The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Selma Jones liked to drive fast.

She liked to feel the wind in her tightly-curled red-brown hair and watch the scenery whiz past. She’d bought the secondhand car she was driving not only because it had been cheap, but also because it had a powerful engine and a convertible top, which at the moment was down.

Of course, driving in traffic kept her from putting the pedal to the metal the way she wanted. She didn’t want to have an accident, after all. And she didn’t want to be pulled over by some cop, either. These weren’t the bad old days, sure, like the old song said, down here in Dixieland, old times were not forgotten. A girl like her, long-legged, well built, and above all black, learned early not to draw the attention of the boys in blue.

So when she wanted to race her engine, she did it late at night and in the countryside. Often, as now, there were no other cars around. It was perfect: no one to crash into or have to dodge, and no worries about getting a ticket.

She was doing eighty miles an hour on the two-lane stretch of blacktop outside her home town, one foot flexing as it pressed the gas pedal, when she heard the siren coming up behind her. A quick glance in her rear-view mirror revealed the blue and white car approaching, its colored roof lights flashing.

“Aw, shit,” she muttered. This wasn’t supposed to happen, goddammit! But it was happening. With a sigh, Selma slowed her car and pulled over to the side of the road. Gravel crunched under her wheels as she stopped on the shoulder. A few moments later, more crunching announced the cop car’s arrival behind her.

She sat quietly, waiting for the officer to come to her.

Pete Hamilton walked over to the flashy-looking convertible, pulling out his pad and pen as he approached. One eyebrow went up as he got a look at the driver, a young black woman with a soft pile of mahogany hair. What was someone like her doing out here in the middle of the night, all alone and driving like a bat out of hell?

Drugs. That was the thought which came to Officer Hamilton. Either she was transporting, or she was high, or both.

Well, either way, he could handle it.

“License and registration, please, miss,” he commanded. The girl fumbled the dash cabinet open and produced the documents; the officer scanned them and jotted down the relevant information. He handed the papers back.

“All right,” he said after a moment, “out of the vehicle, please, miss.”

“What?” Selma couldn’t believe it. “What for? What’s going on?”

“Out of the vehicle, please, miss,” the uniform insisted. “Now.” Fuming, Selma complied. There was no need for this! Sure, she’d been speeding, but what was this about?

“Unlock your trunk, please, miss,” commanded the cop.

Selma had left the remote in the dashboard cabinet. To pop the trunk manually, she had to lean through the window and push the release on the dash. It was humiliating being bent over like that in front of a stranger, giving him an eyeful of her butt. And the way she was dressed didn’t help. In the humid heat of a Georgia August evening, she was wearing a brief halter top and Daisy Duke shorts cut high enough to reveal the sides of her buttocks. Long, well-curved legs stretched down to flow into trim ankles and feet encased in high-heeled strappy sandals.

She pushed the button and heard the groaning sound of the trunk catch releasing. A moment later, she heard another groan.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the cop standing behind her. He had a strange, dreamy look on his face and his eyes were firmly fastened on her fanny. What’s up with that? she wondered as she pulled her head out of the car and turned around.

The cop didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Gradually he seemed to pull himself together. Finally he shook his head and spoke, his voice hoarse: “All right, miss. Face the vehicle, bend over, place your hands on the hood of the vehicle and remain in that position.”

Yes, sir, officer,” answered Selma. She did as instructed, but couldn’t help sneaking glances at the cop as he rummaged first through the open trunk, then inside the car. He seemed preoccupied; if she’d really been hiding anything, as he apparently suspected, the half-hearted search he was conducting would have had a good chance of missing it.

Finally he was done. It had felt like forever, bent over as she was, but she knew it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. He came around to stand behind her again.

“I’m”—he hesitated—“I’m going to have to . . . have to search . . . search you, too, miss. Too.” There was an odd breathlessness to the stumbling words. “Just . . . just hold still. This’ll only . . . take a m-minute.“ A small moan emerged from him. “Please. . . .”

Selma looked over her shoulder again. The cop was staring at her butt again. He had started to reach toward her, but his hands had stopped several inches from her and were cupped as if outlining her backside.

“Well?” she said impatiently. “If yo’re going to search me, officer, let’s get it ovah with.”

“Yes,” the cop breathed. “Search you. Get it. Uhhh. Over with.” His hands reached further, fastening onto her buttocks and roaming mechanically, back and forth. “Uhhh. Unnh.“

Selma smiled. Now this was an interesting development, she thought. This ol’ boy was evidently a big-time ass man. It was almost like he was hypnotized by her butt.

How far, she wondered, could she take it? Still smiling and looking over her shoulder, she pressed her legs together and began rocking her hips back and forth, back and forth.

The officer’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. After a few seconds, his head began moving, left, right, left, right, in time to Selma’s sway. Soon his hips began twitching as well, as a massive erection tented the front of his trousers. His breathing shifted, growing ragged. Words tumbled from him in a soft murmur.

“Back. Forth. Back. Forth.” The words were a whisper in Pete Hamilton’s ears. He realized after a few seconds that he was speaking them, but they seemed to emerge by pure reflex. His attention was held, caught, trapped by the rhythmic hip and buttock movements of the young black woman leaning across the hood of her car. Back and forth. Back and forth. He knew there was something he was supposed to be doing, something important, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Back and forth. Back and forth. Maybe he’d think about it later. Back and forth. . . .

The world faded away, except for that beautiful vision. Very soon, he was no longer aware even of the words which continued to tumble from his lips.

“Back. Forth. Back. Forth.” The cop behind Selma was softly, helplessly chanting the words, over and over, in time with the motion of her hindquarters. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that his head was moving back and forth as well. His hands had fallen limply to his sides.

Selma sped up the swinging of her hips, and worked her well-muscled legs to accentuate the thrusting of her but cheeks. The officer’s breathing sped up and his chant grew more insistent: ““Back! Forth! Uhh! Back! Forth! Unnh!“

After two or three minutes of this, Selma stood up and turned around to face the patrolman who was very obviously now her powerless prisoner. He didn’t react, but just kept on chanting mindlessly. She looked him over and smiled broadly. His eyes were wide and glazed, and the front of his uniformed trousers bulged even more.

Stepping forward, she reached up and lifted his uniform cap off his head, placing it on her own. He kept right on chanting softly.

“What’s yo’ name, officer?” she asked.

“P-Pete,” the cop gasped. “Hamilton. Peter Hamilton.”

“An’ where yo’ from, officer? What precinct?” The dusky babe spoke with growing confidence. “What town?”

The dazed trooper answered, revealing that as she’d figured, he was from Selma’s home town. She didn’t recognize him, but that proved nothing; he might be new, and anyway, her town’s police force was big enough that it was easy not to know everyone on it. This wasn’t Mayberry.

“Thank you, Officer Hamilton,” Selma said. “Yo’ see this here cap on my head?”

Officer Hamilton nodded.

“This cap means ah’m an officer too,” the dark beauty went on. She had had an inspiration. “In fact, it means ah’m yo’ superior officer. D’yo’ understand me, Officer Hamilton?”

“Yes,” Pete Hamilton whispered.

“Is that how yo’ talk to a superior?” Selma barked, getting into the role. “Yes, what?“

Pete sprang to attention, saluted and said, “Yes, ma’am!“

Selma was getting really turned on. “Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am. Say it, officer.”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Officer Hamilton was still standing erect, arm raised in salute.

“That’s more like it, Officer Hamilton.” Selma considered a moment, then amended, “Officer Pete. That’s better. Ah think ah’ll call you Officer Pete. That’s fine with yo’, isn’t it, Officer Pete?”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.”

“Now Officer Pete, while ah have this cap on, you’ll do any ol’ thing ah say, because ah’m yo’ superior officer and yo’ obey your superior officers without question, yo’ a good cop and yo’ follow orders without question. That’s true, isn’t it, Officer Pete?”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Pete Hamilton nodded. He repeated her suggestions word for word.

“Then hand ovah yo’ gun, Officer Pete, hand ovah yo’ gun to me.” Selma extended her hand.

“I—I—!” A trace of awareness seemed to flicker in the handsome hypnotized man’s eyes as training struggled to overcome his trance. Never surrender your gun was something they drilled into you over and over at the police academy.

Selma turned around again, bent back over the hood of her car and resumed the sensuous swaying of her bottom. Behind her, Officer Hamilton gasped weakly.

Selma kept up the motion for perhaps a minute before standing up and turning to face her victim again. She held out her hand and commanded, “Yo’ gun, please, Officer Pete. Hand me yo’ gun now.”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Pete Hamilton drew his gun and handed it, butt first, to Selma. She walked around to the driver’s side of her car, reached inside and stashed the weapon in the dash cabinet. Then she returned to the driver’s side, where the dazed lawman stood passively waiting for her.

“Now the gun belt,” Selma directed. “Hand it ovah, Officer Pete.”

The bedazzled badge-bearer did as he was bidden, unbuckling his gun belt and handing it over. By now, he wasn’t the only one breathing raggedly. Selma had never felt so turned on in her whole life!

She stepped toward Pete Hamilton until their bodies were nearly touching, reached out to take his hands in hers, and guided them until they pressed against the firm flesh of her fanny. He tightened his grip, pulling her against him, and moaned something.

“What was that, Officer Pete?” Selma asked. “What did yo’ say?”

“Buh . . . boo,” came the strained reply. “Beautiful.”

Selma giggled. “Yo’ like my beautiful booty, baby?”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am,” the answer came. “Beautiful . . . nnnhhh . . .booty.” Pete’s pelvis twitched.

Giggling again, Selma reached with one hand to open the driver’s side door of her car. “Let’s discuss this inside, Officer Pete,” she ordered. “Where we can have us more privacy.”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Pete Hamilton allowed himself to be guided into the convertible’s back seat and eased down onto the cushions.

Selma followed him in, closing the door behind her, and climbed atop him, straddling his supine form. She reached down and lifted his hands until they once more pressed against her backside. “Yo’ like this, don’t you, Officer Pete,” she purred.

“Yes ma’am, Selma ma’am,” came the helpless, excited answer. Pete Hamilton’s hands began roving robotically over Selma’s well-rounded rump, and beneath her his hips shuddered.

“That’s right, Officer Pete. Yo’ like it fine. Ah can tell.” Selma liked it too, liked the sensations coursing through her and liked the thrill of having this man, this symbol of authority, totally under her power, reduced to a toy of flesh. “Mmmm, that’s nice.”

Her hands moved to the cop’s blue uniform jacket. “It’s so warm in here,” she told him. “Yo’ so warm. Here, let yo’ Selma help yo’ out o’ this hot ol’ thing.” She unbuttoned the jacket while an unresisting Pete Hamilton continued to caress her bottom. At last it was open and she eased it off him, dislodging his roving hands from her body long enough to slip his arms out of the sleeves. The tie went next, as Pete’s hands returned to their business.

“Ooh, Officer Pete, honey,” she breathed, “ah’m real warm too. Won’t yo’ help me out o’ this tight top ah got on? Course yo’ will.”

“Yes ma’am, nnhh, Selma ma’am.” Obeying the new suggestion, Pete reached up to fumble at Selma’s top. She helped him peel it off of her and tossed it aside with his discarded jacket and tie.

“That’s a good boy, Officer Pete,” she told him. “Now just yo’ keep right on followin’ my orders an’ everything’ll work out real fine. Yes, sir, real fine!”

“Real fine,” Pete echoed from beneath her.

“Now let’s us work on them pants yo’ got on,” Selma instructed. “Yo’ don’t need them pants in here right now, Officer Pete.” She reached again and unfastened his belt, then began drawing the officer’s blue trousers down, squirming atop him to allow them to pass beneath her. Again Pete’s hands moved to help, and soon his trousers were bunched around his lower calves. There they ran into an obstacle.

“Oh, dear.” Selma giggled. “Ah really should’ve got yo’ shoes off first, shouldn’t ah? Well, just yo’ wait a minute while ah take care o’ that.” She flipped herself around on top of her hypnotized and half-naked partner, giving him a fresh view of her behind in the process, then untied his polished black shoes and pulled them off, dropping them. “There, that’s much better!”

With the shoes out of the way, Officer Hamilton’s trousers slipped off easily. “Now it’s yo’ turn again, Officer Pete,” Selma decreed. “Take off mah bra now.”

Pete Hamilton reached to obey. His mind was a hazy jumble dominated by soft, rhythmically swaying globes of flesh somehow associated with a blue police cap. All he understood was that the woman to whom they belonged was his superior and that he must obey her. It felt so good to obey her. . . .

Before long, the two of them were naked, except for the blue cap Selma still had on. She sat astride Pete, pinning his shoulders to the seat with her hands. He could easily have thrown her off, if he had wanted to—but of course he didn’t want to. Lost deep in the private world Selma’s suggestions had built from his secret fixation, he couldn’t even form the thought.

“Now, Officer Pete, sweetie,” the dark beauty said, “yo’ ready fo’ the next part. Yo’ an’ me, we gonna screw ouah brains out. Yo’ were gonna give me a ticket fo’ ridin’ too fast in this here car? Well, I’m gonna ride yo’ till yo’ don’t know what a ticket is. An’ all the time, yo’ gonna think about my beautiful booty an’ fall deeper an’ deeper under its spell. D’yo’ understand me, Officer Pete?”

“Yes . . . ma’am . . . Selma . . . ma’am.“ It came out as a groan. ” Uhhhnnn— derstand.”

Selma smiled. He was ready, all right. Beneath her, she could feel Pete Hamilton’s massive erection straining. She knew men: even if he hadn’t been hypnotized, he’d have done anything she said right now.

She eased Pete into her, gasping at his entrance. The mesmerized man mashed below her gasped as well, and began to buck, his hips pumping up and down in a rhythm her body answered by instinct. She arched her back and began writhing, her pleasure made all the stronger by the incoherent babble from beneath her body: “Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am! Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am! Yes! Ma’am! Selma! Ma’am! Yes! Ma’am! . . .”

At last her eyes squeezed shut and she shrieked in release, her cry mingling with the hoarse shout from Officer Pete Hamilton as he also climaxed. She shuddered slowly to a stop astride her mindless mount and remained still for a short time, lazily drifting back toward ordinary reality.

At last, with a sigh, she blinked open her eyes. One hand came up to brush at her sweat-soaked face before dropping back onto the muscular flesh of Officer Hamilton. Her mind came back into focus and she gazed down upon her hypnotized steed.

She sighed again. This had been a fantasy come true (for both of them—she giggled a little as the thought occurred to her), but now it was time to go on back to real life.

But maybe not on quite the same terms. . . . Selma laughed aloud. Officer Pete here was too much fun, and maybe too useful, to just throw away. And maybe she didn’t have to.

“Officer Pete,” she addressed him, “listen to me now. Open yo’ eyes and listen to yo’ Selma.”

Pete Hamilton obeyed. His eyes opened and went to her face. There was an innocence in those eyes, a helpless receptiveness she found arousing. If only she had more time. . . .

But she didn’t. She’d just have to work with what she’d been given. Well, that was plenty.

“Officer Pete,” she said, “in a minute, I’m goin’ to snap mah fingers. When ah do, yo’ gonna get yo’self dressed. D’yo’ understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am. When you snap your fingers . . . I’m going to get myself dressed.”

“That’s right.” Selma gestured toward her head, still topped by Officer Hamilton’s cap; although it had been knocked askew, it had not come off during the pair’s exertions. “Except fo’ yo’ cap. I’m keepin’ that.” She had had a great idea on how to use it. “Yo’ remember what this here cap on my head means, don’t yo’? Tell me what it means.”

Pete Hamilton obeyed. “It means you’re . . . an officer. My . . . superior officer.”

“And when yo’ see me with it on, what do yo’ do, Officer Pete?” Selma’s voice was low and sweet.

“Obey,” the captivated cop answered. “Follow your orders . . . without question.”

“Good boy, Officer Pete.” Selma ruffled the patrolman’s blond hair with one hand. “That’s right. Whenever yo’ see me with this here cap on, yo’ll do anything ah say, believe whatevah ah tell yo’, without question.”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.”

Selma had another inspiration. “And even if yo’ don’t see me wearin’ this cap, if yo’ hear me call yo’ ‘Officer Pete’ like I’ve been doin’, yo’ll do what ah tell yo’ just the same way.”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Pete nodded. “Do what you tell me . . . just the same way.”

Selma grinned. If this all worked, she’d have her a permanent boy toy in the police department. That could come in mighty handy.

“Now, Officer Pete,” she went on, “Ah’m just about to snap mah fingers, and when ah do, yo’ll get dressed, just like ah told yo’ before.” She paused. “When yo’ all dressed, yo’ll get out of mah car, go on back to yo’ patrol car and get in.

“When yo’ back in yo’ car, ah’ll drive away. And as soon as yo’ can’t see mah car anymore, yo’ll wake up. When yo’ do, yo’ll forget all about meetin’ me tonight. All yo’ll remember is feelin’ sleepy an’ pullin’ over to the side of the road to take a little nap. Yo’ll feel relaxed an’ refreshed, an’ go on about yo’ business. D’yo’ understand all that, Officer Pete?”

“Yes, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Another slow, glassy-eyed nod.

“Then tell me, Officer Pete. Tell me what yo’ s’posed to do when ah snap mah fingers.”

Pete Hamilton reeled back Selma’s instructions, and the dark beauty nodded, satisfied.

She snapped her fingers.

Pete Hamilton blinked. Then, silently, he began looking about for his discarded garments and pulling them on mechanically. Selma wriggled away from him on the seat and hunted up her own clothes. With a pang of regret, she realized she could probably have gotten Pete to dress her while she dressed him, in a reverse of the mutual strip they’d done before. That would have been fun.

Well, she thought, maybe next time. After what had happened, she very much intended that there would be a next time, as soon as she could arrange it.

Item by item, both of them reclothed themselves. At last, while the cop was putting his gun belt back on, Selma wriggled over the backrest of the front seat and retrieved his weapon, handing it to him butt first as he’d given it to her. “Yo’ gun, Officer, yo’ almost forgot.”

“Thank you, ma’am, Selma ma’am.” Pete took the firearm and set it into its holster. Then he pulled on his jacket and, now fully garbed, moved to the next part of Selma’s instructions, reaching for the door handle. He fumbled awkwardly with it, but finally got it open and got out of the car. Without another word, he moved off toward his patrol vehicle.

As soon as he got inside and closed the driver’s side door behind him, Selma started her own car’s engine and drove away.

Officer Hamilton blinked and shook his head. His eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of the time display on his dashboard radio. More than hour, more like an hour and a half, had passed since he’d pulled over. Wow, he thought, I must really have been tired!

He turned the key in the ignition. The patrol car’s engine purred to life and he pulled it out of the breakdown lane and back onto the road. He’d have some explaining to do when he got back to the station house, he reflected ruefully.

Suddenly he noticed something was missing. He swore softly, looked around the front seat and glanced quickly at the floor. No dice.

I know I was wearing a cap when I stopped off, he insisted to himself. Where the hell did it go? He turned it over in his mind for a few moments, then finally decided it wasn’t important. He’d search the car more carefully when he got back to HQ. And after all, even if he’d lost it somehow, what did it matter? It wasn’t as if he’d done anything wrong, after all.

Smiling, he drove off down the highway. Cap or no cap, he felt pretty good after his little nap. Relaxed. Refreshed.