The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Am I the only guy on Earth who can’t be hypnotized? Yeah, I know the conventional wisdom, that we’re all susceptible to one degree or another, that in theory a sufficiently skilled hypnotist could take me under. In theory. It hasn’t happened yet, and there’ve certainly been plenty who’ve tried. I’ve lost count of how many hypnosis shows I’ve been to. I always volunteer, and the hypnotist always accepts me as a volunteer, and nothing ever happens. Not to me, anyway. I don’t think there’s an induction method that hasn’t been tried on me. I’ve looked at the shiny crystal, watched the swinging watch, stared at a spot on the ceiling (raising my eyes as far as I can without lifting my head, of course), closed my eyes and concentated on my breathing, or on each part of my body, starting with my toes and working my way up, let the hypnotist try to confuse me, not remembering what I forgot to remember because it’s so easy to remember to forget blah blah blah, etc. You name it, it’s been done to me, and none of it works. Everybody else on stage is barking like a dog, clucking like a chicken, forgetting his name, taking off his clothes, making a complete idiot of himself, and I’m the one guy who’s wide awake, fully dressed, still able to talk like a human being, not dancing the hula, and just laughing my ass off and enjoying the show. Hypnotists do not like me. You’d think they’d get the message and stop picking me. Isn’t there some place on the internet, exchange techniques, tell war stories and whatnot? Shouldn’t there be a detailed description of me, even a photo, on every hypnotist website, chatroom, message board and watering hole on the internet? Don’t pick this guy! Can’t be hypnotized! Freak of nature! Warning! Reader, what I’m trying to say is...

I CAN’T BE HYPNOTIZED.

I’ll give you an example. At one of these shows was a lady hypnotist with a nice big pair of titties. Not much else I can tell you about her. If I saw her face I wouldn’t recognize it. All of my attention was on those titties, and on the pendant she wore, on the jewel hanging between those titties. The jewel had a really intricate design I couldn’t make out, no matter how hard I focused on it. It was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, but if you were to ask what it looked like I couldn’t tell you. It was so detailed and complex that I don’t have the vocabulary to describe it. And it was situated right between those marvelous titties. She was talking about the pendant, so she obviously wanted us to look at it, and since it was right between those tits, you couldn’t look at the pendant without looking at her titties. She was actually inviting us to look at her titties. For once I didn’t have to make an effort to avoid a woman’s tits, didn’t have to force myself to make eye contact while the stupid bitch prattled on about God knows what tedious bullshit when all I could think about was punishing those dirty pillows with every inch of the mighty weapon between my legs. I could appreciate a woman’s body without shame. It was so relaxing. I listened without paying attention to the words, just let them float through me and past me, tried to figure out what exactly that was hanging between her tits—Why was it that the harder I concentrated on it the more complicated it got?—and when trying to figure it out got too hard I just let go and relaxed.

I don’t know how long she talked—it may have been hours—but finally she said, “I need you men who are Baywatch fans to come up on stage with me.” Baywatch? That thing wasn’t still on the air, was it? Oh well, whatever. That was my cue to volunteer. Time to piss off another hypnotist. Time to put another controlling bitch in her place.

There were about a dozen of us guys on stage. We stood half an arm’s length apart from each other, facing the audience. She turned her back to the audience, facing us, and started talking about the pendant again. I was more than happy to take another look at it, and at those titties, too. Like every other hypnotist I’ve encountered, this bitch loved to hear herself talk, and none of what she said was worth remembering. But the sound of her voice was pleasant enough, so I just relaxed and let it wash over me. And the longer she talked the more time I had to study the pendant, the pendant resting on that glorious milky rack.

And after what felt like three thousand hours later she told us to look at each other. All of the other guys on stage were naked, their clothes lying in piles at their feet. Except for me, of course. I was still dressed. Still unhypnotized. Been there, done that. I don’t know why the other guys were smirking at me, looking down at my crotch, no less, and smirking at me. I wasn’t the dumbass who took off all his clothes in public just because some big-titted control-hungry bitch made him look at the pretty pendant. And why were these fucking fags looking at my crotch? There was nothing to see. I wasn’t naked. I wasn’t hypnotized. I can’t be hypnotized. No bitch controls me. Get it?

I was at the left end of the row of guys. She turned to the guy farthest from me, at the right end of the row, and asked him his name.

“Tom,” he said.

“How are you feeling, Tom?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Do you like my pendant, Tom?”

“Oh yeah!”

Everyone, the audience, the other guys on stage, me, we all laughed.

“Tom, do you feel hypnotized?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotized.”

More laughter. We all laughed at the naked hypnotized fucking idiot.

“Drop to your knees, Tom.”

Tom said, “Yes, Mistress,” and dropped to his knees.

“Tom, have you ever seen the show, Baywatch?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tom, I’m going to try to guess who your favorite person on Baywatch is, and when I name that person, I need you to do something very special for me. Do you understand, Tom?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I told you about the special thing I need you to do for me while you were listening to me talk about my pendant, but now you’ve forgotten what the special thing is, haven’t you, Tom?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“When I say the name of your favorite person on Baywatch, you will remember the special thing I need you to do and you will do it for me, won’t you, Tom?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tom, is your favorite person on Baywatch Pamela Anderson?”

“One! Two! Three! Four!” Tom was stroking his hard cock and counting each stroke out loud. When he reached ten—“TEHHHHHHHHHHHHHN!!!!!!!”—he came.

And that’s when I finally noticed the boots she was wearing—as I’ve said before, when I looked at her, my attention was usually focused elsewhere—because when Tom came, his come spattered her boots, her thigh-high shiny black leather boots. (And she wore a white mini-skirt that stopped just above the thigh-high boots, revealing an inch of bare leg. Her long-sleeved sweater was white, too, with a low, low neckline, revealing plenty of cleavage. Her hair was blonde and thick and wavy and hung all the way down to her butt. As I said, I would have noticed all of this sooner if I hadn’t been staring so hard at her tits. Don’t ask me what color her eyes were.)

“Ten strokes, ten inches. Very good, Tom,” she said.

“Thank you, Mistress.” And he did have ten inches. Well, not any more. Now his cock was limp and had shrunk a bit.

She looked down at her boots and said, “Look at the mess you made, Tom. Clean it up.”

“Yes, MIstress,” Tom said, and reached for her boots.

“Stop. Don’t touch. No hands,” she said. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Tom said, and put his hands behind his back.

“Clean my boots with your tongue, Tom.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Tom stuck out his tongue and licked the first drop of come he could find on her right boot. Then he licked all of the come from her right boot, and then from her left boot.

When he finished cleaning her boots she told him to get dressed, return to his seat in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show. And that’s what he did.

She was the sexiest and most powerful hypnotist I had ever encountered, but it didn’t matter, because unlike every other man on this stage, probably every other man she had met, I couldn’t be hypnotized. No woman, no matter how powerful, no matter how beautiful, could control me.

She turned to the next guy. “What’s your name?”

“Richard.”

“How are you feeling, Richard?”

“Okay.”

“Do you like my pendant, Richard?”

“Oh yeah!”

We all laugh.

“Do you feel hypnotized, Richard?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotized.”

We laugh at the naked zombie loser.

“Drop to your knees, Richard.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Richard said, and dropped to his knees.

She asked him if he had ever seen the show, Baywatch. “Yes, Mistress.” She told him she would try to guess who his favorite person on Baywatch was, and that when she said the name of that person, he would do something very special for her. “Yes, Mistress.” Right now he couldn’t remember what the special thing was, but he would remember what it was when she said the name of his favorite person on Baywatch, and he would do that special thing for her, wouldn’t he? “Yes, Mistress.”

“Richard, is your favorite person on Baywatch Pamela Anderson?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Is it Carmen Electra?”

“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! AAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYT!!!” And his come spattered her thigh-high shiny black leather boots.

“Eight strokes, eight inches. Very good, Richard,” she said. And yes, Richard had eight inches.

He cleaned her boots with his tongue, licking up every drop of come. Then he got dressed, returned to his seat in the audience and enjoyed the rest of the show.

And so on with the next guy, and the one after that, and every one of the naked hypnotized losers. When asked, “Do you feel hypnotized?” they all answered, “No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotized.” When told to drop to their knees, they all said, “Yes, Mistress,” and dropped to their knees. Most of them chose Pamela Anderson as their favorite Baywatch star, a few of them chose Carmen Electra, and a few others chose some other women whose names I didn’t recognize. Unlike these other guys, I wasn’t a fan of the show. There was a black guy who had twelve inches. Another guy who had ten. Some who had nine, eight, seven... Everybody had at least six. Or I should say, “SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIXXX!!!” They all licked her boots clean, got dressed, returned to their seats and enjoyed the rest of the show.

And finally I was the last man standing on stage.

I wouldn’t be like the others. I wouldn’t be like any man she had ever met. How would it feel for her to meet a man she couldn’t control? Would she be angry? Would she hate me? Or would she respect me? Would she be pleased to meet a man with a will of his own, who thought for himself, who followed no one but who took the lead? How would it feel for her to finally meet a real man?

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Harold.”

“How are you feeling, Harold?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Do you like my pendant, Harold?”

“Oh yeah!”

The audience laughed, and this time I knew the audience was laughing with the guy on stage, not at him.

She was going to ask me if I felt hypnotized. “Fuck no, bitch!” I’d tell her. Then I’d say, “Now I need YOU to drop to YOUR knees, bitch. I need you to take off your sweater so I can count to twelve and masturbate all over those fucking tits. Do you understand, ‘Mistress’?”

“Harold, do you feel hypnotized?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotized.”

And this time the audience was laughing with me and at the Mistress. Didn’t I just say I had no awareness of being hypnotized? If I were hypnotized, I would know it, wouldn’t I?

“Drop to your knees, Harold.”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Sure, bitch, I’ll get on my knees, but only because I’m tired of standing. It feels like I’ve been standing here for hours. My legs could use a rest.)

“Harold, have you ever seen the show, Baywatch?”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Is there anybody who hasn’t seen that show, you dumb bitch?)

“Harold, I’m going to try to guess who your favorite person on Baywatch is, and when I name that person, I need you to do something very special for me. Do you understand, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I told you about the special thing I need you to do for me while you were listening to me talk about my pendant, but now you’ve forgotten what the special thing is, haven’t you, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Maybe because it wasn’t worth remembering, “Mistress”.)

“When I say the name of your favorite person on Baywatch, you will remember the special thing I need you to do and you will do it for me, won’t you, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Sure, sure, whatever. But I’ll never have to do your “special thing” because you’ll never guess who it is because it’s none of your goddamn business, you big-titted whore.)

“Harold, is your favorite person on Baywatch Pamela Anderson?”

“No, Mistress.” (And by “Mistress” I mean “cunt”.)

“Is it Carmen Electra?”

“No, Mistress.” (You’ll never guess.)

“Is it Yasmine Bleeth?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Gena Lee Nolin?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Alexandra Paul?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Traci Bingham?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Erika Eleniak?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Nicole Eggert.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Donna D’Errico.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Kelly Packard.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Marliece Andrada.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Angelica Bridges.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Brooke Burns.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Mitzi Kapture?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Don’t tell me it’s David Hasselhoff.”

“One! Two! Three! FOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRR!!!!!!”