The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“ON ME NODDY!”

As requested, Rich hooked the ball across and through the air, placing it nicely so that it reached my head height a couple of strides ahead of where I had been when I’d called, and exactly where I wanted it. The leather connected with my forehead perfectly, leaving the keeper wrong-footed and landing neatly in the far left corner of the net.

The crowd erupted; we were playing at home, had most of them on our side, and now five minutes in we were a goal ahead. The slaughter had begun.

I looked in the crowd, as I always do, for Jo; and once I’d found her struck a suitably lewd celebratory posture. She grinned and, for no apparent reason, cupped her left breast.

I blinked.

My eyes opened again on a decidedly fuller stadium, a far louder roar of the crowd; Jo was still there but now the stand around her had changed, had become packed. I looked up above the uppermost seats of this new stadium and saw the famous twin towers.

Wembley Stadium. Which might have been torn down already; I wasn’t sure offhand. It certainly wasn’t a place I’d ever play in. Yet at the time this didn’t occur to me; I simply grinned at her and went back to the game. After all, this was the Cup Final. The FA cup, the most prized trophy in English football, was up for the taking, and we were ahead. And I’d done it. I could still hear the echoes of the pre-match Abide With Me ringing in the crowd’s roar.

Rich slapped me on the back. “Come on, Mike! We still gotta win it!”

Of course we still had to win it; I knew that. I just... I also knew we would. And when I next caught sight of the ball...

I dunno. I can’t think how to describe it. Total concentration, absolute awareness of where the other players were and no awareness of the crowd beyond a dim background noise of appreciation. The ball was all that mattered, suddenly; no worries, nothing. My fears over the upcoming exam had vanished; my thoughts no longer strayed that way. Nothing mattered but the game. Like Shankly said, it’s not a matter of life and death... it’s far more important than that.

The long and the short is we won. Seven-two. I got two hat tricks. I’d never felt that good before; I was on cloud nine all the way through the showers, the changing room, right up until I saw Jo again. She cupped her breast again.

I blinked.

And the victory wasn’t the most important thing about me any more; it was a background vibe. I hadn’t played at Wembley, hadn’t won the cup. I’d won the match with two hat tricks and I felt the joy derived from that, but nothing else. The pieces fitted together. Jo had been meddling again.

I smiled and grabbed her, caught her up, kissed her. When she could get some oxygen back into her lungs again she smiled at me with those twinkling, playful eyes and said, “You figured it out, huh?”

“The stadium was a little over the top,” I said. “Just getting me to concentrate would have been enough.”

“But no fun,” she pointed out.

“There is that. And did you have to wait until I looked at you? If I hadn’t scored it might never have got used.”

“There’s always the next game,” she pointed out calmly. “Anyway, you’re a good player as it is. I knew you’d score... eventually.”

I experienced that feeling of mild euphoria praise always generates and kissed her again, ignoring the not-very-veiled insult.

“Hey! Ease up,” she said, then pressed herself a little closer to me and in an undertone—for the rest of the team and their current belles were passing us, and Jo keeps this all secret—said “I laid on something special for tonight, too.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said, loyally. I couldn’t, either. I wanted to know what it was. Jo has done a great job of... generating atmosphere, certainly. And other things.

She and I went two months before she succeeded in persuading me to let her hypnotise me, and she only managed it then by continuing a conversation for two hours in which she led each avenue back to hypnosis. She seemed to have a real bee in her bonnet about it, and in the end I agreed. I now wish I’d agreed when she first broached the subject; not only is it fun but it can be useful. But to this day I don’t know why she was so worked up about the idea; she won’t tell me.

After the match, we retreated to the College common room. Cameron immediately stuck Marilyn Manson on the stereo—what can I say, he’s a metalhead—while David, also known as Jessica due to his cross-dressing tendency while drunk, began a martial arts scrap in my peripheral vision with Jo, who won in short order due to her willingness to use underhand, belowbelt, and painful manoeuvres which are probably illegal—I wouldn’t know. This is a recurring motif, and the idiot generally loses. He is, however, a first-rate keeper, and I think his balls are slowly getting better at quick recoveries from injury. At any rate, Debbie—who, in a personal record, he is still going out with three months after the start of the relationship—is not complaining. I’m not sure whether that says more about his recovery time or Jo’s inability to take crap from anybody. When we first met, back in my schooldays, there was pretty much an unwritten law that people from state schools didn’t form relationships with people from public schools, or not in our area. We broke that rule pretty thoroughly, and I nearly got into a fight over it once when we were out for dinner.

Seated, I wasn’t going to stand a chance against my antagonist, and so I stood up. I hadn’t finished making my way upright before he was on the floor, clutching his crotch and groaning, after Jo had dropped the demure act. Now we’re at university and still together—some people think this is romantic, others have heard the story and reckon I’m just scared to dump her.

The post-match analysis went on for about an hour, with an assist from our old friend alcohol. After that we retired briefly to the kebab place and came away with varying quantities of doners and chips (fries for you Americans) according to taste.

Rich asked me at this point why it was I’d only drunk Coke until that point, which at the time I laughed off. I’d been drinking Guinness; anyone could see that, and Jo confirmed it for me. Rich stubbornly maintained that I’d only drunk Coke, but I think we proved him wrong. He eventually shrugged and moved off, looking at me oddly and muttering something about a really stupid joke.

We returned to the common room and bantered for a few hours more following careful study of a Bruce Lee tape—The Intercepting Fist—until at about half-ten I saw Jo slip out of the room, which a twinge in my mind told me was my cue to leave.

“OK, folks, I’m gone,” I announced. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be in my room, which means I’ll be either asleep, fucking, or both, depending on the time. In none of these cases do I want disturbing, so if anyone does want me, tough monkey droppings. Toodles.”

With that I left to the accompaniment of drunken and libidinous comments of various types from all corners of the common room. I’ve no way of knowing, but I don’t think they ever realised I’d talked about fucking while asleep. By this point they were pissed beyond the point of coherent sentence analysis, and as I walked up the stairs and along the corridor to my room, in which Jo no doubt waited, I realised I wasn’t drunk at all. I guessed that Jo had probably put some hypnotic block on me to prevent drunkenness just for this treat, but I didn’t connect this with Rich’s insistence I had consumed only Coke until afterwards. Somehow, despite sobriety, my thinking wasn’t as clear as it might have been. Too much Coke, probably.

I pushed open the door into my room and stepped inside...

A Hollywood-epic-style harem tent, if perhaps a little closer to an 18 certificate than the average. The Hayes code wasn’t in it. Or not in Jo, who appeared to be the star attraction. How she’d persuaded all the Arab beauties I’d never seen before to dress up in the same harem girl outfit she was sporting, only a little less gaudy than the one she wore—less sequins—I couldn’t figure out.

But suddenly, I didn’t feel like speaking. I felt like my job depended on not speaking. Bloody stupid; I earn a little extra spending cash as an auctioneer—strange, but there you go. Nevertheless, my job depended on not speaking.

Jo walked up to me, grinning suggestively, and slid her hand inside my jeans. Good job I’ve lost weight in the year since I last played rugby; a flanker needs to bulk up some, but now I want to be streamlined for breakthroughs. My jeans have to accommodate both versions, so they’re a little loose on the hips at the moment.

She caught hold of me and breathed in sharply at what she found. “Goodness,” she said, “you’re an unusual eunuch.”

I heard my mental voice mutter you bastard in the background of my mind, but right now I had more pressing matters to worry about. I stayed silent but I caught hold of her and jerked the fastenings on her low-cut sequinned waistcoat off, pushing the flaps open with my thumbs. Her breasts presented themselves for my inspection and I smiled in anticipatory joy. She looked down, following my gaze, and then looked up and smiled. She removed her hand from me, popping out the button as it came out, and took my head in both hands, pulling it in against her cleavage. My immediate reaction forced the jeans zip open.

Holding my head in place with one hand she somehow worked the gauze baggy trousers down—I didn’t see how, what with one thing and another, so I can’t give details—and fell backward onto the bed.

Doing this while holding on to your loved one is, I am told, an art form; particularly when your free hand is working your loved one’s jeans off his legs. Nevertheless, it meant only a second of work at my boxers was needed before, with much play of lips and tongues, my cock slid into a hole wet with anticipation. I sometimes think it’s the control that turns her on, because she’s always dripping.

We began to move together, in harmony as always, comfortable with each other and knowing the rhythms each wanted, and immediately before my release I blinked.

And then I saw things as they really were; saw the harem tent somehow concealed on the second floor of my building for my own student room, saw the Arab beauties vanish into nothingness—a pity, really—and saw Jo’s harem girl waistcoat become a bra with a front fastening. It didn’t matter. I kept going, though I did break my silence.

Afterward, we lay there in the usual companionable quiet, and at last each of my post-hypnotic suggestions and my reactions to them could be recognised for what they had been. I ran through them, and it was only on this second trip through the harem tent that I recognised why she’d chosen to landscape tonight’s tryst, and why it had been that landscape. A science fiction trilogy we both liked had involved a neural nanonic perception distortion of a future student’s bedsit into just such an arena for a night’s entertainment; the Night’s Dawn reared it’s head once more.

I felt a smile spread over my face anew at this. “Oh, very clever,” I said.

“You figured that one out too, huh?” Jo asked. Her face wasn’t in my field of view at the time, but I knew nonetheless that she was smiling wickedly at me. “Perhaps I should stop you, one of these days... it’d drive you to distraction.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” I said confidently. “You’re a bitch at times, but not that much of a bitch.”

“Maybe,” she said. “And maybe we’ll have pizza.”

I blinked.

Where had she got the idea from?

She tickled the underside of my balls, and I remembered.

“I told you you weren’t that much of a bitch,” I said.