The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I’m bored, Marvin,” whined Cindy Newsome. The gorgeous cheerleader put down the psychology book they had been going over together and looked crossly at her study partner. “All these names and dates and experiments and stuff. Can’t we cut it short tonight?”

Marvin grinned. He really didn’t mind helping Cindy study—but that wasn’t why he’d arranged for them to spend Tuesday evenings together. Cindy only thought it was.

“Okay, Cindy,” he agreed. Then, “Hip hip hooray.”

Cindy gasped. Her eyes widened and went blank. All she saw, all there was in her mind, was a jeweled pendant, swinging, flashing. She was the pendant, swinging, flashing. Beautiful. “Oooooooohhh,” she breathed, beginning to sway back and forth in time to the image in her head as she sat on Marvin’s couch.

Marvin Finkel had been just another despised nerd at Fairview University, good old F.U. to its student population, until he’d worked out the idea for a special hypnotic crystal combining optical principles he’d learned originally for making telescopes and the idea of neurological entrainment—the same thing that causes “highway hypnosis” in susceptible people. He’d had to keep his private project secret; the university authorities would have come down on him like a ton of bricks if they’d known. Finally, though, he’d had what he needed, a special faceted compound lens which could direct light in compelling patterns. After mounting it in an inexpensive pendant, he’d conducted a few quiet tests to prove it really worked—and then he’d gone after Cindy.

Cindy the unattainable, Cindy the cruel, who’d humiliated him ever since she’d found out freshman year that he liked her. Cindy the leader of the cheer squad, who all looked down on him the same way.

Cindy, who now swayed mechanically back and forth, back and forth, on his couch, a blissful smile on her face and no thoughts in her head but those he put there.

He didn’t really even need the pendant anymore; its image, imprinted in her brain and released by her trigger phrase, was enough. He still used it every so often, though, to refresh her programming, or when he needed to modify it. And of course, when not in use, it was kept securely shut away. “Cindy,” he asked, “can you hear me?”

“Yes, Marvin,” she replied sleepily.

“You’re so warm, Cindy,” he went on. “So hot.”

“So warm,” she repeated. “So hot.”

“Stand up, Cindy.” She did, still swaying.

He brought out a small CD player he had ready and turned it on. Music began to play—striptease music, music which had a special meaning for Cindy.

Cindy Newsome was in the club, dancing. The music throbbed, pulling her, driving her. The crowd was small tonight, but that didn’t matter. She writhed wildly, spinning, peeling off her costume. She leaned forward, thrusting her gorgeous breasts into the face of the guy nearest her, a nerdy-looking college kid with dark hair and thick glasses, smirking as she heard him gasp. She flung one stiletto-heeled leg up on the table in front of him with a loud thunk. “Having fun, honey?” she teased. He moaned and shuddered, and a jolt of pleasure roared through her at the knowledge that he’d come for her, that he hadn’t been able not to. That she’d controlled him in an utterly intimate way. Then she spun away.

After a few minutes, Marvin finally forced himself to turn off the music. In their first session in his room, he’d programmed her to strip to it. He hadn’t been sure she would actually do it—that first time, he’d been afraid of snapping her out of trance and had told her to merely imagine herself doing it and go through the motions, and she’d obeyed. This time, he’d wanted to see her really strip. It had worked—oh, boy, had it worked. But he had more for her to do tonight. Cindy slowed and stopped, eyes bright and empty, dressed now in nothing but her white fuck-me pumps with the six-inch heels.

Her original instructions had been to remember everything about stripping to this music, except that he had told her to do so. Ruefully, however, Marvin realized that tonight’s exhibition wasn’t a proper test: she’d already been under when he started the player, so he wasn’t sure if the music itself would trigger her as it was supposed to. He’d have to arrange a different test of the stripper subprogram. Marvin grinned. In the meantime . . . “Cindy, listen carefully,” Marvin said.

“Yes, Marvin,” she murmured. “You’re so turned on now, Cindy. So hot, so excited.”

She moaned, head lolling; her eyes half closed. “T-turned on. Hot. Ex—excited. God. Yes.”

“You need sex. You need it more than anything. You don’t care about anything else.”

“Oh, God, yes,” she whimpered. Her eyes fixed on Marvin, suddenly acquiring a predatory glitter. “Oh, Mar-vin,” she coaxed, and undulated over to him.

His last clear memory for quite a while was of strong female hands pulling his head deep into her beautiful cleavage. The soft sensation of his face buried in her massive mounds and the lack of oxygen made the world swim away.

He regained full consciousness in bed, head still nestled in those incredible breasts, spurting uncontrollably into Cindy as she ground herself against him. Presently he fell into a deep, contented sleep.

When he woke up, it was with that where-am-I disorientation people sometimes experience on awakening in a strange place. Oh, it was his own room, all right—but something was . . . different. He reached across his bed for his glasses and felt long, soft hair cascading down someone else’s smoothly-muscled back. Groping now, he felt a warm body nestled next to his, its arms twined around his neck, one leg sprawled across his hip. He heard a soft sigh. . . .

“Shit!” Marvin leaped out of bed. “Shit shit shit shit SHIT!” Grabbing for his glasses, he saw that his bedside clock read 7:05 AM. And that in the bed, splendidly nude except for the high-heeled shoes he foggily remembered asking her to keep on, was Cindy Newsome.

Frantically, still naked himself, he leaped for the drawer in which he kept the pendant. Hypnotized people sometimes came out of it naturally after falling genuinely asleep. If that happened this time, Biff would eat his liver—unless the police showed up first to haul Marvin off.

He scrabbled his magic charm out of its hidey-hole and turned back to face his cheerleader bedmate, bracing himself.

Cindy sat up. “Mar-vin?” she asked in a sleepy little-girl voice.

Marvin relaxed. Her eyes had already begun flicking back and forth rhythmically. As he watched, her head began to do the same. A vacuous smile spread over her face.

Thank God, he breathed in relief. She was still under. But he had to get her out of here!

After putting the pendant back in its drawer and throwing on a bathrobe, he turned back to Cindy.

“Cindy, stand up, please,” he ordered. She obeyed. “That’s good, Cindy.”

Marvin told Cindy to get dressed, and she did, swaying to her imaginary pendant’s rhythm. Then, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders (struggling not to fondle her boobs instead; he was afraid he’d forget what he was doing), he took a deep breath and addressed her again.

“Cindy, listen carefully,” he said, gazing into her wide, blank eyes.

“Yes, Marvin.”

“Very soon, I will say the words ‘Great workout, Cindy.’ When I do, you will kiss me goodbye hard, like last time, and go home. As soon as you get there, you will wake up completely, and you will not remember what happened after we stopped studying last night. Do you understand, Cindy?”

“Yes, Marvin,” came her answer. “’Great workout, Cindy’ . . . I will kiss you goodbye hard, like last time.” She giggled. “Then . . . I will . . . go home. When I get home I will wake up. I will not remember . . . what we did last night . . . after we stopped studying.” “That’s good, Cindy.” Marvin considered a moment. “You will remember that you went over to a friend’s place for the night. Nothing unusual happened there. If anyone asks you which friend, think of one the person asking will believe you might have visited—and then believe it yourself. Do you understand, Cindy?”

“Yes, Marvin. I will remember that I went to . . . a friend’s place . . . for the night. Nothing . . . un-unnh—strange . . . happened there. If anyone asks . . . which friend, I will think of one the person asking me . . . will believe. I will believe it.”

“That’s good, Cindy.” It was getting dangerously late in the morning; he couldn’t risk anyone happening to wander by just as zombie Cindy came out of his room. “Great workout, Cindy.”

The cheerleader’s fixed smile turned mischievous, and she gathered him in forcefully. Her goodbye kiss was every bit as explosive as the one before had been. Then, silently, she turned to go. Barely in time, he handed her the books she’d brought for their study session. She took them silently and left.

When she was gone, Marvin sagged onto his couch. That was close! he thought. Too close! I got too carried away last night. I should’ve just sent her home after the striptease.

Still, he smirked, a guy could get used to that kind of attention.

Idly, he considered “adopting” another girl. Bunny Jensen, maybe? Her boobs weren’t quite as big as Cindy’s, but she had legs that wouldn’t quit and exotic white-blonde hair. But no—after last night, he’d have to be nuts adding to the risk. Bunny’s boyfriend Derek was nearly as much of a gorilla as Biff.

Weeks passed. Cindy’s disappearances every Tuesday night began to be noticed. Not by her professors, who happily noted instead that her grades had gone up—but her dorm mates wondered. Cindy always had an explanation, even when she’d been gone all night, but somehow, her alibis didn’t quite ring true. And Biff wondered, especially since she seemed to have a lot less time for him, and even when they were together, she seemed distracted somehow. Could there be another guy?

Things came to a head at the Halloween party.

Marvin had been looking for a perfect opportunity to trigger Cindy’s stripper routine in public. Actually, he admitted to himself, he’d been stalling. He’d been having too much fun with hypno-Cindy, and he found himself increasingly reluctant to go through with humiliating her in public as he’d planned—especially since, thanks to some of his earliest programming, she was no longer being nasty to him in her waking life. But if he waited much longer, the semester would end. By the time everyone came back from winter vacation, Cindy’s programming might have started to fade; Marvin still wasn’t sure how permanent it was. Then he’d have to spend precious time rebuilding it.

So when the party came around, Marvin attended, wearing a Dracula mask and opera cloak. He’d disguised his voice, too, using a resonator gimmick one of his fellow outcasts had whipped up after watching reruns of “V.” He sneaked into the DJ’s booth when he saw the guy had gone out to the men’s room, and made a few adjustments. Then he slipped out and switched to the second costume he’d brought: just one of his own suits and a Nixon mask. He carefully stashed the opera cloak, resonator and Dracula face, to be recovered later.

About an hour into the festivities, Marvin decided everyone was sufficiently lubricated with booze. Wait much longer and people would start going home, or getting too drunk to appreciate his contribution. He pushed his remote control button. There was a click from the sound booth, and the DJ’s music cut off; then Marvin’s CD cut in—not from the booth itself, but over the intercom from where he’d stashed the player.

Cindy’s eyes widened. What was up with the mu—with the, the . . . Her eyes widened even more, then half-closed seductively. She leered.

“Hi, everybody!” she sang out. “Know what time it is?”

“What . . . time . . . is it?” the audience chanted. The club crowd was a good one tonight, lots of people, lots of young, horny college guys who could be counted on to really get into her act.

“It’s Cindy time!” And with that, she went into her dance, peeling, prancing, twirling and shaking her assets for all she was worth. One stuffy-looking middle-aged guy who looked like a college dean or something got a faceful of her tits, and obviously really dug it. The woman sitting next to him, obviously his wife—who brings his wife to a strip club, she wondered idly, then forgot about it—didn’t; after Cindy pulled away, she slapped him.

Oh, it was priceless! During their last session together Marvin had planted the idea that Cindy should come to the party in a stripper outfit, complete with black spike heels, sequined G-string and tassels, topped off with a cloak and fur boa. He had the clothes; he’d modeled her in them more than once, including that memorable first session whose video he still had stashed away.

“Remember, Cindy,” he’d told her, “it’s a costume party. Lots of people will be wearing outrageous stuff. And if anyone’s got the body to look good in this outfit, it’s you, Cindy. Beautiful Cindy, sexy Cindy.”

She’d nodded and said, “Yes, Marvin.” Naturally. “Beautiful Cindy . . . sexy Cindy.” Then he’d told her to take the outfit home with her, hide it and forget about it until it was time for the party. And, of course, to think she’d bought it herself instead of getting it from Marvin.

Now it was paying off. Cindy’s act was mind-blowing! And the reaction from the partygoers was even better. Dean Weisscheidel was still recovering both from Cindy’s funbag facial and from his wife’s slap. Biff was gaping; apparently, he was too turned on to think of the fact that a mob of people was watching his girlfriend get naked. Several of his jock pals were whooping like loons and slapping him on the back. A low chant came from the men in the room: “Go, Cindy, go! Go, Cindy, go! Take it off! Take it all off!” A few camera flashes went off; obviously some of the watchers wanted souvenirs.

Finally Marvin pressed the remote button again. There was another click, and the DJ’s music came back. Marvin grinned. Obviously the guy had been so caught up in Cindy’s performance that he’d forgotten even to try to stop Marvin’s unscheduled interruption.

The party, though, was pretty well trashed. Cindy’d gotten all the way down to heels and boa, and had been whipping the boa through the air enthusiastically as if she were driving a team of huskies. When the trigger music stopped, though, so had she, looking stunned—but still excited, just as he’d suggested. She’d gathered up the rest of her costume and hurried off towards the ladies’ room amid a chorus of cheers, catcalls and wolf whistles. Nobody was much interested in regular dancing or other party activities anymore; after Cindy’s dance, anything more would be anticlimax.

What happened next Marvin might have anticipated, if he’d thought about it. He knew Biff. But he’d been so focused on getting a public revenge on the snooty cheerleader that he’d forgotten about her slope-browed date mate.

Around midnight, Marvin was just about to get undressed for bed when there came a soft, timid knock at his door. “Who is it?” he called out.

“It’s me, Cindy,” was the answer. Marvin was startled. It was way too late for her to be coming over, even if it had been Tuesday, and she never came to his room any other day. And there was something wrong with her voice. . . . Cautiously, he opened the door.

“M-Marvin?” Cindy quavered. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, Cindy,” he responded. “But what—”

Then, as she stepped in, he got a good look at her. She was still wearing her costume from the party. But the cloak was ripped, and the left side of her face was swelling and reddening. That eye was already developing a shiner. Tears glistened in her eyes.

“Cindy, sit down,” he said. “What happened to you?”

And she told him.

Biff had been furious after her performance—that, and half drunk. He’d waited until she’d left for home, then caught up with her in a lonely spot. He’d grabbed her, yelling and cursing. And then . . . “He hit me,” Cindy sobbed. “He hit me so hard! He was calling me bitch and cunt and whore, and he hit me! And then he—and then we—!” Cindy choked. “He made me! He never made me, before—but he just grabbed me and did it. And then he left me. And he said after what happened at the party, nobody’d believe me if I told on him.” She gulped. “And I couldn’t go home, and I didn’t know where else to go, so I came here.”

Awkwardly, Marvin sat down next to her. Ugly, ugly—assault, rape. And, he realized, feeling sick, it was his fault. If he hadn’t been so determined to punish Cindy publicly for what she used to do to him, it would never have happened.

No, he corrected himself. It might not have happened tonight, but it would have, sooner or later. Biff was an ape, a barely-controlled anthropoid. Marvin pictured Biff and Cindy married, and shuddered.

He had to do something.

“Hip hip hooray, Cindy,” he said.

Cindy stopped crying. Before long, she was swaying back and forth, controlled by the swinging, flashing pendant in her mind. Marvin looked at her and decided to try something he’d heard about, but had never actually done before.

“Cindy, listen to me,” he said quietly. “This is very important.”

“Yes, Marvin,” she murmured. “Very important.”

“I know Biff hurt you. He was bad, and he has to be punished.”

“Biff was bad. He has to be . . . punished.”

“But Cindy, you don’t hurt anymore,” Marvin continued.

“Don’t . . . hurt anymore?”

“That’s right, Cindy. Whatever he did to you, it doesn’t hurt anymore.” Marvin was on a roll. “Even better, it’s not going to leave a mark. You can feel the places where he hit you getting cooler, can’t you, Cindy.”

“Cooler,” she breathed. “Yes.”

“They’re getting cooler, and the blood and everything’s going where it belongs, circulating, flowing as it’s supposed to. Flowing. Relaxed.”

“Cooler. Flowing. Relaxed.” Cindy sighed, drooping her head onto Marvin’s shoulder. He stroked her hair.

Marvin looked at her, amazed. Both of her eyes were closed now, but the left definitely looked less inflamed already, and the angry red mark on her left cheek was fading as he watched.

“Cindy?”

“Mmm?”

“No, don’t open your eyes yet, Cindy,” Marvin cautioned. “Just relax.”

“Mmmm.”

Within only a few minutes, there was no visible mark on her face. Gently, he checked under her clothing. No marks there, either. He could have had her strip completely, but—somehow, he didn’t have the heart. Not tonight, after what Biff had done.

Finally, he said gently: “Cindy, open your eyes.” She did. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” she murmured. “Don’t . . . hurt anymore.”

“That’s good, Cindy. I want you to remember that I helped you.”

“Remember . . . you helped me.”

“But Cindy, you must not remember that I hypnotized you to do it. When you are awake, you will remember that I talked to you and calmed you down, and that I gave you medicine to rub on to make you feel better, and you put it on in my bathroom, and it really helped. Do you understand all this, Cindy? Repeat it if you do.”

“Yes, Marvin,” the hypnotized girl said. “I understand.” She repeated his instructions.

“One more thing, Cindy. You mustn’t tell anyone you were here, or that I helped you. Remember, your friends don’t like Marvin and might make fun of you. Besides, if you tell, you’ll have to tell about Biff, and he might do something else bad.”

Cindy’s glazed eyes widened slightly. She nodded. “Mustn’t tell . . . that you helped me. People might make . . . fun of me. Biff might . . . do something else bad.” As she uttered the last sentence, she started to look scared even through her trance.

“Calm, Cindy, calm,” Marvin soothed. “Everything’s okay. No one knows you’re here. Biff’s not here. And we’re going to take care of Biff.”

Cindy relaxed and sat quietly, swaying, lost in her private swinging and sparkling universe.

Marvin thought for a while. Finally, he made a decision.

Crossing to the bureau where he kept his hypnotic pendant, he took it out of its hiding place and returned to Cindy. Sitting down near her, he held up the pendant; her eyes immediately locked on it, and since it was not moving, and in her mind she was it, she stopped swaying as well.

“Do you know what this is, Cindy?”

“Pendant,” she answered. “Swings . . . sparkles . . . like a di’—mon’. ‘S me . . . and I’m it. Beau’ful.”

“That’s right, Cindy,” Marvin said. Choosing his words carefully, he went on, “It’s beautiful, and you’re beautiful. But it can do things, too, Cindy. It can help you get back at Biff.”

Cindy smiled. “Get back at . . . Biff.”

“That’s right, Cindy. Now listen very carefully, Cindy, because this is very important. I’m going to show you how you can use this pendant to get even with Biff and fix it so he can’t ever hurt you again.”

Cindy’s smile grew wider, almost shark-like.

Over the next hour, Marvin guided Cindy through a quick tour of hypnotic induction using the pendant. He had no doubt she could do it; although stupid people were harder to hypnotize, with the crystal’s help she should be able to put even a lunkhead like Biff under quickly, especially if she took advantage of other assets as well. After her experience, she resisted that part of his suggestions; he actually had to use the pendant to put her deeper under before she’d agree. Even then, it was only by focusing her mind on her revenge that he was able to overcome her trauma. Oh, brother, he thought to himself in fury, does Biff have it coming!

Then it was on to what she’d make Biff do. No resistance there. When he told her what suggestions she was to use, Cindy giggled and nodded eagerly.

Finally he was done. Yawning, he spoke: “Cindy, in a little bit I’m going to wake you up. I’ll say, ‘Great workout, Cindy,’ and you’ll wake up. This time, you’ll wake up immediately. You won’t remember me hypnotizing you, but as we talked about before, you’ll remember I helped you. And you’ll remember how we talked about getting even with Biff, and what I showed you about using the pendant to do it. Do you understand, Cindy?”

“Yes, Marvin,” came the response. “Wake up im-im—right away when you say ‘Great workout, Cindy.’ Won’t remember . . . you hyp—hypno . . . putting me under. Will remember . . . you helped me, and what you showed me about . . . getting even with Biff.”

“That’s good, Cindy.” Marvin paused; wasn’t there something he was forgetting? Some added instruction? Nothing came to mind. “Great workout, Cindy.”