The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“There,” the man in the dark-brown suit said. “See? He’s done it again!”

His companion, taller and in a more expensive-looking gray suit, nodded. “Any idea how he’s doing it?”

Not a clue, sir,” brown-suit said. “Whatever it is, it works on the slots and at the roulette table. He stays away from the cards, though.”

“Magnets?”

“No, sir.” The brown-suited man said. “We’ve checked out the equipment. There’s no sign of that sort of thing, or any other tampering either.”

“All right, Felix,” the gray-suited man said. “Thank you for alerting me.” He turned to leave, looking thoughtful.

Silvio Maggi sat behind the heavy oak desk in his office and thought.

The Paradise Club was a highly profitable enterprise, but much of its revenue depended on one simple fact: gamblers always thought they could beat the house and walk off rich. They were almost always wrong. Oh, there were exceptions; once in a while someone would clean up big. But big wins, if they were honest, actually paid off for the club by drawing more customers hoping to do the same.

If they were not honest—well, there were ways of dealing with that.

This looked to be one of those cases. But Felix was pretty good at spotting cheaters. If he couldn’t figure out how someone was doing it, it had to be something special. That meant it wouldn’t be enough to kick the guy out and spread the word on him. They had to find out how he was doing it first in case someone else came in with the same trick and just used it more carefully.

Well, there were ways of dealing with that, too. He disliked the rough stuff, not just on principle but also because beating up customers, even crooked ones, was bad for your reputation, and that could cost money. Fortunately, there were other methods. He grinned and reached for the phone.

“Yes?” The woman who answered the phone was a beauty: shiny black hair which cascaded down her back, olive skin, black eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Just now she was applying fresh eyeliner. She looked at the caller ID display on her phone and nodded, recognizing the number. “What can I do for you, Mr. Maggi?”

“There is a situation here which seems to call for your . . . special talents,” Maggi’s voice advised. The casino owner provided the details and concluded, “We need to know what’s going on. And of course to stop it. Discreetly.”

“Of course, sir.” The woman nodded. “You know how I operate.”

“I do,” confirmed Maggi. “I will arrange for you to . . . attract the attention . . . of the individual in whom we are interested.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be over directly. You can point him out to me then.”

“There he is,” Maggi said. “Over there, at the roulette wheel.” A shout arose from that direction. “He’s won again.”

“I’ll take care of it,” the brunette beauty beside him promised. “You’ve made the arrangements, of course.”

“Of course.” Maggi nodded.

Mark Dowell grinned. He was racking up a fortune!

Of course, he’d have to stop soon. He wanted to see a show, for one thing. But he was having plenty of fun here in the casino. The croupier here at the roulette wheel must be going crazy trying to figure out how he was doing it. His bosses must be, too.

They’ll never guess, he gloated. And I’ll never tell.

Mark stared raptly at the dancer onstage.

Dark-haired, olive-skinned, she had been introduced as Scheherazade. She was certainly dressed for the part: a filmy ankle-length skirt split up the sides to show plenty of leg, a broad belt studded with glittering chips of what looked like jewelry, an equally glittery bra with a small tassel in front, and a veil covering her face to just below her eyes—not that he was paying much attention to her eyes as she undulated across the stage in a sizzling dance, taut belly rippling and arms weaving sinuously. The loud Middle Eastern music playing as she moved furthered the illusion: he might have been watching her in a club in Cairo rather than in Las Vegas.

Her performance was something of a novelty for the Paradise Club, which usually featured a more traditionally American sort of show. Mark wasn’t about to complain, though, and neither were the other men in the audience. For a moment her eyes seemed to meet his and he felt his body tense; it took a conscious effort not to come in his pants.

At last her act ended. Mark slumped in his seat and waited for the blood to stop pounding in his ears. I’d do anything for her, he thought feverishly. It took a couple of minutes for him to come out of his daze. When he did, he noticed that apparently he wasn’t the only one the dancer had affected powerfully: several other guys in the audience wore stunned expressions. He got shakily to his feet and headed for the exit.

As he stepped through the doorway, a man in a bellboy’s uniform approached him. “Sir?” the man said. “If you’ll come with me, please?”

“Excuse me?” Fear flashed through Mark for a moment. Had they somehow figured out what he was doing? But no, he reassured himself, that couldn’t be it.

“We appreciate your business, sir,” the bellboy said. “We extend ourselves for high rollers like yourself.” He paused for a moment, then went on: “We’ve taken the liberty of moving your things to our Gold Star suite. We will be paying for it while you are here.” He handed Mark a key on a little tab marked 30B, evidently the suite number.

Mark took the key, pocketed it, and headed to the elevator bank on his way to the thirtieth floor. He didn’t notice as the bellhop pulled out a cellphone, punched some numbers and spoke into it.

Mark looked around the fancy suite to which he’d been relocated. He whistled in appreciation. The place was huge, and it had everything: a king-size bed with an attached table, a full entertainment system—even a miniature stage, suggesting that if he wanted he could call up one of the dancers for a private performance. A recliner, wide enough for three people to sit on it, faced the stage. The bedside table had a sliding drawer; opening it, he saw it contained a box of prophylactics. The lamp sitting atop the table hardly seemed necessary; the overhead lighting looked to be more than sufficient, and there was a floor-to-ceiling window as well, though its blinds were closed at the moment. Along one wall was a recessed closet; his suitcases were neatly stacked there.

He sat down on the recliner and relaxed, closing his eyes and calling up a fantasy of the sexy Scheherazade. I definitely have to see her show again, he thought, feeling himself grow hard as the imagined dancer writhed before his mind’s eye.

There was a knock at the door.

Mark blinked. He’d drifted off into a pleasant daydream about the belly dancer Scheherazade. Glancing at his watch, he say that more than half an hour had passed while he’d been lost in fantasyland. “Who is it?” he called out.

No answer. Sighing, Mark got up and went to the door. Opening it, he was stunned to find Scheherazade standing there. She was wearing a tan overcoat, but from what he could see of her legs below it she seemed to still be wearing her costume. “May I come een?” she asked in a throaty voice with just a hint of some sort of accent.

“Y-yes,” Mark stammered. “Of course. Come in.” He stepped aside to let his beautiful visitor in.

He couldn’t seem to muster the wits to ask the obvious question, but she answered it anyway. “I saw you een the audience,” she purred, her accent stronger. “I saw how you enjoyed my danceeng. And I liked what I saw of you.” She smiled, fluttering long eyelashes at him, and his pants suddenly felt tight in the crotch. “So after, I asked one of the bellboys for your room number, and he told me you had been moved up here, and I came up. You like eet that I came up, not so?”

“Ohh, yes,” Mark sighed. He could hardly believe what was happening.

Scheherazade, better known in private life as Amira Abdi, smiled. The stunned look on Mark Dowell’s face was a good sign: he was focusing on her already. Not that she’d had any doubt; she’d seen how he’d stared at her when she was performing before. According to Mr. Maggi, he had some sort of special skill. Well, so did she..

The dancer undulated across the room and mounted the stage. Lights came on from the ceiling and the wall behind her, seemingly automatically, and music began to play. She began to move to its beat, slithering in a sizzing rhythm as the lights rippled in spiraling patterns. She extended her braceleted arms, catching the light and letting it glitter off her filmy jewel-bedecked costume into Mark’s eyes. After a few minutes, she descended and flowed across the floor, arms extended sideways and rippling in sinuous motions as she chimed the finger cymbals she had on. Mark, sitting on the recliner, watched with wide and faintly glassy eyes as she slithered over to him. His mouth fell slightly open as he stared.

Finally she was standing over him, looking down. One hand reached down to tilt his chin upward, moving his gaze up from her rippling torso to her face.

“Mr. Dowell,” she asked, “can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he heard himself say. “I can hear you.” The words seemed to emerge without any conscious effort on his part.

“What’s your name?” the dark beauty asked. “Your first name.”

“Mark,” he heard himself say. “My first name is Mark.”

Scheherazade smiled. She’d known that already; Mr. Maggi had told her. Her target’s full name was on the guest register. Asking him, though, had allowed her to guess from his tone of voice how receptive he was now to what she’d do next.

“I’m going to sit down now, Mark,” she told him. “I’m going to sit down on the cushions right next to you, and as I sit, you’re going to keep your eyes on me and listen very carefully to what I say. Say ‘Yes, Scheherazade’ if you understand what I’m saying to do and will do as I’ve told you to.” The dancer’s accent had somehow disappeared, but Mark didn’t notice.

“Yes, Scheherazade,” Mark answered. “I understand. I’ll do . . . what you’ve told me to.”

“That’s good, Mark,” the dancer purred. “That’s very good.” She sat carefully, facing Mark, and draped her arms over his shoulders. As she’d instructed, her subject followed her with his eyes, continuing to look into hers. She remained that way for perhaps thirty seconds and then spoke again.

“Mark,” she said, “you’ve been very successful at the casino. Very lucky. Or is it just luck? Don’t worry; you can tell me whether it’s all been just luck or not.”

Mark hesitated before answering. “No,” he finally confessed. “Not just . . . luck.”

The dancer smiled encouragingly. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “You have a special trick, don’t you?”

“Yes, Scheherazade,” Mark admitted. “A special trick.” For just a moment, his eyes seemed to clear a little. “But it’s a . . . secret.”

Scheherazade leaned a little closer. “Yes. A secret. But you can tell me. You want to tell me.” Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.

“You want to tell me,” she went on, “because you want to impress me. You liked my dancing, didn’t you?” Not that there was any doubt.

“Yes, Scheherazade,” Mark admitted. “I liked your dancing . . . a lot.” The visible bulge in his trousers confirmed his words.

“Well,” the dancer-hypnotist went on, “if you impress me, if you tell me your secret and I’m impressed, I might dance for you again.” Her smile turned teasing. “If you impress me enough, I might even do more than that. You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, Scheherazade.” Mark nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Then tell me,” the dancer instructed him. “Tell me your secret. Tell me your secret. Tell me how you’ve won so much.” She smiled reassuringly. “I promise, I won’t tell anybody else.” That was a lie, of course, and if Mark had been in his right mind he would surely have known it was, but in his present state he accepted it without question.

Mark hesitated for just a moment before answering. “I can move things . . . with my mind,” he murmured. “I can make dice fall . . . the way I want. I can make a slot machine work . . . like that . . . too.”

Scheherazade blinked. She hadn’t expected that!

It was disappointing, in a way. Many gamblers believed they could do things like that. They always ended going home poorer than when they arrived.

On the other hand, she reflected, he certainly wasn’t going to, not if he kept on winning the way he’d done up to now. Was it possible he was telling the truth? He certainly couldn’t be lying outright. As deep in trance as he was, he wouldn’t have the will to do it, or the functioning brainpower either.

Well, there was an obvious way to find out.

She reached into the drawer of the bedside table. There was a pair of dice there. This was Vegas, after all, and one never knew when a guest might feel like playing a game with a friend or two. There was a deck of cards, too, but she wouldn’t be needing that. She picked out the dice and held them out in front of her. “Can you show me, Mark?” She looked into his glazed eyes and went on. “If I throw the dice, can you make them come up seven?”

“Yes. Scheherazade,” responded Mark. “I can . . . do that.”

“That’s wonderful, Mark!” She smiled. “I’m going to throw the dice now, Mark. I’m going to throw the dice on top of the bedside table, and I want you to make them come up seven.” A moment later: “I want you to make them come up a three and a four.. If you can do this, I’ll be impressed, Mark, and you want to impress me, don’t you.”

“Yes, Scheherazade,” Mark answered. “I want to . . . impress you.”

“All right, then, Mark,” the woman responded. “Here I go!” She tossed the dice.

The little cubes arced through the air and landed on the tabletop. They bounced and quivered.. One came up three; so did the other one. So much for that, the dancer thought.

And then the second die flipped over. Now it was showing four.

Scheherazade’s eyes widened. There it was, plain as day. And the way the second die had—corrected itself—was something she’d never seen before. Not with legit dice, anyway.

She collected herself. It has to be a fluke, she thought. Well, there’s a way to find out.

“Now, Mark,” she addressed the dazed man in front of her, “that was impressive. Can you do it again? Do it again, Mark—but this time, when I throw the dice, make them come up eleven.”

“Yes, Scheherazade,” Mark answered. The dancer threw the dice again. Sure enough, they came up eleven. Scheherazade’s mouth dropped open. It’s impossible! she thought.

Ten rolls later, she was convinced. Each time, she had told Mark to make a different number come up, and each time, he’d done it. She didn’t know what the odds were of that happening by chance, but she suspected they were close enough to zero to make no practical difference. He can really do it! And if he could control the dice when she threw them, surely he could do it when he did. Silvio Maggi would not be happy.

Well, she amended, he won’t be happy if Mr. Dowell can keep on doing it! He might be tempted to take . . . aggressive measures to deal with the problem.. The dancer-hypnotist didn’t like things like that. Fortunately, she had other options.

“Mark,” Scheherazade said, “I need you to listen carefully now. There is something very important I need to tell you. Do you understand, Mark?”

“Yes, Scheherazade,” the hypnotized man sitting next to her answered softly. “I understand.”

“Very good, Mark.” The domineering dancer went on, “Your special gift is gone, Mark. You can no longer make dice come up the way you want, or how to make the roulette wheel stop at your number, or make slot machines give you jackpots. In fact, until you leave Las Vegas, you will no longer win at all at the tables, or roulette, or the slot machines.

“But the more you lose, the more you’ll need to play. You won’t stop, you won’t be able to stop, until you’ve lost all the money you won before and all the money you brought with you. You will keep playing until the money is all gone, because you will be sure that if you just keep playing your gift will return and you’ll win it all back. Do you understand what I want you to do, Mark, and will you do what I’ve told you to?”

Mark nodded. “I understand . . what you want me to do,” he said. “I will do . . . what you’ve told me to.”

“Very good, Mark.” The dancer-hypnotist smiled. “But sometime after you go home, you will notice that your gift has returned. You will once again be able to move things with your mind. When that happens, you will be tempted more and more to return to Las Vegas to try your hand again. At last you will no longer be able to resist the temptation and you will come back here to this club. You will think of it as taking the curse off. You will do all this for me, Mark.”

“Yes, Scheherazade,” Mark agreed.

The dancer smirked. This last bit hadn’t been in her contract with Maggi, or at least not exactly. She’d told the casino owner that if Mark Dowell came back he could call her again and she’d deal with the problem for no additional money. She hadn’t told him she intended to make sure Mark came back. She had . . . personal .. . . plans for him—and for his abilities, too. She was confident that even if Maggi guessed what she’d done, he wouldn’t care, as long as he was satisfied he’d gotten what he was paying for.

She addressed the mesmerized man next to her again. “Very good, Mark,” she said. “I’m so glad we understand each other.” She paused for a breath. “Now in a moment, I’m going to snap my fingers. When I do, you will wake up. You will remember showing me your amazing talent, and you will not worry that I will tell anyone else, because you know you can trust me and that even if I told someone they would not believe me. You will not remember me giving you these instructions, but you will obey them without question.” She smirked and went on: “You will suddenly find yourself overwhelmingly attracted to me. You will want to have sex with me. Nothing else will matter.

“We will have sex, and you will continue until I say the words ‘Sleep now, Mark.’ When I do, you will stop, pull away from me and immediately fall into a deep, restful sleep, and you will sleep until morning. When you wake up, you will remember the sex, but you will not remember me suggesting that you feel desire, just as you will not remember me giving you any other instructions.

Do you understand me, Mark, and will you do as I’ve told you to? Repeat my instructions if you understand and will obey.”

“Yes, Scheherazade.” Mark nodded and reeled off the dancer’s suggestions as though reading from a script.

“Very good, Mark,” the dancer purred. “You’ve impressed me. You’ve really, really impressed me.” She snapped her fingers.

Mark Dowell blinked.

All of a sudden the dusky dancer sitting next to him wasn’t just pretty; she was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. He reached for her. Smiling wickedly, she leaned into his embrace. Their lips met. Her tongue pushed between his teeth. He stopped thinking.

The next thing he knew, they were both naked. He had a hazy memory of the sultry seductress slithering out of her costume and of knowing hands helping him out of his own clothes. He remembered nothing else, and didn’t care.

The two of them toppled onto the bed and pressed together, hips thrusting as the gifted gambler pushed himself inside the woman under him and she moved against him as well.. He no longer remembered her name, or even his own. It didn’t matter. He came, then came again, fireworks exploding behind tightly-shut eyes and pleasure roaring through his body. He came again . . . !

“Sleep now, Mark,” Scheherazade gasped. It was just in time. She was barely more aware of her surroundings than the mindless male pumping into her; if she hadn’t stopped him, he’d have kept going until he passed out, and there was a good chance she’d have gone out with him. That might have caused problems later..

Mark detached himself and rolled over on the bed. Within seconds his breath had steadied, falling into the slow rhythm of ordinary sleep. Scheherazade pulled herself together and dressed. She looked Mark over and smiled. It was still only early evening, but she was sure that after their exertions he’d sleep the whole night. He would almost certainly have done so even if she hadn’t planted that suggestion. Smirking, she left the fancy suite Mark had been given and headed for the elevator.

Downstairs, she sought out Maggi. “It’s done,” she informed him. “When he wakes up in the morning, he’ll get breakfast and then head for the casino. When he gets there, he’ll start gambling, just like yesterday—but this time, things will be different.”

The casino owner raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

Scheherazade smirked. “Let’s just say you’ll be getting your money’s worth from our contract. You’ll see.”

“I’d better,” Maggi replied.

“You will, you will,” the dancer-hypnotist promised. “You’ll see.” With that, she walked off.

Mark grinned as he left the casino’s fancy restaurant. He’d been especially hungry this morning. No surprise there, he thought. Not after all the—exercise—I got last night!

He headed for the dice table, picked up a pair of dice and tossed them. Seven, he silently commanded.

The dice came up six.

“What?” he sputtered in disbelief. That shouldn’t have happened!

His next throw came up snake eyes, He’d been trying for a seven again.

This can’t be happening! His powers had never failed him before! What was going on? “I have to keep trying,” he muttered.

And he did, but throw after throw went wrong, taking bites out of his winnings. Finally, desperate, he decided to try the slot machines. Maybe I’ll have better luck there, he reassured himself, shaken but still driven to play.

So much for luck, he told himself twenty minutes later. Every pull of the lever had gone against him. Really worried now, he told himself he should stop gambling while he was still ahead. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He felt almost compelled to go on, switching to roulette and placing big bets, losing every time, then back to the dice table, then the slots. Only when he found himself reaching for his credit card to tap his bank account did he finally manage to stop. Incredibly, he’d burned through everything—not just his winning but almost literally every penny he’d brought with him.

It was baffling! He’d had his special talent ever since he’d hit puberty and it had never conked out like this. Was it permanent? He certainly hoped not.

Silvio Maggi smiled at the dark beauty facing him across the restaurant table. “Congratulations, Ms. Abdi,” he said, using her real name rather than the one she used as a performer. This was business, after all. “I don’t know what you did, but it certainly worked, just as you promised. As always, your services have been worth their price.”

“My pleasure,” Scheherazade replied. In more ways than one, she gloated silently. “You should have no further trouble with Mr. Dowell. But as I told you before, if he does come back and starts winning more than you’re comfortable with, you can call on me again, free of charge. I stand behind my work.”

Maggi nodded. The woman’s willingness to do that spoke of a quiet confidence he approved of. And certainly she’d always delivered before, not just for him but for his colleagues at other gambling establishments.

He sighed. If what the woman had told him she’d discovered about Dowell was true, and she certainly had no reason to concoct a lie so amazing, it was a pity in a way that he wasn’t available for hire. Surely some useful purpose could have been found for such a gift as his.

Well, at least he’d no longer be a problem, and the money he’d been taken for would help defray the fee for Scheherazade’s services. It was a clean win. But then, he thought serenely as the waiter arrived with the receipt for the meal he’d shared with her, in the end, the house always wins.