The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dad was driving (as I predicted), so it only took about an hour for Mom and Dad to get to the hospital from Grandma’s (also as I predicted). Yes, there was a lot of hugging and crying and everything, and yes, Dr. Toms briefed them about my condition and told them I was in great shape before leaving us alone, and yes, she was utterly professional and didn’t say a thing about “stress tests” or “physical therapy” (go figure). I’m skipping all that because (a) it’s probably the most talking we’ve all done in years, and it’s personal, (b) you probably aren’t reading this story because you’re interested in my family’s activities while I was out of commission, and (c) that wasn’t the weird part of the visit (other than Dr. Toms being back in real-life-normal doctor mode rather than porn-movie doctor-babe mode).

The weird part came an hour or two later when Dad realized that “his show” was on, and immediately turned my hospital-room TV to Fox News. Now as I mentioned earlier, I don’t like to talk politics, and there are a couple of reasons. Reason one: people like my dad who, at a moment’s notice, could uncork the sort of rant you’d expect from people who watch nothing but Fox News. Reason two: people like my friends who, at a moment’s notice, could uncork the sort of rant you’d expect from people who watch nothing but the liberal equivalent of Fox News.

For as long as I could remember, politics ran on the Political Fuckwad Theory: just like the Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory, minus the anonymity. With Exhibit A being the 2012 elections, Exhibit B being everything before the elections, and Exhibit C being everything afterwards—at least up through August when I had the wreck. My preferred approach to political debate—regardless of the speaker’s affiliation—was to wait until the rant was over, then change the subject. Accomplished the same thing as an actual debate, while reducing the amount of valuable oxygen wasted. Sure, you could argue that maybe, just maybe, an actual debate might actually yield positive results in the long term, but as long as the Political Fuckwad Theory was in play, the odds were slim to nil.

And of course, when you live near DC like we do, national politics becomes local politics, and national fuc...I mean, national figures become local figures. So yeah, I live in the worst possible place in the country to try to avoid political debate. Hey, blame my parents.

OK, time to get off my soapbox and get back to the story. Dad’s show was talking about some press conference, so I braced myself for the ranting and spin-doctoring that inevitably accompanies such political theatrics. There was some Senator who was blathering about some bit of legislation that would blah blah blah fair compromise yadda yadda yadda spirit of bipartisanship wait what? Compromise? Bipartisanship? I hadn’t heard anyone from Washington break out those words in ages, so I listened more closely for the usual ”We’re willing but they’re not” spin that The Usual Gang of Idiots attaches to those words.

And found not a hint of spin whatsoever. From the politicians or the reporters.

I almost pushed the nurse-call button, convinced that I was hallucinating it all. No way I could have slept for three months, only to wake up on Planet Kumbaya.

And then I realized something else: the Senator was standing next to his wife. That was odd enough because this didn’t seem to be the sort of legislation that required a politician’s wife to be on the platform in order to score political points for Senator Hubby. But as I watched the press conference, I got the vibe that the Senator and his wife were very happy to see each other. Not “we must present a united front in public so maybe people won’t ask about his drunk texts to his interns” happy, or even a bonafide “fond of each other” happy. This was more like “fond of each other, and how quickly can we get back to the bedroom” happy.

Just when I decided I was hallucinating the hormones as well, the honorable Senator and his wife puckered up for a kiss. A “get a room” kiss.

Cutting back to the studio, the show’s host and hostess (or whatever they call them nowadays) seemed to approve of the Senator’s amorous antics with his wife. Actually, I got the feeling they wanted to cut to commercial ASAP so they could jump each other’s bones.

A couple of barely-restrained make-out sessions disguised as political news, on a network not known for this sort of thing. And I was watching this with my parents. So with all that awkwardness piling up around you, what would you have said to your parents?

I said the best thing I could think up on the spot: “Um, I don’t normally watch this show, and I know I’ve been out for a while...but are those two hosts, uh, dating?” Lame, I know, but frankly, I still can’t come up with a better question, short of hiding under the covers and hoping that it was all a weird dream.

But I asked the question anyway, expecting three possible answers from Dad:

(A) “No, why do you ask?” Meaning that I’d completely hallucinated the whole Political Operatives Gone Wild subtext. The most likely scenario, or so I thought.

(B) “They just got married X weeks ago,” along with comments to the effect that he didn’t care if they were newlyweds, they should be more professional on-camera.

(C) “Yes, they are dating,” along with even stronger comments to the effect that he didn’t care if they were dating, they should be more professional on-camera.

Instead, Dad came up with option (D): “Yeah, they’re dating, ain’t it great!” Without a whiff of disapproval. “Speak of which, hon, we probably ought to leave Richard alone so he can rest, right?” Now, if you’re wondering how Dad could segue from Hosts In Love to letting me rest, it was because he was throwing off the same vibe as the hosts. You know, that desire for a commercial break so they could, well, you know...

“Great! You get some rest, Richard, and we’ll be back later. Maybe after supper, or, well, sometime later! Bye!” I’ve never seen Mom move that fast in my life—not when I wasn’t in trouble, anyway—but she grabbed her purse and was out the door, also apparently ready for “commercial break” or whatever you want to call it, with Dad right behind her in hot pursuit.

By now, I had completely forgotten about Dr. Toms. I know, normally you shouldn’t be able to forget about hot young female doctors giving you blow jobs in your hospital bed, right? But I’d never seen my parents act like that before in my life. Sure, they loved each other and all that, but not like that, and never right in front of me! And if you can think about your parents having sex without temporarily scarring the sexual areas of your brain—and I’m not talking about “your mommy and daddy loved each other very much, and they did some things many many many years ago, and that’s how you were born” sex, I’m talking about “your mommy and daddy are so horny, they’re gonna do some things right now“ sex—you’re a much more mentally balanced human being than I am.

Dr. Toms did return to the room late that evening, and I had mostly recovered from the traumatic episode with my folks. Not entirely, though; it took about 10 or 15 seconds before my mind was ready to jump back into the gutter.

Once I was back in the gutter, though, I was ready to test out my mind control powers; besides, she’d promised me a whole bunch of aggressive physical therapy, which sounded like a lot of fun. I wasn’t sure how this mind control thing worked, so I mentally pushed images of my desired course of therapy.

And...nada from Dr. Toms. She was just as professional as she was when my parents were there. The only effect of my mental images was that I was getting hard again, and she was doing a professional job of ignoring that as well.

After trying several ways of pushing commands to her, I gave up and simply let her check me out. Not in that way, unfortunately. Until she accidentally bumped the bedrail and turned the TV back on.

“Oh, shit, I mean shoot, sorry, Dad wanted to watch something on Fox....” I didn’t know her politics, and I didn’t want her to start ranting one way or the other, so I started looking for the channel-control buttons.

“Oh, that’s fine....” I stopped looking for the channel buttons because Dr. Toms sounded distracted or something. I glanced at the TV—different show, different hosts, thankfully not hitting on each other this time—and back at the doctor as she stared at the TV screen and became increasingly distracted. No. Not distracted. Horny? No, couldn’t be. Until she turned back toward me with a smoky gaze that told me the Love Doctor was In.

Yeah, I know that’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever read, but you didn’t see the smoky gaze.

“You’ll be glad to know your tests came back just fine, so we can start your physical therapy immediately.” She glanced at the bedsheets. “Looks like we won’t need to do too much prep work, but wait a minute.” She walked to the window, closed the shades, then walked to the door. After calling out to the nurses that she’d be conducting tests and was not to be disturbed, she closed the door and walked to my bed like she was working the stage at the local gentlemen’s club.

“A little privacy, just in case they forget,” she explained as she pulled the curtain around my bed. “Now for the prep work...” She pulled the bedsheets and robe aside, and nodded with approval. “Don’t need much prep work at all; still, gotta follow protocol....” She didn’t even bother stroking me this time; instead, she took as much of me into her mouth as she could.

She seemed to be an expert in the “prep work,” but she didn’t do it for long. “Now, on to the primary therapy regimen,” and she pulled off the top of her scrubs in one smooth motion. The bra followed, and her figure was even better than I’d remembered from the brief glimpses down her shirt that morning. Then off went her pants, and she slowly turned around to show off the view from behind. I didn’t know what to expect because scrubs don’t reveal much of anything below the belt, but holy crap, I didn’t expect her to have such a great ass, or nice legs.

“Now don’t worry if the hyper-sensitivity presents itself again tonight,” she explained as she put a condom on me before climbed onto the bed. The hyper-what? Oh, yeah. Cumming as soon as she starts. “That’s expected in the early stages of treatment; remember that the purpose of this therapy to is use repetitive treatments to reduce sensitivity to normal levels.” Wait, did that mean that she was gonna—holy shiiiit.... She slowly lowered herself down me, then just as slowly rode me, inch by inch, up and down. Damn, was she trying to “reduce sensitivity” down there by making my brain explode or what?

She smiled from her perch atop Mount Vesuvius. “How does that feel?”

My head was swimming, and the best response I could muster was a whispered, “Ohhhhh...do you give your boyfriend ‘therapy’ like this?” With therapy like this, I figured his “sensitivity” would have to be superhuman.

She shook her head, transmitting additional pleasantly torturous cross-vibrations down there. “No boyfriend. No time. I’d never be around because I’m too busy doing this. Shhh, you’re talking too much. I’m gonna have to increase the intensity a bit.” She tightened the right muscles just a little bit more, and went just a little bit slower. It worked; I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

I’m not sure if I held out a little longer because of the increased grip or in spite of it, but I could feel myself about to explode. She could feel it too, because she reached around me and played with my balls. “You’re doing very well,” she whispered. “You’re responding to therapy even better than I expected. Just hold on as long as you can.” She tightened the grip on my cock even more as she breathed, “When you’re ready, cum.” I was ready, and I exploded.

I don’t remember her dismounting me, or cleaning me up, or much of anything after that. The next thing I remembered was waking up to find her cuddling next to me. That alarmed the crap out of me—the last time I woke up, I’d been out for three months—but she gently squeezed me and whispered, “Shh. You’re fine. You were only out a minute or so. That’s a common...side effect of this particular therapy.” She slipped out of bed with a gentle kiss on my forehead. As she put her clothes back on, she explained, “We’ll have follow-up treatments over the next few days, of course, but I think you’re doing much better than expected. We may have you out of here by the middle of next week!” OK, I admit I was a bit disappointed; I was hoping for months of Dr. Toms’ special brand of PT.

“Dr. Toms? Am I allowed to get out of bed and walk around?”

By now, her clothes were back on. “I think that should be fine; let me tell the staff. For right now, though, continue to use the call button when you want to get out of bed, even if it’s just for the toilet. It’s still early, you haven’t been on your feet much in three months, and I don’t want you out of bed without supervision.” She was back to normal again, which was strange. Her instructions wouldn’t have been strange coming from a normal, real-life doctor, but from someone who had just fucked my brains out in the name of Medicine? Either funny as hell or weird as hell, I wasn’t sure which.

Then I remembered the TV and my parents’ sudden exit, and “weird as hell” won. That news conference on Fox felt like an illicit teenage party—hold the smuggled booze, double the smuggled hormones—and it sure felt like Mom and Dad reacted in kind.

And my magic mind control powers from this morning—whatever they were—didn’t work on Dr. Toms tonight. It wasn’t until she accidentally turned the TV on that she went into porno mode. Although a different show was on, and the hosts weren’t trying to openly get a room, as far as I could tell. Did the TV have anything to do with that? Did Fox News suddenly decide that sex sold better than conservative spin-doctoring?

But if I didn’t have magic mind control powers, how the hell did I get a blow job out of my doctor this morning? I knew the TV was off so I couldn’t blame Fox News for that, but then what secret magic mind control command did I subconsciously use—and then I remembered. I’d just asked her about health care. She mentioned that the ongoing Washington battle over health care had been settled...and then it was Hello Nurse time. Hello Doctor time. You know what I mean.

So although it was great to have my own private fantasy porno hospital, complete with my own private fantasy porno doctor, something strange was going on. And I didn’t know what.

The next bit of weirdness came about an hour later. I was ready to go to sleep, but I had to hit the bathroom first, so I hit the nurse-call button like a good little patient, just like my sexy porno doctor ordered. (Wait, sorry, she was my normal non-porno doctor when she gave that order.)

I decided I liked Angela, my night nurse, as soon as she arrived. Cute, friendly, and from what I could tell from her scrubs, a figure similar to Dr. Toms. Yeah, I know, typical male reaction, but after the day-long weirdness, could you blame me for going there? I did see a wedding ring on her finger, though, so I hoped she was immune to the weirdness.

Angela helped me with the toilet. And yes, it was awkward. Thank goodness I was able to keep myself distracted enough to not get hard. Afterwards, I asked if I could walk around the floor for a bit. She said that was fine, Dr. Toms had given the green light. (OK, I did get hard thinking about Dr. Toms, but by then I was dressed and out of the restroom, so it was only moderately awkward for me.)

It wasn’t a long walk—just a circuit around the nurse’s station and the adjoining rooms. Well, it wasn’t long distance-wise, but it was slow as my legs felt the effects of its mandatory unscheduled three-month vacation.

The walk was slow enough that I had time to hear the TV in room 1012, the room next to mine. Sounded like the late news broadcast from one of the local TV stations. I didn’t follow local TV news—too cheesy, sensationalistic, and generally sucky for my tastes, no matter where you live—so I didn’t recognize the station.

But the other noises from that room? After today, I recognized those noises a little too well.

“Yeah, that’s 1012’s husband in there,” Angela said. Apparently my reaction to the noises were a little too obvious. “Can’t tell you too much ‘cause of HIPAA, but he’s been real helpful in her recovery, if you know what I mean!”

We slowly made our way around the floor, so I had plenty of time to hear what was going on in each patient’s room. Every TV on the floor was tuned to a different news program of some flavor. Local or broadcast or cable. Hard conservative or hard liberal or some shade of moderate. Political or local interest or entertainment. But some sort of news.

And I heard the sounds of hot and heavy sex coming from every patient’s room. Sometimes it was patient/spouse, sometimes it was patient/doctor, and sometimes it was patient/nurse. As we walked, Angela told me which room was which.

Oh, and room 1003 was patient/spouse/doctor/nurse, but Angela didn’t have to tell me that. They left the door open, apparently on purpose. Angela said 1003 liked that sort of thing, which surprised me; I figured that information would have been protected under HIPAA or something.

Another nurse came out of room 1001 as we passed. Angela asked her, “Hey Jennie, how’s 1001?”

“Wonderful! He’s progressing very nicely!” I knew Jennie wasn’t talking about a traditional medical diagnosis; for one thing, I could hear their ruckus halfway down the hall. That, and Jennie was still getting dressed. She was rocking the traditional...I mean, she was wearing the traditional nurse’s white uniform instead of scrubs.

“Richard, this is Jennie. If you need special attention tonight”—Angela actually winked when she said this—“Jennie can take care of it.”

“Yeah, Angela’s gonna be too busy ‘tucking in’ her husband tonight.”

Both nurses stopped laughing when they saw my face; I guess I looked as confused as I felt. “Sorry about that, I forgot you’ve been out for a while,” Angela said.

“Me too. See, some of us”—Jennie nodded toward Angela—“are married, and some are dating. We’re a little short-staffed tonight on unattached nurses like me who are available for the fun stuff”—Jennie pointed back toward room 1001 with a smile—“so if you need anything ‘special’ tonight, it’ll be me instead of Angela, but if I get tied up with another patient, I hope you understand.” Angela raised her eyebrows, causing Jennie to add, “So to speak, um, we don’t have any patients tonight into ropes. Um, right?”

Angela pointed down the hall. “1008 is, but he’s covered. His wife’s here all night.”

Jennie snickered. “Whether she likes it or not?”

“Oh, she likes it alright!” Angela laughed as she turned back to me. “Anyway, I’m gonna go on break in a little bit. Jennie’s right; I need to call home so I can tell my husband good night.”

“Among other things,” Jennie added.

“Hey, after listening to you all night, I’ve gotta blow off steam somehow!” Both nurses laughed. “Sorry about the shop talk, Richard. Shift work’s hard, but this hospital’s good about giving us breaks so we can ‘blow off steam’ with our spouses even when our schedules don’t match. Anyway, you said you were ready to turn in for the night. I think Jennie’s free now—right, Jennie?”

Jennie nodded with a smile. “You want me to take care of you now? No waiting, and I promise I won’t be as loud as I was in 1001, unless that’s your thing!”

And with that, life officially exceeded my weirdness quota for the day. “Um. Thanks, but I’m good.”

Jennie looked a little shocked and disappointed until Angela nodded toward me and said, “Dr. Toms was here about an hour ago.”

“Dr. Toms? Damn, no wonder he doesn’t need me!” Jennie laughed. “I’m surprised he’s walking if it’s only been an hour!”

“I checked his chart. She’s sticking with a low-intensity regimen for now since he just woke up today.”

“Ah. Makes sense. Richard, you probably won’t see too much of me if you’ve got Dr. Toms. Our nursing care is the best in the state—we’re Top Ten nationwide—but Dr. Toms’ therapeutic care is legendary! That said, if you need me, just call!”

“Let me get you a wheelchair, Richard,” Angela said. “You’ve probably had enough physical activity for your first day back.” Which was true.

“Especially with Dr. Toms,” Jennie laughed. Also true.

As Angela wheeled me back to my room, I asked, “Do the, uh, unattached nurses wear white uniforms instead of scrubs?”

“No, Jennie just likes the old-school uniforms. Probably because her patients do, too!”

And so to bed. Without Jennie, in case you were wondering.