The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I walked back down the hallway to my office. As I approached, I could hear Mr. Harman doing what he did best, chewing out some poor bastard over the phone. His voice stopped for a moment, listening to the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line, then started up again in a near-shout.

“Okay, then, jump to it! You hired them, and if they’re not working out, get someone else!” He stopped again. I rounded the door into the office as he roared, “I don’t give a damn! Fix it. Right? RIGHT?” He slammed down the phone; everything on my desk jumped. He muttered, “Stupid asshole.” I shook my head a bit; his usual charming self, indeed. I noticed a cup of coffee sitting on the table that Mr. Harman usually set up his laptop on. The cup I had poured for him was still in the bathroom, I remembered. I realized he must have gotten it himself on his way back to the office, while still in a trance. I tried to think exactly what I had ordered him to do. He swiveled around in my chair, leaned backward. The springs on the chair groaned. “Where can you plug this in?” He held out the cord to his laptop.

“Right here, sir.” I pointed to the outlet by the worktable. “I can set you up on the table, and I can plug your modem into the spare phone jack.” We went through this every time he stopped by.

“Jump to it, then. And I’m using this chair, not that shitty plastic one.” He pointed to the extra chair sitting in the corner. We went through this every time, too. Next, he’d want me to move my phone over to the worktable. Then he’d email me a bunch of documents, and have me print them out for him so he could look at them, then throw them away. Well, not this time, I decided. I felt too good this morning, and it’s time I showed Mister Harman Sir what it was like to be underdog. I unplugged my phone, then pointed to his coffee.

“Can I get you a fresh cup of java?” His eyelids flickered shut. He sat, tilted, the springs on the chair still creaking slightly as he rocked gently. His hand was up, still holding the power cord. “Dave, open your eyes and stand up.” He rocked forward, planted his feet, rose from the chair, glassy-eyed. “Put your laptop on the table there, and plug it in.” He turned, picked up his equipment, and moved slowly over to the table. Setting it down, he plugged the unit into the wall socket. “See how easy that is? From now on, that’s how you’re going to do it when you come into my office. Nod if you understand.” His back was to me, and I saw his head bob up, down, up, down. “Good. Very good. Now go over and get the chair that’s in the corner.” His head turned lazily toward the chair; his shoulders and body followed. He picked it up, carried it over, held it out to me. I hadn’t told him what to do with it. “Set it at the table. You’re really more comfortable in that chair; you like that chair.” Meekly, he set down the chair. “Great. Now, Dave, go over and shut the door to the office.” I could see by the clock that it was just past nine, and staff would be coming in any minute. But I also knew that Mr. Harman’s black BMW convertible parked outside would guarantee that nobody would come into my office today. It was better than a ‘Quarantine’ sign on my door. Now for some fun. “Dave, a little while ago, I asked you to be Mr. Universe. Well, there’s another competition coming up, and you have to train for it. It’s going to be tough, but I know you can do it. We’re at the gym, in the locker room. I want you to undress, so you can get out there and really pump up.” His slack mouth turned up at the corners; he smiled languidly. Off came the suitcoat, the tie, the shirt. I picked them up as he dropped them, draping them over the chair. He slipped out of his shoes, dropped his pants, stepped out of them. Without any hesitation, off came his underwear. He bent over and pulled his socks off, then stood up, absolutely stripped. There was that great physique, freed again from his ill-fitting clothing. “Now, Dave, I want you to listen carefully. I’m your personal trainer, and whatever I do is going to help you win this contest, so you must do whatever I say. Do you understand?”

“Pers’nal...trainer. Help...me win. Whatev’r...you say.” My heart was pounding. This was better than I could ever have planned. I dropped my pants, slid down my briefs. My penis popped out, almost at full salute. I kicked my shoes under my desk as I tore out of my shirt. I walked behind my impressive robot, again drinking in the massed shoulders, the well-formed backside. Well, I thought, let’s pump you up!

“Okay, Dave, you’re in your workout clothes, and out on the gym floor. In order to give you the proper edge, I’m going to be giving you a special compound, which can only be absorbed through the lower colon. And it can only be given during your workout. When I count to three, you’re going to start doing pushups. I’m going to lay on your back, so you can have some extra weight resistance, and so that I can administer the special compound to you. Remember, this is going to help you win this contest. Understand?” Oh, boy; if this didn’t work, what was I going to do? If he woke up now, naked in my office, and me with my pecker up, at the VERY least he’d beat the crap out of me. What the hell was I doing? I heard him take in a slow breath.

“Pushups. Special...compound. Help me...win,” he rumbled. He’d bought it! I could feel a surge of adrenaline soaring through me.

“Okay, Dave. One, two, THREE!” I almost shouted the last number. Dave stooped, put both hands flat on the carpet, and extended his legs. He hesitated, arms fully lengthened.

“Climb on,” he said drowsily. I almost creamed right then. He was ready and willing. This was going to work! I slipped onto the expanse of muscled flesh, breathing in the scent of his Old Spice, tucking my ferocious hardon gingerly between those glorious cheeks. I was still terrified that he might wake up, might come to his senses if I tried for actual insertion. He began pumping his arms smoothly up, down, and I wrapped my arms around him, putting my hands on his carved pectorals, feeling them bulge, relax, bulge again as I rode him. It was now or never, I decided. I reached down with one hand, and smoothly slid my swollen meat into his hole. He grunted as I penetrated, his anus relaxing almost instantly, letting me thrust my full length inside him. His exercise never faltered. I brought my hand back up, this time letting it run across his chiseled abdomen, feeling the ridges rise and fall as he breathed. I thought he’d gotten to about fifty pushups when my load cut loose. I had been trying to hold back, still afraid that this final intrusion might break the spell that held my zombie; instead, it seemed to give him more energy. He began pushing powerfully upward, his hands leaving the floor to clap together, then returning to their position on the floor with each repetition. Well, I had told him it would give him an edge, and that’s just what seemed to happen. My hands strayed over his deltoids, ran down the arms now pumping like pistons, and I felt my juice let loose again. Oh, God, it was glorious riding on that brawny machine. I had lost count of the reps, but he must have done at least a hundred, when I felt I had to stop. My breath rasped, my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest, and I was losing my grip, bucking back and forth on his sweat-bathed body.

“Stop! Freeze!” I wheezed. He pushed violently upward, clapped his hands, landed, and halted, so suddenly that I slid off him, landing painfully on my side on the carpeted floor. “Great, just...great, Dave,” I panted. Great, hell; that had been incredible! He was as still as a stone, arms fully extended; he was smiling broadly, showing his wonderful dimples again, and I could see that between his legs, his cock was once again entirely raised, almost touching the floor. Though I could see sweat dripping off his face, running down his arms, he didn’t seem to be breathing very hard. I wondered dazedly what kind of workout he was used to doing. No wonder he pushed everyone else so hard. He pushed himself even harder. “Okay, Dave, you can stand up now.” He rose, still smiling. His hardon stood straight out, the tip raw and dark red. It had been rubbing against the carpeting, and there was a straight, moist line across the nap. I crawled to my desk, opened the bottom drawer. I had a roll of paper towels there; I pulled some off, and wiped my face as I stood up, holding the chair for support. My legs felt wobbly. I daubed at my now-shrinking dick, cleaning it off with the damp paper. Gee, what would Rosie think about the quicker picker-upper now, I thought. I looked back across the office at Dave, and instantly my wang walloped right back up. The short exercise he’d done had really made a difference; his arms, chest and shoulders had swelled unbelievably. The veins stood out like ropes across his biceps; I could see them pulsing as the blood pumped through. What a hunk of man! A real choice cut of meat. But that swelled pecker of his needed some help, and soon. I could see clear fluid bubbling on the tip. I supposed that he was due for a little reward. “Dave, I want you to close your eyes.” His eyelids drooped, then shut. His grin had faded to a relaxed, serenely peaceful little smile, and he looked as if he were having a beautiful dream. “In a moment, you’ll open your eyes, and when you do, you’re going to see your fantasy standing in front of you, ready to do whatever you want.” His smile went up a notch, then another. “Dave, who is your fantasy?” The smile became a grin again.

“Patrice...Patrice...Cols,” he sighed ecstatically. His pecker bobbed up and down, and a spatter of semen shot from the head, spraying onto my chest. I took another sheet of towel, and wiped it away. Stepping over to him, I stroked gently on the tip, drying off the now-dripping juices. I didn’t know who Patrice Cole was, maybe some supermodel or film starlet; hell, she might even be the most popular girl from his high school. But if he wanted Patrice, I’d let him have her. I hobbled back over to my desk for more paper towels. “Okay, Dave, when you open your eyes, Patrice Cole will be right in front of you, ready to do anything you want. Open your eyes, Dave.” His eyelids popped up, and he drew in his breath sharply. He lunged forward, and with both hands grabbed my shoulders, then pulled me to him. One big hand clamped around the back of my neck, and he twisted my head back and planted a full, openmouthed kiss on me. His tongue dived into my mouth, slithering like a snake. Holy shit, I’d thought he was just going to imagine this Patrice Cole! My fault again, for not giving more careful instructions. What would happen when he found out his fantasy ‘girl’ didn’t have a snatch? What if his fantasy was S&M, or even snuff sex? I had to stop him, but his mouth was suctioned onto me, lips rubbing sensually on mine. Then, to my shock, he reached down with the other hand and wrapped it around my pecker! His kiss had been enough to keep it hard, but I’d figured that if he thought he was with this Patrice chick, whoever she was, he wouldn’t be looking to squeeze a woody. But there were more surprises coming. He rubbed himself erotically against me, mumbling. His mouth was off mine, but I was too breathless to speak. He was one hell of a kisser, and the rapture of his hand pulling on my crotch left me speechless.

“Patrice...Oh, Patrice...” Moaning and kissing my torso, he went down on one knee, the hand that had been on my neck now rubbing down the length of my body, coming to rest on the inside of my thigh. He opened his mouth, and gulped down my stiff cock! His hands rubbed frantically over my legs, then slid to my butt and began kneading my glutes, and his tongue flicked along the length of my peter as he slid it sensuously in and out of his throat. It was still coated with his own shit, and here he was, slurping it like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day! He pulled it out of his mouth, then with both hands began stroking, kneading, massaging it, rubbing it against his face and chest.

“Mmm, Patrice...c’mon, give it to me. Splatter me, c’mon.” His voice was rising; Jesus, what if somebody was walking by the door? He pushed my now painfully sore erection back into his mouth and began sucking powerfully on it. I was sure I’d already lost all I had, blowing my wad into his ass, but his vacuum action was too much. I stuffed my fist into my mouth to block my moans as I shot, then shot again. He swallowed powerfully, his tongue roiling. This was too much! I’d wanted to let him get his own rocks off, but he was doing me again, instead. I put my hands on either side of his head, felt the blood pounding in his temples, the prickly smoothness of his short, straight hair.

“Dave! Dave!” I puffed. “Oh my God, you’re wearing me out! Freeze!” Instantly, his hands and tongue locked fast. I pushed his head backward, and my cock popped off his lips. “Stand up.” He obediently rose. I looked down at his red, swollen member, bouncing up and down like a triphammer. I looked back into his unfocused eyes. “Dave, what would you like Patrice to do for you?” I ran my hand across his cheek, down under his chin, in what I thought was a feminine manner. His mouth closed, the round ‘O’ of his lips tightening to a hard little smile. “What can Patrice do to make you come? Show me.” By way of answer, his right hand began to rub against my chest, down my stomach, then up and across to my arm. Taking my wrist, he pulled my arm up, then twisted it around into a position that I recognized from earlier that morning, in the restroom. He was posing me into his bodybuilder’s stance! Maybe this Patrice was a lady weightlifter. His left hand, meantime, had begun massaging his own hardon. His right hand ran across my chest again, down my abdomen, back up onto my bicep, and then, with a small moan, he jettisoned an impressive rope of cream onto my stomach. He pushed his beefy body against mine, his cock pointing straight up between us, and blew again. And again. And again. Then he slipped his hand around my neck, and planted another openmouthed kiss on me, his tongue plunging in until I almost gagged, his teeth grating against mine. He slid his mouth down over my chin, fluttering onto my neck, over my chest. He lapped at his own ejaculate, sucking in the sticky gel, licking me clean. Jesus, what an animal! I thought. He was on his knees again, licking at my pecker, but I knew I couldn’t take any more. What had I unleashed here? I put my hand on top of his head. “Dave, relax. Go back into a trance.” His arms dropped to his sides, his head dropped forward, his chin on his chest. I glanced back over at the clock; the hands stood at ten o’clock. I’d had a hell of a Monday morning so far. I slipped back into my clothes, using more of the towels to sop off the fluid that Dave had missed. There wasn’t much; he’d been pretty thorough. My mouth tasted awful; Dave’s last kiss had left an aftertaste of shit and jism. I took a roll of mints from the top drawer of my desk, and popped a couple. Dave knelt on the carpet, a mound of muscle. His genitals had reduced to a size that might again get into his jockey shorts, but there was a long stream of juice trickling down his powerful leg. I went over, stooped down, and mopped him up a little. I put my hand on his bowed head. “Dave, you’ve finished your workout, had a relaxing rubdown, sat in the steamroom, you’ve taken a refreshing shower, and now it’s time to get back to work. Stand up.” He got to his feet. His skin still shone with sweat, but I didn’t have much towel left on the roll. I dabbed at his chest, lifted his arms and wiped his underarms dry, then moved around to his back. I had just enough paper left to sop across his shoulders, so I wrung the saturated towels into the trash, then rubbed them downward on his legs, squeezing the perspiration and sperm off as best I could, then threw the sopping, sticky towels into the can. “Okay, Dave. Get dressed.” As he pulled on his clothes again, I continued my instructions. “You’re feeling great, better than you ever have in your life. Like a million bucks. In just a moment, I’ll snap my fingers, and when I do, you’ll wake up back at work, feeling marvelous. You’re in too wonderful a mood to give anybody a hard time today. Everything is fine, just a perfect day.” He was threading his tie into a knot, smiling radiantly. He slipped his feet into his loafers, then picked up his jacket. I adjusted the necktie, brushed the lapels of the shapeless coat. Back to Clark Kent, big fellah. “Come over here to the table, Dave.” He stepped to the table: I positioned the chair behind him. “Sit down.” He slumped into the seat. Just like nothing had happened, I thought. I ran my hand across the top of his head, smoothing his hair gently back into place. I snapped my finger next to his ear. He sat up in the chair, blinked at the laptop in front of him. I slipped into my chair, swung around to my desk. Behind me, I heard him make a sound of disgust.

“Guuch! Have you got a breath mint? My mouth tastes like ass!” I’ll just bet it does, sir. I picked up the roll of mints from my desk and swung back around again. He turned toward me, and his eyes widened. His jaw dropped open, and he raised a hand and pointed at me. “You...you...” he stammered. He was turning bright red. Holy shit, he remembered what I did. He was going to kick my ass all the way to China. He was going to kill me. And then he was going to fire me. “You’re...you’re Patrice COLS!” He jumped up from the chair; it fell over backward. His right hand shot out. “WOW! This is such an honor! I’ve always wanted to meet you!” I had forgotten to end his fantasy! He grabbed my right hand, pumping it up and down violently. I had to do something fast.

“Nice to meet you, too. Can I buy you a cup of java?” His hand stopped, still clutching mine, as his widened eyes rolled shut. I freed my hand from his slackening bear grip, and stepped around his still form. I picked up the fallen chair, set it upright. “Dave, open your eyes and sit down here.” I returned to my seat and faced him again. “Dave, I’m not Patrice Cole anymore, I’m Barry Rodgers. Do you understand?” He nodded, docile again. “Who is Patrice Cole? Can you show me Patrice?” He nodded again, and his arms drifted up and over to his computer. His eyes focused slackly on the screen as he clicked on a shortcut button. An image viewer opened, he selected a picture. The image popped up.

“Patrice...Cols.” He crooked a finger at the screen. “Fantastic.” He put his hand on his lap, began to knead his crotch. I goggled at the screen. Patrice wasn’t a model, or a starlet, or his high school crush. Patrice was a man. The picture was of a handsome, chiseled blonde bodybuilder! “Mist’r...France.” Dave added helpfully. “Mmmm...” He began to breathe harder, his hand rubbing back and forth across the rising fabric of his slacks.

“Easy, there, Dave. Relax. Close your eyes and relax. Go deeper and deeper into a trance.” I pulled his limp hand away from the bulge in his lap, set it back on the table. God, I really had been blind, hadn’t I? Big Dave was a closet queer! I tried to remember, but I couldn’t think of any signal he had ever given. His disguise was flawless. He bragged about women, talked sports, in every way a stereotypical straight. Not a single blip on my gay-dar. But it sure explained a few things about him. The military, the bodybuilding must be ways of trying to compensate; maybe he told himself he just kept those pictures on his computer for motivation. Good God, he must have years of pent-up sexual tension! The poor lonely devil, suddenly I felt very sorry for him. I reached over, ran my hand across his cheek, tousled his hair. “Dave, listen to me carefully. You’re going deeper and deeper into trance. You must trust me. I want to help you. I’m going to help you. Do you understand?”

“Must...trus’ you. You’ll help...me,” he murmured. Okay, Sigmund Freud, so now what?

“Dave, I’m going to ask you a question, and you must answer truthfully. You must tell me the truth. You must trust me. You must tell me the truth. Understand?”

“An...s’er truth...f’lly. Must ans’er truthf’lly...mus’ trust...you. Truth.”

“Good. Very good. Trust me. Tell me the truth. I will never tell anyone else. Now, tell me the truth, Dave. Are you a homosexual?” He twisted slightly, his jaw working slowly. “Trust me, Dave. I will never tell anyone else. You must obey me. Tell me the truth. Are you a homosexual?”

“Homo...sex...shull. Yes...yes.” His chin pulled upward, his shoulders squared. “Homosex...shull.”

“Do you think homosexuals are bad?” He nodded as he answered, his face contorting.

“Yess...bad. Dirty...sick. Evil.”

“Dave, you’re not bad, you’re not dirty or sick. You’re not evil. Why do you think that?” His face colored, his legs shifted uncomortably.

“Dad says...faggots ‘r...sick. Should be ashamed. Weak. Sister Francis...says...queers’ll all burn in Hell.” His voice had heightened to a childish treble. I took his hands in mine; he was shaking. All that stomping around, yelling at other people must just be self-loathing.

“Shh, relax, Dave, listen to me. You must trust me. You’re not weak or evil because you’re gay. Listen to me. Trust me.” He stopped trembling. “You are a good man, and you’re gay. You are strong and good. Remember that. You don’t have to be proud you’re gay. But you don’t have to be ashamed, either.” I saw the frown leave his face, the smile start to blossom. Oprah Winfrey, eat your heart out, I thought. “Dave, listen to me. I’m going to waken you in a moment. When I count three, you will wake up feeling great, just like I told you before. Like a million bucks. You won’t remember being hypnotized, but you will remember your magic word. Repeat your magic word for me, Dave.”

“Java...java.” He was smiling, showing those sexy dimples again.

“Very good. When I say java to you, you will fall instantly back into a deep trance. And remember that you’re good. You’re a strong, handsome man, Dave. You are NOT bad or weak because you are gay. Believe me. Don’t be ashamed of who you are. You’ll wake up in a minute, feeling wonderful.” I picked up the roll of breath mints again, held them out to him. “One, two, three.” His eyelids fluttered, he focused on my hand. He reached out, took the roll.

“Thanks.” It was the first time I could ever remember him thanking me for anything. I smiled, and we both turned back to our desks. I again heard him gasp. Uh-oh, now what? I glanced back. The image of Mr. France smiled seductively from Mr. Harman’s computer screen for a split second, then disappeared. I turned back to my desk, smiling. Well, let him wonder about that one, I decided. Casually, I pointed to his coffee cup. “That must be ice cold by now, sir. Let me get you a fresh cup.” He nodded, busy at his computer.

“Thanks.” Hmm. Twice in less than a minute. Things were looking up. I picked up the cup and went out, went down to the break room. Someone had made more coffee, and I poured out a fresh cup. Coming back down the hall, I saw that he’d propped the door open again. I could hear him humming to himself. I set it down on the table next to him, and he looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back. You might just turn out to be a hell of a guy, Mr. Harman Sir.

Well, he didn’t exactly become Mother Teresa right off the bat, but it was actually a pretty good morning. He used his cell phone instead of my office one to make his calls, but he still sent me a batch of files that I had to print for him. Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, I decided. At one o’clock, he closed his laptop, packed his things into his briefcase, and clapped his hand on my shoulder.

“Come on, let me take you to lunch.” I turned, my eyes widening, and stared at him for a second. He grinned at me, showing those dimples again. “Really. Come on, there’s an Italian place over on Crewe street that has great fettucine alfredo.” I hadn’t planned on a lunch break today; I’d gotten a little behind in my work that morning (well, frankly, I’d gotten a lot of ‘behind’ in my work that morning!), despite getting to the office so early. His smile faded as he folded his arms. “That’s an order! Jump to it.” Well, orders is orders...I got my jacket, and we walked down the hall. I could see the rest of the office diving for cover as he strode to the front door. When we got outside, he tossed his briefcase in his trunk, then ordered me into his car (“Waste of gas, both of us driving. And you’ll get lost. Get in.") and as he pulled away, I could see shocked faces staring through the front windows of the office. They probably thought he was taking me out to sell me into white slavery. We had a terrific lunch, and he surprised me again by ordering a bottle of wine, and insisting on paying the bill (“Business expense, it’s on the company’s account,” he explained). He talked about himself only a little, instead asking me at first about the office; how I was getting along, what I thought of the others there. I managed to get in a few questions of my own; he’d gone to Catholic schools, never been married, and he had been in the military, for four years, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about any of it. When we’d finished eating, he drove me back to the office. He stopped in front of the doors, instead of pulling into a parking space. “Gotta get over to the south branch office this afternoon,” he explained. I opened the door, and he put a hand on my arm. “Listen, I’ve...if...if you’re not busy this weekend, I’ve got a cabin upstate. Beautiful place, nice and relaxing, how’d you like to come up and do some fishing?” He tried to keep his tone light, but I could see the undercurrent of emotion on his face. First thanks, then lunch, now a weekend getaway? The barriers were falling like dominoes. I didn’t really care for fishing, but I had a feeling we probably weren’t going to spend much time on the water.

“Thanks, that sounds like a great time!”

“Bring your gear on Friday. We can leave from here.”

“Fine. Thanks again for lunch. You’re right, that place has excellent food.” I put my hand out, and he shook it warmly.

“Least I could do, for making you put up with me in your office all this time.” I laughed as I stepped out of the car. “See you Friday morning, then.” He regarded me from behind his Wayfarers for a moment, then pulled away slowly. I gave a mock salute, and walked into the building.