The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Louis studied carefully the outfit his wife Elle had chosen for tonight’s dinner party. It was a somewhat unusual look for her; ordinarily, she dressed either with a subdued professional theme—she was a psychologist, counselor and hypnotherapist who worked primarily with women struggling in their marriages—or, to be honest, suitably for an elegant but slightly sinister night on the town. Tonight, though, she looked younger than usual, with not even a hint of fatale in her femininity. She wore black jeans that seemed to be carefully tailored for her figure, flaring at the hips and then emphasizing her slender waist, circled by a silver dime concho belt from New Mexico that had cost Louis quite a bit. It looked so sexy as it hung that the money seemed well spent. Above, she wore a rust-colored sweater that hung loosely, leaving one shoulder bare and exposing a tantalizing black bra strap. Unlike the jeans, the sweater did not reveal but concealed what was beneath it, leading the imagination to construct an image that her husband, at least, found almost unbearably sexy. Her face was largely bare of makeup, with just a hint of blush and a little light-pink lipstick. She looked young. Not young like a teenager—she looked like a woman in her thirties, comfortable with herself and her looks—but she also looked like the woman a smart, ambitious teenage girl might have dreamed of growing up to be.

Louis had spent hours studying Elle’s looks, her fashion choices, and her moods, but even so her mercurial flamboyance never failed to captivate him. Tonight, he thought, she had dressed for the friends she was entertaining. It was the first night of the intensive hypnosis training weekend she had planned for her friends from Missouri—the women she had known as a teenager before an apparent tragedy and disrupted their close friends: Joanie, now the owner of Trilby’s, the go-to diner in her mountain community; Bobbie Joe, who had abandoned her friends and her true love for the “joys” of a loveless, spellbound marriage; and Tamsin, the darkly powerful baby witch and lost love of Bobbie Joe, who had been unwillingly exiled to a magical house outside reality until she psychically summoned Elle and Louis to rescue her—and free Bobbie Joe from a love spell she had incautiously cast herself.*

Also joining them was Salome Hawkins, a retired molecular biologist who had turned out to be a powerful intuitive witch herself, and Elle’s friend Juliet, the radio host who had introduced her to Louis. But of all these attractive women, Elle was by far the most elegantly dressed. That sweater made him want to—

“Louis, darling,” she said, lightly touching the back of his hand. “It’s time for dessert.”

Louis returned to earth with a thud. He was (of course) the chef and waiter for this gathering of goddesses. “Sorry,” he said. “My mind was somewhere else.” He leapt up and began hustling dinner plates from the table to the kitchen. The meal had begun with fresh mushroom ravioli and continue with roast leg of lamb crusted in rosemary. There was a lot to clear. Salome rose as if the to help, but he waved her to sit. “No, Salome, this is man’s work,” he said. The answer produced some smiles from the others at the table, but Louis was barely aware of them; he had spoken without a trace of irony. He quickly cleared, lightly swabbed a few random spills, then brought ice-cream bowls from the kitchen and placed one in front of each dinner. Then he brought out a large Tupperware container and began spooning it into the bowls.

“This looks really good,” Joan said. “What is it?”

“It’s Mexican cinnamon and vanilla ice cream,” Louis said. “With some hot fudge sauce on the side.”

“Oh, yum,” Joan answered. “Where did you get it?”

“I made it myself. For some reason recently I’ve gotten fascinated with ice cream. I’d never tried making it until a few months ago.”

Elle seemed to be finding some private thought highly amusing, and several of her friends did as well.

Once the ice cream had made the rounds, Elle said, “Louis’s new novel will be out pretty soon. Tell the ladies about it, darling.”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing can make a male author more eager to talk than five attentive female faces hanging on his every word. “Well, I don’t know whether any of you have read any of the Charles Winter novels?”

Three of the five heads nodded—then the nodders noticed that the others had read them too and got a little embarrassed, but Louis felt even more voluble to know he had three readers in the crowd. “Well, after the last one, Milagro’s gone to ‘happily ever after’ heaven, and I’ve started a new series about her cousin Adrielys Merveille. Adrielys is not like Charles—not a detective—she’s—well, she calls herself a celestina.”

“Celesa-what?” Joan said.

“It’s Spanish for ‘matchmaker’—Adrielys helps her clients find true love. It’s a pretty straightforward romance arrangement—but there’s a twist. She’s a celestina to the secret world—”

“Oh, goody,” said Salome. “Espionage?”

“What? No, no—the supernatural world.”

“Explain,” Salome said, though her eyes were twinkling as if she already knew the answer.

“Well,” Louis said. “Suppose a—I don’t know, an elfin brave wants to marry a faerie princess—that may not go over well with her mother, the Queen—and they may need to work around that—or, well the plot of the first one is a human woman who wants to marry a ghost—”

“That’s a curse, Louis,” Tamsin said. “Eternal.”

“It is if it’s not authorized, Tamsin,” he said. “But the supernatural council can authorize it in an emergency—so Adrielys is in charge of helping the couple create an emergency to convince them. The course of true love doesn’t run smooth, of course—but Adrielys has—ways—of smoothing things over—supernatural lore, witchcraft, hypnosis—”

“She hypnotizes faeries?” Tamsin said. “That’s impossible—”

“Not impossible,” Louis said. “It’s just really really hard. But Adrielys is very good at what she does.”

“She’s based on me, isn’t she, darling?” Elle said. A touch of pride showed through her self-possessed veneer.

“Well—she isn’t BASED on you—she IS you, Elle. I created Adrielys to get us out of that tight spot back in Hadleyburg, when Milagro came out of the mirror and we needed to talk her back in before she killed us both.* I didn’t have time to create a character so I just channeled the most powerful woman I—” He broke off, blushing slightly.

“Oh, darling, that’s so sweet,” she said. Her tone revealed that nothing Louis said had surprised her.

Tamsin looked riveted by what Louis had said. “That celestina is such a cool idea, Louis,” she said. “I used to hear stories about that kind of thing when I was living in the—other place. Maybe I could help—”

A chilly look from Elle extinguished Tamsin’s voice before she could complete her sentence.

“That reminds me—” Elle looked around at her friends. “Louis has a theory about how to make a marriage work—tell them, darling.”

Louis’s color deepened. “It’s not my theory, Elle—it was a few years ago—funny, it was just before we met—I heard a public radio report about researchers who studied a cohort of 3,000 marriages and announced they had found the secret of a happy one.”

After a moment, Tamsin said, “Well, sweet-ca—Louis—we’re all ears.”

His face got even redder. “Well, they said, it all depends on how quickly, completely, and enthusiastically the husband obey the wives.”

Laughter rippled around the table. “And you thought—” Elle prompted him.

“I, um, well—I thought—well, ‘Is that all it takes? It sounds like fun—I can do that!’”

Even louder laughter greeted this statement.

“In fact,” he said, “I read about the study later—“

“So fascinating, Louis,” Elle said, gently touching the back of his hand.

The thought of Adrielys as a matchmaker suddenly called up memories of Elle as a bride, just a few years ago—it seemed like much less time! She’d worn what she told him was a ‘mermaid style’ gown, white, falling just below the knee, hugging every curve and dipping in to show off her slender waist. She’d been almost too thin that day—looking back, he realized he should have been a little worried about her. Later she’d confessed that during the months when he and she had broken up, she had pretty much lived on yogurt and single-malt whiskey. He took pride in having fed her healthy meals since he became the cook, and he loved the way she looked now. Still, she had been a sexy bride—those white high heels and the stockings with seams that never failed to drive him crazy—even thinking about them was getting him—

Elle touched the back of his hand again gently. “Darling, you’re a thousand miles away. The ladies and I are going for the first training session now.” The ladies were staying at the Exchange Hotel downtown, and Elle had rented a conference room there for the weekend seminar. She planned to do an “Introduction to Hypnosis” session tonight to prepare them for the lesson the next day. Jerry Wilmon, the hapless convenience-store clerk who had tried to kill in Hadleyburg and was now her permanently ensnared thrall, was picking them up in a rented van.

“Thanks for dinner,” they chimed prettily as they gathered wraps from the bedroom where he’d had them stow them.

“Poor Louis,” Joan said. “Left alone to clean up.”

Elle laughed merrily. “Oh, no, Joanie,” she said. “I have a maid to help with cleaning while we are gone, haven’t I, Louis?”

He looked a bit confused. “Yes, we have—we have? Who?”

“You remember Louise, don’t you? She’s going to make the kitchen nice and neat while you—relax.”

“Yes, Elle,” he said. “Of course, Elle.” Then the group was gone in a cloud of perfume and a clatter of heels, and Louis was left standing in the dining room with a stunned expression on his face, moving his hands gently up and down as if smoothing an invisible maid’s uniform.

A few hours later, Elle Murphy returned home feeling satisfied with life and herself. The introductory session had been almost perfect—all the former teen witches, having been duly impressed by the performance she’d gotten out of Louis, were keenly interested in learning how to snare a devoted male slave for themselves. (Bobby Jo and Tamsin, she suspected, were each imagining sneakily hypnotizing the other; Elle’s money was on Tamsin.) As for Juliet, things had gone exactly according to plan. The voluptuous radio host was outgoing and uninhibited—and a natural somnambulist. She’d fallen into trance even before Elle had finished her initial relaxation ritual, and had, at Elle’s suggestion, given quite a stunning performance (she’d been a theatre major at State, and could definitely sing and dance!)—then had awakened with no memory of her trance but with wonderful sexy associations with being hypnotized.

Elle had plans for Juliet, whose dominant nature … needed to be awakened. Once it was—watch out, world!

Elle walked into the bedroom and saw her husband lying atop the covers of their king-size bed. He was wearing running shorts and an old ESDAILE COLLEGE sweatshirt from his undergraduate days, and reading ALIAS GRACE by Margaret Atwood. Atwood was a favorite for both of them. Louis treasured her works because her prose was exquisite; Elle valued it because THE HANDMAID’S TALE was a stark warning of the danger of giving men power over women—any man at all, any power at all. Women should rule; men should serve. Everybody is happier that way.

Take Louis, for example: right now he looked relaxed and happy, just the way Elle liked him—though, the sight of him this way inspired her to sexy mischief.

“How was cleaning up, darling?” she asked.

He looked up, a bit puzzled. “Cleaning up? No, not at all—the girl took care of it.”

Louis didn’t always remember that he was “the girl,” which was fine with Elle.

“Marvelous,” she said, with a slightly impish smile.

“How was the seminar?”

“We’re off to a good start,” she said.

“I am curious why you were so eager to get your friends up here,” Louis said. “It’s not as if you have nothing to do.” In fact, since her debut on Mistress Selene’s podcast, and the publication of her book, Hypnosis for Wives, Elle had been fending off speaking offers and requests to do seminars for pay; instead, she had cleared a weekend, rented a conference room out of her own pocket, and basically commanded her old friends (and Salome, who was quickly becoming an old friend and in fact a kind of maternal figure to Elle, who had grown up with a mother who disappeared when she was 12) to come up for an introduction to hypnosis (with a subtext of female domination, of course).

“Louis, you teach creative writing, right?”

“Sure,” he said. During his years as a prestigious but starving Manhattan writer, Louis had earned some extra money by teaching fiction writing at a small New York college; and now, every spring, he taught a fiction seminar at Tri-County Tech, the local state university.

“Why do you do it?” she asked. “It’s not as if we need the money.”

The question seemed to catch Louis off guard. “I never actually thought about it that way,” he said. “Teaching is good for me because it makes me put my own thoughts about writing in order. Each time I teach I discover that my ideas and techniques have changed. And I learn a lot from my students’ stories—a lot of it is how not to write, but that’s a way to figure out how to write, if that makes any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” she said. “And I plan to learn a lot from Joanie and Tamsin and Bobbie Joe.”

“What would you like to learn?:

“Louis, before you and I ended up behind that magic waterfall in Puységur, I hadn’t thought about that place and those people for years. It was almost as if I’d put up a block against remembering the times we had. And they were quite amazing, Louis. Tamsin and Bobbie Joe were both very—powerful. As witches, I mean. I wasn’t bad; I could cast a spell or tell a fortune but they—they were naturals and I remember wishing I was as good at the craft as they were.”

As she walked to the closet, she kicked off her shoes, then shed the sexy sweater and close-fitting slacks, leaving them on the ground. (Louis didn’t know it yet, but “the girl” would pick them up tomorrow and hang them carefully in the closet, and would be grateful to Elle for the chance to serve her.) She slipped on a sea-green camisole and matching panties, then threw a silk robe on over them.

“Now I have my chance to learn what they know. They might not tell me if I asked them straight out—but when someone is teaching you something, it’s very hard not to teach that person what you know. By the end of this weekend I will have opened them up completely and be learning from them more than they are learning from me. And they will be eating out of my hand—eager to do favors for me if I need them.”

Louis looked at his wife with sheer admiration not entirely unmixed with terror. “Elle,” she said. “You’re the most powerful woman I know! Why do you need more?”

“You of all people know that I can use power for good reasons. I enjoy being a hypnotist. Being a hypnotist and a really good witch will be even better. And I have kind of a feeling that I may need to keep Tamsin in her place at some point.”

“Elle,” he said. “Should I be … nervous about this plan?”

“Louis, I adore you and you are the love of my life,” his wife replied. “That said, it suits me fine if your heart beats a little faster when you wonder what tricks I am up to. I usually am … up to something.”

She walked over to her elegant lacquered bedroom vanity and began to wipe off her makeup. Then, as if struck by a random thought, she said, “Louis, darling, come here a second.”

He carefully marked his page with a bookmark, then came over to stand next to her.

“Look what I found,” she said, showing him a tube of lipstick. “It just came back on the market.”

“Lipstick?” he sounded puzzled. “You’ve had lipstick for years—”

“No, silly,” she said. “It’s not just lipstick, it’s Max Factor Ruby Red—this is the exact shade Marilyn Monroe used. It went off the market for a while and wasn’t available again until 2016—and then only in Europe. I got some sent to me.”

“By who?”

“By an old dear friend who—listen, never you mind by who, Louis Wentworth, keep your mind on what I am telling you.” Slowly she opened the tube. “Marilyn took enormous care with her red lips,” she explained in the tone of a school mistress addressing a slow pupil. “She had a makeup artist who did it for her, but I have learned to do it myself.” She began to apply the red lipstick to her mouth. “It’s important to produce a sharp outline—look closely as I put it on, see how the tube moves back and forth? Upper lip, lower lip, back and forth, it’s very soothing to put on lipstick, it’s soothing to watch too—upper lip, lower lip, back and forth—yes, that’s okay, darling, you are relaxing, your eyes really are heavy and that’s okay, go ahead and kneel, that will be more comfortable—no, don’t close your eyes yet, see how the color deepens, how it draws the eye, a man looking at Marilyn couldn’t take his eyes off the mouth, it got bigger and fuller as he drifted helplessly toward it, as he imagined being swallowed by her, drifting into that mouth—that’s right, Louis. So relaxed, just watch my mouth as everything it says becomes true. Louis, the thermostat in this room must be set too high, it’s very hot in here, can’t you feel it? My heavens, you’ve been here for hours, you must be soaked with sweat, your clothes are so heavy, that’s it, you can’t keep them on, Louis! Faster! Good boy! No, don’t worry, we can sew the buttons back on—Off now, get cool, that’s it, they’re off now and the room is cooling off, now you are comfortable, kneel now and watch my mouth, everything it says is true, and you want it to take you, swallow you—give it up, Louis!”

Elle pushed her husband onto his back on the floor, and swiftly slipped off her camisole and panties. She climbed over him, pinning his hands above his head, and slipped his erection inside her as she held his gaze with her eyes. “Watch me, Louis, you can’t look away,” she said. She rode him for a few minutes—maybe longer, time seemed to slow down—until she felt her own orgasm, as gentle and powerful as a broad swell on the open sea; she closed her eyes in delight.

“Good boy,” she said when she came back to herself, “you’re drifting closer and closer, my mouth is open and you’re floating into it, you want to fall, that’s it, let yourself go, Louis, now—I’m swallowing you! Now!”

She felt him buck and then come inside her, his eyes rolling back.

She fell beside him; both were naked and sated, though Louis was still staring blankly at the ceiling. “That will do, dear,” she said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Get up and go to the bed.”

He sprang to his feet; she rose more slowly and gathered up her lingerie, then followed him to the best. “Louis, listen,” she said. “You’re deep in trance, every word I say becomes true the moment I say it. All you want is to follow my suggestions, my will is stronger than yours, to let go… that’s right, good boy. Now lie down here beside me.”

He settled onto the bed and she continued her low, persuasive monologue. “Louis,” she said, “Forget abouit it being hot, the room is perfect. Now I want you to close your eyes and see a color, a deep lovely seductive sea green, can you see it, really see it? Raise your finger when you see—good boy, now I want you to focus on the sound of my voice, really hear it and let it flow through you, dominating your mind and body, raise your finger when my will overcomes everything else—good boy, now remember the smell of my perfume, breathe deep, this is the smell of obedience, relaxation, trance, you obey my perfume because it is mine, that’s right, good boy—now remember how my lips taste when I kiss you, how my kisses take you deeper and deeper under my power until my taste is all you can think of, and how I taste like vanilla ice cream, lift your finger when you—good boy. Now, finally….” She held out the sea-green panties and placed them in his hand. “Feel this, how silky, how sexy, how it feels like me and my power, it sounds like me and my voice, it smells like me and my perfume, it’s my color, it is me—and now let yourself go deeper and deeper as you stroke the silk and listen to my voice, Louis, as you listen to my suggestions you are becoming these panties, you are small and silky and green and you belong to me, panties are smooth and small and pantieshave no brain, they don’t need to think, your brain is disappearing into the gren silk, all you want is to mold to my body and support me and be near me and as you sink more and more deeply into the silky feeling you feel your mind drifting from image to image and you can simply let it roam as your body goes limp, let go of everything you think you are, you don’t need to do anything, you don’t need to be anything, you can be nothing but a wisp of silk, such a good feeling, that’s it, completely limp and lazy and open to me. …”

She lay back, naked, atop the bedspread. The room was actually not hot—she felt a bit chilly, if anything—but she had a cure for that. “Now, Louis, you want only to wrap around me, so limp and silky—” She pulled him toward her until his solid body lay across hers like a comfortable weighted blanket. She couldn’t imagine a cozier way to sleep on a wintry night; he was warm and his face was wreathed in a blank blissful smile. She realized vaguely that deepening his trance was relaxing her. She found herself remembering that Marilyn had her own personal makeup artist—Whitey something—Snyder, that was it—she wondered whether Louis would like to be Elle’s Whitey Snyder, she imagined him applying her lipstick, so devoted, fascinated, blank and . . . . Would she learn enough witchcraft to actually turn her husband into a pair of green silk panties? Where did that thought come from? What would that be like? She was losing track . . . . “That’s it, sleepy, Louis, sleeping so deep . . . ly.”

As he drifted away, she followed into blankness and bliss. The next morning, she nearly slept past the start of her hypnosis seminar.