The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: The Measure of a Man, Part Deux

Author: Take My Mind. Please!

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These hypnotists never learn. The big-titted whore who tried to hypnotize me last week actually called me—how the fuck did she get my number?—and invited me to her next show. Her last show ended with your humble narrator, the one guy she could not hypnotize, the one guy no one has ever hypnotized, telling HER to drop to HER knees, so that if she wants me to masturbate on stage, I can do it in her fucking face. The audience laughed, even the other guys she had successfully hypnotized laughed at her, and she told me to get the fuck off the stage. That was the one command I deigned to obey. And now she’s inviting me back for more. Some people are just gluttons for punishment.

This show begins like the last one. She’s wearing the jewelled pendant with that weird, complicated design I still can’t figure out. But those huge tits the pendant hangs between, the nicest rack I have ever seen, and my desire, no, my need, my right as a man, to fuck the shit out of those big milky ta-tas with every inch of my manhood—now that’s something I can understand. She’s talking about the pendant. I’m not paying attention to what she says, but she has a nice voice, a voice like rose-scented smoke, smoke from a burning black rose, rising from the burning rose and into my head, my nostrils, ears, mouth, eyes and every pore of the skin on my face, into my brain and clouding... Where the fuck did THAT come from? “Rose-scented smoke”? I’m Byron Wordsworth Longfellow all of a sudden? I’ll never be able to figure out that stupid pendant. Damn, those are nice tits. Come to Daddy, you rosy voiced burning black inside my head so sweet and drowsy...

Blah blah blah, pendant this, yakkity-yak that, and finally she says, “I need every man who is not even aware he is hypnotized to come up on stage with me.” That’s me, not even aware I’m hynotized... because I’m not.

There are about a dozen of us on stage, just like the last time, standing half an arm’s length apart, facing the audience. She’s facing us, her back to the audience. More talking. More time to study that pendant. And those tits. Did I tell you she has nice tits? Only a million fucking times? Well, I’m telling you again, nice tits, and I’m gonna’ say it to her when it’s my turn: “Nice tits, bitch.” And when she gives me a dirty look I’ll say, “You’re welcome.” And everyone will laugh at the bitch, just like last week. I don’t think I’ll be invited back for a third time. The sweetest cloudy voice seeping into my sleepy brain...

Now the other guys on stage are naked, their clothes lying a piles at their feet. Not me, of course. The other guys are looking at me and smirking. Whatsamatter, assholes? Ever seen a guy who can’t be hypnotized before? And stop looking at my crotch, you fucking fags.

“March,” she commands. The other guys are marching in place. One TWO, one TWO, one TWO, one TWO,” she counts. “You MARCH and MARCH and MARCH and MARCH. You MARCH for MIStress, MARCHing MORons, MARCHing BEcause YOU are SLAVES, all MEN are SLAVES, one TWO, one TWO...” Yeah, that’s what they are, marching morons. Slaves. March, you fucking morons. March for your “Mistress,” slaves. And as they march, their cocks get hard. “Your COCK gets HARDer HARDer HARDer, MARCHing MAKES your COCK get HARDer, MARCHing MORons RAGing HARDons, MARCH one TWO get HARD three FOUR...”

Then she says, “Every man whose penis is ten or more inches, stop marching.” And sure enough, three guys with big ten-plus-inch hardons—one of them has at least twelve—stop marching. Any other woman would have considered it an honor to drop to her knees and give these guys satisfaction, but not this control-hungry cunt. “When I snap my fingers,” she says, “fire you weapons.” SNAP! All three moan and shoot their loads. The creamy streams from their cocks spatter the stage floor.

She looks down at the stains on the floor. “Look at the mess you made.” They look down at the stains on the floor. “Get on your hands and knees and lick it up with your tongues.” And that’s exactly what all three of them do. And when they finish, to tells them to get dressed, return to their seats in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show. And that’s what they do.

Meanwhile, the other guys are still marching. “Every man whose penis is nine or more inches, stop marching,” she says. Two guys with nine-inch hardons stop marching. They both come when she snaps her fingers. They both get on all fours and lick the come off the floor. And when they’ve licked up every drop they both get dressed, return to their seats in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show.

She commands the guys with eight or more inches to stop marching, to come when she snaps her fingers, to get down on all fours and lick the come off the floor, every creamy drop, and to get dressed, return to their seats in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show.

Then the guys with seven or more inches. Then the guys with six or more inches.

And finally I’m the only guy left on stage. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I say, “Nice tits, bitch.”

“Hi, Harold,” she says.

“Hi, Mistress.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The audience laughs. Of course I’m enjoying myself. I’m about to put Mistress Milkduds in her place.

“Harold, do you feel hypnotized?”

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

More laughter. How can I be aware of something that isn’t happening, you stupid cunt?

“I have commanded every man whose penis is six or more inches to stop marching. Did you hear me make that command, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

More laughter.

“If you didn’t obey my command, Harold, then either you aren’t hypnotized, or you have a very small penis. Which is it?” Before I can speak she looks down at my crotch and says, “You don’t have to answer that.”

More laughter.

“Harold, when I clap my hands, you will remember what really happened to you last week on this stage.”

CLAP! And I remember being naked, on my knees and jacking off, shooting my come on her shiny black thigh-high leather boots, and then putting my hands behind my back and cleaning her boots with my tongue, licking up every drop of my creamy seed, just as Mistress ordered.

“Harold,” she says, “now you realize you are naked, your cock is throbbing hard and you are marching in place.”

And I realize I am naked, my cock is throbbing hard and I am marching in place.

“And you realize that marching makes your cock harder, and that having a hard cock makes you want to march.”

It’s true. The harder my cock gets, the more I want to march, and the more I march, the harder my cock gets.

“The throbbing pressure in your hard cock is building and building, the throbbing pressure building and building. Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing.”

Unbearable throbbing pressure. So fucking hard. Making me march-one-two, march-one-two. But marching makes it harder. Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing...

“You wish you had permission to speak, so that you could beg for release.”

Yes, Mistress, please let me speak. Please let me beg for release. Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing...

“Every man whose penis is five or more inches, stop marching.”

Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing...

“Harold, why are you still marching?”

“Um...” I don’t know how to answer. What am I supposed to say, Mistress?

“Is it because your penis is less than five inches?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Why are you still marching? Tell me.”

“Because my penis is less than five inches, Mistress.”

“Say it louder.”

“Because my penis is less than five inches, Mistress!”

“Louder.”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FIVE INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FIVE INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Every man whose penis is four-and-a-half or more inches, stop marching.”

Marching, throbbing, marching, throbbing...

“Why are you still marching, Harold?”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FOUR-AND-A-HALF INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FOUR-AND-A-HALF INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Is it because you have a teeny weeny, Harold?”

“YES, MISTRESS!”

“Tell me why you are still marching.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A TEENY WEENY, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A TEENY WEENY, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A TEENY WEENY, MISTRESS!”

“Is it because you have a micropenis?”

“YES, MISTRESS!”

“Tell me why you are still marching.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Is it because you have a clitty-dick?”

“YES, MISTRESS!”

“Tell me why you are still marching.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

And I have to keep shouting it, over and over again, “BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS! BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS! BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!” until my voice is hoarse and I can’t shout anymore, and all I can do is whisper, “...because I have a clitty-dick, Mistress... because I have a clitty-dick, Mistress... because I have a clitty-dick, Mistress...” And all the while I’m marching, marching, marching, and my cock is throbbing, throbbing, throbbing... And I wish I had permission to beg for release.

Finally she says, “Shut up, bitch!” and I stop in mid-sentence: “Because I have a...” and I shut up like a good bitch. But I have to keep marching...

She walks away from me for a couple of minutes, just leaves me there, marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing, and when she returns she’s holding a pink nightgown. On the front of it, in blue cursive letters, all lower-case, it says, “porn star” and the “a” is shaped like a star. “Put this on,” she says. “And you have to keep marching.” So as I’m marching I slip the nightie over my head and slip my arms through the straps. It’s a bit too small, just barely covering my crotch and butt. Everyone can see the tent my little hardon makes, poking up underneath the fabric.

“That should be just enough to keep you from getting arrested,” she says.

“Right, FACE!” she says. And I turn right, still marching in place.

“When I count to four you will FORWARD MARCH off this stage, and out of the auditorium. You will FORWARD MARCH all the way home. When you get home, you will be able to open the door, because you left the door unlocked, just as I ordered when I called you earlier tonight, to invite you to my show. You will open the door, close the door behind you, and march to your phone. When you are by your phone you will continue to march in place until I call you and order you to stop marching. If someone else calls, if you pick up the phone and hear a voice that is not Mistress’ voice, you will say, ‘I can’t talk to you now. I’m waiting for a call from my Mistress,’ and you will hang up. You will wait for Mistress to call you and you will march until you hear Mistress order you to stop marching.”

She makes me repeat these instructions three times, then counts, “One, two, three, FOUR!” and I forward march to the steps at the right end of the stage, march down the steps, to the EXIT sign, push open the door, march across the parking lot, leaving my car in the parking lot, and march all the way home, all twelve miles. I won’t get home until past midnight, and all the way home people are honking their horns, yelling out their car windows, calling me a fag, calling me babe, calling me honey, wolf-whistling, but I’m not embarrassed. Marching gives me a sense of purpose, those endorphins are doing their stuff, and it’s a cool Southern California summer night—the days are hellish but the nights are just the right temperature—and if I had on anything more than this nightgown I would be overdressed for this perfect weather, and since the days when Arthur weilded Excalibur there has not been a steel blade harder than the four mighty inches between my legs, my marching, marching, march-for-Mistress legs, and I look forward to the sense of accomplishment, the triumph I will feel when the phone rings and it’s Mistress and she says, “Every man who has a four inch penis, stop marching.” And I will say, “Yes, Mistress,” and stop marching, and she will give me permission to lie down and go to sleep, and to dream of a field of burning black roses.