The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Of course, come in.” I glanced at Ona’s office-conservative, knee length skirt, blue peplum top, and a small purse. She had no new donated artifacts but I had some additional paperwork for her to fill out, plus a survey. It would be a treat to see her handle a pen again.

As much as I watched from across the desk, the pen in her manicured hand did nothing to me, not even when she clicked the top.

“I can see you’re still trying to figure it out,” she said. “We’ll do something new to keep you guessing. I saw security on the way here. When do they make their rounds?”

I explained that they knew I stayed after hours. Moving throughout the library on any floor would be no problem. Patrons and students alike had left the building over a half hour ago, so we’d have the place to ourselves.

“Good...good.” There was a thoughtful frown in her eyes. “I think we’ll go without tools or pens today.”

“You mean, you don’t carry a pocket watch?”

“It’s not necessary,” she said, laughing with a flash of teeth. “Have you needed a pocket watch so far?”

“I’ve always wondered about the traditional approach.” I told her about the stereotypes I’d heard, making her laugh even more.

“It doesn’t have to be like that at all.” She leaned forward. “Have you ever wanted to be someone else for a little while?”

“Like role-play? Or the roles we have in different areas of our life?”

“No, I mean being in almost every way the personality of someone other than yourself.”

“After all these years, I’ve gotten used to the way I am,” I said, delivering my response with weak conviction.

“It would last only for the time I am with you. Think of it as freedom, a coat, a second skin you can step into with its own history, feelings, experiences.”

“I have a question from the last time we met.” I had spent enough time forming my concerns in the abstract.

“Go ahead.”

I explained the haziness I had whenever she used a certain tone, how her words ran together and it seemed as though I lost the immediacy of her words.

“Immediacy? Can you elaborate on what that means to you?” She was peering at me, her chair hitched closer to the desk so she could lean an elbow there.

I continued, describing the haziness as a noise so loud in my thoughts that her words became a distant hum. “That’s when I think there might be some details missing.” Finally, it was a relief to give voice to my bewilderment. I looked for signs of mockery, but her face was just as patient and intensity gleamed in her eyes.

“What you’re describing is perfectly normal and common to many.” She paused. “Without any suggestions from me, your subconscious can decide what to hide from the conscious mind.”

“I wasn’t complaining. I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“Do you want to be more aware of things while hypnotized? We can work on that as a goal.”

There was more I wanted to do, but not knowing what was possible. Questions didn’t get me closer to what I wanted. What I wanted was more of these new experiences. My questions would be answered either way. I felt her confidence and warmth in Room D and waiting for another strange unravelling of fate may not ever come around again. Life was for exploration; if I was too old for mere youthful forays, this was a second chance as any that could happen. I didn’t know it at the time, but this shift of view was to change the next four months of my life, and all the months after that.

“If it’s a normal occurrence, then I’m satisfied I’m in capable hands.”

“Very good,” she breathed, nodding at me with a smile on those plump, dewy lips. “Let’s start with something simple and build from there.”

Around her neck she wore a pearl necklace. The sheen was an iridescent bronze brown; in the middle of the string of pearls was a delicate pendant, glossy and set in filigree gold.

She saw me staring at it. “They’re chocolate pearls.” Raising an eyebrow at me, Ona sidled up to where I sat, bent at the knees in a dainty crouch, and inclined her head in my direction. Her shoulder-length hair was thick with tight springy curls. In order for me to unclasp the jewelry, she swept her hair off her neck with one hand. So close to my legs, she could have rested her head in my lap.

Reaching forward to unclip her necklace meant that my hands touched her hair for a few moments. It was plush and inviting, her skin smooth and quite velvety.

Fastening the clasp, she straightened and spoke. “Close your eyes and just listen.”

The sound of pearls colliding in a heap over and over made for gentle music of their own. Between each rhythmic muted tinkling, her breathing created a space for me to concentrate on patterns, to hold on to a line I could follow.

She was already speaking, not to me in particular, more like a recitation for an audience of one, a lullaby for the mind, in a commentary that caught me up in its narrative. Ona asked me to open my eyes.

I had not been aware that I simply continued to imagine the sight of her hands and the necklace. As I focused unblinking at the endless spill of color and light, I was transfixed at the way the pearls tumbled through her fingers. My eyelids were too heavy to keep from closing. And with the familiar path laid open for me earlier, it was easy, and I was told it would be even easier to remember this moment for later, the necklace my guide and landmark. There was a coziness all around my shoulders; against my skin a blanket, dry and comforting, bolstered my back and arms. I could have been reclining but I saw nothing but a speckled sky. There was everything to be revealed if I turned my head at the right angle and surely anything was possible to experience if I wanted it to happen, with her. Serenity here was much better, since there was no journey, no direction. But something important had to be carried with me, something to hold fast to, in a pocket out of sight, for the perfect occasion.

Ona wore the necklace again, fingering the beads one at a time.

I was lying on the sofa in my office with no recollection of how I got from my desk to across the room.

“Let’s go for a ride on the elevator,” she said, drawing me to my feet by stretching out her hand to my elbow.

I offered my arm as soon as I composed myself at the doorway—for she was lovely and gracious—and together we rounded the main walkway past the stairs to enter the elevator.

The back of the elevator was a glass window overlooking all the library floors, a wide view from end to end.

She took my hand and pulled me to her side.

“Look at me,” she said, counting under her breath. She placed her hand over mine and led it to her neck, where the pearls sat in two rows on her clavicle.

I felt the skin of my face slacken and my sight blur into watery shapes. I was aware that she sashayed to one side after removing my glasses and guided me to lean against the window.

The air seemed heavier, a nebulous presence that made my limbs slump against the handrail. Our sluggish descent came to a stop, bouncing to a halt on the lower level. The lights were at full brightness on this floor. Concourse.

Ona held me back, hand on my chest. Pin-sized shocks thrummed through her fingers like static. Her fingers were radiating heat into me and I fought to resist the urge to sink into contemplation.

The doors closed again. She pressed the eighth floor button for us to return to Room D. Pivoting on her heel, she grasped my wrist and looked straight into my eyes. Struggling to remain upright, I took refuge against the elevator wall.

“How about you rest on me, in my arms,” she whispered, propelling me back to the glass. It was either remain at the wall or retreat until the window was at my right.

I chose the glass as a leaning spot.

“That’s very good,” she said, settling her silky arms around my waist.

A wash of satisfaction hit me, like a key turning in a lock with many possible combinations. She still held on to me and maintained the same close tango position as the elevator doors shuddered. In spite of myself my heart raced while my breathing slowed.

Ona nodded and rubbed my wrist with both thumbs, the supple crush of her breasts quivering with the movement of our ride.

“Count from one to ten. Measure your breaths on each count. Yes, that’s right.” She leaned even closer, sharing the same rhythm of each inhale, pressing harder against me. “I’m going to put your hand on the rail and you’ll feel lighter the higher you go. Your hands will have a firm hold at all times no matter what you want to experience and enjoy.”

The elevator began a hesitant ascent past the second floor.

I counted. “One. Two. Thr—”

The elevator floor dropped out from under my feet and simultaneously boosted me several vertical inches. I looked down, confused and alarmed.

Everything appeared as it should; I was standing as I expected.

Ona squeezed my arm. “Take another deep breath, and continue counting. You can concentrate better when you close your eyes.” She glided around to the other side and braced her legs against mine. Her whispered words mingled with the rise of the elevator.

Shifting my feet was like treading through clouds. I kept a grip on the rail. Through my eyelashes I took in the library floors spread out below us and made my heart leap and somersault.

We arrived at the fifth floor but continued upward. My head swam with the feeling of flight. The rail was my lifeline, for every part of me was unencumbered by gravity, including my mood, which soared together with my body hovering in weightless freedom from the safe haven of our elevator. An abundance of color and wonder mingled with vibrations of the most astonishing elation, the sum of them overwhelming me as I progressed higher and further into complete bliss.

Ona was speaking in a soft voice and stroking my beard. She drew away from me as I opened my eyes.

“You’re all right, back with me. Fun, wasn’t it?” She gave tender treatment to my glasses and slid it into place on my nose.

“That was...certainly unusual,” I said, adjusting myself and trying to think up something more profound. I was working hard to hold on to the last traces of euphoria. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so transcendent. Is it usual to feel this, or does it depend on the individual?”

“Interpretation of a suggestion depends on the receiver’s subconscious,” she corrected me.

“And how long would a suggestion last?”

“As long as you allow it to last.” For a woman of her astounding curves, she moved easily, effortlessly. I like the way she pressed her breasts on my arm in the elevator. They offered the same reassuring calmness Ona embodied.

For the remaining hour left to us back in my office, we played little games of the mind. While I felt like a life-sized puppet, the dynamic between us strengthened into a highly engaging alliance. It was more a partnership between my willing subconscious and her irresistible directives. I didn’t realize the depths to which I would go. All I knew at the time was that I was reveling in the adventure of our time together. Curiosity was my greatest weakness, and she titillated my imagination with each new marvel.

No longer did her pen alone fascinate me. It was her voice that held all the worlds of magic to my inner life.

“In my hand is my necklace. You remember. The more it is handled, the greater those feelings become. It is up to you to interpret what those feelings are.”

Her words spread out to the edges of my thoughts and settled like intentions and desires. I wanted her to continue; to do so, I’d have to open my eyes.

She was leaning on my desk, dress stretched around her buttocks and hips, her arms crossed, as she counted me up to alertness. Some light conversation, a check-in to determine how I enjoyed being relaxed and what I remembered. Of course I remembered all of it—how could I not? Her words were clear and unequivocal and I understood everything. I spent half my attention on answering her questions and the other half looking about. There was something I was missing; something she had hidden between her fingers.

There it was, her pearl necklace. It was unfastened, the clasp. She held the ends the way a cowboy might casually carry a rope in hand.

I could move neither my arms nor legs. I discovered this by accident, attempting to change position on the sofa for sitting still so long. Now I was at her mercy. Transfixed on what her hands would do next, my breathing quickened.

“Struggling will only drop you deeper,” she warned, shaking her head. Her voice was an undertone next to my ear.

I was completely entranced by the way her finger stroked the pearls, and as I stared, I became a plaything in her hands. Whatever was done to the generous string of pearls was done to me, my longings, my will. And as much as it was paralyzing, I wanted all the more.

She took great care moving her wrist in unpredictable circles, gauging the rise and catch of my breath with the strand flowing from palm to palm. Her eyes, dark and implacable, pinned me down where I sat and I could not straighten in my seat no matter how I tensed my legs.

By the time she brought me back to wakefulness, I was slouched and sprawled on the sofa, my arms boneless at my sides.

She allowed me time to recover, crossed the room to sit at my desk, and said, “I think I know what your subconscious required of you. Interesting.”

More weeks passed, and I booked appointment after appointment with her. I didn’t want to record her name multiple times in the logbook, so I put Miscellaneous. I wasn’t hiding, but our activities felt clandestine and she offered mystique and alluring whimsy.

The objects she owned were as intriguing as the skills of hypnotic speech she had at her disposal. With any gem or item she could transform its mundanity into an opus of longing, a hunger for more and more. Her voice was the constant anchor that mesmerized me and compelled me to express curiosity about her daring and exacting experiments. I was the desirous client of her hypnotist’s call. Her diagnosis was my cure, her soothing commands were a continuous salve that I craved. For with every meeting, every suggestion built on another, her influence over me grew, and within a handful of weeks I became her inveterate devotee.

I wanted her smile, a nod, to feel a twinge of something otherworldly that only she could elicit. I also discovered she loved to tease. I think she enjoyed watching and drinking in my groans of contentment.

In one appointment, she spent a whole hour causing me to remove my wristwatch in amnesiac repetition. I handed it to her to play games of sweeter torture, my legs trembling in anticipation, only to have a lapse in attention and finding the watch on my wrist again. Hearing her nails tapping against the watch face was the catalyst, I was sure. It was the cascade for a host of what I then thought of as shocking sensations. When she brought the watch to my ear and had me close my eyes to visualize whatever picture she described, the perception of warm water trickled over my head. In another appointment I relaxed on the sofa but I was certain I was submerged in a bath of something temperate but undulating that engulfed me in pulsing mouthfuls while I still breathed, gasping with effort.

They were luxurious diversions, a frame of mind that led to new hypnotic romps that would not last forever. It was this fear that set my mind to prepare for our eventual parting of ways, but then I truly did not want to entertain the idea of going back to a regular workweek without Ona. Whenever we met on our habitual weekly rendezvous, she embraced and kissed me, but it was a long time in coming when she was not with me. I had never thought to ask about her ethnic background, or how she was enjoying the burgeoning obedience to which I was learning there were many rewards. All I knew was that the great sum and details of her were infinite and distracting elements of our overall relationship.

Our explorations broadened to include that of the outside world, with none to know or understand the layers of communication between us. We walked in the manner of an old-fashioned couple: her on my arm, I, a pillar of involuntary discipline. It pleased her to keep me afloat and drifting in trance while my physical self blankly followed her every suggestion and request.

Every once in a while she would deepen my hazy thoughts into near unawareness with just a whisper. I would wander with her for blocks like this, all conscious senses suspended except sight, the amount needed to navigate the sidewalk, and only what she wanted me to see and feel. On some level I knew what she did, but it was less important because she held the reins of my mobility, action, and thoughts when I relinquished control to her.

I grew addicted to dreamlike behavior in my everyday life. It was the notion of living inside of new perspectives as much as I thought about the possible consequences of indulging in them so often.

One Sunday afternoon, it was spring, on the cusp of summer. The city avenues were picturesque, inspiring a stroll on the main street.

The last blooms were falling from the trees; breeze-adorned bushes waved and old faded petals stuck to our shoes as we walked. Through the push of Ona’s voice I experienced all of these from a twilight and pastel-colored fog. I am not one given to constant fantasy, but this was especially remarkable because of the sweeping rush of what I could only call a magnetic impulse. I truly do not have the vocabulary to describe the technicalities and finer points of what she said and did. All I know is I regained much of my youth in her presence. Her playful experiments brought such yearnings I had not realized were there.

I developed a love of grooming my beard with meticulous precision; she liked the way it looked and encouraged this habit with lavish compliments.

She turned to me with a playful and seductive rub of my elbow, finally catching my eye with her smiling berry red lipstick that glistened enticement and provocation. “I want to show you how it feels when I see nice, well-kept facial hair like yours,” she whispered, observing my profile.

Ona had a way of using her voice in different shades. I came to recognize, and respond to, these voice changes. I would go so far as to say I was acutely sensitive to even the barest fluctuation in her intonation. To me, it was as though I was already listening for instructions, or ever at the ready for something to happen.

She was going to show me the equivalent of her looking at facial hairstyles she fancied. How was that possible?

There was the same understated trigger word, a suggestion, she called it. At a certain level I could recall the words themselves, but she buried them in conversation so that trance fell upon me in gradual waves.

Trimming my beard was on my list of things to do this weekend. First Monday to Wednesday, and finally Thursday, when I would find out what Ona wanted to show me.