The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


Chapter Twenty-One. Magazine Submission.


Perk—Thanks for the chance to contribute to your cover story on how writers live. I think your readers will find this interesting, and perhaps somewhat unexpected. Let me know if you need edits.

A visitor to our house in the East Hills of the Tri-County area would see nothing particularly unusual about it; just another nice suburban home with a view of the city, the river to the west, and the prairie to the east. However, eople who visit us sometimes congratulate my wife Elle on the state of our house. She usually dismisses these compliments on “her” housekeeping by saying, “I don’t lift a finger—I have a very skilled staff” and changing the subject.

She’s telling the truth. She really doesn’t lift a finger. And she does have a devoted staff. I know because I am the staff: chauffeur, handyman, chef, personal shopper, housemaid, valet, and launderer. All me.

I love writing my Hypno-Teen and Charles Winter novels. I write every day; the work makes me happy, and I am always honored that people like the books enough to buy and read them—and even, sometimes, to write and let me know they did.

But the best part of my day—the part that makes the rest of it possible—is the time I spend catering to Elle’s needs and whims. It’s the time I look forward to with eagerness, look back on with nostalgia, and fantasize about as I fall asleep.

I live to serve my wife Elle.

It wasn’t always exactly this way. If you’d told me when I entered college that I would end up as a houseboy and sex slave to a rather strong-willed hypnotherapist, I would have laughed. When I set out to become a writer after college, I was determined to do everything—live, love, writing—my own way. I would be in charge of my life; I would bend the world to my will.

All that changed one night at a party. I’d spent nearly a decade in New York, living the supposedly glamorous life of a novelist and freelance writer. Readers of LITERARY LIFE no doubt know that the “glamor” is scarce. I spent my days interviewing people who didn’t want to talk and my nights covering parties where I wasn’t wanted, and in between freelance assignments I tried to snatch an hour or two a day for my “real” writing.

Eventually that “real” writing produced two novels. Neither of those made a dime, but they got good reviews from the kind of people who enjoy the parties I was being paid to write about.

All that glamor pretty much burned me out.

So one spring I took a break and visited the Tri-County area. Readers of the Charles Winters novels know what the area is like—though I write about it under a different name, it’s like Frenchman’s Bend: a relaxed, somewhat isolated Midwestern river town surrounded by prairie. It’s the kind of place that New Yorkers like to laugh about; I could never have imagined settling down here.

Until I went to a party at my friend Juliet’s. That’s where I met Elle.

How can I describe Elle? Picture Cersei from “Game of Thrones”—but a bit more buxom and a bit more imperious.

She was (and is)—how shall I say this?—the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. When I saw her across the room at Juliet’s party, I felt an overpowering urge to run over and fall at her feet. So you can imagine how I felt when she introduced herself as a psychologist and hypnotist who worked with creative writers. Beyond that, she said she’d read my novel. Without any thought, I heard my mouth saying, ““I’m not sure that would work on me. I’m pretty hard-headed.”

I’d never been hypnotized before, though I’d seen all the movies, from THE JUNGLE BOOK to THE WOMAN IN GREEN. It was intriguing. I think I meant to goad her into trying to put me under, because I was so curious about hypnosis. And so when she proposed a bet, I agreed—little suspecting that she meant to hypnotize me right there, and that it would change my life forever.

People ask me what it feels like to be hypnotized, and my answer is that at first you feel like nothing has happened, and then you feel nothing at all, and then you feel great. That’s what happened that night at Juliet’s party, at any rate. Elle borrowed a spoon of all things and told me to look closely at it while she half-whispered in her smoky contralto voice, “Watch the spoon. Let your eyes slide over it, notice how smooth, how shiny, your eyes slide over the spoon and my voice slides over you, my voice is smooth, my voice is the only thing that matters, my suggestions are in the spoon, my voice is in the spoon, you are in the spoon, you are letting go and drifting into the spoon, following my voice into the spoon, and the spoon is getting heavy and in a minute you will not be able to hold it, and when you drop it you will go down with it into a deep comfortable sleep where my voice and my suggestions are all that matter, heavier, everything I tell you becomes the truth the moment I say it, my voice is all that counts, every other noise will just relax you more, so heavy you can’t hold it up, your hand relaxes, your body relaxes and when you drop the spoon you will sleep, sleep, sleeeeeeeeeeeep . . . .”

At this point I felt completely normal. Well, not completely. I did feel relaxed and comfortable, but otherwise just like myself, except … well, except that when she said “sleep” I did drop the spoon and my eyes slammed shut and her voice was the only thing in my consciousness. She talked to me for a while and then woke me with a finger snap. I was a bit disappointed in the experience, to be honest—I had, for some reason, imagined myself doing circus-animal tricks or clucking like a chicken, but no such luck. I found myself wide awake and then—even worse—this beautiful girl (remember, Cersei only hotter?) shook my hand, told me goodnight, and walked out of my life.

I haven’t been so disappointed since Geraldo Rivera opened Al Capone’s vault and found it empty.

I’d be lying, though, if I claimed I’d never been shut down by a beautiful girl at a party. I resolved to get another drink, face down the people laughing at me (apparently she’d had me do a trick or two that I didn’t remember), and make the best of the evening. Maybe some other attractive woman would take pity on me. Hey, it happens.


Then I found out I couldn’t stand up. I was stuck to the chair. I can’t explain what had happened: the “stand up!” signal left my brain on schedule, but it never got to my legs. Instead, I had a vague memory of her voice murmuring in my ear. And the more I tried, the harder standing seemed, like an impossible dream. Standing up from that chair seemed as impossible as flying out the window.

I was stuck. Maybe forever.

Again, here’s what I mean when I say that hypnosis feels like nothing special a lot of the time. I was wide awake. I knew where I was. Elle was nowhere to be seen. Standing up seemed like the easiest thing in the world.

Except I couldn’t.

I think I might still have been in that chair, unable to move. But then someone in the crowd rushed up to me and held out a cellphone. “It’s for you.”

Now here’s the second part of what hypnosis feels like. As soon as I heard her voice everything dimmed and I was floating in a silent void with a smoky contralto voice whispering far in the background. I was nowhere, I was no one, I was simply a mirror, a reflection of her voice, her words, her will. I didn’t know what she wanted me to do, but I did know I was going to do it.

Then I woke up again, and I stood up, and everyone was laughing with relief. I excused myself pretty quickly because I wanted to be alone to digest what had happened to me—and brood over my memories of the commanding beauty (actually Cersei was kind of a Brownie scout by comparison) who had come into my life, taken it over, and walked out without a word.

It was a sad feeling. I had a flight reservation back to New York the next afternoon; but I spent the morning writing—I really couldn’t stop writing, I made a week’s work of progress in one morning—and then, for some reason, when I sat down to pack my bag, my thoughts fell out of order. I couldn’t remember what I wanted to put into the suitcase and what I wanted to leave behind. I couldn’t decide what I wanted to wear, I couldn’t find my boarding pass, I couldn’t remember the flight time, I didn’t know where the airport was—and by the time I got ready to go, I had missed my plane, it was 5 p.m., and I had a phone number to call.

Not only had Elle programmed me to be stuck in the chair, she had programmed me to ask her out. That night, at dinner, she began to talk to me in that smoky contralto—and this time there was no question. I didn’t feel “normal”—I went into a new place, a warm, dim place where my daily worries had no purchase and my mind focused on one thing: understanding Elle’s will so that I could follow it without thought or hesitation.

The rest is history; though it took us a few months*, we were married and what I think of as my real life began. Every night as I fell asleep, I would hear Elle’s voice whispering softly. I never remembered what she said, but some part of me heard and obeyed every word. Within a few months Elle had redirected my writing; she had explained to me the female supremacist worldview and my submissive place in it, and she trained me in my duties as her personal servant. Instead of struggling to impress critics, my writing now comes easily and impresses readers around the world. Instead of worrying about modern literature, I spend my time—well—let me tell you about a typical day in the East Hills….

* * *

I rise early, make breakfast and serve it to Elle in bed. If I am lucky she invites me to join her. Afterwards, I make sure the kitchen is spic and span, then I go to my study to write. When I sit down, the words flow through my fingers as though some voice outside me were dictating them. Sometimes I am stumped and must pause and think through some element of the plot; usually, though, the story has already come to me in a dream and I simply need to find words to fit it. I write until it is time for me to fix Elle’s lunch. If she prefers, I serve it to her in her basement office; if I am lucky, she chooses to sit and eat with me—in good weather, on the deck behind our house that faces west.

In the afternoon, as Elle sees clients, I have my non-literary jobs. I shop for groceries, tend to the yard, do the washing, hang up Elle’s clothes and dust and polish the dozens of pairs of shoes she has allowed me to buy for her, take and retrieve her dry-cleaning, sweep, vaccum, and dust, take out the garbage and recycling, do home-handyman chores (or, for those things I can’t fix myself, wait for repair personnel), and proofread her articles and blog posts. 6:30 pm is Elle’s cocktail hour; she likes a bourbon Manhattan poured over the rocks and she likes it on time and she likes it served in respectful silence. As she relaxes, I cook and serve dinner.

In case you are wondering, none of the above came naturally to me. I had never cooked anything more demanding than a fried egg before Elle told me how much I wanted to cook for her. The same is true of cleaning and laundry. I didn’t know what fabric softener was until Elle explained how fascinating it is to keep her clothes looking like new. Like a lot of young men in our society, I had some incorrect notions about the world, my place in it, and the nature of a healthy relationship. Even now I stumble over remnants of old unexamined attitudes of male supremacy. I bring these to Elle; she listens to my thoughts and explains that I am not thinking the problem through correctly. With a brief explanation in her magical voice (I can never entirely remember what the explanation is), she changes my perspective and I see things as I should: women are born to rule, men born to serve, and those who discover this secret can live happy lives. I was born to serve her and only her; Obedience to her is the secret of my success—she tells me what to write and when; all I need to do is obey, knowing that this is the secret of my deepest nature. She takes care of my finances, I take care of all her chores. She gives me a generous allowance; I use it to buy her pretty things. At least once a day, Elle induces in me a brief but deep trance to deepen the suggestions of obedience, gratitude, and awe toward her.

That brings us to the sex

* * *

“What are you working on, Louis?” his wife Elle asked.

He gave a small jump—he was so engaged in his writing that he hadn’t heard her approach.

“This is that piece for LITERARY LIFE I told you about, Elle. I’m part of a feature where well-known writers tell readers about their daily routines.”

“Oh, sounds wonderful!” she said. “Let me read it.” She took his laptop from his unresisting hand, slipped on a pair of half-glasses for computer use, and planted herself in a nearby armchair.

Louis watched her read. She seemed rapt, as she tapped one red-lacquered fingernail against her teeth and scrolled through his draft. For some reason, he felt self-conscious suddenly. He showed Elle everything he wrote and nothing could be published without her approval. Sometimes she told him to rewrite, and he did; her instructions always made his stories better.

After what seemed like a long time, she looked up at him over the half-glasses, looking like the sexiest, sternest high-school teacher any teen-aged boy’s libido could conjure up in his imagination. “You’re going to publish this stuff about you and me?”

“Well….” His face flared red. “I thought may . . . be….”

“Do you want to share this with the world?”

“Well…yes, Elle, I do. I am so proud to be your servant and submissive and to live with you. I can’t believe that you picked me out of all the men in the world and that you let me serve you and that you find me worth owning—

“Of course you are, Louis,” she said, looking back down at the laptop screen. “But honestly, is there any need to share it with the readers of this magazine?”

“Well, Elle ….” His face reddened further. “Remember when you hypnotized me at Juliet’s party? Remember later when you let Juliet see me as Louise the maid? You’re not going to tell me you didn’t find that as sexy as I did—even though I knew Juliet and her friends were laughing at me—”

“Or because you knew that, darling,” Elle said. “Of course, I understand you want to show the world that you are my trained pet. But if we go public with this, you have to understand that three things are going to happen. First, reporters, podcasters, and magazine writers will show up to do features on the domme wife and the sub writer. After that, dozens of men are going to come to my office door hoping that I will pick them as my submissives and send you on your way—Oh, Louis!” she said suddenly, seeing panic on his face, “Of course I wouldn’t do that! Relax! It’s just a dreadful bother to have this kind of thing taking up my time when I could be seeing clients who really want my help. And the other thing is that a lot of …. hussies… are going to show up here in leather and latex to see whether they can entrance and enslave you—you would be a potential status symbol in the hypno-fetish world, proof that Mistress Whoever or Madame Whatever overcame Elle Murphy, the suddenly famous hypnodomme. Louis, I like our lives the way they are! You are famous but our private life is private. I am known in certain … circles… because I help women embrace their inner power and dominance. But nobody is driving by our house or knocking on the door, and I want to keep it that way.”

Louis’s face fell. Elle could tell he was disappointed. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“It was—well, it seemed sexy to let everyone know about us,” he said. “I knew that some people would laugh—and that seemed even sexier—and I felt like I couldn’t keep it secret any more, it would be so fun if people knew—”

“Hmm—let me think,” she said, tapping her teeth again with her forefinger. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

She reached out until her forefinger was point directly at his forehead. “You’re going to find out,” she said. “Watch my finger—back and forth….”

Louis’s eyes were glued to her finger as she moved it in front of his face. She could tell by his body language, though, that he’d been unprepared for her to trigger him—that because he was in the middle of writing his essay he actually was thinking of trying to resist. She smiled fondly. “Now Louis, I know you are thinking you don’t want to relax but I want you to think about the fact that my will is stronger than your will—as my finger moves back and forth I think you will feel your will turning into a thin white cloud and blowing away—you will remember that my will is the wind, Louis, it is the sky, it is the sun, there is only my will—back and forth as you give in to my suggestions and lose yourself, you don’t matter, your thoughts are leaving you—now follow my finger—” She began to move it in a spiral and his eyes followed. “Now close your eyes, Louis, but you can follow my finger behind your eyelids—” When she saw his eyes fluttering helplessly behind his lids, she raised her voice slightly and said, “SLEEP NOW, Louis! You are in a deep hypnotic trance. You hear only my voice, you obey only my suggestions, you want only to do as you are told. Nod.”

His head moved up and down slightly, as if moving it were a great effort.

“Good boy, Louis! Now listen to my voice as I tell you what is happening. You are sitting in a huge auditorium, Louis. Hundreds of women—only women—are there for the big lecture, and you are in the front row because this is my lecture and you are there to support me, see the lights, hear the murmur of the crowd, let yourself feel how eager everyone is to see me give my famous lecture on ‘Hypnosis for Wives,’ can you feel it? Nod.”

His head moved again.

“Now I am coming out on stage, Louis. Every eye is on me, wearing my black Prada minidress with the straps, and the black Jimmy Choo hologram booties I let you buy for me, and those black and yellow silk stockings you asked me to let you buy, can you see me? Of course you can! You can’t take your eyes off me, I am the sexiest thing you have ever seen, you are forgetting where you are, you are forgetting the crowd, you see only me, as I walk you see only my feet and my legs, as I speak to the crowd you see only my eyes and my lips, you cannot think or speak, you want only to watch me and adore me from afar as I tell the crowd I will show the women in the audience how to make their marriages as blissful as mine, can you see it? Nod!”

She had spoken a bit sharply to make sure that the lovely dream did not guide Louis into regular sleep; she had miles to go before then.

He nodded. “Good boy! Now as I talk to the women I tell them that I will show them what a proper marriage is like—then I look down and point at you and say, ‘Louis! Stand up!’—oh, that’s okay, dear, you don’t need to really stand, just sit down again and relax and enjoy the dream—and I summon you by crooking a finger and you are floating, blank, without words or thought, up onto the stage and I am introducing you to the audience with a wink, and they are applauding and laughing as I tell you to stand at attention when I speak to you because women should rule and men should serve—no, dear, stay in your seat, this is just a beautiful dream—and then I offer the women a demonstration. I tell you to sit in the comfortable chair and I take off one of my shoes—” she reached behind her and slipped off one of her cream-colored pumps and handed it to him—“and I tell you my shoe is the most wonderful thing in the world, you are in love with my shoe, you cannot stop fondling and stroking my shoe, and as you do you are becoming more and more aroused.” She had to stop and laugh at this point; Louis was rubbing the show with his hand, on his face a big goofy grin like a boy who has just kissed a cheerleader. “And Louis the audience is laughing at you now because you are so silly and you can hear them laugh and it just makes you love my shoe more, and now I tell you to touch yourself with the shoe, Louis, go ahead—”

She did laugh for real as he began to rub the shoe between his legs and moan softly with pleasure. “Now, Louis, when I could 3 and snap my fingers, you are going to come in my shoe—you will come in your mind, in your mind only, you will come in my shoe uncontrollably, you will be helpless to hold back, 1-2-THREE!”

Louis’s body jerked and she could see his eyes roll back as he thrust his body against the shoe. “That’s it, Louis, good boy! Harder! Harder! HARDER! Good boy, now SLEEP!” Elle was very proud of “come in your mind,” which she had invented a few months ago. Louis enjoyed his orgasmic hallucination, the dry-cleaning bill went down, and her boy-toy and steed remained ready for real encounters whenever she chose.

Louis dropped the shoe as his body slumped. “That’s good, Louis, now listen carefully. When I wake you you won’t remember having fallen asleep—you won’t remember that I hypnotized you—but you will remember the show and how all the ladies laughed at you and thought you were my silly pet, and you won’t be sure whether it happened or not but at any rate you know that your fantasy came true and now you don’t need to talk to anyone about it, do you understand? Nod.”

His head moved up and down.

“Now, as soon as you open your eyes, you will know you have something to do. You need to email me a copy of your essay right away. Then as soon as you have emailed it, you will erase it from your hard drive. And when you see it disappear, it’s going to disappear from your memory too completely, like a balloon floating up and up until it pops. Nod.”

He did.

“Good boy, now wake up!” She snapped and his eyes opened.

“What happened? My mind wandered—oh, wait—” his fingers moved on the keyboard—“I just sent you something, Elle.”

“Oh, wonderful, darling—what was it?”

“It was—um—it was something I wrote—you know, I can’t remember, let me see—” His eyes lost focus while fingers moved again without any seeming conscious direction. “What—that’s odd,” he said. “I thought I was working on a file but I can’t find it—I can’t remember what it was—maybe I deleted it by mistake, maybe I can recover—”

“Forget about that,” she said, waving her hand gracefully in front of his face. “Then you should just forget it, let go of it. After all, you have plenty to keep you busy. Remember you need to write that feature for LITERARY LIFE.”

Memory dawned over his face. “That’s right,” he said. “Damn, it’s due today—I almost forgot.”

She left him typing. But their encounter had had an effect on her too; his wasn’t the only flushed face in the house.

Tonight, after dinner, she would definitely put her hypno-husband through his paces. Her hand lightly brushed one nipple as she headed back to her office.

* * *


Perk—Thanks for the chance to contribute to your cover story on how writers live. I think your readers will find this interesting. Let me know if you need edits.

A visitor to our house in the East Hills of the Tri-County area would see nothing particularly unusual about it; just another nice suburban home with a view of the city, the river to the west, and the prairie to the east. And indeed, probably the most surprising thing about our house, and the people that live in it, is how completely ordinary they all are. Writers are supposed to lead glamorous and chaotic lives, and mine is neither. Instead, I write every morning, do other things in the afternoon, and spend the evenings talking with my wife, who is a hypnotherapist with an office in our basement. Those talks go on far into the night—but again, anyone looking for excitement would be sorely disappointed ….