, calm and relaxed as she posed with her bra in his face. She seemed not to realize there was anything unusual going on.

How far could he push this?

“Rhonda,” Paul said, “take off your bra now. You don’t need it.” He had an idea: “Take it off as though you were a stripper. You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? ”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett,” Rhonda said. She giggled and began peeling off her brassiere, undulating and humming a little strip-club tune to herself. She dangled the garment in front of him briefly, then threw it away. After that, she went still again, beautiful boobs swaying freely mere inches from his face.

This was incredible! This gorgeous doll of a nurse apparently would do anything he said! But she didn’t look or act “hypnotized” in the stereotypical sense: her eyes weren’t glazed, she spoke in a normal voice, she moved like a regular person and not a B-movie zombie.

It had to have been the operation. It had done something to his voice. Paul vaguely recalled reading an article years ago about how certain frequencies of sound outside the normal human hearing range could have physical and psychological effects even though they were inaudible. Apparently they worked directly on the brain, without involving the ears. Maybe his larynx had been altered by the surgery so that when he spoke, some extra frequency was produced which compelled obedience.

Rhonda was beginning to sway on her feet. She was having trouble maintaining her pose bent over him; if she didn’t stand up, she’d fall over soon. Pleasurable as it might be to have her collapse on top of him, he wasn’t, he decided regretfully, quite ready for that.

“Rhonda, stand up,” he said. She obeyed, repeating, “Yes, Mr. Bennett.” He could see her relax once she was no longer leaning over so awkwardly. “Rhonda, get dressed,” he continued. She picked up her bra and blouse and put them on calmly. “Rhonda,” he asked curiously, “how do you feel about what just happened?”

Instantly, her expression changed. “You bastard!” she yelled. “What the hell did you do to me? I was like a puppet—I did everything you said, and even acted like I enjoyed it, while inside I was furious! Humiliated!” She glared at him. “I don’t know how you did it, but this was your one and only shot! I’m not coming back here; you can try your sick tricks on someone else—and I’m telling the hospital authorities! Maybe the cops!”

“No, Rhonda,” Paul said. “You won’t tell anyone. Any time you try, you’ll forget all about it before you say or write a word.” He smiled maliciously. “And you’ll take off your shirt and bra, too, and keep them off for at least five minutes. Besides,” the evil smile grew wider, “even if I let you, what would you tell them?”

Rhonda shuddered, picturing herself trying to explain how just a few words from a patient had had her doing a strip act for him. She’d be lucky just to lose her job. “As for coming back here,” Paul went on, “of course you will, if it’s part of your normal duties. And you’ll do everything you can to make sure it continues to be part of your duties, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett,” she replied calmly, her angry expression and tone instantly gone. “Everything I can.”

He regarded her for a moment. “One thing,” he said. “’Mr. Bennett’ is too formal, if we’re going to be,” he smirked, “working closely together. From now on, you’ll only call me that if other people are around. When we’re alone, it’s ‘master.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes, master,” Rhonda agreed.

“Good girl, Rhonda.” Paul thought for a moment. “You know, it’s hardly fair for me to get all the pleasure out of this arrangement. So here’s what we’re going to try, Rhonda. Whenever you hear my voice say, ‘Good girl, Rhonda,’ you’ll feel an overpowering sexual pleasure, strong enough to make you come no matter what. And each time you feel the pleasure, it’ll be stronger than it was the time before, until you reach whatever your personal limit is. Do you understand me, Rhonda?”

“Yes, master,” came the reply. Then, a flicker of defiance: “You sick jerk, you’ll never get away with—”

“Good girl, Rhonda.”

“—th-thithiiiiieeeeeeeee—!” Rhonda stiffened, her back arching, eyes crossing; she writhed, then fell to her knees beside Paul’s bed.

“Good girl, Rhonda.” The nurse toppled over, glassy-eyed, scrambling to tear off her clothing as her body spasmed uncontrollably.

“Good girl, Rhonda.” She didn’t make a sound, merely lay there, naked body bucking in ecstasy until the storm finally passed. At last her shudders ceased and her breathing returned to something like normal rhythm. Slowly, dazedly, she put her clothes back on and stood up. She didn’t try to run for it; she knew, now, that he could have her wriggling mindlessly on the floor, instantly, with just three little words.

“We understand each other, then,” Paul said.

“Yes . . . master . . . !” Rhonda replied, still a bit breathless.

“Good,” Paul responded, restraining the urge to use Rhonda’s sexual trigger again. Time enough for that later. “Now, Rhonda, it’s time for you to go about your duties. You can go.”

Without a word, Rhonda fled.

Now, Paul mused, I find out whether my commands hold once she’s not near me. If they don’t, the next voice I hear may be coming from a police officer. And on that happy note, he went back to sleep.

As it turned out, the next voice he heard was his doctor’s.

“How are we doing, Mr. Bennett?” the middle-aged man in the clean white coat asked. “Your chart indicates you’re making a pretty good recovery, but the charts don’t show everything.”

You can say that again, Doctor, Bennett said to himself. And I guess my hot little nurse didn’t spill the beans.

“I’m feeling a lot better, Doctor—” he squinted at the nametag on the doctor’s coat—“Steiner.” He laughed, then winced as his throat twinged. “I guess I was pretty out of it for a while after the surgery.”

“Perfectly normal,” Dr. Steiner said. “Good news. We’re still going over the tests, but early indications are that we got the whole tumor. If you’re lucky, you won’t need more than a mild course of chemotherapy.”

“Great, Doctor!” Bennett was exultant. What good would it be to gain the power to make people do his bidding if he were going to die soon?

His eyes fell on the expensive watch on the doctor’s right wrist. A gold Rolex, it undoubtedly cost more than he made in three months as an insurance salesman. Why shouldn’t he have one?

“Dr. Steiner,” he said forcefully, “give me your watch. You want me to have it.”

The doctor blinked at him. “What are you talking about, Mr. Bennett?” He reflexively covered the watch with his left hand. He not-quite joked, “Get your own.”

Paul blanched. It hadn’t worked! Was—whatever it was—gone? Or had it never been real at all? Had his puppeting of Nurse Rhonda been nothing more than an anesthetic-induced dream? He had to find out!

He got his chance shortly thereafter, when another nurse came in.

“Hello, Mr. Bennett,” the girl said. She was a petite, slender black girl, younger than Rhonda. She had a special voice of her own, low and husky.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Jasmine, sir,” she responded, a slight Louisiana accent in her voice. “Jasmine Thibodeaux.”

“Very nice.” Paul thought for a moment: what would be a good test?

He had it: a gimmick from stage hypnotism. It was pure show business, but it was a harmless suggestion which wouldn’t get him into trouble if it failed. “Jasmine, raise your arms above your head and clasp your hands together, and stay that way.”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett.” The dark-skinned nurse obeyed, then looked startled. “Hey, what’s going on? How’d you do that?” She tried to unclasp her hands and bring down her arms, but nothing happened. “Cut it out! Let me go!”

“Shh,” Paul said. “Not another word.” Instantly, Jasmine fell silent, looking scared.

Paul felt sorry for her. “Forget your worries,” he suggested. “Imagine you’re a dancer. Keep your arms raised, and stand on tiptoe—that’s right—and turn, slowly, slowly. Imagine you’re on stage, under a spotlight, and a big audience is watching you, seeing how graceful you are. Applauding. Keep turning, slowly, slowly, for the audience.”

Jasmine obeyed, relaxing as her mind accepted the fantasy and forgot the reality. It was so much easier to be a dancer, performing for an audience, than a frightened girl who somehow had to obey a strange man.

After a couple of minutes, Paul was satisfied. Jasmine was clearly under his control, just as Rhonda had been earlier.

But then why had Dr. Steiner been unaffected? Could it be, Paul wondered, that his—“power”—worked only on women?

It was possible, he supposed. He’d heard that the hearing ranges of men and women were slightly different, with women being more sensitive to higher frequencies than men were. If the “something extra” his voice had gained were some magic high frequency, it might affect men and women differently.

Jasmine was still turning, turning on tiptoe, hands clasped over her head. Her eyes were closed now, her lips slightly parted. Clearly, she was enjoying herself in the fantasy he’d built for her. It almost seemed a shame to end it, but he’d learned enough.

“Jasmine,” he addressed her, “it’s time to come back to reality. You had fun pretending to be a dancer, but you have patients who need you.”

Her eyes opened. She sighed and settled back onto the soles of her feet.

“You can unclasp your hands and bring your arms down now, Jasmine,” he told her.

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” she said, letting her arms fall to her sides. As had been true with Rhonda, she still seemed oddly calm for someone who’d been forced to obey a stranger’s every command—but as with Rhonda, she seemed fully awake and rational. He suspected, though, that inside, she was probably furious and terrified, as Rhonda had been. He’d better do something about that.

“Jasmine, I know you’re probably upset with me, even though you don’t show it,” he addressed her. “Forget about it. Completely. Nothing unusual happened here, except that you had a little daydream about being a dancer. Nod your head if your mind accepts this as true.”

Jasmine nodded her head.

“Very good, Jasmine. Now finish up your nurse’s duties here and go on with your rounds.”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett,” the nurse responded. She checked the room carefully, fluffed his pillows, and left, casting a last smile back at him. If she still had any memory of what he’d done, she showed no sign of it.

The test had been convincing. If he’d wanted, he was sure he could have made Nurse Jasmine strip and thrash in ecstasy as he’d done to Rhonda. Perhaps another time. When he was a little stronger, perhaps he could—persuade—both of them to do even more than that, with him or even each other.

Over the next few days, cautious experimentation confirmed Paul’s guesses and expanded his understanding of his new abilities. As he’d thought, he could control women but not men. The—influence, whatever it was, could manipulate not only actions but memories and thoughts, and suggestions seemed not to wear off, at least in the short term. It didn’t work over the phone, unless he specifically told his target face-to-face ahead of time to respond to phone commands.

Just how far his control extended, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It was already clear that he could override normal moral restraints. His first efforts with Rhonda and Jasmine had indicated that, and he’d arranged a get-together between the two of them which had proved that even basic sexual orientation could be altered at his whim; he wished he’d had a camera for that episode. But he couldn’t bring himself to order one of his “voice puppets,” as he was starting to think of them, to actually hurt or kill someone. He was afraid she’d do it, as willingly as she would obey any other instruction. And what would that make him?

Paul recalled an old line from the comics he’d read as a kid: “With great power comes great responsibility.” It had always struck him as corny, but now—!

There was another quote, from nineteenth-century Britain: “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” His power wasn’t absolute; his inability to control men, for one thing, limited it. But it was great enough to offer plenty of chances for corruption.

He smiled to himself. Some of those chances he meant to take. The smile faded; only some of them. Some lines were not to be crossed. The smile returned. As long as he knew what those lines were, what was the harm in playing around? His smile broadened into a grin. Soon enough, he was ready to go home. Somewhat to the surprise of his doctor, he didn’t go home alone. Nurses Rhonda Marks and Jasmine Thibodeaux went with him, having persuaded Administration to allow them to serve as health attendants for him during his convalescence. Their arguments to the male administrators had been quite strong, and very intimate. The chief nurse, a forbidding figure in her fifties, had tried to stand in the way until, at Paul’s suggestion, the nurses had brought him to see her. Five minutes later, she’d agreed to the arrangement, “for as long as you wish, Mr. Bennett, sir.”

Paul was feeling much stronger, and much more confident. A week after returning home, he went back to work.

The Hamilton Insurance Company was a medium-sized firm housed in a three-story brick building dating to the early 1950s. Paul Bennett, at forty, was a successful salesman for the company. In appearance, he was ordinary: medium height, medium build (just beginning to go to pot), medium complexion, plain brown hair beginning to recede at the temples. Despite his sales record, he had long since resigned himself to the likelihood that he would advance no further in the company’s ranks.

His immediate supervisor was a woman, Charlene Sands. Bennett had heard all the stories about how she’d slept her way to the top (or at least to middle management). He wasn’t sure he believed them, but it was certainly possible. She had the looks for it, tanned skin, a “killer bod” only somewhat concealed by the tailored business attire she wore, glossy black hair, green eyes behind elegantly-framed glasses. She had the manipulative temperament for it, too.

And she hated Paul’s guts. She seemed never to miss an opportunity to put him down, and did her best to keep him from getting any real credit for anything. She, in fact, was the reason he had given up on ever being promoted. He’d watched others with sales records far inferior to his pass him on the corporate ladder; some of them had been people he’d trained. But there had been nothing he could do about it, nothing but grit his teeth and soldier on.

Until now.

Paul smiled an evil smile. Ms. Sands was about to experience a change of attitude. All he needed was to get her alone.

He didn’t have to wait long for his opportunity. He’d hardly had a chance to clock in and sit down at his desk when his phone rang. It was her.

“Paul,” she said, “I need to speak with you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

Suppressing the urge to ask her what she wanted to talk about—it didn’t matter, after all, not now—he answered, “On my way, Ms. Sands.” He got up and walked casually over to her office, opened the door and went in. Carefully, he shut the door behind him and sat down in the chair next to her desk.

Ms. Sands picked a folder off her desk and waved it at him. “This is a cancellation request from Mrs. Sylvia Cortez. A half-million-dollar account! She says you screwed up by insuring only her and not her husband as well. And while you were out on your little vacation”—Paul flushed angrily, but said nothing—“he died. And under the policy you got her to buy, she gets zip.

“I don’t blame her for being angry. If it were me, I’d be suing.” Ms. Sands reached up a hand to tip her glasses down, then looked at him over the rims. “As it is, she’s cancelling one of our biggest accounts. Unless,” she smiled grimly, “we fire you. She’s willing to keep her insurance, even under the circumstances, on that condition.”

Paul’s heart sank. Could he really have—? Yes, he decided. He had already been sick when he’d landed the Cortez account. He remembered the day he and Mrs. Cortez had signed the papers; his throat had hurt so much, all he’d wanted was to get out of there. Yes, he could have made a mistake.

Well, it didn’t matter now.

“Well, Paul?” Ms. Sands asked. “What do you think I should do?”

It was the perfect opening.

“I think you should stop worrying about it, Charlene,” Paul instructed her. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Cortez.”

Ms. Sands’ expression softened. She nodded. “Yes, Paul.” Then, with a touch of her former steel, “Don’t call me Charlene. It’s Ms. Sands to you, is that clear, Mr. Bennett?”

“Perfectly . . . Charlene.” Paul had the upper hand now, and knew it. “You don’t mind my calling you by your first name, Charlene. In fact, it turns you on. All the way on.”

Charlene gasped, her face reddening. “It, it’s not right,” she protested weakly. “You shouldn’t. I, I mustn’t. I . . . what’s happening to me?”

“It’s all right, Charlene,” he assured her. “Let it happen. Lose control. Nothing matters but sex, right here, right now, with me, Charlene.”

“RRRRRARRRRRR!” Charlene launched herself across her desk at him, knocking him out of his chair. The two of them went down in a heap. Then, for a time, both of them forgot about everything but each other.

Eventually, they got up again. A disheveled Ms. Sands reassembled her clothing, as did Paul. The female executive’s reading glasses had gotten smashed as the two of them had thrashed around together. She produced another pair from the top left drawer of her desk, and put them on.

“You understand, Paul,” she said, struggling for cool detachment, “this doesn’t change anything. Whatever just . . . happened here, I’m still your boss. Don’t think you’ve gotten some kind of leverage with me.”

“Of course not, Charlene,” Paul responded. Charlene whimpered and trembled, and as he turned to go, she almost called out for him to stay.

Yes, sir, he thought to himself as he gave his tie a final straightening tug before opening the door, things were definitely looking up.

And this was just the beginning. . . .

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .